The canal led into the Religious Quarter, but Wyte and Dapple would have to disembark much earlier. Their objective lay just outside the Quarter.
Finch’s gaze traveled back down the canal, toward civilization. Zeroed in on a series of swift-moving dots some two hundred feet behind the boat. Dark. Lanky. Angular. Using the bramble on the far side of the canal as cover. Partials. Trailing Wyte.
Stared down at the story unfolding below him with a kind of absurd disbelief. Swore under his breath. Took the measure of the Partials down the barrel of his Lewden Special. But it was a long shot. Literally. He lowered the gun.
Maybe Wyte knew about the Partials? What if they were providing support? No. Blakely would’ve mentioned that. Blakely would’ve told him about Partials. Probably sent to make sure Wyte did as he’d been told. Was the Partial with them, or was he back at the apartment guarding a dead man?
For a moment, Finch just stood on the ridge, under the gray sky. Watched with envy the wheeling arc of a vulture like a dark blade through the air.
Easy to turn away. Heretic didn’t expect him to be there. Wyte didn’t know where he’d gone. Finch could say he’d been investigating some other lead. Could go back to the station. Forget he’d seen any of this. Wait for them to get back. If they came back.
Bliss: “It isn’t what you find out that’s going to keep you alive. It’s where you’re standing … You shouldn’t be worried about me, or what I was doing. You should be worried about yourself.”
Bone-weary. Hungry. Bliss’s words still in his thoughts. The long fall through the door still devouring him. Finch looked back the way he’d come. Looked down at Wyte and Dapple. Remembered Dapple calm once, at his desk, stealing a moment to write a few lines of poetry. Remembered Wyte training him as a courier for Hoegbotton. His patience and his good humor. Long nights in their home, laughing and joking not just with Wyte but with Emily. Back before the end of history.
Now he was standing on top of a mountain of garbage, trying to figure out how he’d gotten there.
“Fuck,” he said to the vulture. To the false light of the Religious Quarter. “Fuck you all.”
Then he was descending the ridge at an angle. Trying to put enough shadow, enough debris, in front of him and the canal that the Partials couldn’t see him.
This was going to get worse before it got better.
* * *
Finch caught up to them as they were mooring the boat to a rickety dock under a stand of willow trees. Shadowed by a lichen-choked, half-drowned stone archway that led nowhere now. The canal had a metallic blue sheen to it. Nothing rippled across its surface. The gray boat had that mottled, doughy look Finch hated. Like it was made of flesh.
He said nothing. Just came out of the shadow of the trees and leaned against the arch. Waiting for Wyte to see him.
Looping one last length of rope round a pole, Wyte did a double take.
“Finch?” he said. “Finch.” A slow, hesitant smile broke across his troubling face. A sincere relief that softened the sternness of his features. “It’s good to see you.”
Dapple jumped off the boat. “How’d you know where to find us?” he demanded. The anger of a desperate man.
“Relax. Blakely told me,” Finch said. “I was already on this side of the bay.”
But Dapple’s face darkened at the mention of Blakely. He looked more nervous than usual. The body language of a mouse or rat. Twitching. Had two guns. Both gray cap issue. One drawn. One stuck through his belt. He wore a mottled green shirt too big for him and black trousers shoved into brown boots. Like a doll dressed for war.
As ever, Wyte hid himself in a bulky, tightly buttoned overcoat. An angry red splotch had drifted down his forehead. Had colonized half of one eye. Cheek. Chin. The splotch had elongated and widened his face. Made his head more like a porous marble bust. He wore black gloves over his hands. Red and white threads had emerged from his sleeves. Wandered of their own accord.
As Wyte trod heavily closer, he extended his hand. Gave Finch a thankful look as they shook. Wyte’s grip was strong but gave. Like the glove was full of moist bread. Finch suppressed a shudder from the sense of things moving inside each finger.
“Where were you this morning?” Wyte asked. Dapple stood behind him, eclipsed.
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Why not tell me now.” Finch heard the fear in Wyte’s voice.
“No,” Finch said, laying the word down hard.
Wyte considered that for a moment. Like it was a wall between them. Looked back toward the boat as if thinking about getting back on it. “Did Blakely tell you our mission?”
“I told Wyte we should just. Should just run,” Dapple said, breaking in. “That this is going to. Going to get us killed.” Sometimes Dapple stopped in mid-sentence. Like an actor trying to perfect a line.
“Listen, Wyte,” Finch said, ignoring Dapple. “I came down off the ridge. There are Partials following you. A few hundred feet behind. They’re probably watching us now.”
Or they’ve got a spy on you, Wyte, and they don’t need to watch us.
Wyte grimaced. Dapple stared at the water like he expected something to erupt out of it.
“What do we do.” Dapple asked. Didn’t seem to expect an answer.
“Shut up, Dapple,” Wyte whispered.
“Carry out our mission. Come home alive. Like always.” Finch putting emphasis on our. An ache in his throat. Knew Wyte would understand that Finch wouldn’t have come down the ridge for anyone else.
No matter that you’re not always the Wyte I remember.
A sudden spark in Wyte’s eyes. Something that glittered. Began to fade almost as soon as it had passed through.
“Like old times,” Wyte said. A wry grin. “Like when I taught you how to deal with ship captains down at the docks.” His voice was crumbling like a ruined wall. The edges of words worn away.
Finch was too tired to take the brunt of that. “We should get moving.”
He wanted action so he wouldn’t have to think.
About any of it.
3
The haze of the Religious Quarter came closer and closer. A fake fairy tale city-within-a-city above them. Of those following, no sight. Just the sound of gravel once, dislodged. A distant muttered curse.
After a climb, the ground leveled out. They came to a long, tall wall parallel to a rough road. Ahead, the wall ran on into the distance, buckled and cracked in places. Like it was having trouble restraining what it had been made to hold back. Coming over the wall: the lime scent, the rich greens of the Religious Quarter. Fungus and trees wedded in a vast alliance. Looked like nothing more or less than a fiery explosion, frozen in time. Bullet holes in the wall, in dozens of places. The blackish spray of old blood where someone had gotten unlucky. Under it all, a latticework of fungus. Faintly visible. Faintly green-glowing.
“This is Scarp Lane,” Wyte said. “I was here before the Rising. Tree-lined. Nice homes. Bars and restaurants and dance halls. Little alcoves for people to put up offerings to their gods. You could indulge in your favorite vice and then walk right over and pray it away. Between the wars, it used to be a nice row of wrought-iron streetlamps and sidewalk vendors.”