If the outside of Eastwatch is frigid, then the inside is simply cold; nobody makes a move to remove cloaks or mittens as their breath puffs out in wisps of smoke, noses still pink and chilled.
The man who stomps down to meet them is a gray, barrel-chested creature, a strong nose and heavily lined jowls hanging out above a fur-lined, high-collared jacket and between a grizzled tangle of mutton chops.
Two gloved fingers bring up a fat, sausage-like cigar, plopping it into the jagged line he might call a mouth and General Grismen gnaws on the unlit thing for a moment before saying: "Welcome."
"Thank you, General," Allayria says, stepping forward and extending a hand. "My name is Allayria. I am the Paragon."
It feels strange to say it aloud, openly in this wide, carrying space, and suspicion crawls along her spine, a slow shiver of darting glances and tense bones.
Who heard? it seems to whisper. Who saw?
He harumphs, a hand swinging out and clasping hers as he bows low over it.
When he straightens up, still chewing on that cigar, he says: "Quarters and food, then."
He shows them to four icy rooms, all tucked up along the northside of the base.
"Warmest side," he boasts as his breath puffs out in front of him. "Gets the most sun."
He then takes them down to the mess hall which, with the crackle of fire and steam of boiling soup, is fractionally toastier than the rest of the place.
"Fill up," he says with a nod. "Get some sleep, then come find me in the morning. Pod will show you the way."
He nods toward a pimply-faced, gangly boy who hovers toward the side. Pod starts when seven pairs of eyes turn toward him and he flushes, nodding feebly in response.
"Don't wander off," Grismen tells them, eyes sharp, and he leaves.
Pod lingers as they eat, unable to decide who to stare at—the Smith-caller, the oddball boy with his jacket inside-out, the alarmingly handsome Solveig man, or the Paragon. The Paragon. His gaze flits several times toward her, but Allayria resolutely ignores this.
When they are done he leads them down the hall, glancing back so often Allayria wonders if he will get a crick in his neck. The thirtieth, or maybe fortieth, time he does it she realizes he's counting them. Constantly counting and recounting them.
"Don't wander off," Grismen told them.
Allayria's gaze flits to the side and catches Caj's, who holds it for a moment, his dark eyes sharp and in agreement. He carefully glances back while she looks forward, past Pod.
Allayria picks up her pace a little and the Smith-caller falls back, just behind her, at the tail end of the pack where she knows he'll let a small, metal knife slide along his palm and sit, obscured but ready.
With him watching the rear, Allayria carefully glances to the sides. As she looks to the shut doors and winding hallways she catches Tara's confusion and Hiran's look of mild pain at the social blunderings of their inept guide. No one, aside from Allayria and Caj seem to have pieced together what is happening, though she can feel the weight of Lei's gaze as he becomes suspicious of her actions.
"W-we can go to the library," Pod is saying when Allayria cuts him off, and he squeaks with surprise.
"That is not necessary, Pod," she says, keeping her voice even, pleasant. "My team is very tired and I think it best we turn in early tonight. If you could show us back to our rooms?"
YOU ARE READING
Partisan - Book II
Fantasy*COMPLETE* "People don't believe in us anymore. They don't believe that in the end we will do what is right. We can't let them down. We can't let Ben win." Decisions made on top of the lonely, wind-swept cliff of Lethinor reverberate around the five...
