The symbol. The strange words. What would Heretic tell him about the Silence if he asked? Nothing. He'd kill Finch. Or worse.
Out of sudden fear, a strange calm. Later, he realized it felt like losing control even as he gained it. An echoing faint laughter that became the sound of hammers working on the two towers in the bay. That became water slapping against the wall in Rathven's basement.
Words left his mouth. “There was a man in the memories I recognized. I didn't put it in the report because I wanted to investigate first. It related to the paper in the dead man's hand.” Lying.
Falling through cold air and he couldn't feel his legs.
“Explain.”
“A man called Ethan Bliss.” And then the flood: “A Morrow agent active for Frankwrithe & Lewden, during the War of the Houses. I tracked him down today with Wyte, but he ... slipped away. I'm following up. I put in a request for his file along with my report.”
If we can't find him, we'll go after Stark.
Heretic seemed to consider that, then asked, “And the scrap of paper?”
“I'm still investigating what it means. I'll put it all into my report for tomorrow.”
“And the list I gave you, of people who lived in that apartment?”
Finch relaxed a little. “I'm still working on it. By tomorrow afternoon I should know more.” If Rathven's finished by then.
Heretic considered this statement for a long time, then said, “You have withheld information from me. You haven't even finished with the list. From now on, you will report every day. You are to tell me everything. Do not leave it to your judgment.”
Finch opened his mouth to speak. Heretic said words that sounded like kith vrisdresn zorn. Snapped his fingers.
The skery wound itself around Finch's legs and tightened. Sudden tingling paralysis. He could not move away. Could not fall. Choking on his own breath. The paralysis brought with it an image of an endless field of dim stars, one by one extinguished. A gulf and a void. Finch was as afraid as he had ever been in his life. Because he didn't know what he was looking at, or why.
Try to breathe. Slowly. Breathe slowly.
The skery curled its way up to his chest. Around his neck. It pulled tight so he was gasping in his motionlessness. He felt something like sharp leaves or thorns up against his neck. An impression of lips. A sharp, smoky scent. Half the field of stars had gone out. There was more darkness than light.
From behind Finch's desk, from a thousand miles away, from behind a thick wall: Heretic. Saying, “A skery is not as bad for you as what I could bring with me.”
The skery curled back down Finch's body. Released him. He stumbled forward, hands on the desk to stop from falling. The field of stars so bright he almost passed out. Then the desk came into focus. Prickles of sensation came back into his legs. Neck already sore and throbbing.
“Do you understand me, Finch?” Heretic said. “We can make it quite clear who you really are. To everyone. Or we can just put you in the camps. Or we can do much, much worse.”
Finch had killed a gray cap once. As an Irregular. Before the Rising. Out in the confusion of civil war. With a knife and a gun. He thought about that now, looking at Heretic.
Heretic: “How did Bliss manage to escape you? I expect that in your report by tomorrow night. You will leave your report on your desk. I will read it. If I am not satisfied, I will visit you. Find ways to convince me that you are more valuable alive than as a memory bulb. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” Finch managed after a moment. Throat sore. Burying his anger deep. Just wanting to be away from there. Just wanting to be somewhere he might fool himself into calling safe.
The gray cap rose. “You'll find Bliss's information in the `memory hole' by your desk in a few minutes.”
Heretic walked toward the back, holding his skery. Rivulets of golden spores swirled up from his footfalls. Sparkled in the murk like tiny blinking eyes.
Against all good judgment, against his shock at the skery's touch, Finch spoke. “What happened when you took the dead man's memory bulb?”
Heretic half-turned, the look on his face murderous. “I did not eat the memory bulb. That was another fanaarcensitii. He saw nothing. He died within minutes, in horrible pain. Apparently, you are very, very lucky, Finch.”
A long peal of that awful laughter before Heretic disappeared behind the curtain.
Afterward, Finch couldn't sleep. Stomach churning. Couldn't get rid of a crawling sensation. Half his mouth felt numb. The other half tingled like a faint electric shock. His legs moved slowly, a deep ache in both muscle and bone.
