All the Kinds of Broken

by ColdColdHeart

Summary:

Being the General Magistrate of Oslov's kettle boy is supposed to be an honor and a stepping stone to a better life. It doesn't feel that way to Tilrey Bronn. Plucked from obscurity to warm the bed of the most powerful man in his world, he does what he can to escape, and then to survive.

This is a prequel to A Serviceable Boy that was designed as a standalone. It can be read without reading the rest, and you won't need to read it to understand the next proper installment in the Key to Oslov series.

Notes:

So, this story is dark. Bad things happen in a dystopian world where the subjugation of the lower classes is sometimes akin to slavery. There are brighter spots, but Tilrey's upward trajectory as a character doesn't start until A Serviceable Boy. This is the darkness that turned him into the person we see at the beginning of that story, the darkness he survived and that Gersha helped him crawl out of. So this story won't have a happy ending (although it will have Tilrey and Gersha's very first meeting).

If you've been reading the Key to Oslov series, you will not have to read this story to understand the next installment. There's some backstory on Artur Threindal, whom we'll see later, but that's it. And if you're familiar with Creepy Malsha from "The Trip to Harbour," please be warned that there's a lot of him here.

Thank you to Misty for inspiring me to write this backstory. I was almost scared to do it, but once I started I couldn't seem to stop, so here we are. I guess it was a story I needed to tell.

Chapter 2 will be posted this weekend and one chapter per week thereafter.

Thank you to everyone who reads, leaves kudos, or comments. You make my day every time. <3 Updates also on Tumblr.

Adding a note to this on 9/12/23, because I've noticed that some readers are starting the saga with this story. And some of those readers aren't happy with the romance that develops in "A Serviceable Boy" and onward. So I just want to add a caveat: If you do start the story here, the rest of it might not be for you. Or it might be! But it does take the Tilrey/Gersha romance a while to become anything close to properly sweet or fluffy. Tilrey has internalized his oppressive circumstances, and the power imbalance remains.

I respect and hugely appreciate everyone's reactions, and I'll keep them in mind if I ever do revise the other stories. For now, those stories are what they are. Thank you so much for reading.

Chapter 1: Acquired

“Get up!” Somebody was kicking his bed. “You’ve slept the whole afternoon away, you layabout!”

Tilrey forced his eyes open. Mom? Was it a school day? Panic tore through him. How had he slept so late? What if he’d missed a test?

Then he sat up woozily, and the room swam into focus—a too-clean, too-white little room with exposed beams and a single window. Outside, a view of pines and hazy blue sky.

He was in the Southern Range, in Fir Jena’s vacation residence. And the voice berating him wasn’t his mother’s. The big, crooked-nosed face of Fir Jena’s driver glowered down at him. “Didn’t you hear me? Up!”

Tilrey had been away from home for four days and five nights (he had to keep careful track, because sap clouded everything), and every morning was still a horror show. First the relief (it was all just a dream). Then the awareness that it was not a dream settling on his head like a thousand-pound weight, pushing him down into the mattress.

This is my life now.

“Okay,” he said, pushing back the thick, plush comforter. “Okay, I’m awake.”

Last night was coming back, and for once it was a night he could stand to remember. He’d been up until nearly dawn talking with her—the Upstart girl, Fir Jena’s daughter. What was her name? Vera. She had a cloud of red hair and such a pretty accent, the consonants clipped and neat. She’d stumbled into Tilrey’s little room (his cell) looking for a book and somehow ended up staying for hours, and they’d kept talking, and—

“Into the shower, now,” the driver practically snarled. “You got somewhere important to be in an hour—or did you forget?”

Tilrey swung his feet to the floor. He couldn’t let the driver know Vera had been here, because he wasn’t supposed to talk to anybody in the house but the driver and Fir Jena. Not that he had a chance, since the room’s door was always locked from the outside. At least sleeping all day had been a relief from the boredom of staring out the window.

“I didn’t forget,” he said.

Sometimes, waking like this, he felt like someone was peeling off his skin by inches and leaving him raw and bleeding. Then he remembered Dal saying, “Don’t be soft, Tilrey,” and he pushed the pain far away and focused on the important part: He was still here. He was still him.

Vera could see that. She didn’t make the assumptions about him that every other Upstart did; she’d asked him intelligent questions and listened to his answers. And she’d promised to sneak back and see him tomorrow, before they returned to Redda. That was something to look forward to.

“You’re sure acting like you got nowhere to be tonight,” the driver said.

Tilrey stood up and recited obediently, “Tonight Fir Jena and I go to meet Fir Magistrate, and Fir Jena gives me to him.”

He’d say the words, but they meant nothing. No one could “give” him to anyone.

The driver nodded with distinct satisfaction. “So come and fucking shower. It always takes you forever to get dressed.”

Tilrey let the driver escort him down the hall to the bathroom. The house was quiet; everyone must be out. No lively arguing from Vera and her brother, no rumbled scoldings from Fir Jena or civil murmurs from his wife.

The hot water felt good on his scalp and shoulders. He closed his eyes and tried to forget the driver was waiting right outside.

Back in the room, he dressed in his new clothes, which didn’t feel like his, way too tight and fussy. The driver was polite enough to look away till he was done. Then he made Tilrey stand still and examined him. “I’ll get a comb for your hair. Drink this,” he said, handing over a vial of sap.

The vial looked full. Tilrey still wasn’t used to sap, and that first time—well, never mind that. Given what was supposed to happen at Fir Magistrate’s house, he was probably better off downing the whole thing. Anyway, the driver was watching him, and Tilrey knew the man wasn’t above forcing the vial’s contents down his throat.

Dal used to say he needed to learn to stand up for himself. Tilrey knew now that when things got bad enough, he could stand up for himself just fine. For the first two days, he’d argued and reasoned and struggled. And then he’d discovered he had a more vital skill in this particular situation: He could disappear.

When Fir Jena was with him in this room, telling him things like “Most Skeinsha boys would consider this the opportunity of a lifetime” or “You’re only making things harder for yourself,” he closed his eyes and flew away back to Thurskein. He lay on his back beside Dal after making a snow angel, flakes melting into his mouth, and gazed up at the turbulent sky.

Still here. Still me.

He unstoppered the vial and drank every drop; it took about five swallows. It was sickly-sweet with a bitter aftertaste, but he was getting used to it.

The driver kept watching, grinning now. “You know how pure that stuff is? You’re a lucky boy. Councillors get the best.”

Tilrey nodded, already fuzzy-headed, and handed back the empty vial. He didn’t feel lucky, but now at least he’d be numb.

***

Malsha Linnett had never had any use for his son-in-law. Arvan Jena considered himself brilliant when he was actually the worst kind of narrow-minded snob. He wasn’t even pleasant to look at—certainly not worthy of Malsha’s daughter.

But Malsha didn’t think he’d ever despised Jena as much as he did tonight. The pathetic little man had come over for tea towing a ravishing boy who was barely conscious.

Jena introduced the lad as his new kettle boy, which Malsha knew was just a way of keeping up appearances. This was an offering for him, a gift of sorts; Jena’s own tastes didn’t run to boys. But the veneer of custom didn’t make the whole situation any less abhorrent. The boy’s eyes were glassy and unfocused. He seemed barely able to stand on his own. Jena had to remind him to offer his hand when he and Malsha were introduced.

Did Jena really think Malsha wanted to enjoy the poor creature when he was sapped senseless? It was an insult, pure and simple. Jena thought he was a brute.

And the worst part was that Malsha kept proving him right, because he couldn’t keep his eyes off the boy. Even in his current state, slumped on the couch against Jena, he was stunning with his golden hair, spun-sugar complexion, and look of almost feral innocence. Too stunning.

Jena blathered on about the Human Services committee, but Malsha barely heard a word. He knew the gist: His son-in-law wanted the committee chair.

Idiotic entitled ingrate.

The boy was so pale, so heartbreakingly lovely. His brown lashes fluttered as Jena tried unsuccessfully to tug him into a proper sitting position. Did the child even know he was a pawn being used to advance the Councillor’s interests?

“Vanya, dear,” Malsha said, interrupting a monologue on preventative-care clinics, “I must ask, where did you find this young man? Are you quite sure he’s of age?”

Jena flushed with irritation but kept his voice level. “He’s from Thurskein. And yes, his record puts him at eighteen and a few months.”

“You’ve been doing business in Thurskein, then?” Someone had clearly briefed Jena on Malsha’s tastes or procured the boy for Jena with those tastes in mind. Who? The precise targeting gave Malsha a skin-crawling sensation of being observed. No one should know him quite so well.

His son-in-law shook his head. “There’s an Admin working Thurskein—Makari, his name is. He’s got an eye for such things.”

Ah, yes. Makari was a climber; Malsha had encountered his flattery and clumsy attempts at manipulation before. He’d have to devise a way to slap him back in his place.

“A man of discernment, apparently,” he said.

Of course, it was quite possible Makari didn’t know Malsha’s tastes as well as he thought. For instance, this Skeinsha boy could be stupid. He didn’t look particularly bright right now, practically drooling on Jena’s shoulder. The refined features made Malsha want to believe in a good mind behind them, but he’d been fooled before.

Stupid pretty boys were fine for a night or two, but after that he had no use for them. Most of them were ridiculously grateful just to be in the General Magistrate’s bed. They had no shame, which made them excruciatingly dull.

That was why Malsha had been so happy to find clever, hot-tempered Artur, who was now his secretary. Oh, for a boy who was as bright and sensitive and proud as Artur and as pretty as this one. Well, one could dream.

Jena glanced at the boy in an almost repelled way, as if he weren’t the one who’d propped him up on the couch. “He’s pretty, yes,” he said. “But a little inexperienced. It’s unnerving.”

As if inexperience were a problem. Malsha tented his fingers. “But mainly the lad lacks a certain . . . alertness, I fear.”

“I know, I know. Green hells! Excuse me.” Jena shouldered the boy upright and gave him a little shake. “This keeps happening. He’s still a bit of a lightweight.”

“Or you’re dosing him too much.” Malsha watched the boy struggle to keep his eyes open. Something inside him cringed fastidiously. He himself had used sap to enforce compliance once or twice, but this was different. He couldn’t possibly enjoy someone without a proper conversation first.

Jena had gone beet-red. “I’ll have a talk with my driver about the dosing. He says the boy’s difficult.”

“Yes, do talk to him.” Time to cut this foolishness short. Malsha rose, giving Jena his cue to leave. “If you brought him here for me, I’m honored, Vanya. But, for the record, I prefer my partners conscious.”

His son-in-law’s flush deepened as he realized his offering was being rejected. “Or maybe he’s not to your taste?” he suggested.

Malsha wanted to repel Jena’s pathetic gambit with stinging scorn and send him on his way. But, as the Councillor dragged the boy to his feet, the boy’s heavy-lidded eyes opened and focused on Malsha’s for the briefest moment. Their intense blue made Malsha blink as if he’d been slapped.

Fuck. He had to meet this one at least once more. When they were both conscious.

He cocked his head and told Jena sternly, “How am I to know if someone’s to my taste when I can’t even speak to him?” I’m smitten, he thought, amused with himself. Hopelessly smitten.

“Most wouldn’t mind,” Jena muttered.

Malsha graciously pretended not to hear that. “I hope to take tea with you and your young friend again when he’s feeling up to proper conversation,” he said, accompanying his son-in-law to the door. The boy came along like a sleepwalker. Malsha didn’t allow himself a second glimpse of those eyes; they were lethal.

Hope warred with shame on Jena’s face. “I’ll be back in Redda tomorrow. I’d—we’d—be happy to see you then.”

“Perhaps I could drop by on the first night of the session.” The day after tomorrow. Malsha knew what he’d dream of until then.

***

The door slamming against the wall was the first warning Tilrey got. He jumped up from the bed to find Fir Jena barging into the room, his normally placid features drawn tight with rage.

“You dirty little shirker slut.” The Councillor slapped Tilrey hard across the face, sending him staggering backward. “You really thought you could get away with it?”

What have I done? Nothing like this had happened so far in his six days with the Councillor (still keeping a careful count). Not at the vacation residence, and not since they’d returned to Redda yesterday. Fir Jena was always talking about having Tilrey’s best interests at heart, about doing what he did out of necessity and not for self-gratification. He had never struck him.

Then Tilrey remembered what he himself had done in the Southern Range (for self-gratification), and his heart sank.

A cuff to the side of the head caught him off-guard. “Are you even hearing me? How dare you put your filthy hands on my daughter?”

Tilrey backed away, ears ringing. He’d never been in a fight at school, had no idea how to hit back. What would happen if he tried? “It wasn’t like that, Fir. I mean—”

The wall slammed into him, the Fir’s fingers digging into his upper arms. When they released him, he came down hard on his knees with a breathless grunt.

“Don’t lie to me,” the Fir said, standing over him, face twisted in repulsion. “My son saw Vera going in and out of your room. He heard . . . things.”

For a moment, Tilrey saw with painful clarity how he must look to the Councillor. All the things that decent people in Thurskein said about the young whores who lounged outside Supervisor Fernei’s apartment were now true of him: filthy, lazy, disrespectful, freeloading.

Fir Jena continued with his diatribe. “After I took you into my home, after I had the charge against you expunged? How dare you, you brainless little shirker? I tell you not to speak to my family, and this happens?”

Tilrey crouched on the floor. The room was spinning. If Fir Jena already believed the things he was saying, there was no point in arguing, but he couldn’t help it. “It wasn’t like that, Fir. We barely even—” He stopped because he didn’t know the polite Upstart term for “made out.” “She came in looking for a book for school, and then she asked me to help her with a translation, and—”

The Upstart’s boot caught him in the solar plexus, making him gasp for breath. “Shut up!” Fir Jena delivered a kick with each word: “I felt sorry for you. What a fucking idiot. Was this part of some shirker plot all along? Get yourself taken into my home, then seduce my daughter?”

“I didn’t, Fir, I swear!” Vera had found her way into the room where Tilrey was locked up. She’d taken the lead, started the conversation, kissed him first. But he couldn’t tell Fir Jena that; he’d be accused of lying. He curled up on the carpet and covered his head.

None of this was really happening. People did not hit him, lock him up, drug him. He was the Lieutenant Supervisor’s son. He was in the top tenth percentile. It was all a mistake, and sooner or later someone would do something; someone would come and make it stop.

You did go to that shirker meeting, said a small voice in his head. You did translate that Harbourer message. Maybe it is your fault.

He tasted blood—the slap must have split his lip—but the kicks were done for now. Through the ringing and buzzing in his head, he made out two men arguing above him. Had the driver come in and interceded on his behalf?

No, it was another Upstart voice, calm and silky and somehow familiar, saying that Fir Jena needed to calm down. Fir Jena was reciting his accusations again, his voice practically breaking with outrage: “Putting his filthy paws on your own granddaughter!”

Tilrey raised his head enough to see that the newcomer was an elderly man with round glasses and a pleasant, angular face, wearing a Councillor’s robe of office. He looked like the grandfather in a children’s book, dignified and benevolent. Tilrey’s heart sank as he understood—this was Fir Jena’s father-in-law, the General Magistrate of the Republic of Oslov.

This was the person he was supposed to seduce, the man to whom Fir Jena intended to “offer” him. But Tilrey had been so sapped he could barely remember their first meeting, and now—

Now he trembled all over while Fir Jena detailed his general unfitness to be anyone’s kettle boy. “Makari swore to me he wasn’t a real shirker, just a kid testing the boundaries. I take him into my home, and he seems fine—just so skittish I almost felt sorry for him. Next thing I know, he dishonors us all.”

A fresh kick. Tilrey curled himself up tight, no longer pretending it didn’t hurt.

“There’s no call for that, Vanya.” The Magistrate’s voice was mild and reproving. “He’s scarcely more than a child.”

“He’s trash, and I want him disposed of. I paid that damned Makari with a promotion.”

They moved into the living room, still debating. Tilrey sat up and wiped his face. He knew he should be dreading the outcome, but six days, not even a ten-day yet, and he wasn’t aware of feeling anything except intense relief that Fir Jena would probably never touch him again.

Or not that way. He felt phantom hands moving over his skin and shuddered. Not here. Disappeared.

“It seems such a waste,” the Magistrate was saying. “Perhaps we can chalk this up to a youthful mistake. Unless you think he actually assaulted her?”

Jena gasped theatrically. “If I thought anything of the kind, you’d be looking at a corpse, not a boy.”

“But after all,” the Magistrate said, “Vera is his age, and capable of making her own choices. Why assume he was the seducer—or that anyone was seduced?”

“You’re mocking me, Malsha, mocking all of us, and I don’t appreciate it.”

“No mockery was intended.” The old man’s voice was arch now. “I simply hate to waste a potentially valuable property. With the right training—”

“No! The brat will poison any household he’s in. I’ll see him dead before I see him on any Councillor’s arm, even an Islander’s.”

Tilrey hugged himself tight as if to prove to himself he still existed. Verdant hells, what if they really did kill him? Did they have enough power to cover it up? Would anyone care?

To his relief, the Magistrate said, “Seeing him dead isn’t an option, my dear Vanya. What do you actually propose doing?”

A brief silence. Then: “One of those brothels you find in basements in the outer Rings. High-volume.”

“Let me take care of it.”

“You?”

“You need to rest your nerves, Vanya. Anyway, I think I know just the place. Krisha will bring him there.”

A brothel. That couldn’t be any worse than prison. It would be just like what Tilrey had already been doing, only in less luxurious surroundings and with fewer euphemisms. He could take it. With sap, maybe. Sap would help.

Or maybe he could stop this right now, before it went any further. He’d already inventoried the contents of the medicine cabinet: scissors, a nail file, painkillers. Probably not enough, considering what a fucking coward he was, but still, but still . . . He stood up gingerly, rubbing at the drying blood on his chin, and headed for the bathroom.

A strong arm yanked him backward. “Where you think you’re going, kid?”

It was a stranger—a strapping Laborer in a driver’s coverall, maybe a decade Tilrey’s senior, with dyed hair and dark, hooded eyes. Tilrey cowered before he could stop himself, not ready for more blows. “Gonna wash my face.”

“Do it quick while I watch,” the young man said in a rank Karkei accent, then gave him a shove. “I’m Fir Magistrate’s driver. Supposed to take you somewhere.”

Tilrey didn’t resist as the driver followed him into the bathroom to wash up. “Hurry. Fir Jena don’t want to see you again, from what I hear.”

While the driver bundled him through the empty living room into the coldroom and into his outergear, Tilrey ran through his options. He was in a city where he knew nobody. A few minutes outdoors could give him frostbite. He’d committed Dissidence, worth at least two years in prison according to Admin Makari, and he couldn’t be sure the charge was expunged.

As they took the few steps from the coldroom to the garage, snow gusted hard in Tilrey’s face. Wind. Air. Freedom. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he was kicking out at the driver’s calf. Taken by surprise, the driver loosened his hold. Fresh air in his nostrils giving him strength, Tilrey broke free and ran.

He skidded to a halt at the edge of the terrace and stared over the parapet, his knees weakening. He could see the lights of mag-cars on the grid, and larger vehicles bumbling along at least twenty stories below. Fuzzy-edged with new snow under a violet sky, the whole city was spread out down there—black granite spires, sandstone apartment towers, hulking factories. It was so big.

One step over the edge could end all this. But the world down there was too new, too full of lights. It filled his eyes and his brain and froze him in place, staring.

When the driver grabbed hold of his coat, muttering some of the same words Fir Jena had used, Tilrey almost cried with frustration. But he went limp, knowing he’d had his chance.

Maybe he was a coward. Maybe he just wasn’t made for a world that was this brutal and beautiful at once. But regretting his own nature was a waste of time. As he was hauled into the backseat of the mag-car, he decided his only power lay in choosing not to dread what came next.

He remembered Vera Linnett kissing him in the windowseat, her hand slipping up his thigh, and how her touch kindled a fire in his chest and a hardness between his legs. He didn’t love this strange Upstart girl, he loved Dal, but in that instant it didn’t matter—nothing did. He might never see Dal again, and even if he did, she might not be able to meet his eyes.

He pushed thoughts of Dal away and remembered Vera’s cultured Upstart voice saying, “You memorized all those irregular conjugations? You must be brilliant. I didn’t know kids even learned Harbourer in Thurskein.” And then, “Tell me more about it. Tell me about your friends.”

He had a secret: The Magistrate’s precious, sheltered granddaughter thought he was brilliant. So maybe he wasn’t trash after all, no matter what happened next.

Chapter 2: Punished

Artur Threindal had never been to the Ring Eight officers’ club before, but nothing about it surprised him. He was expecting the stale smell of rotgut liquor, the bleary fluorescents, the porn streams playing on giant screens, and the competitive bellows of pumped-up men and women as they shot pool or bet on some primitive racing or shooting game.

Still, a shudder passed over him as he made his way to the manager’s office, carrying a bundle of neatly folded clothes under one arm. Krisha, the Magistrate’s driver, had put in a rush order for the garments with Central Supply, making sure they were tailored to the correct measurements. The Magistrate didn’t want the boy wearing anything he’d worn while he was in Jena’s house.

The manager was a fish-eyed, desiccated woman in late middle age who regarded Artur without interest. “Yes, lad?”

“I’m here for the boy. The one the Magistrate’s driver dropped off yesterday.”

“Oh yes.” She arched a brow. “We were told not to expect the pleasure of his company for long. Pity—he could have been a real earner.” She tapped a button on her desk. “Irin can take you.”

In his one year as Malsha Linnett’s kettle boy and his subsequent five years as the man’s secretary, Artur had grown accustomed to running errands that made him feel queasy. Still, he was glad Malsha hadn’t given him the task of dropping the boy off last night and letting him think this shithole was his new permanent home.

“Last night was necessary,” Malsha had explained to Artur earlier this afternoon. “To placate my stupid son-in-law and his stupid notions of honor, but also for the boy’s sake. I’m too old and frail to break him in myself. I need him tenderized a little.”

Artur had lofted a brow very high at that, but he hadn’t contradicted his Fir. If Malsha wanted to pretend to be “old and frail,” that was his prerogative. Artur knew better, as Malsha was well aware.

Irin turned out to be a scrawny, sickly-looking boy, barely out of his teens, with ash-colored hair and a thick muffler around his neck. He took one look at Artur’s neat jerkin and boots and rolled his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Room number seventeen, Rinsha,” said the manager.

Irin nodded, a perma-scowl on his face. “You’re taking him out of here?” he asked Artur.

The manager cleared her throat loudly. “This is Strutter business. No questions. The count?”

“Seven,” Irin said. He turned on his heel and led Artur down a dingy, windowless white hall, then down a second one at a right angle, moving so fast it took Artur a few moments to catch up.

“I’m here to take the kid, yeah,” he said when they were walking abreast. “How’s he doing?”

“Well, he can walk,” Irin said, staring straight ahead. “He walked to the showers this morning. I asked him to help me sweep and mop—that’s part of our duties, you know. But he wasn’t up to it, so I let him stay in bed.”

Artur’s throat tightened. “Was he . . . difficult?” Malsha had said something about a Dissident offense in Thurskein. If the boy turned out to be a firebrand who refused to be “tenderized,” Artur was the one who’d have to deal with it—or instruct Krisha to—and the last thing he wanted was to have to mete out punishment to someone who’d already endured last night. For both their sakes, he hoped the kid was docile.

Irin grimaced, stopping before a door. “Well, it’s hard the first time. The officers are good lads mostly, but they can be rough when they’re drinking. And they do drink.”

No doubt. Artur tensed as the door swung open to reveal a cell-like room furnished only with a bed. The strong disinfectant didn’t entirely cover the reek of liquor, urine, and other odors Artur preferred not to identify. There was an unmoving hump under the blankets.

Irin bent over the bed, but Artur waved him away. “I’ll take it from here.” He handed Irin a full vial of sap, per Malsha’s instructions (“Tip everyone”), and set the bundle of clothes on the foot of the bed. A few strands of lank, dark-gold hair trailed across the mattress. “Are you awake?” he asked. “I’ve brought some clothes for you.”

The boy’s body curled more tightly into itself.

“You can sit up now, lad,” Irin said, hovering in the doorway. “Nothing to fear. He ain’t a patron.”

Artur was about to rebuke him for interfering when the Skeinsha boy sat up, his movements tight with pain and wariness. The first thing Artur noticed was the bruises, lurid on the pale skin—not just the expected love bites, but a fat lip, a purple lump on the temple.

He sucked in his breath and turned on Irin. “What the fuck? He wasn’t supposed to be physically damaged!”

Irin backed away. “We don’t do that shit here. He came in with those!”

“It’s true,” the boy said almost in a whisper.

He was tall and broad-shouldered for his age, but otherwise slim and reedy. He wore only a robe. Unsurprisingly, he had the kind of fresh, pale, heavy-lidded beauty that Malsha and most other Councillors found irresistible.

How fucking predictable. Artur tried and failed to suppress a rush of pity. Malsha had demanded only one year of intimate service from him, but he had a feeling this boy wouldn’t be so lucky.

As Irin finally left them, still scowling, Artur unrolled his bundle and pulled out a pair of trousers. “My name is Artur Threindal,” he said in his formal Sector voice. “I’m Fir Magistrate Linnett’s secretary, and I’m here to escort you to his apartment, where you’ll live henceforth as his personal secretary. His kettle boy, to be blunt.” He tugged another vial of sap from his jerkin. “Would a nip be helpful? Are you in any pain?”

Wide, cobalt blue eyes stared at him. “I don’t understand, Fir,” the boy said hoarsely. “He said I would stay here—the driver did.”

Yeah, well, that’s how mind games work. Artur tossed briefs and an undershirt at the boy, who flinched. “Let me know if you need help dressing. Otherwise, I’ll turn my back and give you your privacy.” Which is probably the last time you’ll have it for a while.

After a moment, the boy said, “I don’t need help, Fir.” He had a soft Skeinsha burr.

