The Windwalker is out to protect her son. Who is really a daughter that she has always pretended is a son.
‘‘And you figured this out how?’’ It made less sense the more he explained. And, to speak true, he sounded puzzled himself.
The Windwalker failed to deceive her father.
‘‘Uh . . .’’ You run into weird stuff all the time. In my racket, weird becomes the routine.
Nothing gets weirder than just plain human beings.
Strange, yes. Exceedingly, to a neutral observer looking in from outside.
Barate Algarda knows that his daughter has a daughter herself instead of the son she has always pretended the child to be. Details are difficult to ferret out. The man’s protection is firstrate. It is reactive. The more vigorously I probe, the harder the surface around his thoughts becomes. In sum, though, it is my estimate that the Windwalker’s child is one of the Faction and your work at the World has put those children at risk, from the public, from the Guard, and, most especially, from the kind of Hill predators who would love to have command of giant bugs. Or of the sorcery necessary to create them.
After recovering from being struck numb and dumb, I said, ‘‘I’ve faced vampires and zombies. Man-eating unicorns. Insane gods. And crazier priests. Plus platoons of professional killers and career loonies. Hell, I’ve survived Tinnie Tate and Belinda Contague almost forever. So I don’t get what’s going on here. It seems like there ought to be more to it. Something really weird.’’
Families are all weird, from outside. But one common feature, often found in even the most dysfunctional versions, is an overpowering need to protect offspring. In this case, perhaps, there has been an overreaction. There are layers of reasoning and motivation that I am not yet able to reach.
His response to that seemed surprised and frustrated. Most thinking creatures are open books. Those with secrets keep them by staying away.
I considered Barate Algarda. He sat there like a big, numb zombie wannabe.
A loving father. And a thug. A bonebreaker for his child. Out to protect a grandchild strange enough to be one of Kip Prose’s crew. ‘‘There is something missing, Old Bones. I have a feeling our easy job is about to get a whole lot darker.’’ Until Algarda I had seen a light edge to everything. Giant bugs were sort of . . .
Those insects ate people, Garrett. There is nothing light about that. And I share with you the sense that there is a darkness gathering. But I cannot identify it. And if it exists in the mind of this man, it is hidden or disguised beyond my capacity to capture.
That had to hurt. Admitting failure was something he did not do.
In retrospective the both of us would feel like fools. We had everything we needed to define the darkness and failed to see it. Because even a trained detective will fail to see what he deems impossible. The Dead Man was blind, too.
There was sorcery and a sorcerer in the thing. Therefore, we decided, it must all revolve around the sorcery.
But we kept after it. I got blisters banging my head against the wall.
‘‘All right. How about we start over? What did Algarda want here?’’
We have determined that. He wanted to make you stop interfering with the Faction. By whatever means necessary. Because that is what the Windwalker wants.
‘‘Why?’’ That was nuts. ‘‘That doesn’t make sense.’’ But in my life nuts turns up all the time.
I cannot extract that and relate it to you in any way that you will understand. This man lives in a universe defined by laws created within his own mind and those close off every avenue I find to get past his protection.
‘‘He’s mad?’’
No. But he lives in his own reality, by his own code. We all do, but this one even more so than you.
He was recovering. He had the needle out.
‘‘I get it. It’s sad. Instead of dealing with the child’s behavior he wants to silence the child’s critics. The child being incapable of doing wrong.’’
I do not think so. Not this time.
That kind of thinking is common on the Hill. And elsewhere, with other powerful families. Algarda’s grandkid could be killing and eating ordinary folks, but the old folks would make excuses, cover up, and commit crimes to make her problems go away.
‘‘I’ve got some more general questions. Like, what’s a Windwalker? I know what a Windsinger is. Kind of a Stormwarden. I saw one call up a baby tornado one time. But I’ve never heard of a Windwalker.’’
A Windwalker uses the wind to carry himself—or herself—through the air. Swiftly. To the point where she would employ her other talents.
‘‘They are real people? Not demons? Not godlings? Not sky elves?’’
Nor even talking parrots.
‘‘And the girl pretending to be a boy business?’’
Based on my long acquaintance with your tribe, this would be a form of hiding from herself. Just for spice, BarateAlgarda believes that at least one of the girls running with the Faction is a boy who wishes he had been born a girl. And dresses accordingly.
‘‘And why not?’’
Be not judgmental.
‘‘What? You’re all right with all that?’’
I am not involved. It is not my place to judge. Nor are you involved, except insofar as the concerned individuals may be involved in what you are supposed to untangle. And we do know that they are inasmuch as they are the creators of the oversize insects.
Not judging. A stand we’d all do well to embrace—where adults are involved. There is nobody more obnoxious than the guy who tells you how to live your life. At sword’s point if you persist in your inappropriate behavior.
There is no need for you to stay awake and torture yourselffor answers, Old Bones sent.I will entertain Mr. Algarda.And he will entertain me. He cannot keep everything from me indefinitely. And, being a lifelong resident of the Hill, he knows where some of the bodies are buried.
‘‘You’re sure?’’ I didn’t want to hit the sheets just yet. There was a fresh keg in the kitchen and I had an arm that needed some exercise.
33
Barate Algarda was gone in the morning. Sent away with memories adjusted. He should no longer see me as a threat. The Dead Man was surly. His romance with Algarda hadn’t gone the way he wanted.
Old Bones filled me in during the interlude between breakfast and the start of my workday. He’d gotten some interesting stuff.
The harder I worked the more difficult it became to get anything out of that man. I am compelled to express admirationfor whoever prepared him.
‘‘So somebody did know what he would run into here.’’
No. I do not believe that was the case.
«But …»
He was hiding from someone else. Yet he did know your name. I got that much. At some point this evening he heard you mentioned in the context of trespassing in that ruined building. He may have been spying on Lurking Felhske’s employer when Felhske reported.
‘‘But . . .»
That someone appears to have become upset when your name turned up. Which upset Algarda in turn, though he did not know anything about you.
‘‘That makes no sense. I haven’t bothered anyone on the Hill for ages.’’ But Relway did say there was a Hill interest. I don’t think Max has enemies up there who would scuttle his theater. So that would have to be about the bugs.
They consulted oracles and augurs. They were not pleased with the results. Using ‘‘They’’ as the indeterminate pronoun. You have the potential to cause considerable embarrassment.