shadows.
The Blacksuits retreated a fraction of a step.
“I’ve come a long way,” Tara said. “I can help. Now, please, let me inside.”
*
She nearly threw up when she saw the body, but she wasn’t about to give her Blacksuit escort the satisfaction. Blasted thing would probably lock her up for vomiting all over a crime scene.
Judge Cabot had been what an older century would have called a portly man, the kind who hit his second chin at the age of twenty-nine and decided there was no point going back. His figure was—had been—toroidal, narrow shoulders broadening to a wide chest and a wider belly before tapering to inverse—cone thighs, thin, strong calves, and eight-inch feet. Birthmarks dotted his shoulders and arms, and he had a nasty scar on his right hip from some accident or botched attempt at medicine. His body was pallid, and not particularly hairy.
Tara saw all this because Judge Cabot’s robe and dressing gown had been torn away, along with much of his flesh. He lay in pieces on the garden floor, in a pool of his own blood. The part of her that was her father’s daughter quailed and hid in a far corner of her mind. What remained was a consummate professional. At least, that’s what she told herself.
“What do you see?” she asked the Blacksuit.
It is immaterial. We are interested in your observations.
The initial trio of Blacksuits had divided, one to watch the foyer, and two to escort her. The second split off, presumably to help interrogate the butler, as they crossed the oak-paneled sitting room. The third brought Tara through a glass door into a rooftop garden of fluorescent flowers and miniature date palms. Elaborate Craft focused sunlight and trapped humidity to transform the roof into a private rainforest. The effect was not perfect—the air had the proper sticky weight, but there weren’t enough flies. In a true jungle, that congealing red puddle would be writhing with vampiric vermin.
Here there was only the blood. And the limbs. And the face.
The Blacksuit stood ten feet back, near the door, watching. It was a woman, when it wasn’t working.
What can you tell us?
Tara stepped gingerly around the blood pool. At its edge she saw ceramic fragments, and a discoloration in the deep red tide. He had been drinking tea. And now he was dead. No. Focus on the details, not the horror. This was just another cadaver, like any of the others she had studied back at the Hidden Schools.
Ms. Kevarian had intended Tara’s visit to the Judge as a test, a chance to demonstrate her ability to work alone. It could still fulfill that purpose.
The smaller shards of clay were covered with dried or drying blood; Cabot’s head rested atop one piece. This much the Blacksuits almost certainly knew: he had been surprised, dropped the cup, and fallen.
There was no bruising, and no foreign blood or dirt or hair beneath Cabot’s nails, though his fingers were mangled and broken. He hadn’t put up a fight. Whatever happened to him happened fast.
The body had a sharp, hot silver smell beneath the stench of spoiling meat.
“How were you contacted?”
Cabot had special wards to notify Justice in the event of his death, and give us an image of his body. Pause. Also, the butler summoned us.
“Does your image show who did this?”
We have suspects.
Tara laced her fingers together. “Someone pulled Cabot’s spine out of his back, through the skin. Death should have been instantaneous, but whatever did this wanted him alive.” She pointed to the discs of bone arranged in a rough circle around the body, like poker chips strewn on a table. “The corpse has been ritualistically encircled by its spinal vertebrae. Necromancers use a more advanced version of the same technique to bind spirits. Doctors use it, too, to keep the patient alive on the operating table. Bone is a powerful focus, especially if it’s your own. With the Judge’s own spine, even an amateur Craftsman could have kept him alive and
The Blacksuits retreated a fraction of a step.
“I’ve come a long way,” Tara said. “I can help. Now, please, let me inside.”
*
She nearly threw up when she saw the body, but she wasn’t about to give her Blacksuit escort the satisfaction. Blasted thing would probably lock her up for vomiting all over a crime scene.
Judge Cabot had been what an older century would have called a portly man, the kind who hit his second chin at the age of twenty-nine and decided there was no point going back. His figure was—had been—toroidal, narrow shoulders broadening to a wide chest and a wider belly before tapering to inverse—cone thighs, thin, strong calves, and eight-inch feet. Birthmarks dotted his shoulders and arms, and he had a nasty scar on his right hip from some accident or botched attempt at medicine. His body was pallid, and not particularly hairy.
Tara saw all this because Judge Cabot’s robe and dressing gown had been torn away, along with much of his flesh. He lay in pieces on the garden floor, in a pool of his own blood. The part of her that was her father’s daughter quailed and hid in a far corner of her mind. What remained was a consummate professional. At least, that’s what she told herself.
“What do you see?” she asked the Blacksuit.
It is immaterial. We are interested in your observations.
The initial trio of Blacksuits had divided, one to watch the foyer, and two to escort her. The second split off, presumably to help interrogate the butler, as they crossed the oak-paneled sitting room. The third brought Tara through a glass door into a rooftop garden of fluorescent flowers and miniature date palms. Elaborate Craft focused sunlight and trapped humidity to transform the roof into a private rainforest. The effect was not perfect—the air had the proper sticky weight, but there weren’t enough flies. In a true jungle, that congealing red puddle would be writhing with vampiric vermin.
Here there was only the blood. And the limbs. And the face.
The Blacksuit stood ten feet back, near the door, watching. It was a woman, when it wasn’t working.
What can you tell us?
Tara stepped gingerly around the blood pool. At its edge she saw ceramic fragments, and a discoloration in the deep red tide. He had been drinking tea. And now he was dead. No. Focus on the details, not the horror. This was just another cadaver, like any of the others she had studied back at the Hidden Schools.
Ms. Kevarian had intended Tara’s visit to the Judge as a test, a chance to demonstrate her ability to work alone. It could still fulfill that purpose.
The smaller shards of clay were covered with dried or drying blood; Cabot’s head rested atop one piece. This much the Blacksuits almost certainly knew: he had been surprised, dropped the cup, and fallen.
There was no bruising, and no foreign blood or dirt or hair beneath Cabot’s nails, though his fingers were mangled and broken. He hadn’t put up a fight. Whatever happened to him happened fast.
The body had a sharp, hot silver smell beneath the stench of spoiling meat.
“How were you contacted?”
Cabot had special wards to notify Justice in the event of his death, and give us an image of his body. Pause. Also, the butler summoned us.
“Does your image show who did this?”
We have suspects.
Tara laced her fingers together. “Someone pulled Cabot’s spine out of his back, through the skin. Death should have been instantaneous, but whatever did this wanted him alive.” She pointed to the discs of bone arranged in a rough circle around the body, like poker chips strewn on a table. “The corpse has been ritualistically encircled by its spinal vertebrae. Necromancers use a more advanced version of the same technique to bind spirits. Doctors use it, too, to keep the patient alive on the operating table. Bone is a powerful focus, especially if it’s your own. With the Judge’s own spine, even an amateur Craftsman could have kept him alive and
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