Finch fought the urge to close the distance. To hurt Bosun. Fought it. Knew that self-control would save his life. Maybe save Wyte's life. Knew now, too, that Stark didn't give a shit about gray cap retaliation. Didn't care that Heretic would be after him if he snuffed out two detectives.
"Where's my partner? Where are you taking him?" Tried to keep his voice level.
If you hurt him ...
Bosun shrugged, said, "Doesn't want to see him. Just you. Wyte's not safe. We don't know where he's been. You'll see him later. Take off your shoes."
"Take off my shoes?" It was unexpected enough to make Finch forget Wyte for a moment.
"Shoes and socks. Need to see your feet. That going to be a problem?"
"Why the f**k would I care about my shoes after giving up my gun?"
Over the side went Finch's shoes and socks. Stood there, hopping, as he showed Bosun the bottom of first one foot, then the other. Wondering where this would end. Furious, worried, scared.
Another part of him looked down from a great height, puzzled. When did being a detective mean this? He was investigating a double murder. He was working for an occupying force that could make Stark disappear in a burst of dandelion-like spores. And he didn't have his shoes. He didn't have his socks. He didn't have his gun.
"Are we done?" Finch asked. "Is this almost over?"
Impassive bullet of a head swiveling toward Finch. Dark eyes glinting. "Turn out your pockets."
"Why?"
Bosun pulled out his gun. "No good reason."
Finch raised his left arm, palm up. "I'll do it. I'll do it."
There was a lot more than he'd thought. A copy of the photo of the murder victim. A folded up note from Sintra, the first and almost only thing she'd ever written to him. Dear Finch-I made you coffee. Thanks for a great night. Love, S. His current identity papers. A few semi-worthless paper bills from before the Rising. A strange coin, notched along the edges, that he'd kept for luck. A scrap of paper with nonsense words written on it, an odd symbol on the back.
In the end, Bosun returned all of it to him.
"Worthless."
But he'd lingered on the scrap of paper. Far longer than necessary to read it.
3
hirty minutes? Longer? Finch lost count of the doors. Lost count ar didn't care. His back throbbed from hunching over. From crawling, then climbing, Bosun's form always ahead of him. They were in the heart of the Spit now. Bigger boats-almost ships-lay near the center, places where you could forget you were on the water. Masts rose up like barren trees. Warrens of rooms, through which Bosun walked sure-footed, never losing his bearings.
Passed through a bar of sorts, with homemade booze in reused bottles. Women flirted with dull, rumpled men with beards and strange black hats. A few loners with a calculated threadbare appearance. Beyond the bar, the sound of spirited bartering in back rooms for black market goods. Selling guns, food, maybe even information.
Where was Wyte now? How far behind or ahead? Still alive, or thrown over the side to follow their guns? Began to wonder if Wyte would wind up like Bliss or like Bliss's men. Nailed to a wall? Bleeding fungal blood?
Even stranger ideas began to enter his head. That Rath in her basement, doling out information, was someone he'd made up out of convenience. That Sintra had no mysterious life beyond his own. That he'd written the words on the scrap of paper pried from the dead man's hands. That the soreness around his neck came not from the skery but from sleeping in the wrong position. That he would wake up to find Sintra was his wife. The gray caps had never Risen. He still worked for Hoegbotton & Sons as a courier, but Wyte was an obedient wire-haired terrier he'd bought for Sintra. There was no Spit. No bay. No towers.
Instead, they reached Stark's headquarters: through one last doorway, hinges splinters of wood, the door missing. Ripped apart? How long ago?
Bosun straightened up, Finch beside him. Stepped into a room aboard some kind of ferry. Passenger seats stripped out leaving the metal skeletons of chairs. The high, curving ceiling showed in faded paint a scene from an opera, people in balcony seats applauding. Below that hung a chandelier from which almost all the glass was gone.
A long wide space stretched out before them. Like a dance floor. Timbers stained with dark red swirls and smudges. The soft smell of soap couldn't dull the sharp assault of the blood.
At the far end: a couple of chairs, a desk, and a large figure hanging a painting on the wall. As they approached, Finch recognized the painting as a reproduction. It showed the Kalif of another age demanding fealty from a defiant Stockton king. Back when Stockton had kings. Hunting dogs stood in the foreground, but fiendish, with forked tongues and jowls curling back to reveal metal daggers. The composition more surreal than photographic. All of it the echo of a time lost to the present.
The large man nodded to them even as he kept moving the painting. Trying to catch it on the nails in a wall covered with bullet holes and dark bloodstains. Splatter had swept across the divide between wall and floor.
Finch noticed now the dark sheets in the farthest corner. Roughly man-sized.
"You found Bosun, I see," the man said. A deep voice. "Or he found you. Either way, you're here. Finally." The painting caught on the nails. Held. "There."
The man turned toward them. "You can call me Stark."
Stark made a tall space look small. A height that warranted a girth that could have been muscle or fat. Or both. The truth of it hidden by a trench coat. Frankwrithe & Lewden army issue. With old medals from the Kalif's empire pinned there: black glint with a hint of gold against the steep gray of the trench coat. A hawk face, with dark pupils swimming in too much white. A strong nose and a chin that jutted: two halves of the same beak. A knife in his left boot sheathed in a silver scabbard that shone as if polished every hour. Finch mistrusted that knife immediately. Reminded him of the squeaky floors at 239 Manzikert Avenue. Look at the knife while the blow comes from somewhere else. What else did the trench coat hide? A sword?
Stark didn't come forward. Didn't offer his hand. Just stood there. The painting behind him. Now Finch saw that Stark hadn't been trying to hide the bullet holes, the blood. Instead, the painting had been placed between them.
"Sit," Bosun growled, shoving Finch forward into a chair. Stark sat down behind the desk. Bosun stood to the side, reaching for a piece of dark wood on the desk. One of many. Started carving. Quick, accurate cuts. So fast his hands were a blur.
"Where's Wyte?" Finch asked.
Stark pursed his lips, ignored him, and said, "What did you think would happen? I'm curious. You thought you two would just walk in here, into my place, and you'd take me away to your shitty little station for questioning? Come back with an army if you want that, and come in shooting."