Inside, a bald man in socks but no shoes sat in a wicker chair facing the wall in a spare living room. Staring at a crappy painting of a beach in the Southern Isles. Wore a stained white undershirt and brown shorts.
The woman went to stand beside the man, protective hand on his shoulder, while Finch leaned on the kitchen counter.
Dialed the station. Wyte’s number. Listened to it ring once, twice, ten times. His mouth was still dry, vision a little blurry. Jacket dirty. His hair full of grit. Wyte’s extra pair of shoes scuffed from kicking Bliss. A sound in his ears he couldn’t identify. Tired because he hadn’t slept? Or because of stress?
A click, and someone said through the crackling, “Wyte’s desk.”
“Who’s this?” Finch asked.
“Blakely. Who’s this?”
“Blakely? It’s Finch. Where’s Wyte?”
“Finch. Where the hell have you been?”
Now he’d find out. “Have I been gone that long?”
“Just the whole damn morning.” Blakely sounded rattled, and a little drunk.
Perverse relief. He’d only lost a half day, maybe less.
“I had to follow up on a lead. Can you pass me over to Wyte?”
“Wyte’s not here. Heretic came in. Smoldering mad about your case. He ordered Wyte to go investigate an address. It related to something in your report, I think. Wyte was told to take Dapple with him. Poor bastard.”
“Crap.” Consequences of being honest with Heretic. “How long ago did they leave?”
“An hour. Maybe a little more.” That meant he could still catch up with them. He was already on the right side of the bay.
“By boat?”
“Yes. Western canal.”
What experience did Wyte and Dapple have investigating rebel safe houses? Partials and their snitches usually followed up on those kinds of leads. A spark of anger and guilt. Anger at Stark for giving them the information. Guilt at himself for putting it in the report.
“Remind me of the address?”
“1829 Northwest Scarp Lane. Wyte made sure I wrote it down.”
“Right,” Finch said.
The edge of the Religious Quarter. Dogghe-controlled territory. A low-grade war still going on between the native insurgency and the gray caps. The war they’d all forgotten. Either the gray caps no longer saw that insurgency as a threat, or the towers took up all of their time now. Or Finch just wasn’t in the loop.
“Putting Dapple and Wyte together. That’s like a suicide mission.”
“No shit, Finch. But Heretic wanted it done, said Wyte knew the area.”
“Only because he was a shipping manager for Hoegbotton, Blakely.” Twelve years ago. More.
“I wasn’t the one who sent them out there,” Blakely said, irritated.
The crackling became a roar, flooding the phone, then subsided after a minute.
“Blakely? You still there?”
“Barely. Listen, there were two messages for you. One from someone called Rathven. Another from a woman who just left her name as ‘S.’”
“What’d they say?”
“Just to call them. You should get back here. Soon. People are saying strange things, like the towers will be finished this week. We’re all on edge.”
Didn’t know you cared.
“I’ve got to find Wyte first.”
“You’re an idiot,” Blakely said, hanging up.
The woman stirred. An accusing stare. Hand still on the man’s shoulder. “Are you going to go now?” she asked. It didn’t take much effort to realize the gray caps or the Partials had done something to her husband. No stretch at all to blame the stranger with the badge.
“One more call and I’ll leave,” he said.
She held his gaze for a second. Then turned to the painting as if it were a window.
Finch dialed the number Sintra had given him. Rathven could wait.
A voice answered after a moment. Finch wasn’t sure it was her.
“Sintra?”
“Finch?”
“Yes.”
“Finch.” Relief in that single word, but also something that he couldn’t identify. “I was worried. I went by your apartment. Your door was open. You weren’t there. Are you okay?”
More than they’d said to each other in person sometimes.
“I’m fine.” An ache rose in his throat. His hand on the receiver shook. No, he wasn’t fine. Exhausted. Starving. Still trying to process losing twelve hours in a blink of an eye. Holding it together because he had no one to hold it together for him.
“Are you back home? I came by, and when I saw the door open I locked it.”
“Thanks for that.”
“Where are you, Finch?”
Where was he? Clinging to a lifeline. He’d meant to warn her to be careful. But, somehow, talking now, it felt like he was talking to a stranger. A voice in his head told him he should be careful. How had Stark found out about Sintra? What if Sintra had told Stark? About him? Was that possible?
“I’m working on a case.”
“But why was your door open? Things were knocked over, as if there’d been a struggle.”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Can I come by tonight?”
Lump in the throat. “Sure,” he said. “I just called to hear your voice. Tough day.”
“Finch,” she said. “Is everything really all right?”
“No,” he said. Made a decision, leapt out into the abyss. “Not really. I’m about to go into a dangerous situation near the Religious Quarter. There’s an address we’re supposed to check out.”
“Then don’t go. Just don’t go.”
“I have to. I don’t have a choice.” Not with Wyte out there with only Dapple for backup.
“You’re scaring me, Finch,” Sintra said.
“I’m going to hang up now,” Finch said. “See you soon. Be safe.” A click as the phone cut out. Didn’t know if she’d heard him or not.
The woman watched him without saying anything. Even as he told her thanks. Even as he left a gray cap food voucher on the counter. Even as he backed out into the corridor.
Relax your guard in this city and you were dead.
2
An hour later, Finch stood on the ridge and stared down. Far below, the dull blue snake of a canal. Two detectives in a boat. Slowly making their way northeast. Finch was about three hundred feet above them. Wyte was a large shadow with a white face, the boat a floating coffin. Dapple had been reduced to a kind of question mark. Not a good place to be. Anyone could’ve been on the ridge, looking down. Lucky for them it was just him.
A steep hillside below Finch. Made of garbage. Stone. Metal. Bricks. The petrified snout of a tank or two. Ripped apart treads. Collapsed train cars pitted with scars and holes. Ragged, dry scraps of clothing that might’ve been people once.
A dry smell hung over it all. Cut through at times by the stench of something dead but lingering. He’d been here before, when it had just been a grassy slope. A nice place. A place couples might go to have a picnic. Couldn’t imagine it ever returning to that state.
The weather had gotten surly. Grayish. A strange hot wind dashed itself against the street rubble. Blew up into his face. Off to the northeast: the Religious Quarter. A still-distant series of broken towers, steeples, and domes. Wrapped in a haze of contrasting, layered shades of green. Looking light as mist. Like something out of a dream from afar. Up close, Finch knew, it reflected only hints of the Ambergris from before, the place once ruled by an opera composer, shaped by the colors red and green.