Finch transferred his gun to his left hand. Shook his right. Green liquid hit the floor. Goddamn gun. Wiped his hand on the side of the couch.
"Did you follow me here?" Finch demanded.
One eyebrow arched. "Getting paranoid? Afraid you'll be found out?"
Snarled, "Why do you keep saying that?"
The Partial smiled. Triumphant. "Everyone has something to hide."
"Why didn't you tell me two people lived here?" he asked the Partial. "A man and a woman. Did you question them? And where are they?"
A preternatural calm to the Partial as he countered with, "Tell me what was in the dead man's hand."
Finch stepped back. Took in the narrow face, all slab of tongue and uncanny black-green left eye. Right eye atrophied from the repurposing. Dull orange lichen lived there now. The tongue moved like Finch's pet lizard's tongue. Tasting the air. The amount of energy that went into the eye meant they had to suck on gray cap-provided mushroom juice seven or eight times a day. Looked like green pus. What was their name for themselves? A gray cap word. Sounded like grineeknsenz or something just as ugly. Rumor had it they'd made a pact with the gray caps. That soon they'd be made more like the gray caps, in return for their service.
"Nothing important," Finch managed finally.
"Isn't that for me to decide?"
"It's for Heretic to decide. It'll be in my report."
"I hope it is." The Partial's gaze was cold and dark. "We notice more than the gray caps, Finch. And we're more prepared to use what we find than they are."
That surprised Finch. Was the Partial criticizing Heretic? Safer to ignore it.
"What did the people who lived here tell you?"
"Nobody lived here."
Finch chewed on that for a moment. Was the Partial hiding something from Heretic? He patted his satchel. "I've got the entire list from Heretic of anyone who lived here." Idiot. "You're saying it won't include the two who lived here?"
"They don't live here," the Partial said, a hint of warning in his voice. "They don't live anywhere anymore. They didn't know anything important."
Dead, then. Disappeared into the abyss of history.
Appalled, Finch said, "Heretic knows this?"
The Partial nodded, folding his arms. "Don't take anything from the bodies this time except for the memory bulbs. I'm supposed to guard them. I've been here all day. Someone will always be here."
The way the Partial said this made Finch think the man, the abomination, was applying for martyrdom. Did the Partial think Finch was weak just because he hadn't allowed the gray caps to take his eye? Part of Finch wanted to hit the Partial in the mouth for that. Instead, he squatted next to the man's body. Looked so peaceful.
Was he alive for a time? In the room? Was he fighting the gray cap? Fleeing him?
The Partial, from in front and above him: "I'll watch. Just to make sure."
Make sure of what?
"Stay where I can see you."
"Such distrust," the Partial murmured.
Finch knelt beside the man's body. Pushed aside the matted hair on the man's head to get a good grip on the stalk. Held the bulb in his hand. Sticky, porous, rubbery. Gently twisted it off the stalk. A pock sound as he detached it. He put the bulb in his pocket. Pulled the stalk out at the root. Left behind a round indentation about a half inch deep. Blood began to fill the small wound.
That'll leave a scar.
Let loose a yip of nervous laughter. Shut it down.
But the Partial still noticed it. "I knew you didn't want to eat their memories."
Finch ignored the Partial. Repeated the process for the gray cap. No blood, no pock sound.
"You might be the first person to ever eat a gray cap's memory bulb. Aren't you the lucky one."
Finch rose to face the Partial. "Pathetic idea of security, by the way. One Partial. First thing any intruder will want to do is shoot out or cut out your eye. Followed by cutting off your head to make absolutely sure." Said each word slowly. Savored each.
The Partial wasn't smiling now. The eye twitched. He advanced on Finch until he stood inches away. Finch looked into that ruin of a face and tried not to turn away in disgust.
"Finch. Finchy. Whoever you are. You're not as smart as you think. I'm not the only one here. We've got this whole building staked out. If anyone comes here, we'll see them. The spores will see them."
Bellum omnium contra omnes. "Never lost" in a dead man's hand.
"Who would come here? And why?"
"Followers of the Blue." The Partial seemed on the verge of saying more. Caught himself.
But Finch had heard enough. A grin broke across his face. Didn't turn back soon enough. He gave the Partial a last poisonous stare.
"What? Nothing more to say?" the Partial called after him as he headed down the stairs. "I'm disappointed, Finchy . . . Someday, though, Finchy, someday. . ."
Out onto the street, amid the black leaves. The rotten fruit. A memory bulb in each pocket. Looking now for the signature of the rebels in every figure that he passed.
Followers of the Blue ... The Lady in Blue.
A thousand tales told about her by now. Told by old men to young men. Told by mothers to sons and daughters. Most are about her voice. No one agrees on where the Lady in Blue came from, but everyone agrees that during the worst of the War of the Houses her voice was heard coming from courtyards, buildings, even underground. Or seemed to. Some thought she was an opera singer transformed by grief over a slain lover. That she was in some way the voice of the city, coming up from the earth. Believed this even though it could not be true. None of it could be true.
Then her voice started coming to the people on the radio stations of House Hoegbotton and House Frankwrithe, before the Rising. In those interim years when the Houses combined forces to confront the true insurgents. The enemy hidden in the ground.
Finch remembers some of those broadcasts. Listened to them with his father. Near the end.
The Lady in Blue would begin in a low, slow voice. Almost the murmurs of a lover. Her voice would build in volume and strength. Until she was exhorting the people of Ambergris to stand firm against not only the "underground invader," but also against the avarice and selfishness of its own leaders.
That her voice came from everywhere was reinforced by background noises in her broadcasts. Many different settings. Sometimes the sounds of the River Moth behind her. Sometimes a windy tower. Sometimes a water-clogged basement that she would claim was actually an underground gray cap stronghold. Often, she sounded weary. So incredibly tired. And other times strong, defiant.