Had returned to his apartment to find a note from Sintra shoved under the door: Can't make it tonight. Tomorrow night. Found that a bad mood could get worse.
He went up to the roof of the hotel, a fifth of whisky retrieved from his kitchen, and let a nagging Feral come with him. Carried the cat's comforting weight, like a purring loaf of bread, in the crook of his left arm. In his other hand, the file on Bliss.
The stairs above his floor had been so colonized by moss and lichen that they didn't creak. Dark. Dangerous. But Finch didn't care. He'd lost his way anyhow, was in need of something sturdier than self-pity.
A hatch in the ceiling where the stairs ended led to the roof. He switched Bliss's file to under his arm, next to a protesting Feral. Set down the whisky long enough to push open the hatch without losing his balance. Picked it back up, and stepped through with Feral. Into a bracing wind. A wash of stars set against the black-and-greentinged sky.
Except for the bit obscured by the dilapidated sign, Finch could see the whole city from here. One reason he'd chosen the hotel. The view from the roof helped him with his map overlay. Made him feel more in control, being able to see so much from one place. The soldier in him always wanted the best possible recon.
Muted lights from the buildings to either side. Like he saw them through a black curtain. Even the two towers seemed dulled, the emerald glow humble. A few sparkling clouds of spores, in blue and yellow, danced far out in the sky, to the south. Otherwise, just the inward-focused white of the camp domes, balanced to the north by the humming glitter of orange-green HFZ. The air didn't carry the smell of mushrooms. As if a fresh breeze had come from outside the city.
A tall figure stood near the edge of the roof, looking out. Finch stiffened, making Feral hiss. He groped for the gun he had left in the apartment, Feral jumping from his arm. Then Finch realized it was just the Photographer, Rath's brother. The man who liked to take pictures of water and ran a black market store out of his apartment.
Finch had seen the photographs. Stacked up next to the cameras. Plastered to the walls. Blown up, miniaturized, blurry, in focus. On anything that might serve, or re-serve, as contact paper. As if the Photographer looked for one particular thing in the water. As if not interested in water at all, searching for something he hadn't found yet.
A fifth of whisky was enough for two.
The Photographer turned as Finch approached. A slow, unconcerned motion. Finch had never seen him anything other than calm. Or maybe his mood was always resigned to whatever new thing came next. Didn't know what had happened to him in the camps. Didn't know much about him at all, except that he trusted the man. Which made little sense. He was so clearly damaged. So indifferent to Finch's help in getting him out of the camp.
The Photographer nodded.
Finch passed the bottle to the Photographer. The man took a sip and handed it back. He stared at Finch with an unreadable gaze. A white face and a watchful mouth, with an upturn to the lips that could make him look devilish. The eyes and cheekbones didn't match the mouth. The eyes were almost vacant, except for a deepset glint. Finch thought of that glint as curiosity or obsession. The high cheekbones gave the Photographer an aura of deep or deeply denied suffering.
“Anything new out there?”
“A few things.” His voice a thin reed.
“Anything I should know about?”
&nbs
p; The Photographer shrugged, looked out at the night. “More activity at the towers, just a little while ago. An emergency? Quickly solved, if so. Nothing there now. A few spore discharges to the west. Can't tell if they're human or mechanical. But not much, no . . . What happened to you?”
An involuntary snort. He must look as ragged as he felt. The Photographer had never asked after his health before.
“I came across something that didn't like me,” Finch said. No desire to share the details. Thinking about how he had to hold out for another day before seeing Sintra again.
The Photographer nodded as if this made sense. Returned to his contemplation of the view. Didn't care much for small talk.
Slowly, stiffly, Finch lowered himself into a chair. A few feet away, Feral was munching on something he'd caught.
A couple light bulbs hung near the rotting sign. The outer arc of their light just barely caught the edge of the chairs. Enough to read by.
