that made ideal foundations for houses safely above the pods of saurians—dubbed dinosaurs by the original Bellerophon colonists—that stomped over the forest floor. Each tree could support half a dozen houses or more, and flexible walkways made of board and cable connected them to each other. Fine polymer netting covered the space between the cable railing and the floor of the walkway to prevent people from falling through, though the netting was hidden from view by a thick growth of ivy. Ara moved quickly from one tree to another, passing several other people with only the barest of nods until she came to the address Melthine had given her.
It was a small house, with a wide front deck and a gently-sloping roof that blended neatly into the talltree. A police officer in a blue tunic stood guard at the door, and a holographic stripe of blue light ringed the house at waist level. The words Do not cross by order of the Guardians were etched on the ring in yellow. Ara crossed the ring—it beeped at her in alarm—and held up the gold medallion that marked her a Child of Irfan.
"Grandfather Melthine called for me," she said.
The officer, a young man with pale hair and eyes, stuck his head inside the door and conferred briefly with someone Ara couldn’t see. Then he motioned her inside and shut the door after her.
The sharp smell of relaxed bowel hit her. Ara swallowed, unable to see much in the dark interior after the bright outdoor sunshine.
What am I doing here? she thought. This is a real murder with a real corpse. I’m not even a detective. What if I throw up when I see the body?
"Araceil!" boomed a voice from the gloom. Ara’s eyes finally adjusted and she recognized Grandfather Melthine. "Good. The body’s this way."
"Who is it?" Ara said, following him into the house.
"Sister Iris Temm."
The name meant nothing to Ara, for which she was grateful. It was bad enough to know the woman was—had been—a fellow Child. Melthine took her into the living room. The sun dropped slanted rectangles of gold light on the floor, and Ara took in her surroundings. Easy chairs, sofa, upright piano—a real one, with strings—coffee table. Shabby, but comfortable, typical for someone on a Sibling stipend. A fainting couch lay off to one side, and the body of a woman reposed quietly on it. Her arms were crossed over her stomach as if she were asleep or in the Dream. Iris Temm had been a tiny woman, almost doll-like, with curly blond hair and sallow skin. Both her eyes had been blackened and her nose looked broken. Other bruises darkened her pale skin, as if she’d been beaten before dying. Ara’s eye unwillingly went to Temm’s left hand. It was crusted with dried blood, and the littlest finger had a ring of cross stitches around the base. The finger above the stitches was clearly not original to Iris Temm. As she feared, Ara’s gorge tried to rise, and she swallowed hard. Grandfather Melthine had told her about this aspect of the murders, though she had never seen it. Seeing it in person was very different from hearing about it.
"The finger," she said, amazed at the steadiness in her voice. "Did it belong to—?"
"Wren Hamil." Another person, a woman of Asian ancestry, entered the room. She was Ara’s height, but with a whipcord build and long hair that twisted in an intricate braid down her back. Civilian clothes, sensible shoes. She thrust a hand at Ara, who took it automatically. A jolt crackled down Ara’s spine. The woman was Silent.
"Inspector Lewa Tan—Guardians," she said. Her voice was oddly harsh and raspy, as if she were about to cough. "You the consultant in Dream theory?"
Ara nodded. The Guardians of Irfan were the legal enforcers of the Blessed and Most Beautiful Monastery of the Children of Irfan. The rank and file encompassed investigators, lawyers, judges, and other such folk, some of whom were Silent and some of whom were not. They had no jurisdiction outside
It was a small house, with a wide front deck and a gently-sloping roof that blended neatly into the talltree. A police officer in a blue tunic stood guard at the door, and a holographic stripe of blue light ringed the house at waist level. The words Do not cross by order of the Guardians were etched on the ring in yellow. Ara crossed the ring—it beeped at her in alarm—and held up the gold medallion that marked her a Child of Irfan.
"Grandfather Melthine called for me," she said.
The officer, a young man with pale hair and eyes, stuck his head inside the door and conferred briefly with someone Ara couldn’t see. Then he motioned her inside and shut the door after her.
The sharp smell of relaxed bowel hit her. Ara swallowed, unable to see much in the dark interior after the bright outdoor sunshine.
What am I doing here? she thought. This is a real murder with a real corpse. I’m not even a detective. What if I throw up when I see the body?
"Araceil!" boomed a voice from the gloom. Ara’s eyes finally adjusted and she recognized Grandfather Melthine. "Good. The body’s this way."
"Who is it?" Ara said, following him into the house.
"Sister Iris Temm."
The name meant nothing to Ara, for which she was grateful. It was bad enough to know the woman was—had been—a fellow Child. Melthine took her into the living room. The sun dropped slanted rectangles of gold light on the floor, and Ara took in her surroundings. Easy chairs, sofa, upright piano—a real one, with strings—coffee table. Shabby, but comfortable, typical for someone on a Sibling stipend. A fainting couch lay off to one side, and the body of a woman reposed quietly on it. Her arms were crossed over her stomach as if she were asleep or in the Dream. Iris Temm had been a tiny woman, almost doll-like, with curly blond hair and sallow skin. Both her eyes had been blackened and her nose looked broken. Other bruises darkened her pale skin, as if she’d been beaten before dying. Ara’s eye unwillingly went to Temm’s left hand. It was crusted with dried blood, and the littlest finger had a ring of cross stitches around the base. The finger above the stitches was clearly not original to Iris Temm. As she feared, Ara’s gorge tried to rise, and she swallowed hard. Grandfather Melthine had told her about this aspect of the murders, though she had never seen it. Seeing it in person was very different from hearing about it.
"The finger," she said, amazed at the steadiness in her voice. "Did it belong to—?"
"Wren Hamil." Another person, a woman of Asian ancestry, entered the room. She was Ara’s height, but with a whipcord build and long hair that twisted in an intricate braid down her back. Civilian clothes, sensible shoes. She thrust a hand at Ara, who took it automatically. A jolt crackled down Ara’s spine. The woman was Silent.
"Inspector Lewa Tan—Guardians," she said. Her voice was oddly harsh and raspy, as if she were about to cough. "You the consultant in Dream theory?"
Ara nodded. The Guardians of Irfan were the legal enforcers of the Blessed and Most Beautiful Monastery of the Children of Irfan. The rank and file encompassed investigators, lawyers, judges, and other such folk, some of whom were Silent and some of whom were not. They had no jurisdiction outside