Finch’s shoes were sinking into the loamy sponge of the “planks.” Tried to remember to bend his knees to keep his balance. But balance was a precarious thing. Tongue dry, stomach aching. The skery had done something to his muscles. Made him feel like he’d wrestled a giant all night. Didn’t like that. Didn’t like being robbed of his natural river-legs. Finch had liked the water, once. With childhood friends, names now lost—Charlie? Sam?—he’d gone down to the docks to fish. Pushed a canoe out into the current. Later, working for Wyte, he’d gotten up close to the big ships docking to unload and take on board H&S goods.

Ghosts of early-morning conversations with Wyte ran through Finch’s head.

“Most of my informants have gone dark. Stark’s influence. Taking care of leaks and stirring up hornets.”

“You’ve got to know more about Stark than what you left on my desk, Wyte.”

“No. Not a thing. We don’t even know if that’s his real name.”

“Nobody’s real name is just Stark, Wyte.”

Wyte had arranged for a Stockton operative named Stephen Davies to act as a go-between with Stark. They’d approach the floating pontoons at the northeast edge of the Spit. Much safer than from the land side. A maze of ruins there. Ideal for ambush. No cover. No way to retreat.

Spies came into Ambergris simple and alone, first stop the Spit. Over the water. In the darkness, as if newly born. With nothing on them that the gray caps might want. Nothing that their masters wouldn’t want taken. They built up their resources over time. Using whatever money or influence they’d brought from Stockton, Morrow, or even more distant lands. Sometimes the Spit was the last stop, too.

“Truff love foreigners, trying to take advantage of our fucked-up city.”

“Stark’ll be no different. Where was Stockton during the Rising?”

“Waiting to pick the bones clean.”

Trying to pump themselves up. Convince themselves they were still loyal to Ambergris. Hated how the masks made their voices tinny.

“Davies seems in awe of Stark.”

“Sure it’s not fear? Though most of them are probably past fear or awe by now…”

Wyte just shrugged. Finch knew he didn’t want to think about that. Didn’t want to know what shit might be waiting on the Spit.