Artur turned his back and waited. Not for the first time, he said a silent prayer of gratitude that his nose was prominent, his complexion patchy, and his eyes a touch beady. He wasn’t unattractive, just ordinary.

“Your impertinence was your main attraction,” Malsha had told him once. “When I came into the research library, and you asked me to put away my handheld and stared me down as if I were nobody, I knew at once I had to have you.” The memory of those words—delivered fondly, as if he and the Magistrate were actual lovers reminiscing about their first meeting—still sent chills down Artur’s spine.

If this kid turned out to be thick-headed or weak-willed or eagerly submissive, he might still escape Malsha’s clutches, beauty or not. Malsha liked a challenge. Artur hoped for the boy’s sake he wasn’t one.

“You can turn around now, Fir.”

Dressed, the boy didn’t look like the sort of troublemaker who might seduce a General Magistrate’s granddaughter. He looked shaky on his feet, meek, and a little terrified. “You needn’t call me Fir,” Artur said, slowly and clearly in case the boy couldn’t understand his Reddan speech. “I’m a Drudge just like you.” He offered his arm. “Remind me of your name?”

“Bronn, Tilhard Edvard, Fir.”

“I told you, I’m not a Fir.” Artur took hold of the boy—who went rigid, but didn’t resist—and steered him toward the door.

“Personally, I’d like to ditch this shithole. Wouldn’t you?” He kept talking as he led the boy down the corridor, perhaps more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. “Krisha has your outergear—I couldn’t carry it all. He’s in the garage.” He adjusted his pace, trying not to notice the boy’s bow-legged gait. “We ordered you a full wardrobe based on the measurements Fir Jena had taken. All custom-made, not off the rack—that’s how my Fir likes it. Starting tomorrow, I’ll get time off from my work in the Sector to teach you your new duties.”

Those words sent a shiver through the boy’s arm, and Artur added hastily, “Not that. I mean brewing the tea, setting the table, that stuff. What should I call you? Till? Varsha for Edvard?”

Instead of answering, the boy froze in place, dragging Artur backward. Five reeking officers sauntered out of a gaming room and directly into their path, loudly congratulating each other on a win. One paused for a quick leer at the boy before proceeding down the hall.

Artur could feel the boy’s terror fluttering under the skin. “C’mon,” he said, patting the boy’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

The boy didn’t speak until they stepped into the clammy garage. Then he said, “You can call me Tilrey.”

“And you can call me Turshka, if you like.” Artur kept tight hold of the boy’s arm (“He could be feeling self-destructive,” Malsha had warned) until Krisha came over carrying the heavy coat, scarf, hat, and boots.

The hulking young driver didn’t like to make eye contact. Artur sensed Tilrey shrinking from Krisha as he had from the soldiers—maybe they had similar physical builds.

“It’s okay,” he coaxed, holding out the coat for the boy to slip into. “Krisha’s job is to protect you. From now on, no one’s allowed to touch you without permission.”

Meaning Fir Magistrate’s permission, not his own—but if the boy didn’t already know that, he had more problems than Artur could help him with. As he shepherded Tilrey into the backseat, Artur hoped to everything green that the boy really was “tenderized,” so tenderized there was nothing left for Malsha to sink his teeth into.

***

Fir Magistrate was on the couch drinking tea when they came in. “Hello,” he said, smiling charmingly. “Please join me.”

Tilrey’s legs stopped working. He left it to the tall redheaded Laborer who acted and dressed like an Upstart to get him over to the couch and seated beside the Fir. He tried not to wince.

Artur. Turshka. He seemed nice enough. Nice was good. Tilrey had to be nice now, to try to be nice, to cooperate, and maybe then people would be nice back. He had a memory of trying to impress people and caring about his dignity, but that felt like a while ago.

Fir Magistrate was smiling again like a grandfather, like Supervisor Fernei—approving and kind, without a trace of lust or malice. If he could tell that sitting down hurt Tilrey, he didn’t show it, only said, “Turshka, tea for you both, please. And freshen up mine.”

The old man’s closeness was a bonfire, singeing Tilrey around the edges. He didn’t let himself inch away, only dropped his eyes. The key was not to react, to stay half-present. It hadn’t entirely worked last night, but maybe it had helped.

Artur stood still, not obeying the order. “You didn’t tell me he was bruised, Fir,” he said in a surprisingly insolent tone.

“For green’s sake, Turshka, I didn’t do it!” The old man’s voice quavered. “My fool son-in-law isn’t capable of understanding that his daughter has a mind of her own. He took it out on the boy.” As Artur went into the kitchen, he said to Tilrey, “Look at me.”

I’m just a stupid Skeinsha. I don’t hear. I don’t understand. That had worked on Jena, at least at first.

The Magistrate’s voice sharpened. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Tilrey found himself looking into the blue eyes of the most powerful man in Oslov. They were steady and sincere, with a core of iron.

He blinked and looked away, and the Magistrate said, “No. No games.” A hand lifted Tilrey’s chin, and those eyes locked on his again as the Magistrate said, “I’m very sorry about last night. Jena’s brutality I don’t take responsibility for. The rest I do. Jena seemed to think your spirit needed breaking, and—” A shrug. “This was the best way I knew to preserve the rest of you.”

What was Tilrey supposed to do? Accept the apology? He nodded.

The Fir kept tight hold of him. “Now, you have a bit of explaining of your own to do. I’ve seen your academic record. You’re highly intelligent, yet you don’t seem to have a word to say for yourself. Tell me, were you playing my son-in-law for a fool? What was your endgame?”

Endgame? Tilrey shook his head. It was no longer easy to remember even a few days back. Last night was vast, oceanic, a pool of blackness where he drowned over and over.

Every time he relaxed his vigilant grip on the here and now, he felt them again—the hands. Not just in the expected places, but circling his ankle or stroking the back of his neck or the sole of his foot. He heard the guffaws, giggles, moans. He remembered thinking, This isn’t so bad, I can take this, and then later not thinking anything.

The Magistrate cleared his throat.

“I didn’t.” It came in a whisper. “I wasn’t playing anything.”

Artur popped his head through the kitchen doorway. “I don’t think he’s hiding anything, Fir. I think he’s just shy.”

Shy. That was what Dal and Pers always said, teasing him until he blushed like a bonfire. That girl likes you, Tilrey. Why don’t you go talk to her? You’re so shy it’s ridiculous. Until he admitted to Dal how he felt about her, and the teasing stopped.

The word seemed to have an odd effect on Fir Magistrate. “Shy,” he said, releasing Tilrey’s chin. “I suppose that tracks with what I’ve seen. Although you weren’t so shy with my granddaughter, were you?”

The blush came unbidden. “I’m sorry. It just . . . happened.”

“That’s the way of such things, isn’t it?” A light pat on his knee. “Tell me, Rishka, was it Vera’s idea?”

“People don’t call me Rishka, Fir.” It slipped out automatically, because that nickname was reserved for his mother.

“I see.” The Magistrate sounded amused. “But you’re evading the question. Was it my granddaughter’s idea?”

Tilrey tried to think back. Was the question a trap to see whether he’d betray an Upstart to save himself? “I don’t really know, Fir,” he admitted. “I mean, she kissed me, but—I don’t know. I guess it was my fault. Fir Jena said so.”

The Magistrate chuckled grimly. “You may have noticed Fir Jena is an ass. I’ll forever regret that he had you before I did. He did have you, didn’t he?”

The question was too much, too soon, but “playing dumb” would get him in trouble. Tilrey nodded, thumbnail digging into his index finger.

“Let me guess. The way he was oversapping you, you were unconscious when it happened?”

To Tilrey’s intense relief, Artur was back with the tea. The steam felt good on his face. He barely nodded.

“You keep pushing him too hard, Malsha,” the secretary said, pouring with brisk, graceful motions. “Give him some time to find his footing.”

“Very well.” The old man sighed like a scolded child. “I just can’t bear the thought of Jena’s hands on him. The man barely even seems to have a libido. He must have forced himself to do what he considered his duty.”

The description was disturbingly apt. Jena had done everything he did to Tilrey with a constrained, uncomfortable expression on his face, apologizing at intervals. Tilrey hadn’t understood it then and didn’t now. “His duty, Fir?” he found himself asking.

“He had to present you to me as his kettle boy, and make it convincing, before we could strike the deal he hoped for.” The old man sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to give him that stupid committee chair he wanted, now that I’m going to keep you.”

“It would be prudent,” Artur said.

Tilrey was still struggling to put the pieces together. “Yesterday . . . Fir Jena said he’d rather see me dead than anyone’s kettle boy.”

The Magistrate laughed. “The chair will stop his complaining. But you may as well know, sweetheart, I’ve never given a fuck what Jena thinks. If he had any power over me, if anyone did, you might have reason to worry about that little charge of shirking on your record.”

Tilrey’s bowels turned to ice. “I thought Fir Jena—”

“Expunged it? Well, he tried. You translated a whole bulletin from Resurgence, if I’m not mistaken? People have spent years in Int/Sec for less. But I understand and forgive youthful indiscretions. When you belong to me, you’re safe. So don’t fret about Jena.”

Tilrey understood the threat of Int/Sec, knew what the Magistrate was telling him. But it was the word sweetheart that sent shivers winding down his spine. For an instant, that pool of blackness closed over his head again.

He was sitting on the lap of the big one, the one they all called “birthday boy.” A meaty thigh bounced under him, making him painfully aware of the man’s arousal. They kept giving him beer from their own glasses, and it made his head spin, but never enough. Warm, stinky breath came with a whisper: You’ll be sweet for me, won’t you? I’ll be sweet to you.

He came up gasping. It was a vast relief to be sitting on the white couch with no one touching him except Artur’s fingers grazing his as they handed him a tumbler.

The tea felt good sliding down his raw throat. He tasted sap in it, and that made him take a bigger swallow. Sap made things easier, made him numb. He would need it soon.

By the fourth or fifth sip, he was starting to feel a pleasant buzz, a heaviness in his limbs. He looked up of his own accord and saw the Magistrate watching him.

“I calibrated the dose, you know,” the man said. “We can’t have you turning into a corpse like you were with Fir Jena.”

Too bad. Tilrey took another sip. The recessed lights were gathering a fuzzy glow. The aches from yesterday and last night were receding, and everything was starting to feel very good. Even when the Magistrate ran a hand through his hair, stroking it back from his face, he didn’t pull away. The touch was gentle. Gentle was good.

I can take this. I can. He hadn’t cried last night, not once. Well, maybe he’d felt wetness on his cheeks, but there’d been no sobbing, no begging, no theatrics; he was proud of that.

Pride was good. His mother was proud. You should be proud of yourself, she’d said when she showed him the printout of his tenth-year scores, and no, he was not going to think about that day or her, not anymore or possibly ever again. That life was over.

“Tell me, child,” the Magistrate asked in his ear, “how much experience with sap did you have before you came to Redda?”

“None.”

“Not even a taste?” The Magistrate’s lips were nuzzling his hair, moving down his neck. “I don’t think you know how lovely you are.”

From somewhere in the distance came a rushing sound like a waterfall. Tilrey let the Fir take the tipping tumbler away from him. He accepted the man’s lips against his, let his mouth fall open to the slick, exploring tongue. Let his knees fall open to the exploring hand. Felt nothing except the pleasant thrum of the sap in his veins. Half-here. When you belong to me, you’re safe.

At some point Artur spoke to the Magistrate in the distance, then closer. Then Tilrey was being raised to his feet and guided into another room, tiled and bright and full of steam. The rushing had been a bath.

Careful hands unfastened his collar—Artur’s hands. Tilrey stiffened and tried to writhe away, despite the sap, but Artur whispered in his ear, “Shhh, it’ll be okay. Just a bath.”

Then he was naked, and Artur was guiding him down the slippery steps. His grip was brotherly, nothing clinging or suggestive about it. Tilrey eased himself into the bath. The hot, foaming water felt good on his aches, just like the tea in his throat. He was aware that the Magistrate was sitting inches away from him, but he was too comfortable to care.

The old man held out his hand, a puddle of black in the palm. “A little more?”

Tilrey had been made to drink sap from Jena’s hand. He knew what to do. But this was the first time he hadn’t wanted to spit it out. He licked it up and swallowed, and when the Magistrate reached out and tugged him closer, he didn’t pull away.

The sap drew him into a vortex of its own, warm and red-dark and vibrating. There was more kissing, more tongue, teeth nipping his neck, but it was all easy to tune out.

Something slithered across his earlobe, activating sensitive nerve endings. Tilrey jerked awake—and felt a hand capture his cock.

For an instant, he twisted in the man’s arms, desperate to escape. Not again, please, not yet, not again—

Then the hand began pumping, and the lips and tongue sucked on his earlobe, and somehow the combination of the two sensations, one heavy and blunt and the other almost painfully precise, made his cock lurch upright between his legs. He moaned in protest—I don’t want to feel this, I don’t want to feel anything. But he stopped struggling.

“Shh, sweetheart.” A whisper tickled his ear. Then the suckling and the pumping began again—clever, knowing movements, rhythms dovetailing. On and on it went, until all he could feel was a single intense heat pressing down on him. And then, in an endless, shameful instant, he came.

When he managed to open his eyes again, Fir Magistrate was gone. Artur’s strong hands helped him up the steps and wrapped him in a towel, then in a robe. Artur led him into a room dominated by a large bed with a severe rectangular canopy. When they reached the edge of the bed, Artur said, “Sit.”

Tilrey did as he was told. He seemed to be under a spell, his limbs not under his control. It had felt good, so good, and it shouldn’t have, but could he help wanting to feel good?

“Isn’t he exquisite?” that velvety voice said. Fir Magistrate had come to sit at the foot of the bed, also in a robe. The recessed lights of the canopy glinted on his glasses.

“That’s your business, not mine,” said Artur, sounding uncomfortable. “Time for me to leave, Fir?”

Tilrey blinked and looked away. He was still riding the buzz of sap and orgasm, but it wouldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, he knew, there’d be a rude awakening.

Fir Magistrate was talking again, practically lecturing, something about what had to happen to a kettle boy on his first night in a new house and why. Tilrey didn’t bother to listen. Knowing perfectly well where this was going, he lay back, closed his eyes, and didn’t stop the robe from falling open. I’m not actually here.

Artur’s voice woke him from the haze; it was strident and borderline angry. “Really? That’s what you want?”

“I don’t want him like this, and not just for the obvious reasons.” The Magistrate sounded almost defensive. “He needs to—what did you say? He needs to find his footing first.”

“I’m not doing it, Fir. Like I said, that’s your business.”

“My business is your business,” the Fir said icily. “Aren’t you my proxy in committee meetings?”

They argued back and forth, the Magistrate growing more imperious and Artur’s resolve flagging, until Tilrey’s sap-weary brain finally grasped what the Fir wanted Artur to do. He opened his eyes and said to the bright canopy, “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Artur had been kind, and Tilrey didn’t want to get Artur in trouble, didn’t want him to lose his job over something that was inevitably going to happen anyway. He rolled over and braced himself on his forearms and did his best to offer himself the way Jena had told him to. (“You’re supposed to want it,” the Councillor had said, a frantic undertone in his voice. “You do want it.”)

He said, “Just do it, please.”

“You heard him,” the Magistrate said.

Artur muttered, “Fuck. Look at him. Don’t know if I can even get it up.”

Then those careful hands were on Tilrey again, and they were slick and opening him. He did his best to lean into the pressure and not show it hurt. Artur used a different lube from the one the officers had, with a less medicinal and a more botanical smell. Good. That was good.

“Oh yes,” the Magistrate was saying. “If you need help standing to attention, Turshka, I’m here.”

Artur grunted and climbed on top of Tilrey. “Fuck you, old man. No help needed.” He bent and whispered in Tilrey’s ear, “I’m sorry. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but it won’t be gentle enough. Push out, okay? And breathe.”

Tilrey nodded. He was ready.

***

Artur woke in the dark to distant sobbing. It took him a moment to remember where he was—Malsha’s apartment, spare bedroom—and why.

Fuck. Memories rushed back: the boy rolling over, spreading his legs. The way he’d grimaced while it was happening, wedging a knuckle between his teeth. Artur had wanted to stop, but by that time he was getting close, and anyway, if he did stop, things might go worse for them both. And so, like a fucking toadie coward, he’d kept on.

It’ll be better for him in the long run, he’d told himself, the way it was for you, but he wasn’t sure he believed it.

After they were done, Malsha had banished them to the small room that had once been Artur’s private space and was now Tilrey’s. It wasn’t a free-night, and the Magistrate needed a proper night’s rest for tomorrow’s Council session. He instructed Artur to sleep on the outside of the single bed. One arch of the brows said it all: Don’t let him hurt himself.

And now Artur was alone.

The sobs came from the small connected bathroom. He threw off the blankets, barreled in there, and flicked on the light.

The boy crouched on the floor by the vanity, naked and curled up, his shoulders heaving. Each sob made him convulse as if something were trying to force its way out of him.

“Hey.” Artur’s throat closed as he bent over Tilrey, not sure he should touch him. That might make things worse. “Hey, it’s okay. Come back to bed. You need your sleep.”

Tilrey’s head snapped up. Then he was on his feet, a flicker of metal in his hand—shit.

Artur backed away, heart thudding, as Tilrey brandished a nail file at him. “Don’t touch me,” the boy said hoarsely.

Artur raised his hands, every nerve suddenly alight as his mind raced, trying to gauge Tilrey’s degree of resolution. “You don’t want to do that,” he said levelly. “Put it down.”

Tilrey’s eyes were glassy with tears, but his hand looked steady as he shook his head. “I won’t do this anymore. I’m done. I’d rather . . .”

“What? You’d rather go back to the officers’ club and get fucked by another seven soldiers tomorrow night?”

Artur’s heart twisted as he uttered the words, but they worked. Tilrey faltered, his weapon hand shaking, and Artur seized his advantage. He grabbed the boy’s thin wrist and held on, tightening his grip until the nail file clattered to the tile.

He snatched it and scrambled away, but Tilrey didn’t come after him. He sank back onto the floor and hugged his knees, shuddering.

“Stay right there.” Artur’s brief search of the cabinets came up with a razor and some painkillers. Satisfied that the room was safe now, he locked Tilrey inside and went to hide the items in Krisha’s toolshed in the garage.

When he returned, he found Tilrey in the exact same position.

“Come on. Come.” He unfolded the boy from his fetal huddle and walked him into the dark bedroom again.

Tilrey didn’t resist when Artur sat him on the bed, nudged him against the wall, and tucked him in. He curled up and resumed his sobbing, quietly this time.

“It’s all right, lad. It’s all right.” Gingerly, because he wasn’t sure how Tilrey would react, Artur slid both arms around the trembling form. “That won’t happen again,” he said. “Not with me, I mean. Promise you. You’re not actually my type,” he added, making a stab at levity.

A long shudder went through the boy’s body. Then he relaxed all at once into Artur’s arms, pressing his head against Artur’s chest. The contact brought back memories of earlier tonight, and Artur tensed—but no, this was different. He wasn’t hurting the boy now. It was all right.

He stroked Tilrey’s hair with one hand, the other rubbing his back, as the boy wept into his shoulder. “It’s all right. Nothing to worry about now, and it gets better. It does. You’re fine. You’re safe. Let it all out.”

Notes:

So, after this one, I'll post one chapter per week. And things will get a little better for Tilrey before getting worse again. Revisiting his friendship with Bror has been one of the happy parts of this for me! Also, spending time with Krisha, even if he and Tilrey can't really be friends until "The Trip to Harbour." Thanks for reading! <3

Chapter 3: Trained

Notes:

Being a kettle boy isn't all about sex, so this chapter has a lot less awfulness and a lot more tea brewing and solidarity. Thank you so much to mugi_says_eep for the idea of Oslovs keeping bonsai tea trees, which I did not even know were a thing until now. And thanks to everyone for reading! <3

The doors of his new home were locked. They were all locked.

The door of the bedroom, first of all. He woke up there alone, his face sticky with dried tears, and climbed out of bed and showered until his skin was raw. Then he dressed, and then he tried to open the door to the rest of the apartment. When he couldn’t, he pounded on it, panicking. What if the building caught fire?

Artur opened up. “Would you like some breakfast?” As Tilrey came out—fell out, really—the secretary added, “It’s just us. He’s in the Sector.”

Tilrey ate his porridge without argument. He made minimal responses to Artur’s talk about the snowstorm predicted for today. He bided his time, waiting for the moment when Artur would be distracted and he could try the door that led into the coldroom, and from there to the garage and outside.

Plan? He was all done with plans. His body was telling him it needed to get away.

When Artur took the dishes into the kitchen, Tilrey got his chance. A few steps down the hallway, and then he was yanking on the heavy sliding door.

It didn’t budge, and he quickly saw why: It had a scan panel, like the fire doors in Thurskein, so only an authorized person could leave. Tilrey’s mom had had authorization for their floor of Sector Six, making her one of the designated rescuers in an emergency; when he was little, this made him feel very important.

Now he pressed the back of his right hand, where a chip had been implanted on his second day in Redda, to the scanner. The panel flickered, reading the chip, and showed red instead of green.

He slapped the door. “Fuck.”

“You don’t have coming-and-going privileges just yet,” said Artur’s calm voice. “Those’ll come.”

Tilrey couldn’t stop himself from cringing back a little. Please don’t hit me. Then he squared his shoulders and walked back into the living room as if nothing had happened. “I just wanted to know.”

Artur shrugged. “Want to come and see the bonsai?”

The bonsai tea trees lived on a deep window ledge in the kitchen. There were five of them, handed down through Malsha’s family over generations, and only the Magistrate himself was allowed to tend them, prune them, and harvest the leaves for tea.

“Don’t get any ideas about hacking them up or smashing them against the wall,” Artur said when he’d finished explaining the subtly different varieties of brew that each Camellia sinensis yielded. “I was tempted more than a few times when I lived here, but I don’t want to know what punishments he’d come up with.”

Tilrey had no desire to harm the tiny trees, precious to the Magistrate or not. Their potting soil had a rich, prickly smell that reminded him of being outdoors in Thurskein in the summer. They were as much prisoners here as he was.

“You used to live here?” he asked as Artur moved on to show him the air-tight canisters of brew-ready tea leaves, side by side on top of the cabinets.

“Yeah.” The tall redhead didn’t meet his eyes. “I was his kettle boy for a year, which is why I’m training you. He hasn’t had one since me, because he’s picky.”

So Artur, who was now so well spoken and well dressed that Tilrey had confused him with an Upstart, had lain with the Magistrate in that same bed where they’d been last night. He’d dressed in these stupid, fussy tunics and brewed and poured the Magistrate’s tea. Tilrey felt a wave of dread and empathy at once.

He was quiet as Artur showed him how to clean and warm the kettle, how many leaves to add, where to get the proper water, how to boil it, and how to wait till it was just slightly off-boil before pouring. “You’ll be processing the leaves, too,” the secretary said. “Most of them you can just crush and dry, but there’s one that has to be smoked over pinewood, and it’s his favorite. I’ll show you when he harvests a new batch. Now, the next step is adding butter or milk, whatever he and his guests want. The steamer’s right here—”

“Why’d you stop after a year?”

Artur deposited the steaming kettle on a pad on the counter. “We made a deal, the Fir and I,” he said. “I was older than you then—twenty-four, with a good posting in the Library system. I never wanted to be his piece, and I made that clear. But he offered me something that changed my mind.”

“What?” Tilrey felt his throat go dry. Fir Jena kept insisting that Fir Magistrate was powerful, so powerful that anyone should be happy to be his kettle boy. But the words meant nothing to him.

“In exchange for my sharing his bed for one year, he Raised my younger sister. She’s an Upstart now.” Artur poured water from the kettle to the teapot, looking amused by Tilrey’s quizzical expression. “Do you not realize how much that means to my whole family? But you’re a Skeinsha—maybe it’s different there.”

“He can just decide to do that? Raise somebody? I thought a committee judged each candidate anonymously.”

Artur laughed. “Well, that’s the way it works in theory. And sometimes in practice. The important thing is, Malsha’s not always easy to live with. But if he likes you, you’re set for life. Any posting you want, any privileges for your family back in Thurskein—ask and he’ll give it to you, provided it doesn’t interfere with his own plans. He likes to be generous.”

Tilrey didn’t like to imagine what his mother would think of “privileges” he’d bought this way. Knowing her, she’d sooner disown him. He crossed his arms. “I don’t have a choice like you did, though. Do I?”

Artur pulled a packet from the fridge. Inside was something white and squishy, which he sliced onto a plate. “Synth-butter. You don’t have this in Thurskein, do you?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Tilrey said defensively. He wasn’t an utter idiot.

Artur poured two tumblers of tea. “When I said I didn’t want to be Malsha’s kettle boy, I understated the case. I didn’t want to be within a hundred meters of him. Our first time together, he invited me over on a pretext and then drugged me and raped me while I was out cold. He didn’t even try to seduce me—he knew I didn’t want him.” He didn’t look at Tilrey, his keen, hooded eyes gazing into the distance.

Tilrey realized he’d been holding his breath. “Jena,” he said in a low voice. “Did that. Said it was easier. It was my first time, and I don’t even remember.”

“Sucks, doesn’t it? Well, I wasn’t going to file a charge; Malsha wasn’t GM yet then, but he was a powerful Councillor, and it was my word against his. But I hated his guts, and I never wanted to see his face again. If it hadn’t been for my sister, I never would have.”

Tilrey wondered if he could have made such a sacrifice for a sibling. Maybe, as an only child, he couldn’t understand.

“Anyway.” Artur took two pats of butter from the dish and set one afloat in each tumbler. “My point is, having a ‘choice’ didn’t make me feel any better about it. But I gritted my teeth, and I put on that tunic, and I poured that tea, and I learned to suck his cock the way he likes, and you know what? It wasn’t so bad.” His eyes met Tilrey’s now. “I got used to him—every twist and turn of him, every nasty little perversion. And I found out he has his good points, too. He lets me speak frankly to the point of insolence. He has genuine respect for me, even when he’s treating me like shit.”

