Stark gave out a little crumpled laugh. A kind of regal contempt. “Not a one for you, Finchy. Except you’ll pay for this, one way or the other. I’m the crown prince incognito. I’m an enchanted frog. Somebody will come after you.”

The man’s hostility began to fade as the memory bulb took effect. Finch looked into his eyes. Found nothing there. Nothing worth saving. Just an outsider who’d decided he wanted to profit off of the city’s misery. A thug who thought he was tougher. Playing a game where his only strategy was to keep turning the screws. Finch didn’t care who he was anymore. Just wanted him gone. Wondered without interest what Bosun would do now.

Stark’s pupils had begun to dilate. Eyelids flickering like hummingbird wings. Said, as if from a faraway place, “No, I won’t. I don’t want to.” Fell back on his heels. Arms slack.

Finch came close. Held Stark’s head back. Took out another pouch. Poured preservation powder all over Stark’s tongue. Like sand. Held his mouth shut even as Stark struggled, lethargically. Made him swallow. Once. Twice.

Released him. Stood back. Both times Finch had seen Heretic force a bulb and the powder on a prisoner, they’d died within an hour.

Stark convulsed, smashed his head back against the wall. So hard he left blood and hair on the brick. His eyes rolled back. Fell over on his side. Began to thrash. Blood poured out of his nostrils. Began to talk in a low voice. Very fast. No distance between sentences.

Then Stark began to laugh. Quietly at first. Almost like a gasping whisper. But rising in volume, until he was shrieking. Rolling around on the ground guffawing his brains out. With blood still looping out from his nostrils. Arms tight around himself. Mouth in a half-moon of involuntary mirth. It didn’t really sound like laughter anymore. It sounded like screaming. Someone screaming as they were cut apart by knives.

A voice drowning as it spoke. Awash in strange tides.

What did Stark see? Was it Wyte? Wyte’s memories? Distorted further by the powder? Or something else entirely?

Finch stepped back, in a firing stance. But he could not fire. All the rage in him had left. The madness.

Finally, lowered the gun. Left Stark there. Writhing in the mud and water. Feet kicking. Fighting with himself. The laughter raw and rasping. Like something had gone wrong in his throat.

Stark would not come back from this. And before the end he’d be in a kind of hell, like the hell Wyte had experienced. Like the hell Finch was in now. Would Bosun come after him? Didn’t know. Didn’t care at the moment.

Ambergris Rules.