was nothing overhead but framing for a peaked roof, the rooftree of which was twenty feet above the floor.
Ahead were numerous glass vats big enough to hold a human being. Several did. They could have been blown only by an artist with a knack for sorcery. Every thug and tin whistle instantly decided that discovering the provenance of the vats would lead them right to the devil who had created this abomination.
The intruders moved deeper into the warehouse. The stench of corruption grew thicker. Scores of dead flies floated in the solution in those vats without closed tops. There were no active flies. They came in the front door but did not make it all the way to the rotting flesh.
That did come from dead people. A twenty foot long, massive oak workbench stood against the back wall. It boasted three corpses in the process of disassembly. Extra parts lay scattered about. At the right-hand end of the bench sat the biggest vat in the place, only as tall as the table but three feet wide and six feet long. Scrap pieces could be swept off into a solution that had to be something ferocious—though becoming slightly diluted. There were chunks of inadequately consumed big bones in there.
Singe had shut down all but the observer part of her mind. She handled the horror better than I would have. Certainly better than Belinda’s soldiers and the tin whistles did. Several left and would not come back. Others did return but absent their latest several meals. Only the Windwalker, Furious Tide of Light, seemed unaffected. She moved through the place slowly, examining everything.
Experiencing all that through Singe’s nose was no joy, though to the primal rats from which she descended stinky meat had meant food.
Singe paid little attention to the Windwalker. I was unable to watch the lethal waif saunter about, surrounded by a ten foot come-no-closer spell. Singe was interested only in the manufactory of horror.
That was what she had found. A place where monsters were made from pieces of dead people. It might be the foulest necromantic den TunFaire had turned up in centuries.
I felt frustrated. She didn’t just pay no attention to the Windwalker, she didn’t poke where I would have poked. Though she did better than I might have, really. I would have focused on the Windwalker. She was remarkable in so many ways, including by being off the Hill, one of TunFaire’s top sorcerers. And, once upon a time, she had made it plain that she was inclined to stand very close to a certain professional investigator.
Garrett!
Nothing like a hammer between the eyes to make you concentrate.
Singe left the others for the walled-off section. It had a makeshift door that could be latched from either side. It was ajar. She pushed it open. “Can someone bring a light?”
One arrived quickly. Singe and the light bringer entered the room. The Windwalker followed. She did something mystic to create a better light.
The space was a child’s room. Dirty clothes were scattered everywhere. An unmade bed was occupied by a large, tattered stuffed bear. Clutter was everywhere. It included moldy remnants of unfinished meals. The tin whistle with the lantern observed, “Somebody likes stuffed critters.” There had to be fifteen of those, mostly large. The clothing was girl stuff, in what seemed to be a variety of adolescent sizes. Singe never actively examined those.
Singe sniffed. The Windwalker began an intense visual examination. The tin whistle asked, “He kept a kid prisoner?” Jumping to the obvious conclusion. “We need to get this guy.”
Furious Tide of Light said, “Would you step outside, officer? Watch from the doorway if you like. Our first task will be to find out who lived here.” She let Singe stay. Singe was the miracle girl.
The miracle girl didn’t pay attention to what the Windwalker was doing. Near as I could figure, the woman was doing the same as Singe, only sniffing for magic.
And that was that. Furious Tide of Light decided
Ahead were numerous glass vats big enough to hold a human being. Several did. They could have been blown only by an artist with a knack for sorcery. Every thug and tin whistle instantly decided that discovering the provenance of the vats would lead them right to the devil who had created this abomination.
The intruders moved deeper into the warehouse. The stench of corruption grew thicker. Scores of dead flies floated in the solution in those vats without closed tops. There were no active flies. They came in the front door but did not make it all the way to the rotting flesh.
That did come from dead people. A twenty foot long, massive oak workbench stood against the back wall. It boasted three corpses in the process of disassembly. Extra parts lay scattered about. At the right-hand end of the bench sat the biggest vat in the place, only as tall as the table but three feet wide and six feet long. Scrap pieces could be swept off into a solution that had to be something ferocious—though becoming slightly diluted. There were chunks of inadequately consumed big bones in there.
Singe had shut down all but the observer part of her mind. She handled the horror better than I would have. Certainly better than Belinda’s soldiers and the tin whistles did. Several left and would not come back. Others did return but absent their latest several meals. Only the Windwalker, Furious Tide of Light, seemed unaffected. She moved through the place slowly, examining everything.
Experiencing all that through Singe’s nose was no joy, though to the primal rats from which she descended stinky meat had meant food.
Singe paid little attention to the Windwalker. I was unable to watch the lethal waif saunter about, surrounded by a ten foot come-no-closer spell. Singe was interested only in the manufactory of horror.
That was what she had found. A place where monsters were made from pieces of dead people. It might be the foulest necromantic den TunFaire had turned up in centuries.
I felt frustrated. She didn’t just pay no attention to the Windwalker, she didn’t poke where I would have poked. Though she did better than I might have, really. I would have focused on the Windwalker. She was remarkable in so many ways, including by being off the Hill, one of TunFaire’s top sorcerers. And, once upon a time, she had made it plain that she was inclined to stand very close to a certain professional investigator.
Garrett!
Nothing like a hammer between the eyes to make you concentrate.
Singe left the others for the walled-off section. It had a makeshift door that could be latched from either side. It was ajar. She pushed it open. “Can someone bring a light?”
One arrived quickly. Singe and the light bringer entered the room. The Windwalker followed. She did something mystic to create a better light.
The space was a child’s room. Dirty clothes were scattered everywhere. An unmade bed was occupied by a large, tattered stuffed bear. Clutter was everywhere. It included moldy remnants of unfinished meals. The tin whistle with the lantern observed, “Somebody likes stuffed critters.” There had to be fifteen of those, mostly large. The clothing was girl stuff, in what seemed to be a variety of adolescent sizes. Singe never actively examined those.
Singe sniffed. The Windwalker began an intense visual examination. The tin whistle asked, “He kept a kid prisoner?” Jumping to the obvious conclusion. “We need to get this guy.”
Furious Tide of Light said, “Would you step outside, officer? Watch from the doorway if you like. Our first task will be to find out who lived here.” She let Singe stay. Singe was the miracle girl.
The miracle girl didn’t pay attention to what the Windwalker was doing. Near as I could figure, the woman was doing the same as Singe, only sniffing for magic.
And that was that. Furious Tide of Light decided
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