Like last night. Tilrey remembered how Artur had argued with the Magistrate, and a chill spread through him.

Artur was still talking: “I learned to anticipate his next move, to work him a bit, and I think I came out on top. So will you, Tilrey.”

“Why?” It was all he could think of to say. “Last night, why did he make you . . . do that instead of doing it himself?”

Instead of answering, Artur passed him a tumbler. “I think you need this. Try it.”

The tea was good—hot and smoky and strong, with a wash of salty cream from the butter. Tilrey took another swallow. Good, yes, but it was missing something he was already used to. The need for it tugged at him, growing stronger as the day wore on. “Can I have some sap in it?”

Artur shook his head. “Fir Jena dosed you like there was no tomorrow. Consider this a detox. The Magistrate doesn’t want you sapping unless it comes straight from his hand.”

For a moment, Tilrey almost wanted to hit him. “You still have to do what he says, don’t you? Even now?”

Artur gave him a hard look. “Last night, Malsha was playing a little game. He likes to set people against each other. I was the bad guy then, and I’m the bad guy now, denying you what you want. So when Malsha considerately waits a whole ten-day before taking you to bed himself, and gives you a palmful of sap to make it easier, he’ll be the good guy.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not.” Artur loaded the teapot and five tumblers onto a heavy stonework tray. “And once he knows that for sure, you’ll really have to watch out. C’mon. Let’s practice the service.”

They moved into the living room, where Tilrey watched Artur demonstrate how to set the tray down, how to kneel while he poured, and even where to look so he didn’t make the Fir’s guests uncomfortable. “Now you try.”

Tilrey poured and poured, but he was hopelessly awkward. “No,” Artur said, laughing. “Don’t let the tunic get tangled up between your thighs. When you kneel, flip it over your knee like this. You don’t have it belted tight enough, either.” He cinched the tunic until Tilrey could barely breathe. “The whole point is to show off your slim waist.”

“I don’t want to.” Tilrey sat down on the floor. Tears stung his eyes—but no, after last night’s debacle, he was never crying again. Not a single fucking tear. He might be shy, but he wasn’t weak.

“I don’t think I can do this, Turshka,” he said, barely keeping his voice steady. “It’s just—I can’t.”

He expected the response to be worried or surprised, but Artur only said, “Yeah. That’s why he picked you.”

Tilrey hugged his knees, trying to ignore the waistband’s crushing grip on his ribs. “I don’t understand.”

Artur took a guzzle from one of the tumblers. “You’re from a good family in Thurskein, aren’t you? I’m guessing you’ve been raised a certain way. Sheltered. Even a little privileged.”

Tilrey’s cheeks flushed; Dal used to tease him about being soft and spoiled. “My mom’s the Lieutenant Supervisor, but I wouldn’t say I’m—”

“It’s not an insult! I was the same. Malsha likes a certain type of boy—a Laborer who’s been raised almost like an Upstart. Proud. Studious. Sensitive. He likes to take that pride and break it—or just to implant tiny, strategic cracks till we break of our own accord.”

Tilrey tried to imagine how that would work, but all he could think of was last night and the night before. If Malsha wanted to “break” him, he hadn’t been exactly subtle about it.

“Now I’ve told you one of his biggest secrets,” Artur said. “You need to remember that, okay?”

Tilrey remembered how the Magistrate’s hand had wrapped itself around his cock in the bath and made him come. He imagined himself as one of the stonework tumblers, only lying in pieces on the floor. “I think I’m . . . well, as broken as I’m going to get.”

Artur laughed darkly. “Wrong. It’s just starting, and you need to be ready. Never, ever open up to him.”

***

Over the next ten-day, Tilrey learned more than he felt like he’d learned his whole last term at school. He learned the schedule of the Sector: which nights of a given ten-day were free-nights, when he’d be expected to work; and which were work-nights, when no Upstart would bother him. He learned how to smoke tea leaves, how to pour properly, how to froth milk, how to kneel. He learned the proper forms of address (“Fir Councillor X” or “Fir X,” not “Councillor X”), how to brush his new haircut and apply subtle concealer to blemishes, and how to look smart and impeccable in R-11 clothes.

The lessons distracted him from the tug of his need for sap. It weakened a little every day, but when he was alone in his room with only a book for company, the need sometimes made his head spin with a raw, aching emptiness. He didn’t want to be sweet-drowned; everyone knew how ugly addiction could get. But if he could have just a nip . . .

Some pieces of his education were mortifying: He learned how to “clean” himself and how to “prep” himself, the latter being a service that Malsha would request if he wanted it. “Usually he likes to prep you himself,” Artur explained. “But some men won’t want to bother, so you should be ready.” Artur always used a bored, clinical tone when he talked about the sexual aspects of the job, as if determined to convince Tilrey not to be ashamed. “Would you stop blushing?” he said once. “It’s just a posting like any other, work you can do well or badly. It’s not a dirty secret.”

Tilrey couldn’t see it as just a posting. He was doing a good job of staying away from the dark vortex during the day, but he still woke most nights to find his throat raw and the bedclothes on the floor. He didn’t remember the dreams in detail—just men’s laughter and hands everywhere, and that was enough.

Even though he’d come to trust Artur, there were times when the young man got too close to him—and suddenly Tilrey was back there, facedown in the Magistrate’s bed with Artur’s breath rasping against his neck. He knew Artur hadn’t meant to crowd him, hadn’t wanted to make him remember, but he had to move away.

That was in the past. He was stronger now. Whatever came next, he could take it.

On his fifth day in Malsha’s apartment, Artur didn’t come to unlock his room in the morning as usual. Instead, the door opened to reveal the hulking young driver, Krisha, who said in his awkward way, “After breakfast, gonna take you to the gym. Fir’s orders.”

Krisha’s size and bulk set Tilrey’s nerves on edge in that way he could no longer control. But the driver had a sullen, distant manner that was somewhat reassuring. He rarely made eye contact with Tilrey, let alone leered.

And Krisha, like him, was an outsider. The man’s thick accent reminded Tilrey of Dal’s cousins from Karkei, Thurskein’s sister city to the north. There was a foreign edge to it, though, that he struggled to identify—a nasal tinge to the vowels.

When they stepped outside at last, Tilrey forgot Krisha existed in the thrill of being free, of breathing fresh air and seeing buildings and views he’d never seen before. He glued himself to the window of the mag-car and took in the angles and spires of Redda like a starving man with a bowl of rice.

When they disembarked at the gym, Krisha caught hold of his arm. “Fir says to stay close to you.”

“Fine,” Tilrey muttered. Had the Magistrate guessed that every step he took outside would be a temptation to run? Not today—Krisha’s grip was too tight—but someday. There had to be places indoors he could hide. Maybe he could find some shirkers who would help him to—

But there the fantasy ended, because he couldn’t imagine a single way to get back to Thurskein or what to tell his mother if he did. Artur might call being a kettle boy just a job, but to his mother it was shame and decadence—an unfortunate facet of Oslov society, an ugly tradition of mutual exploitation. And he was training diligently to be exploited.

The gym was sparsely populated—a relief, because it was a swanky pine-paneled establishment for Councillors and other high Upstarts, people Tilrey wasn’t eager to meet. Even in the locker room, Krisha didn’t leave him alone. But he did turn his back while Tilrey changed, just as Artur always did. He seemed almost as unhappy with the whole situation as Tilrey was.

In the weight room, Krisha explained, “He wants you to bulk up. Not too much, though.” He produced a print-out: a whole program of machines and free-weight lifts for Tilrey to follow, with the weight and reps increasing over time.

It was boring—nothing like his favorite forms of exercise, skiing and swimming. But with Krisha silently spotting him, Tilrey soon found he enjoyed the exertion and the subsequent endorphin rush. He imagined being strong enough to fight off any conceivable attacker.

The worst part was the other men in the weight room—most clearly trying to beef up their frail frames, a few already beefier than he could ever dream of being. When they bothered to notice him, their arched brows suggested they knew exactly what he was.

One of the beefy ones, a thick-necked young man with wide-set blue eyes in a brutishly handsome face, kept staring. Not leering exactly, but every time Tilrey looked up, there he was. And the whole time he stared, he effortlessly lifted quantities that made Tilrey feel like a sniveling little boy.

“Hey! Concentrate!” Krisha steadied the barbell as it nearly slipped from his sweaty grasp.

Tilrey got it back on the stand and sat up. The thick-necked young man was standing right by them, casually scratching his muscular ass. He grinned at Tilrey and asked Krisha, “Gonna introduce me?”

“This is the Magistrate’s new boy,” Krisha said. “Obviously.”

Tilrey tensed, but the stranger’s grin widened into a radiant smile. “Hey, kid,” he said, extending his hand. “Same gig. I’m Fir István’s boy, Bror Birun. What’s your name?”

Somehow it hadn’t occurred to Tilrey to wonder how other kettle boys would look and act. If he had, he wouldn’t have predicted this open friendliness. He clasped Bror’s hand. “I’m Tilrey Bronn.”

“From ’Skein, eh?” Bror ran a hand through his short, sweaty dirty-blond hair. His direct gaze was a floodlight. “You’re not what I expected. But in a good way. Hey, can I spot you?”

“I’m supposed to do it,” Krisha said.

Bror shot the driver another winning smile. “I know you always do your duty to the letter, Krisha, but I’m not some stranger, for green’s sake. Malsha knows me.” He winked in a cheerful way that left no doubt about the nature of that knowledge. “And you can stand right here and monitor our conversation.”

Krisha gave in. As Bror took his place (“Okay, kid, you can do this! It’s just ten more pounds!”), Tilrey found himself wondering if anyone ever said no to Bror. This must be how kettle boys were supposed to be: magnetic and charismatic, spreading happiness. Nothing he could ever imagine being.

And Bror had evidently slept with the Magistrate. Tilrey had trouble imagining it, maybe because his brain shut off whenever he thought about returning to Malsha’s bed. He knew how to lie still, how to endure, but was that what you were supposed to do? Did Bror do that? Or did he pretend to enjoy it, or even enjoy it for real?

Bror was probably good at sucking cock, something that Fir Jena had informed Tilrey he was not good at, in the least. “This is a vital skill,” the Councillor had complained, and then attempted to “teach” him by jamming it down his throat. The officers had used the same tactic.

For a crazy instant, Tilrey imagined asking Bror how you were supposed to do it without choking. He must know tricks, and you could tell he wouldn’t be shy about sharing them.

No, not in a million years. It was the kind of question he was too ashamed to ask even Artur, who’d seen him at his worst.

“There you go, laddie. Nice, nice!” Bror was saying. “We’ll bulk up those skinny arms in no time.”

Tilrey’s cheeks burned, but it felt good to be praised for something other than his looks. “I think I can do another ten,” he said.

After basking in the glow of Bror’s attention, it was harder to endure the cold, the darkness, and the ride home with Krisha, who didn’t say a word the whole way. When the door of the coldroom closed behind them with a final hiss, Tilrey shivered, though he was back in the lush warmth of the Magistrate’s domain. Him and the poor stunted tea trees.

Krisha fetched him lunch, then hovered above him with a notebook and pen. “Fir Magistrate says to tell me what books you want. I’ll write them down and fetch them from the Library.”

“Books?” Until now, Tilrey had been making do with a few volumes that somebody, presumably Artur, had left in his room, but he’d already read most of them. How did the Magistrate know he’d want more? Had Artur told him Tilrey liked to read?

He hoped not; he didn’t like to imagine them discussing him. But the lure of more choices was irresistible, so he said, “Okay.”

He named only safe titles—novels and histories, nothing that could be construed as the slightest bit seditious. This could be a test.

When he was done eating, Krisha escorted him back to his room and hovered again. “We’ll go back to the gym tomorrow. Fir wants you to swim a bunch of laps every week, too.”

Tilrey nodded neutrally. Artur had said not to open up. The pleasure he took in swimming—or reading, for that matter—was his business.

“You oughtta maybe be careful of that Bror Birun, though,” Krisha said, staring at the wall above Tilrey’s head. “He was angling to be Fir Magistrate’s kettle boy before you came along.”

Sitting on the bed—where he seemed to spend most of his time now—Tilrey crossed his arms. “Good for him.” And I wish Bror was in this room instead of me, though I can’t imagine why he’d want to be.

“I’m just saying, be careful.” Krisha cleared his throat. “Don’t tell Bror anything about the Fir’s business. That’s all.”

Did Krisha think he was an idiot? For a moment, Tilrey was so fed up that punching the wall of the room—the cell—seemed like a good idea. He swallowed the impulse and said blandly, innocently, “Where’re you from, anyway, Krisha? I can barely understand you sometimes.”

Krisha’s shoulders tensed; it clearly wasn’t the first time he’d heard this question. “Karkei.”

“No, no, you can’t be. I know people from there. I’m thinking north of Karkei—Clearwater, maybe. One of those weird little backwaters where soldiers interbreed with Outers.”

“I’m from Karkei. Right in the city.” This time it was a growl—a threat. Krisha’s hooded eyes fixed on Tilrey, mismatched with his obviously dyed white-blond hair. “Think you’re smart, huh, kid?”

Tilrey shrugged, letting his mouth form an insolent grin. He’d seen his friends Dal and Pers do this occasionally—taunt a kid they didn’t like, trying to get a rise out of them. Tilrey had never joined in, finding it cruel even when the target was richly deserving. But now he was enjoying it.

Maybe Krisha would get so riled up he’d swing that monster arm back and knock Tilrey into the wall. So fucking what? He’d been hit before. And Krisha might be punished for bruising him, for damaging the Magistrate’s “property.” Tilrey almost wanted to see if he could make it happen, but something held him back.

“I guess I’m about as smart as I need to be,” he said.

Which wasn’t much of a comeback, but Krisha seemed to take it as a further insult. “Back with your dinner later,” he said, voice so tight with rage that his accent intensified. He went out and slammed the door.

After the click of the lock, Tilrey stretched flat on his back and stared at the ceiling. Back in prison. But he couldn’t deny that had been kind of fun.

Five more days, Artur had said. Five more days till the free-night when he’d have to dress up and serve tea to Malsha and demonstrate everything he’d learned.

The pleasure he’d gotten from Krisha’s anger faded fast. He found his book, opened it, and tried to make sense of the words on the page.

Five more days. This time he wouldn’t fucking cry.

Chapter 4: Inaugurated

Notes:

Not a happy chapter, but it fills in some backstory about the big mistake Tilrey made in Thurskein that led him here in the first place. And he's starting to understand better what he's up against. Thank you for reading! <3

“I’m ready, okay?” Tilrey told Artur. “You didn’t have to come check on me.”

“I know, but I wanted to. He’ll be here in a minute or so.” The Magistrate’s secretary looked him carefully up and down. “You can put the kettle on.”

“The leaves are in the pot. The biscuits are on the tray.” Tilrey was showered, combed, impeccably dressed. “Look, I’m fine. I know how to do this. You’ve seen that for yourself.”

“I know.” Artur gazed hard at him. “I’m mainly here to remind you . . . well, that I’m always here. I’ll be over tomorrow after the Council session closes. We can go to the gym and swim some laps. You won’t be alone.”

“I know!” Tilrey was feeling uneasy in the pit of his stomach. “Look, is there something you haven’t told me? About tonight?” If the Magistrate had any specific disturbing proclivities besides his fondness for mind games, Artur hadn’t mentioned them.

“Nothing like you’re thinking. It’s just—remember what I told you. Don’t open up, and don’t let him get under your skin.”

And with that, Artur patted Tilrey awkwardly on the shoulder and slipped out again.

Tilrey heard the hiss of the sliding door while he was in the kitchen. He poured the slightly cooled water into the pot, set it on the tray with the tumblers, butter, and biscuits, and rearranged everything a couple of times, chiding himself. Who cares if it’s perfect? Get it over with.

The Magistrate had settled himself on the living room couch and was tapping on his handheld. Tilrey knelt to place the tray on the low table, trying to ignore his heart banging against his ribs. This was only an old man.

The Magistrate didn’t look up, but he patted the couch beside him. “Forgive me. Always so many loose ends to clear up at the end of the day.”

Tilrey sat, not quite as close as Malsha had indicated. He clasped his hands in his lap and stared at them, feeling like a clumsily posed doll, until the Fir set down his darkened handheld and said, “I think it’s time to pour now.”

“Right. Sorry, Fir.” Tilrey rose (Not too fast; all your movements should look relaxed, Artur would say) and poured the steaming brew into two tumblers. He felt the man’s eyes on him as he added the butter and set a tumbler in front of Malsha (Absolutely don’t slosh it.).

Then he returned to his seat and watched from the corner of his eye as Malsha raised the cup, inhaled the brew, and took a sip. “Very nice,” the Magistrate said. His whole demeanor was content and serene. He flicked a finger at Tilrey. “Drink your own, lad. Don’t let it get cold.”

Tilrey swallowed some tea; his throat was so tight it tasted like nothing.

“Artur’s instruction is excellent,” the Magistrate said, setting his tumbler down again. He pulled a vial from his tunic, gave it a shake, and unstoppered it. “He tells me you’re a quick study,” he added, pouring some into his cupped hand.

Then Tilrey was gazing down at a palmful of sap, black and sticky and full of potential oblivion. He stared at it, remembering how desperately he’d wanted this ten, nine, eight days ago. He recalled Artur’s story about Malsha drugging him.

“It’s a moderate dose. Nothing that could incapacitate you,” the Magistrate assured him. And then, with gentle amusement, “Are you going to drink it, or shall I?”

Get it over with. Artur had made it clear that not accepting sap from a Councillor’s hand was a grave insult. Tilrey lowered his head, took hold of the Magistrate’s wrist, and lapped up the dark pool. It seemed to take forever, and his cheeks flamed as Malsha said, “Clean it a bit with your tongue, would you? I don’t like a sticky palm.”

When Tilrey straightened up again, his face was on fire and there were tears in his eyes. He stared over Malsha’s shoulder, unblinking, waiting for the pleasant buzz to take over and drown his feelings the way it had last time.

For a moment or so, the Magistrate simply drank his tea and gazed at Tilrey, as if drinking him in, too. “Krisha showed me your library list,” he said at last. “It’s a fine selection. I’ve asked him to fetch some twelfth-year review manuals as well, so you can prepare for your E-Squareds.”

The mention of the dreaded terminal school test was so incongruous that Tilrey looked straight at the Magistrate for the first time. “Why?”

“So you can take the test, of course.” Malsha reached for a biscuit. “Weren’t you preparing for it at home?”

“Yes, Fir.” The E-Squareds were almost all that he, Dal, and Pers had talked about for the past year—especially since Dal and Tilrey had become a couple, making conversation about other things awkward. “But I don’t need to take them anymore, do I?”

Malsha dipped the biscuit in his tea. “Why on earth not? You can’t pour my tea all your life.” He slid a little closer to Tilrey, eyes locked on him. “No. When you’ve served your purpose here, I intend to find Artur a good Admin position and make you my secretary. For that, you’ll need all your tests.”

“But.” The sap was finally making Tilrey lightheaded, and conversation was a little easier. “What about . . . the criminal charge? I mean, even if it’s not on my record anymore, how can I work in the Sector?”

“The shirking charge?” Malsha said it so distinctly that Tilrey winced and dropped his eyes again. “Well, that’s a good question. I’ve been meaning to ask you, lad, how you came to be at a Dissident meeting, translating a message from Oslov’s enemy. I’ve read the official report, of course. But only you can fill in the details for me.”

Tilrey was intensely grateful for the sap in his system; it kept him from trembling. “It’s all in the report,” he said in a low voice. “I mean, what I told the Constable and the Supervisor—I didn’t lie. I went to the meeting on a dare. I swear that’s the truth, Fir.”

“I didn’t accuse you of lying.” Fir Magistrate’s voice had a slight edge now. “Tell me anyway, Tilrey—the whole story. Who dared you?”

Tilrey’s insides clenched up. He shook his head. “I can’t give a name. I won’t.”

“This isn’t an interrogation.” Malsha’s hand rested very lightly on his knee. “Just tell me how it happened, no names. This person who dared you, was it a girl or boy you liked? Someone you wanted to impress?”

Tilrey wanted to keep the story to himself. But if he did, he’d look guiltier—and perhaps the details did exonerate him, just a little. He nodded. “A girl. She heard about the meeting, learned the password, and wanted to go. I told her that was treason. Then she started accusing me of being a goody-goody and a coward, and, well . . . it seemed like the only way I could keep her from going was to go myself. She already had minor offenses on her record; mine was clean. I promised to tell her everything that happened.”

The meeting, three months ago, was still fresh in his memory. They’d gathered in a cavernous basement storeroom amid towers of crates, coughing in the dusty air. There were fourteen or fifteen people, most of them factory workers and at least a decade older than Tilrey. They all seemed to recognize him as the Lieutenant Supervisor’s upstanding son, even though he’d covered up his school uniform with an adult’s borrowed jacket.

After some harmless talk about work conditions and the food in the caf, a woman looked right at Tilrey and said, “Here to report back to your ma, are you?”

Tilrey shook his head, feeling very naïve. “I came because I’m interested.” They were looking daggers at him, so he told them the name of their associate who’d tipped off Dal. “My friend thought I should come because, uh, I’m very good at languages.” Weren’t Dissidents always trying to open up channels to Harbour? “Anything that’s written in Harbourer, I can translate.”

“Can you, lad?” The shirkers exchanged glances. “Why would we need that?”

“Because . . .” Tilrey remembered the way Dal was always spouting off in the caf. “I’m not my mother. I think it’s unfair how Redda keeps us locked up in this city and exploits our labor and tries to keep us ignorant. We’re prisoners. Slaves.”

As he talked, Tilrey began to believe what he was saying. True, he’d always felt reasonably happy—not like a prisoner or a slave at all—but that was because he and his mom had a nice apartment on the top level. He wouldn’t spend his life working on a factory line. But the people here did, and how did they feel?

The adults around him nodded encouragingly; some voiced similar sentiments. They talked of past strike efforts that had failed; they groused about Supervisor Fernei; they weighed the possibilities of protests and sabotage.

Finally, a shifty-eyed young man who worked in the communications office told a tale of a hacked radio and an intercepted transmission from the south. He passed Tilrey a sheet of paper. “There’s a little Oslov mixed in, but mostly it’s Harbourer. If you can really translate, show us.”

Tilrey read the message easily. It was from someone called “the Colonel of the Glorious Resurgence,” and it was exhorting all Oslov Laborers to rise up and revolt.

“If you bring down the tyrants in Redda and break their stranglehold on the stolen technological legacy that belongs rightfully to all human beings, you shall have a home and eternal gratitude in the South.” As he read the words, the shirkers exchanged meaningful glances and nodded. This was what they’d hoped to hear. Someone out there, far beyond Oslov, might actually support their struggle. Tilrey felt proud of himself.

But now, as he recited the message sitting beside the General Magistrate, his voice shook. The words were so seditious, so explosive. Maybe it was a crime even to remember them.

Malsha laughed out loud. “Translating that was your offense?”

“Yes, Fir.” He shrank back.

Still chuckling, the Magistrate took a bite of biscuit and patted Tilrey’s knee. “Pour again for us, will you?”

Tilrey got up, his head buzzing with sap, and poured. When he resettled himself, Malsha explained: “Colonel Thibault of Resurgence fancies herself far more threatening than she is. To make herself feel important, she blankets the Laborer cities of Oslov with propaganda like the message you just quoted. But, as you can hear for yourself, her message offers no information that might actually assist anyone in rebelling. It’s hot air.”

“But then . . . why were we all arrested, Fir?” Despite his terror of cells and imprisonment, Tilrey didn’t want it to be for nothing.

Fir Magistrate sipped his tea. “Chances are, the young man who gave you the ‘intercepted transmission’ was an Int/Sec plant trolling for Dissidents. He’s probably the very person who initiated the crackdown in your sector and gave your name to the soldiers doing the round-up. In fact, it’s possible that the entire meeting you attended was a sham orchestrated by undercover Int/Sec agents. Real Dissidents don’t give out their passwords to schoolchildren.”

As he spoke, he returned his hand to Tilrey’s knee and stroked it reassuringly. “Of course, that doesn’t make the charge against you any less serious. Espousing shirker ideology is one thing, but to go on a dare—well, that was simply foolish, Tilrey. Reckless. Unworthy of you.”

Tilrey lowered his head and said sincerely, “I know.” The one time in his life he’d tried to be as daring as Dal, he’d been punished for it.

“I see no reason one foolish mistake should ruin your life, however.” The Magistrate rubbed Tilrey’s knee in small circles, his voice dropping to a lulling drone. “I imagine Turshka’s told you that when people serve me well, I reward them.”

“Yes, Fir.” The hand was creeping up his thigh. Tilrey inched away as far as he dared.

“So you will take the E-Squareds, and you will become my secretary.” The man was even closer somehow; Tilrey could feel warm breath on his cheek. “Perhaps in a few years, if you prove valuable to me, I’ll even bring you along when I visit our Embassy in Harbour.”

“There’s an Oslov embassy in Harbour, Fir?” In school, modern Harbour was always described as barbaric, hostile territory.

“Of course.” A soft laugh. “We trade with some of them. Would you like that?”

“Yes—I mean, I’d like to see Harbour, Fir.” A fitful pulse was beating in Tilrey’s temple. The old man’s hand was back between his legs, stroking upward, and he was too sapped to bother to edge away. What was the point? Malsha had made it clear at their last encounter that the price of refusal would be a return to the officers’ club.

Nonetheless, Tilrey needed to be honest about something. Before the Magistrate kissed him and fondled his hair, before he wound an arm around Tilrey’s waist and led him to bed, the man needed to be reminded what he was really doing here. He needed to know what Tilrey’s lack of resistance really meant.

Tilrey raised his eyes and did his best to look steadily at the face above him. “I went with Admin Makari because he said I’d go to prison otherwise. But I don’t want this, Fir.”

“‘This’?” Malsha stroked a gentle line from Tilrey’s chin to his cheekbone. “You don’t want to be my kettle boy?”

