"It's in the report," Finch said. Too quickly.
"The report. It's all in the report. How could we forget? Perhaps because the report was disappointing. Very disappointing, and not what we've come to expect from you." Still a secret amusement there, mingled with the threat.
His stomach lurched. The room felt hot. At the other desks, the last of the gray caps had sat down. At their feet, their familiars curled, mewled, foraged.
"It's only been a day," Finch said.
"Finch," Heretic said. "Are you telling me everything?"
Bliss had disappeared from a ten-foot-square room. With no windows.
"I left out nothing important," Finch said. "Up to that point."
Heretic said something in his own language that sounded like a child arguing with a click beetle. Then, a half-expected blade held to the throat: "What about the scrap of paper the Partial says you took from the body?"
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.