Tavin disliked a warehouse that smelled sweet.
Good dry grain had a clean, dusty smell that caught at the back of the throat. There were other harmless smells in a building this size: old boards, mice behind the wall, the bitter wash used on empty bins. Sweetness meant he began looking for heat.
On the four hundred and seventy-second day, he stood at Lura Seft’s northern depot with his coat open and his left hand buried in a sample sack.
“Not that lot,” Lura said.
“I know.”
“Then why are you putting your arm in it?”
“Because it’s against the lot I am taking.”
She considered that, then fetched the long probe herself.
