Finch by Jeff VanderMeer (41 page)

"Your `brother' sell you that relic?" Contemptuously brushed past
her, the image of her as a girl dulling his anger a bit. Brought his gun forward, into the shelter of his body. Holstered it. Found a seat by the
table. Facing the door. Didn't like the tunnel behind him, but liked the
sound of the water. Figured he'd hear someone long before they came
creeping up out of it.

Still holding the gun, she turned to him. In the flickering light. The
cavern lit up in faint cascades of green. Made him think of the Lady
in Blue. In a boat. Crossing an underground sea. Ethereal. A faraway
kingdom, too delicate to exist in the real world.

"Wyte's dead," Finch said. Each time he said it, it seemed more
remote. Then came back to him fast and unbearable. Like something
rising suddenly out of the dark that was both friend and foe.

"You said that." Rathven knew Wyte as someone Finch had talked
about. Maybe half a dozen times. Had kept Wyte from her. Why?
"What happened to you. You're covered in blood."

"Sit down, Rathven," Finch said. "Try to relax." Talking to himself.

"What happened?"

"Stark gave Wyte a mushroom that put him over the edge. I had
to take care of Wyte." Said as calmly as he could manage. Give her
something to think about.

It surprised Finch when she lowered the gun. Some part of him had
thought she would shoot him.

Rathven sat down opposite him. Rested the gun on her knee.

"I'm sorry," she said.

"Why?" Finch asked. "You had nothing to do with it, right?"

A fire in her eyes. "No, of course not."

A feeling of hurt came over Finch. A sense of betrayal. It fascinated
him. Worried at it like a piece of gristle between his teeth.

"You should've been a detective," Finch said. "Down here with all of
your books. With that tunnel as an escape route."

"I should have been," she said, dutifully. But there was nothing
playful in her expression. "What do you want from me, Finch? The
city is falling apart. They've even disbanded the camps." Said it with a
mix of regret and wonder. "I might have to-"

"What? Leave? Like your `brother'?"

She had the grace to look away. "I'm in a different place than you.
You never went to the camps. You don't really know what they were like. It was a white lie. You wouldn't have helped him otherwise. He
was still a friend."

"You mean, if I knew he worked for the rebels."

"Everyone works for the rebels," she snapped.

"Even Sintra?" Even me?

"Sintra I know nothing about," Rathven said. "Nothing. Except
what I told you."

"Who else do you work for?" Finch asked.

"No one. Everyone. You. Myself." Wriggling in the trap. She softened
her tone. A kind of misdirection: "I did check out those aliases for you.
The Bliss aliases."

"Find anything?"

"Just that `Dar Sardice' might not be an alias."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, if you go through some of the books about the wars, and
the books I have about it from the Morrow/Frankwrithe side, you don't
find Ethan Bliss's name anywhere until after the first mention of `Dar
Sardice."'

"Do you mean that Dar Sardice is his real name?"

"Either that," Rathven said, "or he killed Dar Sardice and took his
name. And then his real name isn't Bliss or Sardice. Or, my sources
aren't complete enough."

Bliss pointing him toward Stark. Bliss bringing him into the next day
while Bosun trashed his apartment. Bliss throwing him off the scent.

"How about Stark?"

Thought he sensed a hesitation before she said, "No."

"That's funny, because when I mentioned Stark before you didn't
even stop to ask me who he was. Like you knew."

"I thought you'd tell me soon enough," she said. "For Truff's sake, you
were telling me your friend was dead!"

"A lot of people come to you down here in the basement, don't they?"
Finch said.

"You knew that already. Don't do this, Finch," Rathven said. Almost
convincing him. But the ache was too great.

"A lot of people the gray caps wouldn't approve of," he said, pressing on.

"You're tired, you're grieving," she said.

"People who want things from you," he continued.

She changed tactics, said, "Am I under arrest?" Was it disdain or an
echo of hurt he saw on her face? Were they insulting each other or
wounding each other?

"No," he said. "Where would I take you? The station was bombed
today. It's gone. Matchsticks and stones. Everybody's gone."

She had no answer to that, must've known "I'm sorry" would just set
him off.

"Wyte's dead," Finch said, "because Stark took him over the edge.
Stark got hold of certain information to try to make me help him.
How did he get it?"

For a moment, Wyte sat beside him, saying, "How far are you going to
take this?"

"Finch." Pleading. For what, though? For him to trust her? To stop
questioning her? To keep things the way they'd always been?

Finch leaned forward, reached out, and pulled her chin up when she
tried to look away. She let him do it. "Listen carefully. Stark knew about
Sintra. You told him. He found out about you from his predecessors,
the Stockton agents he liquidated once he got here. He came, or he
sent Bosun. They either threatened you or paid you, or both. And you
told them about Sintra. About me. Maybe you tried to protect me, and
that's all you gave them. You might even think you helped me. But you
gave them something. I know you did. You're the only one who could. If
I'm wrong, tell me. Tell me I'm wrong. Right now. But don't lie to me."

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."

ut 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 whisky 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 whisky. 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, "Whisky?"

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."