Eyes adjusted to the dim light, Finch began to go through Bliss's file. Two laughably old photographs. One so dark it was just a silhouette with a hint of jaw leering out of a smudge. The report itself was brief, pithy, in the spidery script of gray cap transcriptions. Translated from their original files. Which took what form? Probably were worse things than memory holes down below.
Finch already knew most of what was in the report. Bliss's rise within F&L ranks. The compromise with Hoegbotton. The alliance with the Lady in Blue. But he was somehow surprised that the gray caps knew it. Made him wonder about the extent of their intel before the Rising.
Buried in the middle of the report, Finch found a list of aliases under which Bliss had operated: Charles Dinley, George Graansvoort, John Letcher, Grant Shearwater, Dar Sardice. And, most improbably, jasper Marlowe Anthony Blasio. A typo? An error in the transcription?
Dar Sardice proved the most interesting. The other names had been ways of disguising movements across checkpoints within the city. Dar Sardice had been used much earlier, during Ambergrisian- Hoegbotton campaigns against the Kalif. “Dar Sardice” had been Frankwrithe's man keeping an eye on the progress of the war. From behind the Kalif's supply lines. The cover? Independent merchant and businessman. With an established trade route that cut through over eight hundred miles of desert dotted with fortified towns. The whole Western Front. Against which the Ambergrisian Army had thrown itself with unparalleled ferocity. From which it had eventually retreated. “It was just too large,” his father had said once. “It was overwhelming. The wide, hot, empty spaces. The strangeness of the towns. The fact we didn't speak the language.” Left a trail of broken, bombed equipment behind. Trucks. Tanks. Mortars.
A desert fortress. A fall from a great height. Ethan Bliss as Dar Sardice, turning up in every major theater of a desert war. Then appearing again not long after as F&L's man in Ambergris. Popping up in the dead man's memories. Had disappeared when cornered, after having been nailed to a wall just a few minutes before.
Was he looking at a secret that should be obvious? If so, it eluded him the more he tried to pin it down.
Beside him, the Photographer stirred. “I am going to go back inside. Do you need anything from me?”
“Just information,” Finch said, and downed some whisky. He enjoyed the way it spread out from his throat, his stomach. Settling him as it mixed with the afterburn of the cigar.
“What kind of information?”
On a hunch, feeling like his back was exposed: “Seen anyone strange around the hotel recently?”
The Photographer replied with a kind of odd regret, as if speaking out of turn: “Yes, I have.”
Suddenly more alert: “Describe them?”
“Two of them, today. They came separately. The first I saw around noon. A tall Partial. He was on the stairs when I saw him. Coming down.” A look of disgust on the Photographer's face.
The same Partial?
“Coming down from where?”
“I don't know. I was on the fifth floor. He was coming down.”
Could've been anyone. Could've been here for any reason. And nothing he could do about it.
“The second?”
“He stayed outside the building. It was late afternoon. A bald man. Dangerous-looking. He talked to the madman by the statue. Didn't like what the madman told him. Then looked up at the windows for awhile. He stayed off to the side smoking a cigarette. Got impatient and walked into the lobby for a moment, came back out, and left almost right away.”
A description that matched what Bliss had told them about Bosun, Stark's muscle. Which meant they'd had watchers on Bliss's place. Watchers who had identified Finch incredibly fast. Now they were checking out where he lived. He didn't like that. Didn't like it at all.
Definitely time to have a talk with Stark.
“Tell me if you see them again? Or anyone else who doesn't live here?”
The Photographer nodded. Then he was taking long strides to the hatch, as if he suddenly needed to be somewhere. The hatch creaked open, and he was gone.
Off to Finch's left, Feral was stalking something new around a couple of wooden boxes. Finch went back to his whisky. Wondered if Bliss/Dar Sardice leading them to Stark meant Stark would lead them back to Bliss. And who was Stark, then? Just another Stockton man, or something else?
All the while trying not to think of the skery. Curling up his leg. Wound around his neck.
Failing.
Finch by Jeff VanderMeer
WEDNESDAY
I: When did you first decide to contact Stark? Before or after Bliss?
