“Where were you this morning?” Wyte asked. Dapple stood behind him, eclipsed.

“I’ll tell you later.”

“Why not tell me now.” Finch heard the fear in Wyte’s voice.

“No,” Finch said, laying the word down hard.

Wyte considered that for a moment. Like it was a wall between them. Looked back toward the boat as if thinking about getting back on it. “Did Blakely tell you our mission?”

“I told Wyte we should just. Should just run,” Dapple said, breaking in. “That this is going to. Going to get us killed.” Sometimes Dapple stopped in mid-sentence. Like an actor trying to perfect a line.

“Listen, Wyte,” Finch said, ignoring Dapple. “I came down off the ridge. There are Partials following you. A few hundred feet behind. They’re probably watching us now.”

Or they’ve got a spy on you, Wyte, and they don’t need to watch us.

Wyte grimaced. Dapple stared at the water like he expected something to erupt out of it.

“What do we do.” Dapple asked. Didn’t seem to expect an answer.

“Shut up, Dapple,” Wyte whispered.

“Carry out our mission. Come home alive. Like always.” Finch putting emphasis on our. An ache in his throat. Knew Wyte would understand that Finch wouldn’t have come down the ridge for anyone else.

No matter that you’re not always the Wyte I remember.

A sudden spark in Wyte’s eyes. Something that glittered. Began to fade almost as soon as it had passed through.

“Like old times,” Wyte said. A wry grin. “Like when I taught you how to deal with ship captains down at the docks.” His voice was crumbling like a ruined wall. The edges of words worn away.

Finch was too tired to take the brunt of that. “We should get moving.”

He wanted action so he wouldn’t have to think.

About any of it.

3

The haze of the Religious Quarter came closer and closer. A fake fairy tale city-within-a-city above them. Of those following, no sight. Just the sound of gravel once, dislodged. A distant muttered curse.

After a climb, the ground leveled out. They came to a long, tall wall parallel to a rough road. Ahead, the wall ran on into the distance, buckled and cracked in places. Like it was having trouble restraining what it had been made to hold back. Coming over the wall: the lime scent, the rich greens of the Religious Quarter. Fungus and trees wedded in a vast alliance. Looked like nothing more or less than a fiery explosion, frozen in time. Bullet holes in the wall, in dozens of places. The blackish spray of old blood where someone had gotten unlucky. Under it all, a latticework of fungus. Faintly visible. Faintly green-glowing.