He couldn’t, shouldn’t say it. After all his training, Artur would be appalled. But it was the truth, so he nodded just barely, dropping his eyes again.

Malsha laughed.

Tilrey looked up again, cheeks hot, into the old man’s abruptly merry face. He blinked away tears as Malsha said, “Verdant hells, my sweet love, I know that. It’s in every move you make, every flash of those exquisite eyes of yours, that you don’t want to be here. That’s precisely why I want you.”

As he continued, he snaked his arm around Tilrey’s waist, drawing him in. “There’s no shortage of boys who’d kill to be in your place, as I imagine Fir Jena told you. Krisha tells me you’ve met young Bror, István’s boy—a pretty lad, very skilled, and very eager to belong to me. But he doesn’t hold a hundredth of the interest for me that you do.”

He pulled Tilrey into a kiss. Tilrey stiffened, but the sap was making everything fuzzy. The old man’s arms held him fast; teeth nipped at his bottom lip. He wants this. He wants it, Tilrey’s brain kept repeating, trying to make sense of it. Why would anyone want someone who was unwilling?

“I don’t understand,” he murmured.

“No, I imagine you don’t. Be glad of that.”

Those lips were on his neck now, sucking hard; they’d leave a mark. Tilrey flinched, and Malsha said soothingly, “Never fear. I’ll be very gentle with you; you’re worth it.” He whispered in Tilrey’s ear, “It seems to me I’ve been waiting for this for a long, long time.”

***

After all that, the rest was predictable, almost routine.

Tilrey didn’t cry. He lay still in the Fir’s bed and submitted the way he’d learned to do over the past sixteen days, obeying instructions when they were given. And really, it was completely bearable, even though the sap was wearing off. The Magistrate wasn’t particularly large, and he was as gentle as he’d promised—certainly not rough like the soldiers, not even at the end. It wasn’t much different from that one night with Artur.

When the man’s weight lifted off him, Tilrey rolled on his side and pressed his face to the bedspread, proud of himself for barely reacting. It had been stupid of him, he saw now, to admit what they both already knew; it only made the experience better for Malsha. Never open up to him, Artur had said, and Tilrey had done exactly that. But if this was as bad as it got, he’d survive.

The Magistrate returned from the bathroom with a warm, damp towel, told him to roll over, and cleaned him with something like tenderness. “You’re all right, lad?”

Tilrey nodded.

“Would you like a nip more sap?”

He prudently shook his head. “I’m fine, Fir.”

“You’re trembling a little. Perhaps a tisane would be nice.”

Thinking it was an order, Tilrey struggled up, ready to head for the kitchen. Malsha waved him back down with an expression of concern. “No, no, sweetheart. Now it’s my turn to wait on you.”

So Tilrey lay in bed while the kettle whistled afar off. A few minutes later, Malsha brought in a fresh tray. He sat down beside Tilrey, adjusted the pillows to give him better back support, and urged him to try a rosehip tisane imported from Harbour. “These are little berries that grow on rosebushes. Roses are flowers that hold a great deal of symbolic significance in Harbourer culture. I find them rather unimpressive, myself. The peony—now, there’s a decadent flower.”

Tilrey only half listened, but the words were soothing. He felt like a pampered invalid as the Magistrate tidied up, again refusing offers of help. Finished in the kitchen, he tucked them both into bed and turned off the light.

“That was a lovely first night for us,” he whispered in Tilrey’s ear, pulling him close. “You are a gift, my sweet, smart boy. I feel unimaginably lucky to have you.”

At this point, a part of Tilrey that had been slumbering woke and recoiled in horror. What the fuck is wrong with him? And with me?

He stiffened, but he didn’t pull away from the parody of tenderness, because it was way too late to listen to internal warnings he couldn’t act on. He even let his head be tugged onto the Magistrate’s shoulder. If he could just go to sleep, it would all be over.

He dozed off with merciful speed, only to wake and sit bolt upright.

He’d dreamed someone was chasing him down the longest, darkest corridor on the lowest subterranean level of Sector Six, where he and Dal and Pers used to sneak in and play tag. Only it wasn’t Dal or Pers chasing him, but a faceless, formless person with long arms reaching out, grasping toward him.

He’d woken just as he reached a dead end, his heartbeat echoing in the tiny space. It still thudded against his ribs, and the aftertaste of sap was bitter in his mouth.

What time was it? All he knew was that it was still dark, the General Magistrate of the Republic of Oslov was snoring softly beside him, and he needed to get the fuck out of here, right now.

Had he really drifted off with his head on the man’s shoulder? Don’t think about it. He pushed himself to the edge of the bed and looked back at the slumbering Magistrate. I should kill him. I could kill him. The kitchen had no sharp knives—Artur had hidden them the way he’d hidden the razors and nail file—but he could use his bare hands. He was young, strong and getting stronger, as Bror kept insisting during their weight-room sessions. Strangling an old man was no challenge.

But even if Tilrey could do it—and he was far from sure he had what it took to snuff out a life in cold blood—what would be the point? He was locked in. He would wait all night beside a corpse until Krisha came in and hauled him off to the Constabulary. And then, exile.

No, murder was a fantasy. But at least he could sleep in his own bed. He rose and tiptoed to the open door.

“Sweetheart? Where are you going?”

Tilrey froze, his heart battering his ribs again. He’d been so quiet. Did the Magistrate have some kind of extrasensory perception?

He didn’t even consider telling the truth, or asking for permission; he knew what the answer would be. “To the john, Fir.”

When he returned to bed, Malsha was holding the duvet back for him. Tilrey slipped in. He rolled over, turning his back to the Magistrate, and hugged himself tight.

An arm eased itself around him. A voice murmured in his ear, “Just for future reference, love, when you’re with me for the night, you’re with me for the night. Understood?”

Tilrey nodded, remembering everything Artur had said. This was the most powerful person in Oslov, perhaps in the world. If you gave him what he wanted, you would be rewarded—eventually. If you resisted, you would be crushed.

I don’t even want the fucking reward. But he didn’t want to be crushed, either. Pride wasn’t worth that.

“Good.” And the Magistrate rolled him over and tugged him close again.

The fight left Tilrey as abruptly as it had come. He let his head rest where it was apparently supposed to be, on Malsha’s chest, and wept without a sound.

Chapter 5: Accustomed

Notes:

This long chapter is basically the origin story of Tilrey's most famous ability. Slowly and fumblingly, he's finding ways to exercise power. The plot thread involving his mother won't be resolved until The Trip to Thurskein, when he finally returns to see her.

Thanks for reading! <3 I'm making some headway on the sequel to "The Trip to Harbour" and hope to start posting that in a few weeks.

“Tilrey,” Artur said the next day as they sat together in the sauna overlooking the snowbound Sector, “you’re really okay?”

Tilrey ran his fingertips over the smooth finish of the cedar bench. Chlorine residue from the pool rose from his and Artur’s bare, sweaty shoulders: a clean smell that reminded him of strength and exertion.

“Fine.” He kept his voice steady. “I mean, like you said, it’s nothing special. Nothing I haven’t done before.”

Artur was getting the canny look that always meant uncomfortable questions were coming. “Malsha fucked with your head, though, didn’t he?”

“You warned me. I should’ve been better prepared. But I’m fine. I’m good. I mean, it must have been worse for you than for me,” Tilrey added, seizing on a way to end this line of questioning. “To be his kettle boy and go to bed with him after he, well . . .”

“Raped me?” Artur’s muddy-green eyes had shuttered. “Yeah. He was all courteous and sappy the first few times afterward, too, and he kept apologizing. Which made me want to gut him even more, and he knew it.”

A familiar shudder moved over Tilrey’s scalp. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Where do you start? Malsha didn’t need to drug or rape me. He could have started off with the bribery. He told me later that the only reason he did it was to see my face when I woke up in his bed and tried to remember how I got there.”

Tilrey felt a little dizzy. He tightened his grip on the aromatic wood (smooth, strong, clean) and asked what he’d been wondering for the past several days: “How can you stay with him, Turshka? I mean, how can you still work for him? Did he threaten your sister to make you do that?”

Artur gazed off toward where snow flurried against the windows. “It’s not actually that bad. Politics is a game, and most of the players are assholes—believe me, I know.” He gave the bench a kick. “Malsha hates them all, even the ones he pretends are his allies. He spends all his time finding creative ways to turn them against each other and screw them over. And when you’re on his team, you usually win. It’s fun.”

“That doesn’t sound fun to me.” Artur hadn’t answered the last question, which meant he’d stayed on with Malsha of his own volition. It seemed like madness to Tilrey.

“You may change your mind,” Artur said. “Anyway, he wants you to start reviewing for the E-Squareds. He’s so eager to see you ace them, it’s kind of funny. Like a proud uncle.”

“What do you think would happen if I bombed the test?”

Artur’s face turned serious. “Don’t even think about it.”

“Maybe I’m just not as smart as he thought,” Tilrey said innocently. “Maybe those lower-form tests were a fluke, or I cheated. If I don’t score well enough to be his secretary, do you think he’ll let me . . .” He couldn’t say the words go home to Thurskein. It hurt even to think them.

Artur’s russet brows were drawn tight. “Maybe he’d take it well. Maybe not. Maybe he’d hack your academic record and force you to be his secretary—believe me, he’s capable of it. But that’s not what matters. Do you want to trash your future just to spite him?”

Tilrey raised his chin. “It’s my future. I’m not afraid to work in a factory, and I wouldn’t be ashamed.” Better than this, anyway.

But his resolve was slipping. Throwing the test would go against a lifetime of study and achievement, and besides, it would wound his pride. There had to be another way.

“Malsha’s seventy-two, Tilrey. He won’t be here forever. You’re young, and you want to give yourself as many options as possible. Don’t you?”

Yes, he did. And if that meant doing his best job on the E-Squareds even if that was exactly what Malsha wanted—well, maybe he’d have to grit his teeth and do it.

***

Free-nights in Redda still confused Tilrey. Sometimes there were three days between them, sometimes four, occasionally just two, depending on which ten-day of which month it was.

His second night with Fir Magistrate went more or less like the first, minus the initial conversation. This time Tilrey answered questions in monosyllables, and Malsha filled in the silence with anecdotes about Reddan architecture and the history of his tea trees, many of them amusing. The man was a good storyteller, Tilrey observed. Noticing without reacting, like a spy gathering intel, was his new strategy.

They bathed before retiring to the bedroom. Once again, Malsha was careful and considerate, and afterward he served tea. He made no effort to stimulate Tilrey the way he had the very first night.

And once again, when Malsha pulled him into his arms, Tilrey wept. He couldn’t seem to stop it, as if not crying that night in the officers’ club had broken the part of him that controlled such things.

Waking in the morning was bad, too. He pretended to be fast asleep as he listened to Malsha rise and dress for a day in the Sector. That didn’t stop the Magistrate from tousling his hair and giving him a kiss and a whispered “Till later, love” before leaving him alone at last.

Every term of endearment was a smarting brand. I’m not your love or your sweetheart. I’m not, I’m not. But Artur had taught Tilrey that Malsha would take objections as pleasant provocations, so he bore it.

During his days and nights “off,” he studied test review manuals, read, swam, lifted weights, and learned the art of massage from the gym’s unctuous resident masseur. So there were distractions, anyway. It was always a pleasure to go to the gym and see Bror, who was cheerful, breezy, and encouraging, though Tilrey never got a chance to speak to him alone.

How much longer would he be locked up? As long as it took him to prove he could cooperate? He would not ask, not even indirectly through Artur. He would not beg.

On the third free-night, Tilrey wore a tunic that was pure white with red piping. Malsha’s choice, not his own.

After he’d poured the tea and drunk the sap from Malsha’s palm, the Magistrate said, “I have a couple of letters from your mother here.”

The words made Tilrey sit bolt upright despite the sap humming in his brain. Somehow it had never occurred to him that his mother could contact the Magistrate. Was this some kind of trick?

He schooled his face into indifference. “Fir Supervisor must have told her where to write.”

“Indeed.” Malsha fished a slip of paper from inside his tunic. “Here’s the first one: Dear Fir Magistrate. I write to you as a humble functionary who has served Sector Six of Thurskein for the past nine years as Lieutenant Supervisor, receiving annual performance scores of 93 or above. Fir Supervisor Fernei informs me that you have made yourself the patron of my son, Tilhard Edvard Bronn, who is of age but not yet Notified. Needless to say, you honor my family with this choice. I realize you may doubt my sanity when I say that I write to beg you to reconsider.”

Tilrey’s pulse seemed to turn his head into a hollow drum, but it wasn’t loud enough to drown out what he was hearing. When Malsha glanced at him, he managed to keep his face blank.

The Magistrate skimmed the rest of the letter, then the second one, muttering disconnected phrases. “‘Lack of Notification renders any posting provisional’—‘misunderstanding resulting from a regrettable mistake’—‘scores in the top tenth percentile throughout his schooling’—‘with all due respect’—‘while I would never question your wisdom’—hmm. She’s a master of bureaucratese, your mother. Mind-numbing. Ah, but here’s a good part, right at the end: I speak to you not only as a loyal citizen, but as a mother. Fir Magistrate, I know my son. He has qualities of mind that make him an ill fit for this posting, honorable as it may be.” The Magistrate chuckled. “That’s her way of hinting she doesn’t find it honorable. You may find him sensitive, private, and quick to turn inward in situations he finds unpleasant. In short, I fear for both him and you in these circumstances. With all the force a mother’s love can have, I beg you to treat him with patience and—”

Tilrey snatched the letter from the Magistrate’s hand and crumpled it. The next moment, he realized what he’d done and cowered, his cheeks burning, the half-crushed sheet still in his shaking hand. “I’m sorry, Fir. I shouldn’t have. I’m—”

Malsha cut him short, laughing. “No, no. Serves me right. Here, take the other as well.” He folded the second letter and tossed it on Tilrey’s lap. “There’s an enclosure that’s addressed to you, too—I didn’t read that one. You’ll need them all for reference when you write back to her.”

Tilrey’s face was still hot, and tears sprang too easily to his eyes. “Write back?”

“Of course! The poor woman needs some reassurance.”

Malsha patted Tilrey’s shoulder in the grandfatherly way that always made him queasy. Tilrey shook his head, staring down at the letters.

“Nonsense,” Malsha said. “Are you worried I’ll read it first? You can seal it and give it to Artur to post. I shall, of course, write your mother myself, to assure her that her fears are foolish and I have the utmost concern for your future, as evidenced by the fact that you’ll soon be taking the E-Squareds. But she needs to hear from you. She seems to be worried that one of us will kill the other.” He smiled at the absurdity.

If you only knew how I’ve thought about killing you. But if Malsha did know, he’d probably think Tilrey’s impotent rage was amusing, too.

It was stupid to refuse to write the letter outright. If Tilrey promised to write and then put it off, Malsha might forget about it. But it mattered more to him right now to draw a boundary: You can make me do or be whatever you want in Redda, but you can’t interfere with me at home.

During the long, gloomy afternoons locked up in his room, Tilrey liked to imagine that when he’d left Thurskein, he had split in two. Part of him stayed behind to be his mother’s cherished son, while the rest of him became the Magistrate’s kettle boy. And if that wasn’t actually true—well, his mother needed to forget about this person he was now. She needed to forget.

And so he said in a firm voice, “That part of my life is over, Fir. You can write her whatever you like.”

Then, without waiting for an answer—no answer would be tolerable—he slid off the couch, crawled across the carpet, and reached for the old man’s cock.

Malsha tensed with surprise at first. But soon he relaxed, spreading his legs and inching forward to give Tilrey better access. “My. I did not see that coming, but I like it. Ah, yes. Here you go.” He tugged his robe of office aside.

Tilrey’s pulse hammered in his ears as he unfastened the man’s trousers, observing his own revulsion without letting it overcome him. He would have asked for this anyway. Artur had made it clear that Fir Magistrate would soon expect him to start participating in their “intimacies” more actively. If this served as a distraction from the way he’d just disobeyed, then at least he was getting something out of it.

He suppressed a shudder as he bent to lick tentatively around the head. Green hells, he wouldn’t do this well, but he would do it. This was who he was now.

He was still smarting from the words his mother had used—sensitive, private, quick to turn inward. Was she trying to make this harder for him? Didn’t she realize Malsha would seize on every clue he had to Tilrey’s innermost self and use it against him?

But no. How could she know that? She must think the General Magistrate of Oslov was a more or less normal man—selfish and lustful, but also capable of compassion, especially for people he could view as his distant inferiors. She’d obviously chosen her words carefully—hiding her anger, hoping to activate Malsha’s pity. She had no idea what she was dealing with.

Tilrey kept gagging. His throat was too tight, just as it had been with Jena, so he tried to make up for the lack of depth with a frenzy of tongue lashing. It worked, at least to some degree; Malsha threw his head back and groaned, his hands at his sides.

He didn’t touch Tilrey or offer suggestions, just sat there and let Tilrey bring him to his climax. Then Tilrey withdrew as fast as possible and spat into his palm, cringing inwardly.

Malsha relaxed with a great sigh. Body boneless and eyes closed, he said, “Next time you’ll swallow, my love. And every time after that.”

He didn’t mention it again until they were in the bath together with steam mercifully obscuring their faces. “Thank you for earlier, sweetheart. That was an honest effort.”

Tilrey looked down at the seething water. “I guess I need training, Fir,” he said, practicing the blankness again. Sucking men off is just another skill. Something to learn with my body instead of my head, like massage.

Malsha said, “I guess you do.”

After they’d toweled off, he walked Tilrey into the bedroom, peeled the robe from his shoulders, and laid him down on his back.

Tilrey lay still as a corpse and closed his eyes, expecting to be rolled over in the usual way. When, instead, a firm hand began pumping his cock, he was so startled he nearly struggled. Then something warm and yielding closed over the sensitive head, and he arched his back and moaned before he could help himself.

After a few more strokes of Malsha’s tongue, the delicious pressure withdrew, replaced by the hand again. Malsha laughed in the distance. “Now, my love, I don’t claim to be an expert. But I’ve learned from those who were, so pay attention.”

Those were the last words he spoke before Tilrey came—with embarrassing speed, because he’d never in his life felt anything quite so good.

The one time Dal sucked him off, she’d been nearly as tentative as he’d been with Malsha in the living room. It was good, but he’d been so worried about coming too soon or too late or not saying the right thing afterward. This was different. All he had to do was lie here and keep still and quiet while a tight, hot cavern swallowed him deeper and deeper, and a flicking tongue added burning, provocative lashes of pleasure to the mix. It felt like teetering on top of the steepest ski slope in Thurskein, ready to push off and go, his body becoming one with the wind.

His hands were tangled in the Magistrate’s sparse hair, taking control of the man’s head, before he realized what he was doing. Too late to stop. Two vicious strokes under his own power, and then he was over the top and flying. You don’t want this, his brain insisted right before it exploded into pure bliss.

When he came back to himself, Malsha lay stretched beside him, propped on an elbow, examining him neutrally. “Now you see,” he said.

“I’m sorry, Fir. For—you know.” Tilrey was blushing again, and he knew Malsha enjoyed every second of it. “I couldn’t really control—”

“I’m well aware how far gone you were, sweetheart.” Malsha sat up. Fingers threaded themselves through Tilrey’s hair and tugged him closer, taking possession of him again. “I doubt I’m the only man who’ll want to give you that kind of pleasure. You have a lovely cock. I think we can wait to begin your proper lessons until next time.”

And with that, he rolled Tilrey’s pleasure-limp body over and nudged his hips up to prop a pillow under them. “Mmm,” he said, cupping an ass-cheek with one hand while pulling a knee akimbo with the other. “I do love you when you’re displayed this way. Very primal.”

Tilrey tried to freeze out his senses the way he usually did in bed, but the orgasm had brought every inch of him to tingling life. He settled for bringing a knuckle to his mouth and biting down, using the pain to refocus inward. Then he spread his thighs and tried to relax.

A hand stroked his hair back from the nape. “I’m so glad I didn’t let Vanya pack you away to that dreadful brothel for good. That would have been a crime. You’ve already surpassed all my expectations, do you know that?”

Bite down. Relax. Don’t feel anything.

“And by the way,” Malsha said, a little hoarse from his earlier labors, “I haven’t forgotten about your mother, sweetheart. You’ll give Artur a letter for her in the next ten-day, or I’ll hear about it.”

***

Malsha must have gotten busy then, because it was actually slightly more than two ten-days before he mentioned the letter again.

The morning after his third night with the Magistrate, Tilrey opened the message his mother had enclosed for him. His first glimpse of her shaky handwriting brought tears to his eyes, and he refolded the paper and fantasized about destroying it unread. But after a few minutes, he broke.

Dear Rishka,

Supervisor Fernei has told me you attended a treasonous gathering. Since you have not been formally charged, let alone convicted, I choose to believe in your innocence. But whatever the truth may be, I want you to know I forgive you, and I love you.

That will never change. From the moment I first felt you stir inside me, my mission in this world has been to nurture and protect you. Now you are without me, but you are grown, my son, and stronger than you know. Study. Learn. Do me proud and do yourself proud until we see each other again. I know Fir Magistrate has too much compassion and discernment to wish to separate you from the only surviving member of your immediate family.

With all my love and steadfast support and confidence in you,

Angelika Lindtmerán

Tears sprang to Tilrey’s eyes as he began reading. But soon they dried up, and he felt empty inside again. His mother was a clever politician. She’d assumed Malsha would vet the letter before giving it to him; she’d been careful to compliment the Magistrate while targeting him with a subtle reproach. How much of this was for Tilrey at all?

His mom’s forgiveness was genuine, at least. She probably blamed Dal for his attending the shirker meeting; she blamed Dal for everything he did wrong.

It was the words That will never change that stuck to him, stabbing him with tiny daggers as he showered and ate breakfast in his warm, comfortable prison. Why did his mother have to say she wouldn’t stop loving him? Why did she think he needed the assurance?

She must be wondering who he was now—whether he was someone she might have trouble loving, or at least respecting. He wondered, too. He’d gotten down on his knees last night and sucked an Upstart’s cock on his own initiative. Was this person—this boy—really her son?

Do me proud and do yourself proud. The more he repeated the words to himself, the more reproachful they sounded. Pride wasn’t part of his world now. A proud boy would have stepped off the parapet when he had a chance, or stabbed himself in the jugular with that nail file. A proud boy wouldn’t be here today.

He’d made his choice. And he remembered that on the fourth and fifth and sixth free-nights, as his “proper lessons” began.

It always started with Tilrey working his tongue desperately up and down the Magistrate’s shaft, hoping against hope that if he distracted him skillfully enough, he wouldn’t have to take it deeper. It always ended with him on his back and Malsha on top of him, thrusting into his throat the way the soldiers had. Tilrey closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly through his nose and not squirm or gag.

When he was finally allowed to swallow and curl into himself, he cried silently. He’d almost stopped being ashamed of it. Dripping rageful tears was apparently his condition of being.

Afterward, every time, Malsha served him tea and biscuits and assured him he was getting better with each session. “The gag reflex should go soon,” he said, rubbing the knob of Tilrey’s shoulder.

“How would you know, Fir?” Tilrey hugged himself tight and let the bitterness out, even though Malsha probably enjoyed it.

“I have some experience,” the Magistrate said mildly.

“You didn’t take me that deep.” Tilrey knew the difference now. “You can’t show me what you want me to do, can you, Fir?”

Malsha was silent. Tilrey was just starting to fear he was offended in earnest when he said, “You have a point. Perhaps I can arrange for a better-qualified tutor.”

***

Krisha gave Tilrey’s arm a firm tug, pulling him over the threshold. “Don’t be an idiot. There’s nothing to be scared of.”

The foyer of the Sanctioned Brothel stretched before them—seemingly acres of polished black slate lit by the skylights of a dramatically pitched ceiling. It looked like Tilrey imagined the inside of the Sector buildings did. It looked nothing like the dim, stuffy corridors of the officers’ club. So why was his heart racing?

Krisha dragged him across the echoing floor to the far corner of the room, where a bald, ageless man presided over a desk and computer. “Krisha,” the man said, smiling with his lips alone. “You’re looking well.” He barely glanced at Tilrey.

Krisha didn’t smile back. “We’re here for Matthias.”

“Of course.” The man consulted his screen. “Room twenty-four. He’s ready for you.”

The corridors were high-ceilinged, wood-paneled, and lushly carpeted in gun-metal gray. Tilrey barely heard their footsteps. “Is this place just for Upstarts?” he asked, a little stunned by the luxury.

Krisha grunted in distaste. “High Upstarts. It costs a fortune in rec credit.”

Room 24 was just big enough for a bed, a couch, and another skylight. Matthias rose from the couch as they came in. He was Artur’s age or a little older, with close-cropped chestnut hair, dark make-up outlining his eyes—something Tilrey had never seen before—and a silver disc dangling from one ear. He wore only a robe, and while he wasn’t particularly handsome, all his movements had a fluid grace.

His eyes moved over Tilrey appraisingly, then flicked to Krisha. “You’re going to have to leave him with me, you know.”

Krisha released Tilrey but didn’t budge from his spot. “Fir doesn’t want me leaving him alone.”

Matthias rolled his eyes in the same unhurried way he did everything. “The Fir knows me, Krisha. And you know me. I’m not going to misbehave.” He shifted his weight to the other hip. “Or do you want to watch?”

“Fuck you,” Krisha muttered. But he did leave, after assuring Tilrey he would stay a few paces away on the couch where the corridor branched.

When the door had closed behind him, Matthias took a few steps toward Tilrey, his eyes narrowing. “What’s the Magistrate done to you? You look halfway catatonic.”

Tilrey’s cheeks flamed. Even whores pitied him now. “I’m not. I’m fine. He just sent me here because I’m . . . not good at it.”

