“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 fuck 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

Thirty minutes? Longer? Finch lost count of the doors. Lost count or 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?