“But what’s next, then? Where does it stop?”

Finch looked over at the HFZ. Violent strands of strobing orange-red fungal mist rose into the sky. Like an infection running rampant. Remembered the hill he had stood atop with the Lady in Blue. The image came back with a vividness that took over his vision for a moment. A roiling mass of particles. Discharging light until a steady humming glow suffused the city in a kind of dawn. There came in reply from the city a hundredfold bestial roar.

“Why do they ever do anything?”

“They’re all dead by now. Or dying.”

Could the Lady in Blue be both right and wrong? Could Duncan Shriek be alive but the towers have some other purpose altogether? Under that sharp blue sky, he didn’t know the answer. What if he was bait? A distraction? Once again, the disconnect hurt him. Between what she’d shown him and Ambergris as he knew it. An ethereal beauty that no longer lives here. A dream to believe or deny. A vision as different for him as it was for Wyte or Rathven.

“The city fighting itself. Pointless now…”

The Photographer came up next to him. Binoculars hung from his neck. He carried a small pouch by the drawstring. “Breathtaking, isn’t it?”

“No,” Finch said. “No, it’s not. It’s fucking awful.”

The Photographer said, “Just look at the way the water reacts. Look at the patterns.” Almost giddy.

An orange eruption of flames over the Spit. Accompanied by spirals of black smoke. Another blast. Another. The building didn’t shake as much now. As if used to it. Or as if Finch were.

“When did it start?”

“Twenty minutes ago? Suddenly most of the workers climbed down from the top of the towers. They’re at the base now, still constructing something.”

A sudden spark of hope hit him hard. Hadn’t realized he still had the capacity for it. “So they aren’t finished yet.”

“Almost. And so is the Spit.”

Finch stared sharply at the Photographer. But there was no hint of triumph in him.

“It’s a strong warning,” the Photographer said. “They’re clearing the way for something.”

“I wonder what they’ll do when they’ve finished off the Spit,” Finch said, almost to himself.

The Photographer pointed to the east. “What’s missing?”

The other camp dome was gone. Had left behind only a kind of ghostly white outline, broken by mottled gray. With that lack, the greens of the Religious Quarter burned even stronger in the sunlight. And through that entanglement lay the distant echo, the distant shadows, of cupolas and minarets. Like a dream. Like a trap. Was Sintra watching from there even now?

“Fuck.”

A new phase of the Rising.