“Of course you’re not. You’re a kid.” Matthias sank onto the couch, opened his robe with a flick of his fingers, and shrugged it off. His golden skin flowed over fine musculature, accented by brown hair at the chest and crotch. His cock was half-hard, the scrotum a plump shadow. “You’ll need to relax,” he said, meeting Tilrey’s eyes again, clearly not at all uncomfortable. “And before I can show you, you’ll need to show me what you can do. Sorry about that. No way around it.”

His tone was so impersonal that Tilrey did begin, almost imperceptibly, to relax. Here there would be no ogling, no “sweetheart,” and he’d already prepared himself for what he needed to do. He walked to the couch and dropped to his knees, avoiding eye contact.

“Green hells, this isn’t an Int/Sec cell. I’m not going to torture you.” A hand caught his hand, gentle, and guided it to the hardening cock. “Take me as deep as you can, but at your own pace, okay? I promise not to touch you again.”

By now, Tilrey had something of a routine. He went through it as thoroughly as he could, coordinating the movements of his hand and tongue. But when he reached the point where Malsha would normally have taken over and thrust down his throat, he had no idea what to do. Why was he sucking a Drudge’s cock, anyway? He forced himself to take another centimeter and gagged miserably.

“Okay. Okay.” Matthias was inching backward, giving him space. “You can stop now.”

Really? Tilrey pulled free—wincing at the wet popping sound—and sat back on his haunches. He wiped his mouth. “I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

It was a relief finally to admit it, but now of course the tears were rising. He stared at the shiny wood floor, trying not to blink, waiting for Matthias to laugh at him. Why would someone who was widely considered to give the best head in Redda—according to Malsha—have any sympathy for him?

Matthias patted the couch. When Tilrey had risen from his knees and settled himself there, the young man drew his robe closed and belted it. “It took me a while to learn, too. Want to know my secret?”

There was a secret? He nodded eagerly.

“Ah, but you see, that’s your problem.” Matthias slipped off the couch and onto his knees. “You tell me yes, but your whole body says no. You don’t want to know the secret because you don’t actually want a cock down your throat.” He took hold of Tilrey’s knees and looked up at him, brown eyes earnest. “And that is the secret. Every cock you suck, you need to convince yourself you want it. More than anything.”

He parted Tilrey’s knees and inserted himself between them, one hand rubbing Tilrey’s thigh in slow, measured circles. “Let me show you.”

Tilrey swallowed as a hand reached under his tunic. “I’m nervous. I don’t know if I can—”

He broke off, gasping, as Matthias took possession of his cock through the fabric. Two pumps with those strong, knowing fingers, and he was helplessly hard.

“You were saying?” Matthias freed him from the trousers. “Oh, yes.” He sighed happily. “Plenty to work with.”

Matthias started out languid and teasing, using most of the same skills Tilrey had mastered under Malsha’s tutelage. His tongue was strong and inventive, and he knew how to coordinate it with his hand and throat. He advanced and withdrew, sucking Tilrey slightly deeper each time, until Tilrey was arching his back so hard he had to grab the couch to keep from sliding off.

Then Matthias eased him out and got a punishing grip on the base of his cock. “Easy now. We don’t want you coming just yet.” He chuckled. “Think about your Fir, not me. That should calm things down.”

Tilrey tried, but he was helpless even when Malsha did this to him. And what was happening now was far, far better than anything Malsha could do. If that was speeding down the highest ski slope, this was flying.

The hot wetness was all the way down his length now, pulsing and alive, making everything tingle with desperate need. He felt closer than he’d ever been to another person, so close it was almost suffocating, almost shameful. Like he was nourishing that eager mouth from some hidden store in his deepest self. Yet each time Matthias withdrew and exposed the base of his cock to the open air, he whimpered. He needed to be inside that warm, welcoming place. He needed to be whole. He needed.

The climax came without warning, tearing a cry from his throat. For a long moment he soared, weightless and burning, and dimly he felt the warm envelope convulse around him, hungrily swallowing his seed.

It took a few minutes for him to feel the weight of his body pressing into the couch again. He opened his eyes to find his trousers and tunic all fastened up and Matthias sitting on the floor, grinning.

“So, yeah,” said his colleague (because they were colleagues now, weren’t they, or at least peers?). “To do it right, you gotta want that cock like a baby wants its mom’s teat. Suck it like you need it to live.”

Tilrey was still lightheaded. “But how? I mean, you didn’t really want mine that badly, did you?” His cheeks warmed again. “You were pretending.”

Matthias shook his head, then popped up to sit beside Tilrey. He kept a respectful distance, as if he realized the intimacy they’d just shared was nothing that translated to this conversation. “No, no, no. You can pretend for everything else, but not this. The only way to relax is to make it real. And do you know why it’s real? Do you know how I manage to crave every single Strutter cock that comes through this shithole?”

Tilrey had no clue.

Matthias grinned again, glowingly. “I know what I’m going to do to them is going to make them absolutely fucking helpless. Imagine for a second what it’s like watching a Councillor or a high Admin beg and snivel for more of your mouth. Having that kind of power. It’s better than sap, kid. It’s better than coming. It’s good.”

Tilrey imagined making Malsha lose his precious control, even for a few seconds. Seeing the General Magistrate of Oslov squirm and weep and blush and curse his own needy, sensitive responses, while he himself remained calm and indifferent.

“I’d like to,” he said. “I just don’t know how.”

Matthias tapped him playfully on the knee. “The wanting is the hardest part. Shall we try again?”

***

“Verdant hills and valleys,” Malsha groaned. All the way flat on his back, he writhed against the bedclothes, seizing handfuls of duvet as Tilrey took him deeper and deeper.

It still didn’t feel comfortable or natural, but the gag reflex was history—Tilrey’s long lesson with Matthias had seen to that. He put his shame and self-consciousness away in a drawer and focused on the responses he was producing, undoing Malsha’s control gasp by gasp. He imagined that the pre-come he was swallowing was the man’s power, his life force. Each gulp made the Magistrate a little weaker and him a little stronger. Malsha might think he was being serviced and served, but actually he was being sapped. Just a little deeper, now . . .

He waited for the moment when Malsha would shake him off and flip him over and hold him down. But it never arrived. Tilrey remained on top, sucking and pumping shamelessly. Until at last the seed rushed warm into his throat and he swallowed it, savoring the Magistrate’s long, harsh moan and the pain of nails digging into his shoulders. That desperate need, that loss of control. He’d done that.

Afterward, he didn’t feel the need to huddle or curl into himself. He rolled on his back, stretched, and lay staring at the canopy until Malsha woke from a light doze and pulled him closer.

“I made the right choice,” the old man murmured into his hair. “Expert tutoring is always better.” Then, after a moment, “He didn’t touch you any more than he needed to, did he?”

Tilrey shook his head. From start to finish, Matthias had been a professional.

“Good, good. I feel absurd even admitting this, but I’m jealous.” Fingertips pinched his earlobe, teased down his neck. “Absurd because I do realize I’m going to have to share you. But I’m putting it off as long as possible.”

Tilrey had been putting off thinking about it, too. Artur had outlined how it all worked: the Lounge, the tea parties, the solemn hand-overs to other Councillors. A lump of dread settled in his gut, but he willed it away. What difference did it make to him if he was “obliging” Malsha or someone else?

Was he supposed to be flattered by the admission of jealousy? Not fucking likely. But when the Magistrate’s finger traced his lower lip, he opened up and sucked it the way he’d sucked the man’s cock.

He remembered the fire in Matthias’s eyes when he’d talked of making Upstarts beg and cry. Matthias might work at the Sanctioned, but he clearly “belonged” to no one. Why should Tilrey be any different? No one could legally own another human being.

Never, he vowed, giving himself up to a long kiss. No one will ever own me, because I’ll never love anyone after Dal. From now on, for the rest of my life, fucking is just a tool. And I can use it better than they can.

“Mmm,” Malsha said. “I can taste me inside you. Go rinse your mouth, love, and bring me a sheet of paper and a pen from the desk in the living room.”

Tilrey obeyed. Though he allowed himself a fleeting fantasy of stabbing the Magistrate in the eye with the pen, he handed the implements over and slid into bed. When Malsha held out a palm splashed with sap, he licked it clean with the same seductive thoroughness he’d learned sucking cock, and he felt the old man’s body thrum from his touch.

Power. It felt like that.

“Now,” said the Magistrate, handing him the pen, “you are going to write a reassuring letter to your mother.”

Tilrey’s heart lurched. So Malsha hadn’t forgotten. “I’ll do it tomorrow, Fir.”

“No, sweet, you won’t do it tomorrow, or the day after. That’s become clear. But it needs to be done, so you’ll do it tonight, in my presence.” Malsha rolled onto his stomach. “In fact, you can use me as a writing desk. Put the paper on my back. Use that book on the night table.”

Tilrey could follow those orders easily enough. But when it came to writing anything on the paper—no. Every time he tried to think of something “reassuring,” rage mounted in his skull and threatened to blind him. He sat with his pen poised and his elbows jammed into the old man’s ribs, shuddering.

“You’re not writing,” Malsha complained.

I won’t lie to her. But he didn’t quite dare say it aloud, so he was almost relieved when Malsha said, “Shall I dictate, then?”

“She’ll know it’s not me.”

“Then write your own fucking letter, sweetheart—but you won’t, will you?” Malsha sighed long-sufferingly. “Just write. I’ll make it as believable as possible. Dear Mother, I’ve been postponing writing this letter to you because yours was painful for me to read.”

Tilrey twitched, drawing a scribble across the paper. “No.”

“You’d rather have it be a lie? Write.”

After a long moment, Tilrey did. His script was faint and shaky at first, but he didn’t want her to think he was doing this under duress. He drew a deep breath and grasped the pen tighter.

“Don’t worry,” Malsha said, “it’ll get less heavy. I don’t want to drive her to Soldrid. Okay, continue: I’ve been doing my utmost to put thoughts of home behind me. For better or worse, that part of my life is over.”

They were the words Tilrey himself had used to explain his reluctance to write. Malsha had remembered. He controlled his breathing and tried to make the cursive look normal.

“But I want you to know, whatever I do or become here in Redda, you’ll always be close to my heart. Everything good I am, I learned from you. I won’t neglect my studying, and Fir Magistrate is adamant that I take the E-Squareds and prepare for a solid career.”

Tilrey snorted quietly at that, but he wrote it all down. None of it was a lie, and if he wasn’t sure his mother would consider being the Magistrate’s secretary a “solid career,” there was no point in saying so.

“I hope to do you proud the way you said—if not now, someday. Parts of my new life do feel difficult and against my nature—“

Tilrey jerked the pen to a halt. “I won’t say that, Fir. Also, you said you didn’t read the enclosure.”

“I may have peeked. Does that really surprise you? Anyway, you want this believable, don’t you, love? Continue from there: —but I’m strong, as strong as you raised me to be. Maybe you think of me as sensitive and fearful because I’ve never been put to the test, Mother. But be assured, I’m tough—as tough as you, or as you say my father was. Your father died before you were born, correct? Would she say that?”

Tilrey nodded. His father was practically a saga hero in his mother’s eyes.

“I will rise above obstacles and endure.” Malsha paused. “Who are a few special friends of yours? That girlfriend—what’s her name?”

“Dal.” It almost stuck in his throat. “Dal and Pers are my friends.” Was he putting them in Malsha’s power by admitting it? But no, it would be easy enough for Malsha to have someone ask around in Thurskein and learn their names.

“Please send my best wishes to Dal and Pers and tell them I long to see them again, just as I long to see you. It may be some time, but we will be reunited. With all my love, Tilrey. No, wait.” The Magistrate smiled fondly. “With all my love, Rishka.”

Tilrey wrote it down, every word. Would his mother be fooled? Perhaps. He had to admit, it was dangerously close to what he might have written if he’d managed to write. Even the adolescent bravado of I will rise above obstacles and endure—that was him, or the boy he’d been a few ten-days ago. She would recognize him in the words, and she would have reason not to despair. That was more important than the truth.

Now he knew better what enduring meant. It meant being broken over and over, more times and ways than you would have believed possible, and trying to convince yourself the shattered pieces were still you.

***

The next day, Krisha drove Tilrey to a blocky granite building on the edge of the Sector. The top floor was all brilliant plate-glass, and through it he could see people sitting at tables in warm yellow light. It reminded him of the corner of the caf where he and Dal and Pers used to sit, stretching their meals into marathon conversations.

“That’s the Café,” Krisha confirmed. “We’re not going there today. He doesn’t want you out in public too much.”

“So, where are we going?”

The answer was better than Tilrey could have imagined. Krisha led him up from the dark garage into a vast, musty hall where bookshelves stretched in every direction.

The titles on the spines were like voices calling to Tilrey. He itched to go to them, but he did his best not to show it. “This is the Library?”

“This’s just the basement; there are nine floors. Most of the books you ask for, they’re up higher.”

They took a rickety lift to a floor where tall windows on either end let in the light. Each window was paired with a reading carrel, and when Tilrey sat in one and looked out, he saw the jagged black towers of the Sector close up for the first time, poking the windswept sky.

The treasures in the stacks were even more exciting. Running his finger along the spines, he found books he’d seen described in his school texts but never imagined he could actually read. Here were the full memoirs of Edvard Whyberg—ten volumes, supposedly full of embarrassing personal confessions. Here was an uncensored, unabridged version of Ill Eisslev (The Native), the little-read classic that chronicled the bumpy transition from Feudalism to meritocracy.

Tilrey no longer agonized over how his reading choices would reflect on him. Clearly Malsha had no interest in sending him to an Int/Sec cell. Still, when he returned to Krisha with his arms piled high, he asked, “Are these all right?”

Krisha didn’t even glance at the titles. “Fir says you can have any books you want.”

On their next free-night, Malsha would probably ask how he’d liked the Library, and Tilrey would have to thank him for the new privilege, and Malsha would laugh and tell him how sulky his thanks sounded. He might even be quizzed on the titles he’d selected. Every gift came with a penalty.

But this one was worth it. Pushing these thoughts aside, Tilrey handed the stack of books to Krisha. “All of them, please.”

Chapter 6: Presented

When the Magistrate’s kettle boy entered the Café for the first time, Bror Birun was deep in a game of Taiga Survival with Lus and Ansha. Games, however, couldn’t compete with his curiosity and eagerness for gossip. When he spotted Tilrey hovering at the counter beside that oddball Krisha, Bror forgot whose turn it was. He dropped his cards to the table, exposing his hand.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Lus asked. Then he followed Bror’s gaze. “So the kid’s allowed out finally.”

“About time,” said Celinda, who’d been watching the game with sap-bleary eyes. “I was starting to wonder if Fir Magistrate was hiding him because he’s underage.”

“He’s legal, but still in school.” After several brief but friendly conversations in the weightroom, Bror considered himself an authority on Tilrey Bronn. He pushed back his chair. “Poor kid, he looks like he’s walking on thin ice. I’m gonna go bring him over.”

“Are you sure he wants to meet us? He seems standoffish.” Ansha, the redhead, did that pouty thing with his lips that Councillors liked. At nineteen, he’d been the baby of the group till Tilrey arrived. He clearly didn’t want anyone usurping his status, especially someone who looked like he’d been genetically engineered to make Upstarts pop boners.

“Nah, he’s just shy. If you bothered to talk to him at the gym, you’d know. And if any of you make fun of his Skeinsha accent, I’ll pound you.” Rising, Bror gave Lus a mock cuff upside the head. Lus elbowed him back.

“Ooh, we’re getting protective,” said Celinda. “Got a crush?”

Lus, who was drinking rotgut in his tea, barked with laughter. “I thought you hated the kid, Brorsha. Didn’t he take your place?”

Bror glanced again at Tilrey, who’d settled with Krisha at a table by the window. “It was never ‘my’ place,” he muttered, “and he’s welcome to it. So fuck off with that.”

He stalked off, trying to ignore the mirth the outburst left in his wake. Okay, so maybe Bror had a soft spot for newcomers and outsiders. Maybe he did feel protective. But the kid clearly needed a friend.

From their conversations at the gym, Bror knew Tilrey wasn’t allowed out without his hulking chaperone. He’d heard of Councillors being possessive that way, overstepping the bounds of what ought to be a straightforward, respectful relationship between them and their kettle boys. Just let Councillor István try to tell Bror where he could and couldn’t go in his free time!

Bror had resources, though, and Strutters huffing and puffing didn’t scare him. The Skeinsha boy had nothing. Over drinks at the Lounge a few free-nights ago, Bror had heard Malsha Linnett tell István that Tilrey was “rather deliciously unprepared for his new life.” Bror had gone right on sitting there and smiling, because he was working and being pleasant was the job, but the words made his guts curdle.

Up until Tilrey’s arrival, Bror had respected the Magistrate as a maverick political player who made everyone’s lives a little less boring. Now he began to wonder if the man was also deeply fucked in the head.

He tried not to show those suspicions as he slid into a seat beside Tilrey, unveiling his most beaming smile. “What’s up, lad? Getting some fresh air finally?”

Tilrey returned the smile in a way that looked almost natural. “I saw you over there, but I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“You kidding? Me and my friends, we’re all bored out of our minds. If I introduce you, that’ll be the highlight of their day.”

Tilrey kept smiling, but he drew back into himself, head drooping. Maybe Bror should save the introductions for next time. Celinda might not be able to resist delivering one of her subtle, stinging one-liners—she was in that kind of mood these days.

To take the pressure off Tilrey, Bror turned to the driver. “How’s it going, Krisha? The new dye job looks good.”

Krisha shot him a poisonous look. “Same as always. We’re only here ’cause the kid’s going to the Lounge tonight. Gotta get him used to people again.”

“Fuck off,” Tilrey muttered, staring into his hot, foamy tea.

“Hey, hey, I didn’t mean to stir things up.” Bror used the coaxing voice that worked so well on most Councillors. “You’re already used to people, aren’t you? You’re at the gym practically every day.”

No doubt the Magistrate had actually sent Tilrey here to stir up gossip about his new kettle boy before formally presenting him to the other Councillors. At this hour, most of the people in the Café were kettle boys themselves, and they did gossip. “First time at the Lounge tonight, huh?” Bror continued, trying to catch Tilrey’s eye. “I’ll look out for you. Nothing to be nervous about.”

Tilrey nodded unconvincingly. Every move the kid made looked so fucking uncomfortable. The collar of his gray tunic was about a millimeter from strangling him; the whole thing fit like a glove, from the nipped waist to the triangle of chest to the tight cuffs. It set off his pallor and his clear blue eyes, and for a moment, looking at him, Bror saw what a Councillor saw: something rare, innocent, defenseless. A precious item for a collection.

He clenched a fist under the table. “The Lounge is just a bunch of old windbags getting a look-see. They’ll keep their distance unless they’re tight with Fir Magistrate. He’s not passing you to anybody yet, is he?”

Krisha broke in, “None of your fucking business, Birun. You belong to an Islander.” Before Bror could object that István was a swing voter and often aligned with the Magistrate, the driver added, “Everybody knows you’re jealous. You want to be in his place. Heard your friend say so just now.”

“Krisha,” Tilrey admonished.

Krisha’s lips twisted. “You don’t know these lads. Bunch of back stabbers, all of ’em. Bad as Councillors.”

Bror bit back his angry rejoinder. Was Krisha being protective of Tilrey in his own clumsy way? Everybody knew that, before Artur, Krisha had been the one keeping the Magistrate’s bed warm. Not presentable enough to be a kettle boy, he’d still been good enough for a regular fuck. Shouldn’t he be the jealous one?

Maybe not. Maybe Krisha knew just how fucked up the Magistrate really was. Bror had been with Malsha Linnett three times, and all three had been tame as far as the sex went, but the talking was a little weird. Too many personal questions. When Bror gave bland answers, the Magistrate stopped asking.

“I’m not here to stab you in the back,” Bror told Tilrey now, putting hand to heart with comic exaggeration. “Okay, so maybe I was angling for a place with the Magistrate. But only because I’m older than you—twenty-four!—and I need to secure a plum posting for when I retire from this racket. Something where I can sit at a desk and do fuck-all.”

He winked, trying to get Tilrey to smile. The kid was so terrifyingly serious, like he thought he was one wrong move from exile.

“Couldn’t Fir István get you a good posting?”

“Sure, but he’s not the GM. Sometimes a lad wants to trade up; that’s the way it goes.” Bror didn’t say the truth, that István was old and doddery and a little dull, and that he’d liked the idea of lording it over the others as the GM’s piece. It was an ambition that embarrassed him now. “I tried and I lost out, and I’m okay with it. I’m not a suck-up who shits on my own kind so I can get in good with a Strutter.” He held Tilrey’s wavery gaze. “I can tell you’re not, either.”

After a long moment, Tilrey said, “I thought a kettle boy had to be. I mean—you know. There’s a lot of . . . sucking up.”

Was the boy trying to crack an actual joke? Bror laughed strenuously. “Good one. In the literal sense, sure. But in the figurative sense? Fuck, no. All the things we do, including the sucking, that’s just part of the job. They make the rules, but we can do it like suck-ups or we can do it like free citizens. That’s our choice.”

Krisha growled, “You saying I’m a suck-up, Birun?”

“Did I say you were, or did my description just sound familiar?” Bror grinned conspiratorially at Tilrey. “Just jerking your chain,” he told Krisha. “Don’t smack me with your giant paw. So here we are, three proud non-suck-ups.”

Krisha didn’t look pacified. “Someday somebody’s gonna smack the smart mouth right off you, Birun.”

“But not today.” Bror returned his attention to Tilrey, determined to buoy him up a little. “I mean, even when we’re on our knees, we still know we’ve got dignity. Right?”

“Right.” Tilrey sounded almost halfway convinced.

***

“When you’re introduced, give them your right hand to clasp and look straight into their eyes. That’s polite.” Artur grabbed Tilrey’s hand to demonstrate. “The rest of the time, keep your eyes down. You don’t want to distract them from their conversation, or make them think you’re flirting.”

Malsha laughed from his seat on the couch. “Tilrey doesn’t need to hear that. It’s a struggle for me to get him to look me in the eye even after he’s sucked me off like an ardent lover.”

“I’m just trying to cover everything.” Artur took Tilrey by the shoulders and turned him round again, scrutinizing him. “Could you maybe look a little less—I don’t know—sullen? Miserable? The Lounge isn’t a torture chamber.”

Tilrey kept his expression blank. For the past two hours, under Artur’s supervision, he’d showered and scrubbed and moisturized and combed and packed himself into the snow-white suit with red piping—freshly cleaned, of course—that Malsha was so fond of. He’d skipped lunch, but he was still cinched so tight his breath came shallow.

He was not nervous. Fuck that. Bror was right—a bunch of old Upstart windbags didn’t scare him.

“The sullenness is part of his appeal,” Malsha said, dipping his finger into a vial.

“You would think that. But most of your colleagues aren’t itching to have a boy who looks like an escapee from moral rehab.” Artur twitched Tilrey’s bangs out of his eyes.

“Oh, I don’t know. They might be itching for it if the boy were an Upstart.” The Magistrate rose languidly and straightened his robe of office. “And Rishka looks quite the young Strutter in that tunic, don’t you think?”

“He looks like a kettle boy,” Artur said flatly. “This obsession you Councillors have with fucking young Strutters, or boys who could pass for Strutters—it’s perverted, you know that? It’s like you all want to bang your own nephews.”

“Or our colleagues’ nephews.” Malsha took Tilrey by the arm. “You may call it perverted, Turshka, but I find it natural. One always wants to defile what one’s enemies hold dear.”

He raised Tilrey’s chin and examined his face. “Ready for your grand debut?”

“Yes, Fir.”

He must have sounded as not-ready as he felt, because Malsha laughed delightedly. “We’re going to make the Islanders squirm in frustration.”

“Perverted,” Artur muttered. As the door to the coldroom hisped open, he gave Tilrey’s hand a last clasp. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Tilrey did feel okay, for a while, aside from the cinched-in part. On the drive to the Lounge, Malsha poured the last quarter-vial of sap into his palm and held it out. “That’s all you’ll have till we’re back home.”

The sap worked quickly. The warm buzz made it easier to leave the car, to peel off his outergear, and to step into the Lounge’s dimly lit foyer. The space was empty, but the murmur of many voices rose in the distance. Tilrey did his best to ignore it, craning his neck to examine the paneled vault of the ceiling, which was stenciled all over with delicate designs.

“Corneil Varrius did those a century ago,” Malsha said. “The main subject’s quite dull—Councillors wearing their robes of office, doing their duties. But the Feudal-inspired ornamentation in the margins is exquisite. If you like, Krisha can bring you back here in the daylight to have a closer look.”

Tilrey said automatically, “Thank you, Fir.”

Artur had told him everything to do and expect at the Lounge. He didn’t flinch when Malsha appropriated his arm again, drawing him close to his body, and led him toward the flight of stairs that appeared to lead down to the Lounge proper. The Magistrate said teasingly, “You’re still growing, aren’t you, love? This could get awkward when you’re a foot taller than I.”

That was an exaggeration, as Malsha was straight-backed for his age and only an inch or so shorter than Tilrey. As they approached the stairs, the old man’s chin rose and his movements took on a new dignity, an almost ceremonial weightiness. Tilrey wondered in a detached way if this was how he was in the Sector.

A pretty young Laborer greeted them, her crown of braids woven through with silver tinsel. “Your usual table’s waiting for you, Fir Magistrate.”

“Thank you, Alina dear.” Malsha swept past her, tugging Tilrey down the stairs. No longer distant, the voices rose around them, pounding on Tilrey’s ears.

The Lounge was a sea of white robes of office. It was the biggest crowd Tilrey had seen in nearly two months—and maybe Krisha was right that he wasn’t used to people. Despite the sap, his pulse raced and sweat bloomed on his palms. The room was teeming with eyes, too many faces turned attentively upward.

He couldn’t walk across that floor under the weight of that scrutiny. The Lounge lurched madly around him like a top-heavy ship about to sink. He needed fresh air, needed to get out—

He missed a stair and would have fallen, but Malsha’s grip kept him upright. The volume in the room dipped, the booming conversations replaced by hissing whispers.

