city. Green and red. Along with blue for those
narrow reefs of neutrality. Over time, his father would chart weapons
depots on that map. Troop concentrations. Hidden storehouses.
Usually Hoegbotton but some Frankwrithe positions, too. His
father's overlay was actually a black sheet that perfectly hid the
map. And a tablecloth over top of that.
How many guests invited into that place had been served drinks on
that table, never realizing what was hidden beneath?
At seventeen, mad at his father for no longer using him as a courier,
Finch had stolen the key. Started sneaking into the study when his father
was out. Found the map. He used to stand there, it naked before him, and
memorize the progress of the war in his head. It looked like lively abstract
art. Symbols in search of context.
Finch doesn't draw directly on the old map because he doesn't want
to forget the past. Hopes that one day that lost world will return.
The overlay is only temporary, he keeps telling himself. Even as the
changes become more and more permanent.
His map is a crude facsimile of the original. He has only the dark
pencil to record the changes. Nor can his map chart the changes in
the people around him. Or tell him what to do next.
One day, his father surprised him in the study. He stood at the door
with a guarded look on his face. Finch stared back, frozen. There
seemed to be nothing he could say. His father walked up. Put the
black sheet over the map. Replaced the tablecloth. Muttered, ,This
didn't happen." Took the key from him. Escorted him out.
They never talked about it again. But in that moment of shock,
when Finch heard the door open, it burned his father's map into his
head. Every detail. Every nuance. And even now, looking at his own
map, the overlay, he sees it. Sees that room.
Knows every inch of Ambergris. Even the parts he hasn't yet visited.
Even the parts still changing.
3
racking down Bliss took three tries. Wyte had an address for a
townhouse Bliss sometimes used for meetings, in an old Hoegbotton
stronghold southeast of Albumuth. Finch could still see the slashes of
faded paint on the pavement, left by groups of Irregulars. Who knew
how old the marks were? A code that told a secret history of the city.
Gray cap passed by here Tuesday ... Food and ammo in the second house
on the left ... Stay clear of this intersection after dark.
They found the house on a street that had once been part of a
wealthy district. Trees lined the sidewalk, but not a leaf on them.
Gravel where grass had been. Silence all around. The houses to either
side derelict husks. A burned corpse with no arms right on the steps.
Which should've told them Bliss wasn't there. Flies had settled on
the torn-up face like a congregation. A slender whiteness had begun
to push up through the black. Stalks of fruiting bodies. Rising. In
another twenty hours, nothing would be left.
"Nothing inside," Finch said, coming back out.
"Let's visit Stanton," Wyte said.
Stanton, one of Wyte's druggie snitches, lived a few blocks down.
Behind Stanton, Finch saw a tarp draped over a soot-gray alley mouth.
A bundle of his possessions to one side. A crumbling brick he used to
protect himself at night. Before the Rising, Stanton had been a banker.
Or, at least, that's what he'd told Wyte. Probably an addict then, too.
Wyte always kept a few extra purple mushrooms in his overcoat
pockets. Stanton, in a kind of makeshift robe, clung to Wyte like he
was the drug. Wyte a plank of wood in the River Moth and Stanton
trying to stop from drowning. Except all he ever did was drown.
"Where'd Bliss go?" Wyte asked Stanton.
The thirty-year-old Stanton lifted his gaunt, balding head.
Red-eyed, wrinkled face. "Down by the abandoned train station.
Four streets over. Corner of Sporn and Trillian. He was just there
yesterday."
Wyte put three purple mushrooms in Stanton's hand. Stanton
received them like they were worth more than one day's
narrow reefs of neutrality. Over time, his father would chart weapons
depots on that map. Troop concentrations. Hidden storehouses.
Usually Hoegbotton but some Frankwrithe positions, too. His
father's overlay was actually a black sheet that perfectly hid the
map. And a tablecloth over top of that.
How many guests invited into that place had been served drinks on
that table, never realizing what was hidden beneath?
At seventeen, mad at his father for no longer using him as a courier,
Finch had stolen the key. Started sneaking into the study when his father
was out. Found the map. He used to stand there, it naked before him, and
memorize the progress of the war in his head. It looked like lively abstract
art. Symbols in search of context.
Finch doesn't draw directly on the old map because he doesn't want
to forget the past. Hopes that one day that lost world will return.
The overlay is only temporary, he keeps telling himself. Even as the
changes become more and more permanent.
His map is a crude facsimile of the original. He has only the dark
pencil to record the changes. Nor can his map chart the changes in
the people around him. Or tell him what to do next.
One day, his father surprised him in the study. He stood at the door
with a guarded look on his face. Finch stared back, frozen. There
seemed to be nothing he could say. His father walked up. Put the
black sheet over the map. Replaced the tablecloth. Muttered, ,This
didn't happen." Took the key from him. Escorted him out.
They never talked about it again. But in that moment of shock,
when Finch heard the door open, it burned his father's map into his
head. Every detail. Every nuance. And even now, looking at his own
map, the overlay, he sees it. Sees that room.
Knows every inch of Ambergris. Even the parts he hasn't yet visited.
Even the parts still changing.
3
racking down Bliss took three tries. Wyte had an address for a
townhouse Bliss sometimes used for meetings, in an old Hoegbotton
stronghold southeast of Albumuth. Finch could still see the slashes of
faded paint on the pavement, left by groups of Irregulars. Who knew
how old the marks were? A code that told a secret history of the city.
Gray cap passed by here Tuesday ... Food and ammo in the second house
on the left ... Stay clear of this intersection after dark.
They found the house on a street that had once been part of a
wealthy district. Trees lined the sidewalk, but not a leaf on them.
Gravel where grass had been. Silence all around. The houses to either
side derelict husks. A burned corpse with no arms right on the steps.
Which should've told them Bliss wasn't there. Flies had settled on
the torn-up face like a congregation. A slender whiteness had begun
to push up through the black. Stalks of fruiting bodies. Rising. In
another twenty hours, nothing would be left.
"Nothing inside," Finch said, coming back out.
"Let's visit Stanton," Wyte said.
Stanton, one of Wyte's druggie snitches, lived a few blocks down.
Behind Stanton, Finch saw a tarp draped over a soot-gray alley mouth.
A bundle of his possessions to one side. A crumbling brick he used to
protect himself at night. Before the Rising, Stanton had been a banker.
Or, at least, that's what he'd told Wyte. Probably an addict then, too.
Wyte always kept a few extra purple mushrooms in his overcoat
pockets. Stanton, in a kind of makeshift robe, clung to Wyte like he
was the drug. Wyte a plank of wood in the River Moth and Stanton
trying to stop from drowning. Except all he ever did was drown.
"Where'd Bliss go?" Wyte asked Stanton.
The thirty-year-old Stanton lifted his gaunt, balding head.
Red-eyed, wrinkled face. "Down by the abandoned train station.
Four streets over. Corner of Sporn and Trillian. He was just there
yesterday."
Wyte put three purple mushrooms in Stanton's hand. Stanton
received them like they were worth more than one day's
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