F: I was just investigating two deaths. Following orders.
I: And to you that meant scheming with all of the city's enemies?
F: No, that's not it at all. That you-
[screams, garbled recording]
F: Why did you do that? Why? I'm talking. I'm talking.
I: But you're not saying anything.
Finch by Jeff VanderMeer
I
n their way the next morning to track down Stark ...
Wind and spray of rain against Finch's face as they sped across the bay toward the Spit. Glad of the cool water soaking his hair. But he had a hard time keeping the filter-mask over eyes, nose, and mouth from clouding up. It itched, made him sweat. Made Wyte, as he turned toward Finch, look like something meant to frighten children. But better safe than dead. Even the gray caps didn't know what lived in the air above the bay, the water corrupted by runoff from the HFZ. Tiny assassins. Cell disruptors and breath-stealers ...
Finch stood at the prow of the gray cap boat, the only kind allowed out on the bay. Wyte beside him, skin on his arms green. Not from being seasick. The boat was big enough for eight or ten. Empty with just the two of them. Slight upward lurching push as it expelled water below the surface to propel them forward. Looked like any other boat from afar. Except it acts like it's alive. Route preplanned by the gruff Partial who had met them on the shore. Who had shoved a mushroom into an orifice on the hull that looked uncannily like a memory hole. Somehow the boat knew where to go. How to return.
Finch's shoes were sinking into the loamy sponge of the “planks.” Tried to remember to bend his knees to keep his balance. But balance was a precarious thing. Tongue dry, stomach aching. The skery had done something to his muscles. Made him feel like he'd wrestled a giant all night. Didn't like that. Didn't like being robbed of his natural river-legs. Finch had liked the water, once. With childhood friends, names now lost-Charlie? Sam?-he'd gone down to the docks to fish. Pushed a canoe out into the current. Later, working for Wyte, he'd gotten up close to the big ships docking to unload and take on board H&S goods.
Ghosts of early-morning conversations with Wyte ran through Finch's head.
“Most of my informants have gone dark. Stark's influence. Taking care of leaks and stirring up hornets.”
“You've got to know more about Stark than what you left on my desk, Wyte.”
“No. Not a thing. We don't even know if that's his real name.”
/>
“Nobody's real name is just Stark, Wyte.”
Wyte had arranged for a Stockton operative named Stephen Davies to act as a go-between with Stark. They'd approach the floating pontoons at the northeast edge of the Spit. Much safer than from the land side. A maze of ruins there. Ideal for ambush. No cover. No way to retreat.
Spies came into Ambergris simple and alone, first stop the Spit. Over the water. In the darkness, as if newly born. With nothing on them that the gray caps might want. Nothing that their masters wouldn't want taken. They built up their resources over time. Using whatever money or influence they'd brought from Stockton, Morrow, or even more distant lands. Sometimes the Spit was the last stop, too.
“Truff love foreigners, trying to take advantage of our fucked-up city.”
“Stark'll be no different. Where was Stockton during the Rising?”
“Waiting to pick the bones clean.”
Trying to pump themselves up. Convince themselves they were still loyal to Ambergris. Hated how the masks made their voices tinny.
“Davies seems in awe of Stark.”
“Sure it's not fear? Though most of them are probably past fear or awe by now...”
Wyte just shrugged. Finch knew he didn't want to think about that. Didn't want to know what shit might be waiting on the Spit.
Hints of bobbing islands in the waves now. Some of them too close to ignore. Yet Finch ignored them. Corpse islands made from workers who had died in the camps. Reborn as floating compost for fruiting bodies. And far, far below them, the decaying docks, the drowned part of Albumuth Boulevard. All of the dead, still in the buildings where they had worked or lived, the onslaught of water so sudden. Slamming into them. For a time lit up by the strobing of the giant squid that had patrolled the bay. Long since gone, driven out by the pollution. Finch couldn't take it. Not this morning.
“Water can behave like a person,” his father used to say. Treacherous. Tides and swirls and eddies. Sucking boats down with them.