Were they reacting to his blunder? The Magistrate’s arm wound itself around him—reassuring, guiding, confining. “Easy does it, love. Almost there.”

Tilrey fought a burning urge to shove him away, hard. The condescension, the endearments—he couldn’t take them right now. What had Bror said this afternoon? We still know we’ve got dignity.

The cushioned banquette felt like salvation. Malsha nudged him to the center of the booth, where they sat sheltered by the brown velvet upholstery that rose high above their heads and curved on either side. The walls stopped spinning. Tilrey’s pulse leveled off as he realized he was no longer in a spot where the entire room could see him.

There were still plenty of tables in view, though. Plenty of eyes observing. He dropped his gaze to the black soapstone table and the immaculate white napkins and worked on controlling his breathing. In, out. In, out.

Malsha patted his knee. “Shh. You’re all right, sweetheart.” His touch said what his lips didn’t: You’re safe. You’re mine.

Tilrey shut his eyes and kept breathing. Of all places, he couldn’t make a scene here.

A Laborer server appeared. The Magistrate ordered for them both—two foamy teas and a plate of mixed dumplings—while his hand rubbed gentle circles on Tilrey’s thigh. “They’re waiting,” he said in a low voice once the server had gone. “Who’ll come over first? That’s the great question. If we had currency, I’d bet with you.”

“I wouldn’t know enough to bet, Fir,” Tilrey said tonelessly. The blanker he was, the less fun Malsha could have with him.

“Ah, but that will change. Keep your eyes and ears open.”

The “great question” was answered five or so minutes later as Malsha coaxed Tilrey to eat a dumpling. “Come now,” he said, raising the fork to Tilrey’s lips. “These are salt cod and seaweed. Excellent.”

“They’re actually too salty for me, Malsha,” a quavering voice interrupted. It belonged to a white-haired man with beetling brows. He slid onto the banquette beside Malsha, trailing his white robe of office. “Do you mind if I have a closer look?”

“Make yourself comfortable.” The Magistrate sighed. Despite his courtesy, he clearly found this person tiresome. “Tilrey, Fir Councillor Laurinz Tollmann. Lasha, Tilrey Bronn.”

Trained by his sessions with Artur, Tilrey raised his eyes and extended his hand, palm down. “Fir Councillor.”

Fir Councillor Tollmann was older than Malsha, probably in his eighties. He gave Tilrey’s knuckles a weak squeeze and made a raspy sound in his throat. “Well, he’s pretty. A little too pretty for some. I prefer a more masculine type, myself.”

“Your tastes have always run to brutes, my friend.” Malsha spoke in the distant, placid way that Tilrey had learned to take as a warning.

He dropped his eyes, relieved when Tollmann released his hand. He could still feel the man’s gaze—not hungry like some of them, but sharp with curiosity. “You think this one will deliver our swing votes?”

Malsha shrugged. “His entrance seems to have aroused some notice.”

“Naturally. People are curious. But you can’t keep him to yourself, Malsha; that defeats the purpose. Where are you sending him first? István or Saldegren?”

Malsha’s hand stopped moving on Tilrey’s thigh. “My dear Lasha, that’s really none of your damn business.”

Tilrey’s breath caught. The last time he’d heard that bone-dry tone, Malsha had been threatening him with permanent residence in the officers’ club.

But the threat wasn’t meant for him tonight. It was for Tollmann, who did his best to laugh it off with a skeletal chuckle and asked, “He is of age?”, his expression going serious.

“Check his record. Now, back to real business. I wanted to ask you if you’ve read the Balvert-Kruks memo.”

The rest of their conversation was about committee meetings, expert witnesses, statistics, and votes. Tilrey sipped his cooling tea and kept his eyes down.

Finally Tollmann hauled himself out of the banquette again, complaining about “old bones.” “István should be first,” he added, bending to speak confidentially to Malsha. “He’s such a fond old fool, he’ll probably fall in love.”

The Magistrate smiled in a bright, oblivious way, like a child ignoring his mother’s call. “Thanks for your input.”

“You’re always sorry when you don’t listen.” And, with a final admonitory shake of his head, Tollmann retreated to his own booth across the room.

Both of them relaxed a little. Malsha rubbed Tilrey’s knee again, saying in a low voice, “That pompous old fool pioneered the current Mainlander coalition. He thinks that gives him elder-statesman authority over me, and he’s my father-in-law. If he weren’t on the verge of retirement or death, I’d make him regret his tone.”

“Is your, uh . . . is your Fir’n wife also a Councillor, Fir?” Although Tilrey knew Malsha had grandchildren, the existence of a wife had somehow never occurred to him.

A distinct shudder moved over the Councillor’s body. “No, thank everything green. She’s a senior programmer, which ensures we rarely have occasion to meet.”

Not even at family gatherings? Tilrey kept silent, storing away the information. No doubt Malsha’s wife hated him as much as he clearly did her.

“Speaking of unpleasant subjects, my son-in-law doesn’t appear to be here. Probably with his latest Drudge girlfriend. A lucky circumstance, eh?”

Tilrey went rigid at the memory of Fir Jena vowing to see him dead rather than a kettle boy. “He’ll find out, won’t he? That you, uh, kept me?”

Malsha’s deep chuckle had relish in it. “Oh, by the end of tonight, he’ll know. Perhaps he’ll come to my office and make a scene. But that’s nothing for you to worry about, my love. I paid Jena his procurer’s fee—his precious committee chair. I’ll tell him so, and send him on his—ah, Bertsha! I was hoping you’d come over. And Bror. How nice.”

Tilrey’s gaze snapped up. There stood Bror dressed in an impeccable charcoal-gray tunic. He towered above his Councillor, an ancient, slope-bellied man who would have looked half-dead if not for his canny, vital brown eyes.

They slid into Malsha’s side of the banquette, Bror on the outside. The evening was a sort of ritual, Tilrey was starting to see, with every step dictated in advance. “Tilrey, this is Fir Councillor Albertus István,” the Magistrate said.

So this was the Councillor who kept Bror—and the swing voter to whom Tilrey would soon be “sent,” if Tollmann had his way. Tilrey extended his hand, trying not to betray the slightest nerves. “Fir Councillor.”

István’s grip was briefer and friendlier than Tollmann’s. Not that he cared whether these men were nice to him or not, Tilrey reminded himself as he accepted Bror’s sideways hand-clasp of equals across the table. He was doing a job. He had accepted that in the officers’ club and again in Malsha’s bed. Malsha might like to pretend they were lovers, but he’d called Tilrey property, and every part of this evening was designed to make him feel that way.

He wasn’t property, though, not legally. He was a professional like Bror or Matthias. He might not have chosen this, but he was in control.

Bror’s eyes lingered on Tilrey a bit too long, as if he were worried about him. “We already know each other, Fir Magistrate. From the gym.”

They were all looking at him, so Tilrey explained, “He spots me.”

“He’ll be bench-pressing five times his weight by the time I’m done with him.”

“You’ve made him feel welcome,” Malsha said.

István beamed. “But of course—Bror makes friends with everyone.” He wrapped his arm around Bror, and Bror leaned into him in an easy, natural way. If Tilrey hadn’t heard the older boy say just this afternoon that he wanted to “trade up,” he wouldn’t have believed it.

“Indeed he does,” said Malsha with that dryness in his voice. “Rishka, my love, tell us what you’ve been doing all day in the gym. What can you lift?”

Only my mother calls me Rishka. Tilrey swallowed the objection and gave a brief account of his training. He didn’t mention Bror again; it didn’t feel safe.

But István did, of course. “Splendid! Keep working with Brorsha, and he’ll make you into a regular Hercules.” He turned to Malsha. “His accent’s adorable. I love that Skeinsha burr. It makes a Drudge sound so much more—”

“Like a Drudge,” Malsha finished.

“Yes. I mean, I love Reddan boys.” The Councillor squeezed Bror a little tighter. “They’re so smart-mouthed and savvy. But that Outer City accent . . .” He sighed, his gaze lingering on Tilrey. “It speaks of a slower way of life, a more traditional one. It reminds us there’s a difference between a Laborer and an Upstart.”

From there, the conversation moved once again to politics, particularly an upcoming budget vote to which István had apparently pledged his support. At a point when both Councillors were engrossed in their machinations, Bror caught Tilrey’s eye and winked.

Tilrey smiled back, but only for an instant. Bror gave him a full-wattage grin that said, Listen to these fuckers, and Tilrey smiled again before he could think better of it.

Then he clamped a tight lid on himself. If Malsha thought he was getting too friendly with Bror, he might find a way to stop them from seeing each other. And Tilrey would go mad with only Krisha’s bad moods for company.

When István and Bror had moved on again—Bror with a last impish look at Tilrey—Malsha asked the server to freshen their drinks. “Bertsha was devouring you with his eyes,” he observed. “Tollmann’s right about that.”

Tilrey remembered what Krisha had said at the Café. “So, if Fir István’s an Islander and a swing voter, you need to make some kind of deal with him?”

“You do pick up on things. Yes, István’s a swing voter. He has Mainland leanings, and he brings others with him, so his vote’s coveted. But.” Malsha gazed into the distance. “He’s too easy. Saldegren’s younger, more vital, more engaged with his constituency. There’s more potential there that I want to tap.”

“So you’re sending me to Councillor Saldegren first?”

Tilrey hadn’t meant to show off, but despite himself, he was pleased when Malsha turned to him and said, “Now you’re a step ahead of Tollmann.”

In ones and twos, more men came to the booth. These were Mainland Councillors paying their respects to the head of the party, Malsha explained in an undertone. None stayed for longer than five minutes. Most of them gazed at Tilrey with open interest. Three remarked on his accent, calling it “charming,” “cute,” and “quaint,” respectively.

Each time someone left, Malsha bent close to Tilrey and told him what he privately thought of the Councillor or Councillors in question. “That fool barely passed his tests at Upstart level. His uncle had to call in favors to get him properly Notified.” “That one always votes the way Tollmann tells him to. I don’t think he’s read the text of a single bill since he was elected.” “That one’s very clever, and he can sway a whole building of programmers, but he keeps a girl as his kettle boy.”

By the time the tables around them started to empty out, Tilrey was sure of two things. First, Councillors weren’t as wise and impartial as he’d been taught in civics class, and second, he was going to learn to talk like a fucking Reddan, and soon.

“Come along,” Malsha said, rising and extending his arm. “It won’t do for us to leave last.”

Climbing the steps to the foyer, Tilrey didn’t stumble this time. The sap had worn off, but Malsha’s observations and calculations had made him see everything in a new light. Where once Redda had been a mysterious machine mercilessly grinding him up and spitting him out, now it was a system composed of fallible people—something that could be known, controlled, and even gamed if you were smart enough.

He managed to keep himself in that cool, observant state of mind until they reached the coldroom. It was vacant except for a cadaverous old man with gimlet eyes who was in the midst of pulling on his boots.

When he saw them, he paused, directing that bone-cold gaze at Tilrey. “Congratulations, Malsha. Your new friend made quite the impression.”

“Thank you, Visha.” Malsha’s voice didn’t change, but Tilrey could feel him tense. The cadaverous man was an enemy. “I wondered if I’d see you tonight,” the Magistrate added, sitting down to tug on his own boots.

Tilrey reached for his coat. Enemy or not, it seemed rude to ignore a Councillor. “Fir Councillor,” he said, bobbing his head.

The stranger stared back at him without speaking. But his gaze grew heated—positively hungry. Tilrey stood frozen, prey before predator, as the man’s eyes swept from his feet to his face and back.

“Saldegren’s going to devour that morsel whole,” the Councillor said at last, addressing Malsha with a dangerous dryness like Malsha’s own. “I imagine that’s what you’re counting on.”

Malsha rose, found Tilrey’s scarf, and wound it around Tilrey’s neck, taking some time with the knot. “Where are your boots, sweetheart?” Without turning, he addressed the stranger: “I count on nothing, my friend, least of all a man’s fickle desires.”

“You were always the clever one.” The cadaverous man knotted his own scarf. There was a subtle swagger in his walk, strange in such an elderly man, as he strode to the door, where he turned to give Tilrey a last once-over. “There’s only so much currency you can wring from a whore, my dear Malsha—even one with those eyes. Best not to push the Harbourer agenda too far—I’ve heard rumblings of discontent among your own constituents.”

And with that, he hit the outer door’s seal and stepped out.

As they finished dressing alone in the coldroom, Malsha laughed. “That,” he said, his voice resonating with the vibrancy of a younger man’s, “was Ludovic Verán, our ghoul of a minority leader. He was practically spitting with rage, because you impressed him. And that means I’ve achieved my goal for tonight.”

Tilrey still felt Verán’s eyes on his body, a caress that made him shiver. “Why’s that, though, Fir? If he’s in charge of the opposite party, can’t he just tell István and Saldegren to stay away from you?” From me?

“Oh, Verán will do his best to keep them in line. But the more he cracks the whip, the more he declares you off-limits to them, the more they’ll want you. Your value, you see, is partly a function of your actual qualities and partly a function of how hard you are to get.”

Tilrey was starting to understand now, more than he wanted to. When he took his feelings out of the equation, it all made sense. “So I’m like . . . that apple you had shipped from Harbour. It’s valuable partly because it’s good and partly because it takes a lot of effort.”

Malsha laughed. “You’re catching on.”

He was still chuckling as they stepped outside into the waning daylight. Tilrey blinked; the Lounge was so dark that he’d almost expected it to be full night outside, too. But the equinox was approaching, and the sky was luminous violet, the sun lingering on the western horizon like a blinding faceted jewel.

Summoned by Malsha’s handheld, Krisha had brought the car out of the garage; it was steaming beside the platform. He opened the door for them. Eager to get home, Tilrey slid into the backseat without being told.

“Now,” said Malsha when they were settled side by side, “I think we’ve earned some actual recreation. Krisha, Warehouse C-44 on the west Outer Ring, please.” He pulled Tilrey close and kissed his neck hungrily, effortlessly finding the pulse point. “We’re going to watch the sunset.”

Chapter 7: Claimed

Notes:

Here's my little experiment with Krisha's POV. There's a lot more info about his relationship with Gavril Ardaly in "The Trip to Harbour," where Tilrey and Krisha finally become friends of a sort. I guess I'm trying to show here that Krisha is an asshole to Tilrey because he hates himself. He envies Tilrey for having something he lost long ago. Once they're both happier, they work things out. (p.s. I totally want to give Krisha a hug, not that he would let me. :) )

Krisha didn’t like this.

Not the salmon and orange blaze that stained the car’s windshield as the sun finally dipped below the edge of the Wastes. Krisha appreciated a pretty sunset as much as anybody. A lot of people thought he was some kind of robot because he didn’t blab about his feelings, but he felt plenty. For instance, he liked getting out on the far edge of the city, away from people and buildings. The Fir’s request for a little expedition had been fine with him. He breathed better out here, closer to his origins.

What he didn’t like were the noises coming from the backseat. Fir Magistrate had started fooling around with the boy, as you’d expect. But apparently the boy hadn’t expected it, or hadn’t realized how far it would go. Sounds of mild struggle alternated with muffled pleading that Krisha couldn’t shut out.

“Do we have to, Fir? Can’t we wait till we get home?” And then, the worst part: “But he’s right there, Fir.”

I can fucking hear every word, Krisha wanted to yell. Instead, he closed his eyes and willed his ears to be deaf for a while. This hadn’t been his idea.

In response to the boy’s complaints, Fir Magistrate whispered reassurances: “It’s fine, sweetheart. Pretend we’re at home. Krisha’s no gossip. Forget about him.”

“Fir, I’m cold. I’m not comfortable. Please.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Not for the first time, Krisha wondered what the fuck was wrong with Tilrey. With those delicate sensibilities, you’d think he was the pampered scion of an Upstart family, not a criminal from the sixth sector of Thurskein.

When Fir Magistrate took in Krisha, almost eight years ago, Krisha had quickly learned that “watching the sunset” actually meant “a quickie in the backseat.” And he’d complied—no protests, no questions. He certainly hadn’t cared that Malsha’s driver back then, an old scold named Erich, was sitting there the whole time. What did it matter? A fuck was a fuck whether you had an audience or not.

The boy’s words were fraying into token grunts of protest. He was strong enough to resist Fir Magistrate, even overpower him, but he wasn’t stupid enough to try. A furtive glance in the rearview mirror showed Krisha that Malsha had the boy’s trousers down and was busy getting him ready, murmuring kind words the whole time.

A surge of anger left Krisha with a heaviness in his chest. Who the fuck did the kid think he was? Even Fir Magistrate seemed to think he was special, giving him all this gentling and persuasion. If Krisha had been in Malsha’s place and wanted what Malsha wanted, he might’ve given Tilrey a few good smacks and flipped him over.

Malsha didn’t hit, though. Even with Krisha he’d been kind, much kinder than he needed to be. The worst he ever did was call him “my little Outer” or “my big barbarian brute”—private pet names to remind Krisha that his Oslov citizenship was of recent vintage.

Those names made Krisha fantasize about hurting Fir Magistrate from time to time. But he knew he’d gotten lucky—very, very lucky—so he shut up and rolled over.

The less lucky part of his life was something he didn’t dwell on. He liked to imagine he’d buried his past in an iron box in the Wastes, two meters deep, and walked away. The only person who ever tried to dig it up was Sergeant Gavril Ardaly, who’d been in charge of the desolate base where Krisha spent most of his adolescence. He still insisted on seeing Krisha whenever he had a leave in Redda, “just to check on you.”

Those visits weren’t easy. But Krisha was grateful to Fir Sergeant, too. Gavril had been the beginning of his lucky streak, the first man who looked at him and saw something more than a piece of barbarian ass. Gavril had convinced him to speak again after four years of near-muteness.

And so, when Gavril was in Redda, Krisha always went to his room in the officers’ club and always offered himself. Gavril usually wanted to talk and hold him instead of fucking, but Krisha couldn’t help that. At least he’d tried to pay his debt.

Why hadn’t he brought headphones, earplugs—anything to make this more bearable? He studiously avoided the rearview, but he could tell Fir Magistrate was full-on fucking the boy now, and the boy was whimpering just audibly on each thrust. Krisha knew that particular whimper: There was no arousal or physical pain in it, only hopelessness. He’d made that sound himself, though he couldn’t remember when.

Have some pride, he wanted to tell Tilrey—but maybe too much of that was the kid’s problem. Once you lost that brittle, sensitive kind of pride, then you lost shame, and everything got easier. Eventually you grew a different pride, a kind no one could take from you. You didn’t feel anything unless you wanted to.

Krisha wished he could explain all this to Gavril, who called fucking “making love” and kept trying to make him come. Last time they fucked, Krisha had been so frustrated with the man’s gentleness that he growled, “Just use me. I don’t need to like it.”

Fir Sergeant hadn’t been insulted or pissed off, as Krisha expected. He’d said, “But I want you to like it.”

Because he was so kind, Krisha had been unusually honest: “I won’t. It’s not you. I just don’t.”

And the Sergeant had rolled right over and said, “If you don’t like being fucked, then fuck me. Be as rough as you want.”

Krisha obeyed. He always obeyed Oslovs, even when the order made no sense. He fucked the sergeant hard. And for the first time since he’d started burying his memories in the Wastes, the sex was good. Gavi. His throat went dry as he remembered how the sergeant’s cropped sandy-blond hair had felt under his palm, how hot and tight he’d been inside.

Afterward, Gavril kissed him and thanked him (for what?) and promised to come back as soon as he could. But promises could go fuck themselves as far as Krisha was concerned. Oslovs didn’t have to keep their word to Outers. And Krisha was still an Outer, no matter what his ID chip said.

Even Tilrey—stupid, spoiled Tilrey—could hear the Wastes in Krisha’s speech. No matter how many years Krisha lived among Oslovs, he couldn’t talk right, some vowels too broad and others too nasal. It didn’t matter if he bleached his hair. He looked like an Outer, and he talked like one.

Fir Magistrate was close to finishing. Krisha knew from the sounds. The blaze in the sky had faded to a distant bonfire on the horizon. The boy had stopped whimpering, but his harsh indrawn breaths were almost as bad.

Stop being such a fucking fool, Krisha wanted to beg him. It was fine for Bror Birun to go on about dignity. Bror Birun had about a thousand relatives in this city. He’d chosen to be a kettle boy and could stop any time he wanted.

Tilrey had no one. Why did he have to keep fighting? The stubborn resistance made Krisha want to put his arms around the boy, and it made him want to stomp on him. Just break already, he wanted to say. Don’t give him the fun of drawing it out.

Once you stopped reacting, Malsha stopped provoking you. He was a predator that craved live prey. He’d quickly given up on trying to drag reactions out of Krisha, but Tilrey would give him sport for a long, long time.

As Fir Magistrate reached his climax, his breath suspended for a long moment, Tilrey went silent. That was a relief. Krisha scrubbed his hands over his face and watched the light disappear.

***

The ride back to the core of the city took place without words or touching. Tilrey pressed himself against the door and gazed out at the darkening buildings, tears drying sticky on his cheeks. At least he’d managed to put his clothes in order.

He knew he was stupid. After that night with the seven officers, all watching and egging one another on, how could he complain about Krisha’s presence? But he’d gotten used to the privacy of Malsha’s bed; only the intimacy made the things they did there bearable. Malsha had shattered that—on purpose, no doubt.

He stayed where he was while Krisha docked the car in the garage, cut the engine, and stepped out. The driver opened the door on Malsha’s side, then came around to Tilrey’s.

Fuck, no. He didn’t need any help. He got the door open before Krisha could and half stepped, half fell out. Krisha reached out to steady him, but Tilrey gave him a glare that stopped him in his tracks. I’m fine. Don’t fucking touch me. He walked over to Malsha, stiff-legged, and allowed the Magistrate to take his arm and lead him indoors.

In the coldroom, his strength left him again, and he let Malsha strip off his coat, unwind his scarf, and kneel to unlace his boots. If the Fir wanted to treat him like a child or an invalid, why fight it?

He was still smarting from what had happened in the car, raw all over in the way he’d thought he was done with. He could still feel the shameful begging bubbling up in his throat and hear the sounds he’d made. But that wasn’t the worst part; the worst part was how quickly he’d stopped resisting. He’d barely even tried. He’d slipped so easily into his new role.

As they entered the warmth of the apartment proper, Malsha released him. “I’m going to get us some tea, and you some dinner. Wait for me in bed, but don’t undress or wash, all right, love?”

Tilrey nodded.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in his lap, he indulged in one of his fleeting fantasies about strangling the Magistrate. But they always ended the same way: with Krisha hauling him to the Constabulary.

How would he face the driver tomorrow when they went to the gym? Tilrey had mocked Krisha’s accent; if Krisha chose to taunt him about tonight, it would be only fair. He should never have been so arrogant. At least Krisha, unlike him, was free to move around the city as he pleased.

Malsha joined him at last, bearing a tray thick with steam and looking satisfied. He settled the tray on the nightstand, shed his robe and tunic, and climbed into bed. “Go stand at the foot.”

Tilrey did. The stickiness between his thighs made him want to retch.

“You’ll have sap once you’ve undressed.” Malsha poured himself a tumbler. “Start with the tunic.”

It took Tilrey only a few seconds to unfasten the heavy garment—neck, chest, waist—and let it fall to the floor. Now he could breathe better, at least. He kept his eyes on the far wall.

“Now your shirt. Turn around. No, slower. Hands behind your back.” Malsha took a long swallow. “Starting to see some definition, aren’t we? That Bror must be a good trainer.”

“Krisha does most of it, Fir.” Don’t let him know Bror is your friend. You aren’t supposed to have friends. “Bror’s a little full of himself.”

“Hmm, yes. He thinks he’s more charming than he is. I don’t like to be played that way. Slippers and socks, then trousers.”

Tilrey was shivering a little now, but he managed to kick off the slippers, pull down the socks and trousers, and toss them aside.

“Fold them, sweetheart. Do you know how much labor goes into laundry and ironing? One wants to make clothes last as long as possible. The tunic, too. Show me you respect what I’ve given you.”

Tilrey bent to retrieve the garments and folded them, then deposited them on a chair. From now on he would always follow this procedure, he decided.

“Hands behind your back again. Turn. Slower.” Malsha drank from the steaming tumbler, his eyes steady on Tilrey. “I know tonight at the Lounge was hard for you, sweetheart, but it was a great success. And I like how attentive you were, how you noticed things and used your head. When the time comes, you’ll make me an excellent secretary.”

I won’t. He hadn’t been told to turn again, so he stayed still, jutting out his hip as if he didn’t care that he was nearly naked.

“Do you have any questions about what happened at the Lounge? I don’t want you in the dark about anything.”

Was this a test? Tilrey didn’t give a fuck whether he passed anymore, but he was curious. “What did Fir Verán mean?”

“That old prick didn’t frighten you, did he, with what he said about Saldegren? Vanya Saldegren’s a soft touch when it comes to pretty boys—far nicer than I am. Don’t fret about him.”

Tilrey lowered his head, but he couldn’t hide the color in his cheeks. “I didn’t mean about me and Saldegren, Fir. I meant about the ‘Harbourer agenda.’”

“Ahh.” Malsha laughed, stretching languidly. “Well, that takes us into more complicated territory. I’m happy to begin your education in foreign policy, but first things first.” He patted the bed beside him. “Come and have your sap.”

The sap was warm in Malsha’s palm. It set Tilrey’s head buzzing almost instantly. He stretched out on the duvet and let the Magistrate kiss him and fondle him through his briefs.

Eventually the fondling became more purposeful, and Tilrey’s cock hardened under a firm, knowing hand. He made a brief effort to think of the least arousing things he could—the Magistrate’s cock, for instance, or his wrinkly knees. It didn’t work, but he was pleased when he came swiftly, with no sound except quickened breathing.

He lay still while Malsha cleaned him with a warm, damp towel, tender and meticulous as always. “Now,” the Magistrate said, pulling the lid off one of the dishes on the tray, “you’ll eat. We can’t have you wasting away.”

