Words poured from the woman’s mouth, and it was a moment or two before Adan Spaad, Storik’s head receptionist and personal valet, could put together what she was talking about. She was short, filthy, and breathless, with matted brown hair cropped short. What was left of one of her hands was knotted with old burns. She’d burst into the vast lobby of NRI’s headquarters with a flare of dust and sunlight, already in mid-rant, and had focused her attention on Spaad. It was only a few minutes before the management offices in Aado closed for tomorrow’s Eye Night, and he wanted to go home.
There’d been a silo explosion at one of the farms. A bad one, too, she said over and over again, as if there was another kind. Spaad forced himself to accept that he wasn’t going home just yet. He was reluctant
