Her lower lip quivered. She pushed his hand away. “You have to choose a side, Finch. Eventually you have to choose a side, even if you pretend to be neutral. Even if you think giving out information is like selling smokes or food packets.”
“And you chose Stark’s side?” Incredulous.
“No! But Stark would’ve killed me if I didn’t give him something. And he hates the gray caps as much as I do. And I didn’t think it would hurt to tell him what he could’ve found out about you in a couple of days anyway.” She looked small, miserable, utterly alone. But right then he didn’t care.
“Stark’s a psychopath,” Finch said. “Only out for himself.” Repeating what Bliss had told him.
“Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe I just told myself it was okay because I didn’t want to die.”
“Couldn’t your ‘brother’ and his friends help you?”
Rathven shook her head. “Everyone comes to me for information. Everyone sees me as neutral because I give everyone something.”
“And you don’t know Bliss?”
“I know of him. He visited the Photographer a few times, but he never wanted anything from me.”
Bliss. The Photographer. How did that work? And why?
“Finch?” she said, and he realized he’d been lost in his thoughts. “What are you going to do?”
It took an effort of will. But knew he had to do it. For himself as well as for her. There was no one else. Told himself: She delivered Duncan Shriek to you. She helped you when the memory bulbs brought you low. She never lied to you before. There is no one else. Not a soul.
“Stark’s as good as dead,” Finch said. “And, Rath, I’ll forget the rest if you’ll do me a favor. I need a favor.”
“What kind of favor?” Abject relief in her voice.
He placed his extra apartment key on her table. “Take care of Feral for me. Take care of the things in my apartment. If I don’t come back.” Wasn’t looking forward to saying goodbye to Feral. Wasn’t sure that wouldn’t be the final stupid little thing that broke him.
“Where are you going?”
Finch smiled. “Nowhere. Everywhere.”
7
But he didn’t get very far. Bliss waited for him in the courtyard. Came out into the late afternoon light. One arm shoved into the outer pocket of his short brown jacket. Wore matching pants. A wide-brimmed black hat. A dark green scarf. Face flushed. Almost disguising a thin line of dull red that ran up across his right cheek. Another wound around his hairline, disappearing under the brim. Another remarkable recovery.
Frost clung to his boots. Fast melting. A damp, wet smell to him. Where’d he been? Not here.
“Put the gun away, Finch. And don’t even think about drawing the Kalif’s sacred steel.”
Finch had no illusions about the hand shoved into the pocket. Could see something bulky there. He holstered his weapon. Stood in the gloom with Bliss.
With Dar Sardice.
“Now what?” Tried to push away the thought that Rathven had set him up somehow.
“Now we go up to the Photographer’s apartment.”
“Not mine? I think you know where it is.”
“I don’t trust yours.” Bliss motioned with the gun in his pocket. “After you.” His face closed, angular, serious.
Finch walked past him, tensing for a blow. But it never came. Bliss followed a step behind. Thought about turning on him, but had no illusions about what Bliss would do.
The spy’s voice went cold, condemning. “When you see me again, it will be because I want you to see me. And not before.”
On the fifth floor, they walked to the end of the hall. Apartment 521. Half hidden by the long stalks of slender lime-green mushrooms. Bliss tossed a key on the floor.
“Open the door.”
Carefully, Finch bent down to pick up the key, unlocked the door. Went inside, Bliss following.
The room was empty, except for a stout table in the center. A bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
Photographs covered the walls. Nailed there. A half-dozen in frames were stacked against the far window. Which was blacked out with paint. Some of the photographs were larger than Finch, made up of many smaller pieces of contact paper. All showed water. In puddles. In waves. Close up. From far away. Noticed now how many of them had the towers as a backdrop. How many seemed to have been taken from areas of the shore the gray caps had blocked off.
“Now lock the door.”
Finch did as he was told.
Turned to find that Bliss had taken off his hat. Taken out a cigar. Lit it with a quick scrape of a match against the table. Poured two glasses of whiskey. Moved to a position behind the table. Put his own glass down. Returned his left hand to his pocket.
Bliss took a puff of the cigar, said, “Whiskey?”
Finch moved uncertainly forward. “A last drink for the condemned man?” Took a glass.
It was good stuff. Smashing Todd’s, twenty-one years. Put into barrels near the end of one of the worst periods of fighting between F&L and H&S. Better than what he had in the apartment. So smooth it only burned a little on the back end. Tasted of Morrow peat. The River Moth.
“No, Finch,” Bliss said. “A celebration. A kind of christening, even.”
“What do you want?” Snapped it out. No patience left.
“Bellum omnium contra omnes,” Bliss said in a thin, reedy voice.
“You’re my contact?” Rathven saying “Everyone works for the rebels.”
“You’re supposed to say, ‘Never lost.’ Then I’m supposed to give you what you need.”
“I thought you worked for Morrow.”
A quizzical look from Bliss. “I do? Did I ever say I did? There are no Morrow interests in this city anymore. Only Ambergrisian interests.”
“What’s your real name, Bliss? Is it Graansvoort? Or maybe it’s Dar Sardice?”
“You must believe everything you’re told.” Said almost without scorn.
“Why were you really in my apartment?”
Bliss’s head tilted to the left. Considering Finch. “Checking you out. Seeing how you checked out. I found a lot of familiar books on those shelves. Familiar to me, at least. A curious lack of photographs. That’s what really gave you away.”
“Me catching you wasn’t part of the plan.”
“No. I’ll never tell you.”
“So what do you think you found out?”
A bit of the old facile cleverness shone in his eyes. “Familiar books. No photos. I told her, ‘He’s changed his look. Shaved the beard. The hair is lighter. He’s older, but still him. James. The son John helped hide.”
“How did you know my father?”
Bliss sidestepped the question. “Your father knew how to keep a secret. I always admired that about him. He had his head on straight. He knew what was impor- tant. And what wasn’t. I think you do, too. Your father would have agreed to this mission without a second thought.”
“My father is dead,” Finch said through gritted teeth. Put down his whiskey. Bliss knowing didn’t shock him. It was the rest. “You still haven’t answered my question.”
“I trusted your father,” Bliss said. “And he trusted me. If that wasn’t the case, I’d have suggested one of the others. Blakely. Maybe even Wyte. But your boss did make you the lead on the case. Much easier for you to get in there.”