Tilrey still wasn’t hungry—his stomach felt shriveled, his head full of static—but he shoved a dumpling in his mouth. Then another. Then a swallow of tea.

Malsha lounged against the opposite bedpost, watching him. “The thing about Harbour,” he said, “is that the Islanders dislike our dependence on its raw materials. We’ve had an embassy and a trading post there for less than a century. They see it as a decadent novelty.”

“Are we dependent on raw materials from Harbour, Fir?” Tilrey had always thought Oslov could provide for its own needs, but then, he hadn’t even known about the Harbourer trade until recently.

Malsha handed him a bowl of seaweed salad and a fork. “They taught you the gospel of self-sufficiency in school, didn’t they? I have some news for you, lad—no great power is an island. Not even Oslov.”

Again Tilrey felt that strange surge of exhilaration he’d felt in the Lounge when he realized he could understand things. “But that message I translated from Harbour—that was from an enemy of our government. It was encouraging Laborers to revolt. So how is Harbour our ally?”

Malsha’s smile became mildly condescending. “When we say ‘Harbour,’ we’re actually talking about an entire continent of warring powers—some our allies, some our enemies, some barely aware we exist. Bettevy is our trading partner. The message you translated was from Resurgence.”

The strange names fascinated Tilrey. He opened his mouth to ask for details, but Malsha cut him short. “Before we go on, tell me, why did obliging me in the car bother you so particularly? Was it the setting, or was it really just Krisha’s presence?”

Tilrey nearly choked on a slimy, salty mouthful. I could stab you with this fork. Right in the carotid.

But he wasn’t going to do it, and it was no use pretending he might. He took another bite. “Does it matter? You knew it would bother me, Fir. That’s why you did it.”

Waiting for the answer, he didn’t tense for a rebuke or a blow. He wasn’t surprised when Malsha only chuckled softly and said, “You do notice things. I like that about you, Rishka.”

No one calls me Rishka. Only my mother. Tilrey bit back the words, knowing the reminder would only make Malsha use the nickname more often.

Malsha left the foot of the bed, taking his time, and crawled up to sit beside Tilrey. His eyes never seemed to leave Tilrey, holding him fast. “Now, I’ve visited several parts of Harbour, but the only one where I’ve lived is Bettevy. Shall I tell you about it? Or is this tiresome?

“Tell me,” Tilrey said. “Please.” He was learning.

***

On the terrace outside the gym, Krisha waited, crossing his arms and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Tilrey and Bror were still saying their goodbyes.

It hadn’t been fun chaperoning the boy today. Tilrey kept his eyes averted and exchanged the bare minimum of words. When Krisha spotted Bror in the weightroom, he was actually relieved. The kid needed a distraction.

It wasn’t my fault, he wanted to tell Tilrey. I didn’t want to overhear. Sorry. But no fucking way was he going to apologize for doing his duty.

So, instead, Krisha let the older kettle boy glom onto Tilrey and take him through the stations. He watched them race each other in the pool. He sat stiffly in the gym lobby, a table away, while they drank vitamin-rich smoothies and Bror flirted with the girl who worked in the kiosk. Sometimes he could swear the two of them were shooting glances at him and laughing.

Whatever. Krisha had had worse afternoons. Anyway, the kid probably needed to let off steam, and it was safer for him to mock Krisha than Fir Magistrate. Krisha was nothing.

Now it was past time to get in the car and go home for dinner. But the summer day was mild enough for a brief outdoor conversation, so Krisha let Bror and Tilrey linger on the terrace.

He was enjoying the fresh air himself. The sky was full of soft, feathery clouds, and light glazed the black granite spires. The wind on his cheeks—cold, but not frostbite-cold—reminded him of summer days in the Wastes when he and Sergeant Ardaly would hike over the ridge.

Gavril had a thing for outdoor exercise; he was the first Oslov Krisha had ever known who didn’t seem spooked by wide open spaces. They’d walk for hours, just their footprints snaking through the barren hills and valleys. Sometimes they’d rest and drink tea from a thermos, and Gavril would look into Krisha’s eyes and kiss him. He was always so serious in those moments that Krisha wanted to laugh, but he never did. None of the others kissed him.

Staring out at the city, he heard Bror say so long at last, his voice ringing across the flagstones. Bror sounded so affectionate already, after an acquaintance of less than two months—way more affectionate than he’d ever been to Krisha. But then, it was easy for a lad like Tilrey to make fast friends. Everyone wanted to be near him.

Would Gavril get in touch next time he came to the city? Or was he bored with Krisha? Or maybe even steamed at Krisha for obeying his order too enthusiastically? He hadn’t seemed mad when they were lying in bed afterward, just the opposite, but you could never be sure. Oslovs loved their precious dignity, even the Drudges.

Speaking of which, what was Tilrey waiting for? Krisha swung around. “Hey, time to—”

He stopped short, scanning the empty terrace. Had the kid gone back inside the gym? No. Footsteps in the dusting of snow led toward the stairs down to the tram platform.

Krisha didn’t easily lose his cool, but his heart took a hard jolt now. What would Fir Magistrate do to him if he lost the precious “sweetheart”?

A small knot of people stood waiting for the tram, but Tilrey wasn’t among them. The footsteps led around them to a bank of heavy glass doors. Inside, Krisha knew, was the escalator that took you all the way down to the Underground City, whose tunnels connected everything to everything else.

He slammed through two layers of doors and traversed nine levels of the moving stairway in what felt like seconds, his pulse thudding. He ignored death glares from stiff-necked Programmers who were trying to ride sedately to their work levels. This is it. He’s making a break for it.

At the bottom, the subterranean tunnel was a well of echoing voices and moving bodies. Krisha fought his way through them, shouldering people of all Levels effortlessly aside, scanning the crowd for Tilrey’s blue-gray tweed coat. Where in seven green hells was he?

Chapter 8: Unleashed

Notes:

This chapter gave me an excuse to explore the lower depths of Redda a bit, something these stories haven't done before. And to show just how hard it is to escape the tight web of hierarchy and patronage relationships that binds the city together. One thing I don't think I've had an opportunity to note yet is that Oslov is quite small by our standards—maybe a million inhabitants total—and that contributes to how restrictive it is. Thanks for reading!

Tilrey ran.

At first, it was a mad sprint for the nearest route down. He knew Redda just well enough to know his best chance for escape was the underground tunnels that connected the innermost Ring—the Sector, where he was now—to the outer Rings full of Drudges and factories. There were relatively few aboveground tram routes, which would make his flight easy to trace, but the tunnels were a labyrinth. Down here, maybe he could lose himself.

By the time he reached the bottom of the seemingly endless escalator, his heart was beating triple time. But perhaps all that swimming and lifting and treadmilling had paid off, because he kept going. Taking deep, even breaths—stamina—he chose a passage at random and willed himself not to look back. He couldn’t help imagining Krisha bearing down on him on those long legs, livid with rage.

Let me get just a little farther. Please. Just to the end of this corridor.

It didn’t take long to figure out that the tunnels spiraled counterclockwise away from the city’s core. None of the maps or signposts meant much to him, but sometimes he doubled back in hopes of foiling pursuit, choosing narrower tunnels in preference to wide ones. Though the tunnels were warm—almost hot—he kept his coat buttoned and the hood cinched tight, hoping to hide his face from the cameras he knew were everywhere.

At first, everything was carpeted, white-walled, and bright. As he traveled outward, those nicer fittings were gradually replaced by fluorescents, cinderblocks, and dingy tile or concrete. Some of the smaller cross-tunnels were lit only by a single flickering fluorescent block. Others smelled strongly of broth or baked goods or whatever was being fabricated nearby. Gangs of youths loitered at intersections, arguing and shoving and earning yells of “Get on, you louts!” from the adults minding the soup and tea kiosks. It was so much like the lower levels of Thurskein that Tilrey felt fleetingly at home.

But it wasn’t Thurskein. Everywhere he went, people stared at him.

The clothes were a problem. His coat—tweed exterior, warm down lining, snug custom fit—marked him as ration level 11. And R-11 was reserved for Councillors and a few high Programmers and Admins, which meant no one his age dressed this way except kettle boys. He might as well have worn a sign saying I’m Not Where I Belong.

Most people kept a polite distance from him, averting their eyes. But some leered, and some whispered. “Aren’tcha kinda far from home, laddie?” a workman stinking of liquor called as Tilrey passed.

“You lost, sweetheart?” an old woman crooned. “Need directions back to your Fir’s bed?”

This wasn’t good. He had no real plan. Having said goodbye to Bror, he’d meant to leave with Krisha. But Krisha was gazing dreamily at the view, and somehow it had felt like a sign—seize the moment. Go now.

In the long days before this, true, he’d considered escape scenarios. But they all came up against a distressing certainty: No law-abiding Reddan, Upstart or Laborer, would help him. They didn’t view him as needing help.

Even Artur, Bror, and Matthias, who’d all been so kind in their different ways, seemed to agree that Tilrey’s best option was to adjust to his situation. Everyone else saw him the way Krisha did, as a spoiled Skeinsha brat who didn’t appreciate a lucky break. He remembered the nastiness of Jena’s driver, the brutality of the men in the officers’ club, the silent disdain of the Upstarts in the weightroom and the Lounge.

His only hope, then, was to find the non-law abiding Reddans—the smugglers, the black marketers, the shirkers. They alone might be willing to get him out of the city—into the Wastes, and possibly even back to Thurskein.

Tilrey chose not to think further than that. Any criminal who helped him would demand a price, and he had a fairly good idea what the price would be. But not the officers’ club again. Not another night with Malsha. Not that.

He stopped short, winded. The tunnel he’d been following for what felt like hours had reached an abrupt end. Gigantic double doors blocked his progress, rising perhaps five times his height. People were flowing through a small panel in one door, but each stopped at a checkpoint first and scanned their hand at a chip reader. He’d seen similar doors in Thurskein, limiting access to a factory floor.

He backtracked to a concrete stairway he’d seen leading off to the left. It brought him up into a sort of arcade, with only a grating shielding it from the outdoors on one side. On the other side, tall windows offered a view down onto the production floor of an enormous factory, presumably the one beyond the monster doors.

The walkway was cold, despite the heaters glowing on the ceiling. People wore ragged layers of clothing, some of them mixing different ration levels. The walls were collaged with graffiti—old religious symbols like the Spark, but also tags that were mysterious to him.

Was this the Outer Ring, the place where all the tunnels ended and the city itself disappeared into the Wastes? Tilrey didn’t see a single Upstart.

Kiosks served broth and rice noodles and tea to coverall-wearing factory workers on break. In a deep window alcove, a group of men played cards, some with black-market pipes glowing in their mouths. Should he approach them? But no, they were looking at him with too much interest. He had to get rid of his damned coat.

In the next alcove on, two girls slouched against the wall, staring dead-eyed at passersby. About Tilrey’s age, maybe younger, they wore boots, tight under-woolens, and coveralls that had been cropped and unbuttoned to display their curves. “Want some, young Fir?” one of them asked, winking at him seductively. “Blow you for a V.”

The other girl gave her a shove. “That’s not a Strutter, idiot. That’s a Councillor’s piece.”

“He could still have a V,” the first girl said. “Councillors give you V, don’t they, sweetheart? You like girls?”

Tilrey wished he’d thought to steal a sap vial or two to use as currency. It would have been so easy; Malsha always kept a few in the nightstand. But thanks to his lack of preparation, he had nothing to barter for help except the clothes on his back. His face flamed at the girls’ insinuating stares. “Do you, uh, know where I could find a coat? I mean, where I could exchange my coat for another?”

The second girl giggled. “You want to sell it?”

Never use the words “buy” or “sell,” Tilrey had been taught in Prime when he was five or six. Primitives and criminals buy and sell. Oslovs give what they can and receive what is due to them.

But what a fucking joke that was. He’d heard Malsha and other Councillors use the forbidden words, talking casually about selling him in return for political favors. They spoke of owning him, too. If he could sell the damned coat, why not? He nodded.

The girl looked hard at him, then pointed farther down the arcade. “Turn the corner, you’ll find Auntie Ravikasha. She’s got dry goods. Wanting to sell your nice duds for sap, are you?”

They thought he was an addict taking advantage of an Upstart’s generosity, a fancier version of what they were. “Thanks,” Tilrey muttered, and continued down the passage, eyes down.

Auntie Ravikasha was a tiny, hard-eyed woman wrapped in dull-colored scarves and shawls, with an orange—orange!—kerchief tied over her woolen skullcap. She presided over a cart hung and draped with used garments.

The whole thing looked makeshift and mobile, and it wasn’t hard to see why. Among the coveralls and nondescript sweaters and fleeces, Tilrey spotted an Upstart tunic and upper-Laborer skirts and jerkins. It was illegal to trade in garments anywhere, and there was only one reason the inhabitants of the Outer Ring would want such clothing: to masquerade as their betters.

Auntie Ravikasha pursed her wizened lips. “Something I can help you with, young man?”

“Yes. Please.” Tilrey unbuttoned his coat and tugged it off, wondering how she avoided the cameras. Maybe this was a blind spot. He held out the garment. “I want to swap this for something different. Lower.”

Auntie Ravikasha arched a brow, but she wasted no time. After a brief examination of his tailored coat, she tugged a shapeless blanket of a parka from under the counter. “This’ll keep you warm—R-3. That sound about right, little Skeinsha?”

Was it so obvious, still? “Yes. Thanks.” The parka was too big—good. He pulled it on and tugged down the hood, cursing himself for not trying harder to sound Reddan. These low-lifes would think he was a rube, an easy mark.

“Any time,” Auntie Ravikasha called after him.

Draped in the cheap garment, Tilrey breathed a little easier. The trick was to know whom to approach. The kids spraypainting on the wall? No. The man selling stimulant pipes from a flimsy table? Maybe, but his sidelong glance was too sly, too canny.

Anyway, he realized, there was probably no point in approaching anyone when he was still wearing an Upstart tunic underneath. Stupid. Even shirkers would be loath to go up against the will of a Councillor. He needed a better story.

He turned, planning to return to Auntie Ravikasha and ask for a coverall—and bumped up hard against someone. It was a pale youth who spread his arms wide, grinning innocently. “Didn’t see you there.”

“Sorry.” Tilrey kept going toward the cart, eyes on the ground.

But he could feel people following him now—more than one. How long had they been there? Before he could make a new plan, three young men snaked around and blocked his path. “Going somewhere, laddie?”

“He seems lost. Turning in circles.”

Tilrey drew himself up, trying to channel an Upstart’s dignity. “I’m on an errand. Excuse me.”

“Oh, he’s on an errand.” They chanted the words, mimicking his accent. “An errand where? What’s your posting? Can we help you find your way?”

These men wouldn’t help him, wouldn’t make a deal with him—something predatory in their eyes made him sure. Saying an Upstart had sent him might scare them away, but what legitimate errand would bring him here?

Run, whispered a voice deep inside. He tried to sprint around them—and was arrested by strong arms that grabbed him from behind. Struggling and kicking only made the grip tighter. “You don’t know what you’re doing!” he protested. The young men laughed.

“Now, now,” said a deep voice. It was an older man dressed in a coat of a bizarre, unregulation color—deep purple—with a silken lining. His sleek hair was dyed nearly the same purple, and his eyes weren’t friendly. “What’s the problem here?” he asked in a voice as silky as the coat, eyeing Tilrey up and down.

“Nothing. I was just—”

The pale boy who’d bumped Tilrey interrupted: “He’s disguising his Level, Fir Constable.”

Was this man a Constable? But no, maybe not. The epithet sent the boys into gales of high-pitched laughter.

“I’m not,” Tilrey protested. “I’m just—I—I need help.” Where should he start? What role could he play? A criminal gang didn’t act out of compassion.

The “Constable” didn’t crack a smile. “Where’s the chip reader?” he said, not to Tilrey.

They muscled him into the nearest alcove, twisted his wrist, and pressed a small metal box to the back of his hand. The Constable did smile then—widely, showing a few missing teeth. “Told you—red dot. All we need to do now is be concerned citizens. Who wants to go find his Fir’s driver?”

Tilrey went limp in the youths’ arms. Blue dots on a chip or ID card marked Laborers, while red ones marked Upstarts—and, apparently, Upstarts’ dependents. He was marked, and they guessed what he already knew: Malsha would pay for his safe return in sap or rations or perhaps even choice postings. He had nothing to counter-offer.

That didn’t stop him from trying. “Wait!” he called to the purple-haired leader, breathless, as two of the men dragged him toward a door. “I know people in Thurskein. Smugglers. Shirkers. Powerful people in the underworld. If you bring me back there, I can get you whatever you want. I can—”

Their faces showed they knew bullshit when they heard it. His next breath hurt him, but he had to go on: “I can buy my passage to Thurskein, too. I can work for you. I’ve been with the GM. You could have what he had. Men will pay a lot for that.” Buy. Sell. Pay.

He was quivering all over, his eyes tearing with shame, but he held the leader’s gaze. His own eyes had power; he’d seen men and women flinch or melt when he looked straight at them. If he could just get this man to let down his guard . . . The thought was abhorrent, but a criminal might know how to get across the Wastes, and anything was better than being Malsha’s “sweetheart” for another free-night. Anything.

The leader looked back at him, unblinking. “The GM? This is our lucky day.” He gestured to his men. “Lock it.”

The door led to a closet, and less than a minute later, Tilrey was inside, banging on the locked door. Desperation stripped him of shame, and he shouted into the darkness, “Listen to me! Don’t do this! You’ll regret it!”

The door stayed closed. The footsteps retreated. The closet was less than two paces deep; Tilrey was too out of breath to yell anymore. He sank to the floor and buried his face in his hands.

All that effort, all that running, for this.

He didn’t know how long he waited. The dark made time expand and collapse unpredictably. The closet was full of housekeeping supplies, and the tang of acid in the air reminded him that spray bottles could be weapons. He sat very still, formulating plans that all frayed into nothingness. What good would attacking his captors do? Why dig the hole deeper?

He imagined Dal sitting beside him with her conspirator’s grin, saying, Don’t give up, Tilrey. Fight! He had nothing to say except Please go away and I tried.

There was nowhere to run, nowhere far enough that Malsha couldn’t reach there, and maybe Artur was right. If he hung on, if he endured, he’d be rewarded in the long run. Bror didn’t seem to mind being a kettle boy. Tilrey was oversensitive. His mother herself had said that. Maybe he just needed a thicker skin.

Maybe the secret was not feeling anything.

When the door finally opened, the light blinded Tilrey. He stood up woozily and walked into Krisha’s waiting grasp with a feeling that was almost relief.

***

“You know you’re a fucking idiot,” Krisha said on the drive home.

“Yeah.”

“You know I’m going to have to tell him.”

“Yeah.” He leaned against the window and watched buildings slide by. Normally he rode in the backseat even when it was just the two of them, but Krisha had buckled him into the front seat with brisk, angry motions, as if he didn’t trust Tilrey out of his sight.

“He’s going to punish you. I mean, he has to punish you. I’d punish you.”

“I know.” Tilrey wondered if Malsha would use sap to subdue his “difficultness,” the way Jena had. He’d like a V right about now. Maybe getting addicted, like those girls in the Outer Ring, would make everything easier.

Krisha wouldn’t stop talking for once. “He might already be home. We’re going to have to go right in and tell him.”

“Okay.” Why was Krisha so nervous? “It’s not your fault, you know,” Tilrey said when he realized. “I’ll tell him you didn’t do anything wrong. I just chose the one moment when you weren’t watching me.”

Krisha was silent for a moment. Then: “Where the fuck did you think you were going?”

“Away.”

***

Tilrey sat very still on the couch, eyes down, while Malsha ate his dinner, kneeling at the low table, and Krisha told the story from beginning to end. When Krisha prompted him, he explained how he’d gotten the new coat and how he’d ended up in the closet, using as few words as possible. Malsha was acting more interested in his cod and greens than in the story, but Tilrey knew by now not to trust that seeming absent-mindedness.

“I had to give them ten V as a goodwill gesture, Fir,” Krisha complained. “Anything less, and they said they’d come around to your office. They made me promise you’d send someone over to negotiate the rest of the ‘deal.’ Said if you didn’t, they’d make sure Fir Verán finds out what happened today. The nerve!”

Malsha sighed as if the whole story were too tediously sordid to waste his attention on. “You did the right thing, Krisha—stop fretting. Artur will take care of it. I could send a Constable down to flush all those rats out of the gutter, but it’s not worth the effort. And really, they’ve set their price absurdly low.”

He touched a napkin to the corner of his mouth and turned, for the first time since they’d come in, to address Tilrey. “They didn’t know your true value. But how could they? Brutes see only the externals.”

Tilrey raised his eyes. He had nothing to say, no defense of himself, but it felt good to face the Magistrate directly. For all the physical intimacy they’d had, he seemed to be seeing Malsha’s eyes for the first time: the flinty blue, the flecks of gray. Those eyes could be hard or soft, and often they were something in between: inquisitive. Curious. Malsha liked to know things he had no business knowing. That was his most dangerous quality, but perhaps also his fatal flaw.

“What about punishment, Fir?” Krisha’s voice was thick, his accent stronger than usual. Was he eager to carry out the punishment himself, to avenge the Fir’s honor, or did he dread it? Tilrey couldn’t tell.

“Oh yes. Punishment.” Malsha kept his eyes on Tilrey. “You still have nightmares about the last time you were punished, don’t you? Even in my bed.”

Tilrey dug his thumbnail into his index finger without letting his gaze waver. He did sometimes still cry out in the night. That was none of Malsha’s business.

“But,” said the Magistrate, blinking, “I think we can let this particular offense go. I miscalculated in keeping you quite so confined.” He turned to face Krisha. “It’s natural for a prisoner to want to escape, don’t you think? From now on, the boy can go out alone, provided he reports back to you twice a day. Adjust his chip for door privileges.”

“But Fir!” Krisha sounded scandalized. “He’s just shown he’s not trustworthy. He could wander off anywhere!”

“And, as we’ve just witnessed, there’s nowhere for him to go.” Malsha smiled in his gentle, beatific way, returning his gaze to Tilrey. “Let’s make one thing clear, my love. You belong to me now. Luckily for both of us, I know those bottom feeders didn’t dare lay a hand on you. However, I don’t think this is the last time you’ll be tempted to make ‘deals’ unilaterally. As you get out more, people will try to take advantage of you, Upstarts in particular. So I say this now for your own good: If you ever give yourself to any Upstart without my knowledge and consent, for any reason, I shall find a way to make it clear to you just how thoroughly you are mine. Is that understood?”

Tilrey stared down at the white upholstery. He had no more energy for dread or outrage or even shame, and wasn’t it the simple truth? Every Councillor in the Lounge had acknowledged whom he belonged to. So had those low-lifes in the arcade. It was embedded in his skin and deeper than his skin.

But down deeper than Malsha could penetrate, he would always belong to himself. He would never stop trying to find a way out, and he would be smarter about it next time.

“Yes, Fir,” he said.

Chapter 9: Aired

“Tilrey, this is Lus, Ansha, and Celinda,” Bror said, gesturing to the occupants of the table in turn. “Lus, Ansha, Celinda, this is Tilrey.”

Three pairs of bright eyes fixed on him. Tilrey met them steadily, standing as tall as he could. For the first time ever, he was at the Café without Krisha minding him. He’d taken the tram to the gym by himself, following Krisha’s instructions, and from there he and Bror had come here. It felt magnificent not to be watched and fretted over, if also a little terrifying.

Lus looked out of it but friendly. Ansha’s smile had a sour twist. Celinda was the one he couldn’t stop looking at; she was beaming straight at him, and she was beautiful. “We wondered when you’d ditch the Lout,” she said. “So you’re allowed out alone?”

“Yeah.” He dropped his eyes, acutely conscious of his Skeinsha vowels. Would she think he was stupid, or “adorable” the way Upstarts apparently did?

“Don’t torment him, Cela,” Bror said, ushering Tilrey into the free chair. To Tilrey, he said, “Take everything she says with a shovel of salt. She has a wicked side.”

“I didn’t say anything!” Celinda propped her heart-shaped face on a palm and leaned across the table toward him, her sparkling eyes attentive. “Bror’s so protective of you, it’s sweet. Is it true you’re still in school?”

“I was.” In a month or so he’d be ready to take his tests. “But,” Tilrey added before Bror could jump in to “protect” him again, “I’ve been exploring the city.” That was one way to describe his attempted escape to the Outer Ring. “I want to see everything.”

“Mmm, of course.” Celinda was still flatteringly focused on him. “When you’re born and bred here, it’s easy to forget there’s anything to see.”

“There’s not much that’s fit to see outside of the Inner Rings,” objected redheaded Ansha. “But if you’re from ’Skein, I guess it’s all special to you. Is it true you don’t have windows there?”

“Of course we do!” Then Tilrey remembered that people on the lower levels of Thurskein, like Dal’s family, didn’t have windows. “Well, it depends. It’s not that bad, though,” he added hastily, unnerved by the other boy’s sharp, evaluating gaze. “We got to ski outdoors. I liked that.”

“Oh, you’ll get to ski again when Malsha takes you south. You must be an expert.” Celinda looked up at him through her lashes. “I wish I could be there to see—you’re so fast, I’ll bet.”

Tilrey began to feel uncomfortable all over again. Was she making fun of him? He was almost relieved when Bror growled, “Hands off. No, seriously, Cela. I know you think it’s funny to seduce everyone you meet, but let the kid be.”

Undaunted, Celinda winked at Tilrey. “So you don’t think he wants to be seduced, Bror?”

“Not your way. Not yet, anyway.” Bror turned to Tilrey, looking ridiculously earnest. “I mean, she’s good at what she does, obviously. You’d enjoy it. But she toys with men.”

“You’re making the kid blush.” Lus took another long swallow of whatever he was drinking.

Tilrey was indeed blushing, and his cock was responding to Celinda’s proximity in a way he hadn’t experienced since he was back at home and Dal was making eyes at him across the schoolroom. But the sensation wasn’t bad. With effort, he asked in a light tone, “You think I don’t want to be toyed with?”

Lus laughed appreciatively. Bror clapped Tilrey on the back. “Of course you do. Just not yet, maybe. And not by someone with Celinda’s claws.”

Celinda played along with Bror, brandishing her nails. “I wouldn’t tear Tilrey to ribbons. Well, maybe just a little.”

Ansha snorted. “I’d pay a couple of V to see you hold back that much, Cela.”

“I left you with some pretty scars, didn’t I?”

Was she joking, or had they actually . . .? Bror, too? The glances shooting among the four of them were intimate, all right, but they suggested more tired familiarity than excitement.

“So it’s not time to bring him to the Vacants?” Lus asked.

“What are the Vacants?”

More glances, more laughter. “Unoccupied apartments in Ring Four,” Bror said. “That’s where we go when they kick us out of this place.”

That was unlikely; the various Café minders seemed to expect the clique of kettle boys to lounge there all day. “What do you do there?” Tilrey asked.

Ansha giggled and dipped his finger in a vial. “Things we can’t do here.”

Celinda said, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Bror clapped Tilrey on the back again. “Don’t mind them. They’re hopeless degenerates. Only one thing on the brain.”

But Tilrey understood. Like kids in the caf at home, kettle boys were restless and desperate for distraction. If he learned to tease and shoot mild insults back and forth, the way he had with Dal and Pers, he might actually fit in here.

***

Before he had more than a few days to enjoy his new privileges, however, it was the midsummer recess, and he was on his way to the Southern Range.

“You’re going to love the villa,” Malsha promised, squeezing his hand as the private plane left the tarmac. “I imagine you have bad memories of Jena’s, but here you’ll have the run of the place. And we’ll go outside.”

That one word, “outside,” was almost enough to outweigh Tilrey’s dread of spending four straight days alone with the Magistrate. He didn’t let himself react visibly to the words, but he repeated the promise to himself as Malsha showed him around the vacation residence—spacious and light-filled, with its own sauna and an imitation woodstove. Outside got him through a sauna and a massage and everything that happened afterward.

And sure enough, they spent most of the next day hiking a trail deep into the woods. When they came out into a clearing and saw a group of crumbling, moss-covered huts, Tilrey couldn’t quite hide his elation. “Are those Feudal ruins, Fir?”

“Ruins of a settlement from just after the Unraveling,” Malsha said magnanimously, as if he’d created the place for Tilrey’s enjoyment.

Tilrey didn’t care. The ruins were a revelation to him—evidence, at last, that something had existed before the tightly sealed perfection of Oslov. Malsha seemed just as fascinated as he was. They prowled the site for what felt like hours, examining every strange artifact.

“Your history education is wretched,” Malsha complained as they returned toward the villa at last, chilly and red-cheeked. “I’ll have to find you some books on the Tangle. Or better yet, from the Tangle, if you can read Harbourer as well as you claim.”

Blood rushed to Tilrey’s face; it was still a dangerous subject. “Are there books from the Tangle, Fir? They didn’t all get destroyed in the Unraveling?”

“Of course not! There’s a whole section of them at the Library.” Malsha caught Tilrey’s gloved hand and swung it idly. “Off-limits to Drudges, normally, but that doesn’t mean anything when you have my red dot on your chip.”

So it’s good for something. Tilrey hung his head, because he’d let himself forget for a bit that Malsha was his . . . patron and not a teacher or grandfather or something similarly distant and benign. He’d let himself pretend he was a scholar or researcher, living a life of the mind.

“I don’t know if I can read those books, Fir,” he said. “I’d like to try, though.”

Then he raised his head again, defiant, and imprinted the woods on his memory—the lichen on a tree trunk, the patch of blue-gray sky—so he could return to them later when he desperately needed to escape.

And that night in bed, he lay still and closed his eyes and returned to the woods, imagining them in the dark. He saw the ruins under the stars. Leaving his body kept getting easier; everything he had to do was more or less automatic.

Later that night, Malsha brought Tilrey a Tangle book from his personal collection, passed down through the family. He opened the garish red cover to display the title page and said, “Don’t go blabbing to anyone about what you read in here. It’s considered questionable-to-dangerous knowledge, even by those who don’t understand a word of it. Especially by them. But then, you’re not the blabbing type, are you?” He laughed at his own joke.

Tilrey counted to five before he reached for the book. He hid his excitement. “Thank you, Fir.”

After that, he was glued to the Tangle book in every waking moment when they weren’t outdoors and Malsha wasn’t demanding his attention. The ancient vocabulary was challenging, often eluding even Malsha’s thick dictionaries of modern Harbourer. But Tilrey managed to work out that the book was a love story about two shy, difficult people who were short of resources. It told him very little explicitly about the Tangle, only hinting at a vast body of experience that was alien to him. But he wanted more.

“Do you know what a ‘bank’ is, Fir?” he asked timidly on their third night, in the interval after the sex when Malsha served them tea.

The Magistrate looked surprised, then pleased. “I believe I know, but this is going to take a while to explain.”

“I don’t mind.” He tried not to seem eager.

But this time Malsha didn’t play games or turn things around on Tilrey. He simply explained. For the rest of the break, whenever they were walking or eating or drinking tea, they discussed Tangle vocabulary. Malsha was a good teacher, neither hectoring nor condescending. He welcomed questions and even challenges, pushing Tilrey to work things out for himself. It was a fine distraction—almost fine enough to make him forget about being called “sweetheart” and the rest of it, but not quite. Never quite.

On their last afternoon in the Southern Range, Tilrey carried the tea tray into the living room hoping to ask Malsha to explain a “mortgage.” Instead, he found Malsha with a stranger—a paunchy middle-aged Councillor with golden-brown skin.

Tilrey was so taken aback that he nearly spilled the tea before remembering Artur’s training. He knelt and set the tray on the table, flipping the skirt of his tunic over his knee. “I’ll fetch another cup, Fir. Perhaps I should put another pot on as well?”

The newcomer protested: “Don’t do that for me. I’ll only stay a bit.”

“This is Fir Councillor Saldegren, Rishka,” Malsha said. “Vanya, this is Tilrey Bronn.”

Fir Councillor Saldegren had bedroom eyes, plump cheeks, and a relaxed, amiable manner. “Don’t stand on ceremony, please,” he said, rising to clasp Tilrey’s hand. “Just Vanya will do.”

Tilrey managed to meet Saldegren’s eyes without changing expression, but his pulse raced. This was the man Councillor Verán had said would “devour him whole.” Would that happen now—tonight? Why hadn’t Malsha told him?

Malsha patted the couch, and Tilrey sat down robotically beside him. There was no mystery, he realized. By springing this on him, Malsha was just being Malsha.

His best defense, as always, was not to react—which wasn’t easy, because Fir Saldegren seemed to crave some sort of reaction. He batted his long black lashes at Tilrey, peering at him in an attentive, inquisitive way that stopped mercifully short of ogling. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t able to make your acquaintance at the Lounge,” he said, smiling as if to coax Tilrey to smile, too. “I had a nasty flu. But everyone’s been telling me about you.”

Tilrey did not smile. “I’m likewise sorry I wasn’t able to make your acquaintance earlier, Fir,” he said, concentrating on the formal Reddan cadence of the words.

Fir Saldegren looked startled. “I thought he was a Skeinsha.”

“Oh, he is.” Malsha’s hand slipped lazily, possessively onto Tilrey’s knee. “He’s adaptable, though. Another month, and he may sound like he was born in the Inner Rings.”

“That’s a shame.” Saldegren sounded like he meant it. “I used to be the Admin for Sector Three, and I always enjoyed visiting. There’s a vivacity and a genuineness in ’Skein that you don’t find in Redda. The worship of the Spark, for instance—I find it so colorful. Did your family do that, Tilrey?”

Tilrey lowered his eyes, oppressed by the intensity of the two men’s attention. Fir Saldegren was a little like Bror, he told himself—he was friendly, so he was used to everyone liking him. He couldn’t know how it felt to be required to like people. “No, Fir. My mother didn’t follow the old irrational faiths. She believed in Whyberg.”

“Oh, she was educated.” The man sounded disappointed. “But you must have taken part in that bewitching Midsummer Festival, at least. Don’t all Skeinshaka do that?”

“You’re sentimentalizing, Vanya.” Malsha rolled his eyes in a way that told Tilrey the two of them were friends, or as close to friends as Malsha could be with one of his colleagues. “Thurskein’s no more ‘genuine’ than Redda, except to Upstarts who have a silly dream of finding a purer, truer strain of Oslov. Isn’t that so, Tilrey?”

Was Malsha setting him up to say something inappropriate? “It’s different from here, Fir,” he said stiffly. “Just different. But . . . there’s politics in Thurskein, same as here.”

“That’s very well observed,” Saldegren said. The tone was patronizing, but in such a subtle, well-bred way that Tilrey flushed. The Councillor went on, managing a segue with equal grace, “You two must be seeing a lot of politics these days, what with the Harbourer trade bill coming up for a vote.”

“Ah, you forget, we voted at our last session—during your illness—to push the vote back two months. To accumulate a better research base.” Malsha spoke with casual assurance, but his grip tensed on Tilrey’s knee. This vote must be the real reason he’d invited Saldegren for tea.

“So I heard,” Saldegren said. “Going to toss it back to the number crunchers, are you? See if they can prove that foreign goods boost Oslov productivity?”

“We would never try to prove anything, my dear friend.” Malsha put on the sanctimonious, self-mocking tone that always popped up when he evoked Oslov ideals or Whybergism. “We respect the scientific method.”

Does he respect anything? Tilrey wondered, not for the first time. Sometimes he got the distinct impression that Malsha detested Whybergism, rationality, the Sector—all the things it was his solemn duty to uphold. Were all Councillors secretly like that?

But Saldegren seemed quite earnest as he said, “I have to wonder, though, how you think anyone on the other side of the aisle could support your bill as currently drafted. Someone slipped in a provision for trade with Resurgence—a hostile, aggressive power.”

“A weak, would-be aggressive power,” Malsha said. “Not that I expect that particular provision to survive to the final vote. I included it strictly as a decoy to draw the Island’s fire.”

Tilrey’s eyelids were growing heavy; Malsha had dripped some sap into his tumbler. But he wanted to hear this. He didn’t let himself tune out as they discussed the ins and outs of the bill, the committee’s internal conflicts, and how each vote might go.

This private conversation might have immense consequences for people in both Redda and Thurskein. Tilrey needed to understand it—and, to his surprise, he mostly did. Malsha wanted Saldegren’s support—not just his vote, but his help winning other votes. Saldegren was being coy and refusing to promise anything.

“Do you have István’s pledge yet?” Saldegren asked once they’d batted a whole raft of possibilities back and forth. His eyes moved to Tilrey, sizing him up in a colder way than he had before. “Did he like your little incentive?”

Tilrey froze. But Malsha only laughed, confident and relaxed again. “Don’t be a fool, Vanya. You know I’ve been saving the first taste for you.”

Now they were both looking at him. He dropped his eyes, feeling his cheeks flame. I am not a thing. I am not a meal.

But they barely saw him, he realized now. They were focused on their game. “Have you really?” Saldegren said archly. “The way Verán was going on at his soirée, I thought the boy had already made the rounds of your allies.”

Malsha made a contemptuous sound. “In Verán’s fevered imagination. No. I’m a fool for this one. You may not be able to tell, but he’s as sharp as he’s lovely. Like a beautiful little golden tack.” He wound his arm around Tilrey. “I’ve been keeping him to myself, and I shall continue to do so . . . until I have a very compelling reason not to.”

“I wondered why you seemed so happy,” Saldegren said.

After that, the conversation turned to miscellaneous Council business and gossip. By the time Malsha escorted Saldegren to the door, Tilrey was half asleep on his feet. He bowed his head and said good night politely, grateful that he wasn’t going home with the other Councillor. Not yet, anyway.

Once the door had closed behind Saldegren, he rose to clear the tea things. “Did it not work, Fir?” he asked, too tired to be indirect.

“Did what not work?”

“The . . . exchange.”

Malsha laughed throatily. “Are you hoping to get out of obliging Fir Saldegren?”

“I didn’t say that, Fir.” Drowsiness had made Tilrey careless. Wake the fuck up. He deposited the tray in the kitchen and returned. “I just meant, uh, he seemed like he didn’t want to commit to anything.”

“That’s Saldegren’s game, love,” Malsha said in his dangerous dry tone. “He wants to keep me wondering till the last possible second, but I’ve got him on the hook. I knew the instant he laid eyes on you. Didn’t you know, too?”

Tilrey shuddered—he couldn’t always hide it. “But he had so many objections to your bill, Fir. And it’s not like there’s any shortage of . . . well, you know. He’s a Councillor. There’s the whole Sanctioned Brothel. I don’t understand why—”

“You don’t understand what makes you special.” Malsha laughed again, and the sound sent a chill down Tilrey’s spine. “Don’t you see, sweetheart? I decided you were. Now.” He parted his knees and pointed at the floor between them. “Why don’t you remind us both how special you are?”

Notes:

Now that I've started posting the sequel to "The Trip to Harbour," I may post this story less frequently, but I won't abandon it! I'm finding it helps me fill in some world-building pieces, not to mention appreciate how far Tilrey's come in the other story in terms of controlling his own destiny and other people's. Thanks for reading! :)

Chapter 10: Tempted

“Green hells, that’s obvious,” Bror said. “Worst feature is, well . . .” He stuck his index finger up in the air, then wiggled it downward in an imitation of a wilting erection, making a despondent noise to match. Everyone at the Café table roared with laughter, Tilrey more quietly than the others.

“And his best feature?” Lus asked.

If there was one rule that Artur had impressed on Tilrey, it was discretion. A kettle boy never, ever reveals what happens in the bedroom, even if his own Councillor requests details of his encounter with a colleague.

But Lus had challenged them to name the best and worst qualities of their Councillor patrons, and clearly the others had played the game before. They seemed to find it hilarious. Tilrey might have, too, if he weren’t dreading his turn.

“Oh, that’s obvious,” Bror said. “My István has a good temper. He’s a nice old fellow, never really out of sorts. And”—he leaned in and whispered theatrically—“He likes sucking me off. With more enthusiasm than skill, granted. Your turn, Ansha. Worst quality?”

Ansha was stone-faced. “There’s nothing wrong with my Councillor.”

“Oh, come on.” Lus poked his finger in a vial and licked the sap off. “There’s always something.”

“How about this?” Celinda said. “Lindahl doesn’t bother to bring you to the Lounge himself. I’ve only ever seen you there with Admin Birkin.”

Ansha’s freckled face went redder than his hair. “Councillor Lindahl doesn’t like crowds or going out at night. He’s an early riser. Admin Birkin’s a trusted confidant, quite competent to carry out his political objectives.”

“But Birkin’s a woman.” Celinda’s beautiful blue eyes had gone narrow, as if she were a predator sniffing a blood trail. “And she sometimes gives you to female Councillors, doesn’t she? It’s unseemly. Boys are for men.”

“And girls are for women,” Ansha snapped back. “But from what I hear, you’re also quite skilled at satisfying people of the other sex, starting with your patron.”

“Easy, easy.” Bror reached across the table and patted Ansha’s hand. “I have a feeling we’ve all satisfied people of various sexes. I certainly have, whatever that old grump Whyberg says. If your patron wants a woman’s vote, and that woman likes redheaded boys with bad tempers, why not give her a good time? I mean, assuming you’re up to the job.”

That drew some laughter. “Women are way harder to satisfy,” Lus lamented.

Bror winked at him. “Speak for yourself.”

Ansha didn’t look pacified. “His turn,” he said, pointing across the table at Tilrey.

Tilrey realized abruptly that he was clinging to the table’s edge with both hands. “You didn’t say both the best and the worst,” he pointed out, hoping for a delay.

Ansha snorted. “My Councillor’s best feature is that he mostly leaves me alone. His worst feature is that he mostly leaves me alone. Your turn.”

Tilrey stared down at the varnished blond wood. In the silence, he could feel their eyes on him. Though the Café was nearly empty in the midafternoon, he felt as if everyone was listening in, not just his companions—the girl behind the counter, the shrimpy Admin scribbling on a slate, the old Upstart reading a handheld by the window.

“Best,” he said. “Uh. We like the same books. We talk about books. That’s nice.”

“Books?” Lus asked in a tone of horror.

Bror gave Tilrey an encouraging nudge. “Tilrey actually reads, unlike some of us.”

Ansha hadn’t moved his eyes from Tilrey. “And the Magistrate’s worst feature?”

Funny, funny, what’s funny? Tilrey couldn’t think of anything that wasn’t too close to the truth. He seized on the most trivial thing he could think of: “Uh, he calls me sweetheart.” He wasn’t even being indiscreet, since Malsha used all his pet names in public. “I hate that,” he added into the silence.

After what felt like an endless pause, Lus brayed with laughter. “That’s the GM’s worst feature?”

“He did answer the question,” Celinda said.

Bror agreed: “He doesn’t have to tell us anything he doesn’t want to.”

“He could at least not brag,” said Ansha, his pale features gone tight with something like hatred. “That’s not what this game is about.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No? Your biggest complaint is that the most powerful man in the world is nice to you? That he calls you names that show how important you are to him?”

“That’s not what I meant!” Tilrey looked at Bror, at Celinda, but their faces were closed to him. Maybe they thought he’d been bragging, too. “It’s not actually nice. It’s . . .” Possessive. Controlling. Evil. But to explain why, he’d have to tell them everything else, to excavate the things he preferred not even to think about. He shook his head. “I don’t like it.”

“Weirdo,” Ansha muttered under his breath.

Bror spoke over him, doing his best to help Tilrey out: “Celinda, your turn.”

“Hmmm.” Celinda surveyed the ceiling, pretending to think hard. “Akeina’s best feature is his nose. Seriously, have you noticed his aquiline nose?”

“I have, actually,” Lus said, sticking his finger back in the vial.

“I don’t see what’s so special about a nose,” Bror objected. “I mean, does it help when he goes down on you or something?”

“I’m not enjoying that visual, Brorsha. No, his nose is just pleasant to look at. If he went down on me more often than twice a year or so, that would be his best feature. No. Anyway, his worst feature is that he’s constantly asking me if he has a big cock, if it’s big enough, if it’s too big.”

Lus groaned. “Been there. Save me from these Strutters and their damned greening insecurity.”

Bror was nodding. “Been there too, though mine never asks. Which is lucky, because his cock—” He held up his own thumb and forefinger with very little air between them.

Everyone dissolved into relieved laughter, even Ansha. Feeling more confident now that the spotlight was off him, Tilrey turned to Celinda. “And does Akeina have a big cock?”

He’d tried to make his tone light and teasing—joining in their fun—but he saw at once he hadn’t succeeded. Celinda stared at him as if he’d reached out and groped her. “Why do you want to know?”

“I just—”

“Wondering if he’s got a bigger one than you? Want to take his place some time?”

“No! Of course not!”

She flashed him a cold, steely grin. “So I’m not your type?”

“I didn’t mean . . . that, either.” Was it so obvious he had a crush on her? Up to now she’d been flirting with him, or so he’d thought. “I’m sorry,” he said, fumbling for excuses. “I didn’t mean anything like that. That question was very indiscreet.”

“She’s just being difficult, Tilrey,” Bror said. “Cela, stop teasing him.”

But Ansha was grinning now, too. “You were rather indiscreet, sweetheart.”

Bror kept making fitful efforts to draw Tilrey back into the conversation, but Tilrey had had enough. As soon as he could, he mumbled an excuse and escaped downstairs to the Library.

“He’s going to rejoin his beloved boo-ooks,” Lus chanted behind him.

At least Tilrey could rely on the Library—dim and dusty and empty and welcoming. No one would ever mock him or toy with him here. He wandered up and down the stacks, not looking for anything in particular, stopping to browse at random. His mind was still too turbulent with rage and humiliation to focus.

He wouldn’t sit with them again. He couldn’t. Had Celinda set him up just to cut him down? Or had he been too obvious, making eyes at her? If so, he hated himself for it; he never wanted to stare at anyone the way Upstarts stared at him. If his attraction was obvious, did she find it disgusting? Did she find him disgusting? Did she know somehow what had happened at the officers’ club—how he’d been passed around like a bottle of rotgut? He wanted to sink through the floor and the floors beneath that and the basement and vanish beneath the permafrost. He wanted never to have been born.

Someone cleared their throat.

The sound was no more than a meter behind Tilrey, and it echoed in the Library’s silence. He dropped the book he’d been holding, the heavy volume thudding to the ground.

“My apologies,” said a dry, nasal voice. There were footsteps, and then a slight figure popped into Tilrey’s aisle. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t scare me, Fir.” He raised his chin; he wasn’t a frightened kid anymore. He was worldly and experienced like the others.

“You’re the Magistrate’s boy, aren’t you?”

It was the shrimpy Admin Tilrey had noticed in the Café, the one who’d been scribbling on a slate. He looked like a schoolboy, though his clothes marked him as only one or two ration levels below a Councillor. (Tilrey was getting better at reading Levels at a glance.) As he stepped closer, cocking his head like a sparrow, the halfhearted light of the recessed bulbs revealed dark circles under his eyes.

He said, “I heard your friends teasing you back there. Rather a nasty bunch, aren’t they?”

Hot blood rushed to Tilrey’s face. “It was just a game, Fir.”

“Oh, I know. Still, that skinny ginger boy.” The Upstart clicked his tongue. “He’d obviously do anything to be in your place.”

Before Tilrey could wonder if that were actually true, the man stuck out his hand. “I’m Admin Linbeck—Arvan to my mother, Besha to my friends. I should tell you right now, I work for the enemy.”

“The enemy, Fir?” Tilrey allowed the man to clasp his hand, not feeling too threatened. Besides being so physically unimposing, Fir Linbeck wasn’t gazing at him in the mesmerized way he’d learned to dread.

“By the enemy, I mean Fir Councillor Verán,” the Upstart said, releasing Tilrey. “He’s my mentor, you see. My lovely wife is an Island Councillor. I’m telling you that up front so you can scurry away if you choose.”

Tilrey drew himself up, bridling again at the suggestion that he was afraid. “Why would I do that, Fir? Are you going to say something I shouldn’t hear?”

The instant they’d emerged from his mouth, he realized the words could be taken as flirtatious. But it was okay—Fir Linbeck wasn’t a Councillor, and he didn’t seem interested in that.

Fir Linbeck smiled at Tilrey, showing sharp incisors. “Since I’m an enemy, pretty much anything I say is something you shouldn’t hear. I won’t be offended if you run away. You aren’t happy, are you?”

Coming as a non sequitur, the words hit Tilrey directly in the chest. For a moment the world seemed to spin around him, the window at the end of the aisle growing smaller and smaller. Then things stabilized. “Excuse me, Fir?”

“You’re from Thurskein,” Fir Linbeck said. “You’re eighteen. Your family life was lovely, by all accounts. Your mother’s an important person in her sphere. You were handcuffed and dragged here by an Admin who purchased you from your Supervisor and sold you to a Councillor—yes, I talked to Admin Makari. I also know about the shirker business that Malsha had expunged from your record.”

The metal frame of the shelves dug into Tilrey’s back; he’d been retreating without realizing it. If this man knew he was a criminal, who else did? Councillor Verán?

“Please!” Fir Linbeck held up a hand. “I’m scaring you again, aren’t I? I’m not here to threaten you. Nothing like that. That’s what Malsha does, doesn’t he? Threaten you with prison if you don’t comply?”

The familiar shivers crept down Tilrey’s spine, but he knew better than to confirm or deny that. Fir Linbeck knew Malsha’s nickname, which suggested a certain intimacy. “What are you here for, Fir?”

“Just to talk.” Both hands were extended now. “You see, Tilrey, I’ve heard a few things about Fir Magistrate. I had a friend who was his protégé and regretted it. Your patron is a brilliant man, absolutely. But he’s not a very nice man, as I imagine you may know.”

He knows. He understands. Tilrey knew enough not to trust this twitchy little Island flunkie, but he couldn’t help feeling a warm flush of vindication. None of the others, not even Bror, seemed to understand what he lived with.

Lowering his voice, he said, “You want me to betray the Magistrate, Fir. Is that it?”

Fir Linbeck looked almost comically alarmed. “Nothing like that!”

“No? Then why are you standing here telling me what a bad person he is? You know I shouldn’t even listen to that kind of talk. You said so yourself.”

His voice steadied as he completed this speech. He wasn’t going to betray Malsha—he wasn’t an idiot—but it might be fun to draw out the conversation a little, to dangle the possibility of his cooperation in front of this Islander. What a novelty, to be wanted for something besides his ass and his mouth.

Fir Linbeck’s eyes narrowed. “So you are happy with Fir Magistrate? Because that’s not the impression I was getting just now in the Café. And it’s not the impression I got when I saw you with him in the Lounge.”

Of course this bottom-feeding schemer had been at the Lounge that night. Of course. “That was my first time in the Lounge, Fir. Maybe impressions are deceiving.”

“Maybe they are.” The man cocked his head again. “Everyone tells you you should feel honored by your new place in life, don’t they? Do you feel honored?”

Tilrey swallowed hard. “What exactly do you want from me, Fir? You still haven’t said.”

Fir Linbeck looked him up and down. “You’re used to men wanting you all kinds of ways, aren’t you? You’re developing a hard shell. But I see who you are underneath. This life isn’t for you. He uses fear to keep you in line, and the next moment he’s gushing about adoring you. If you could get away from him, you would in a heartbeat.”

It wasn’t worth thinking about. He wouldn’t think about it. “What do you want, Fir?”

“Nothing much. Just a little information.” The Admin’s voice had gone dry, losing its sing-song, seductive quality. “I want to know whether Saldegren took tea with Malsha during the recess.”

Verán must want to know whether Saldegren had committed to voting for the Harbourer trade bill. “I don’t know,” Tilrey said, willing his face blank.

“Of course you know, silly. If it happened, you were there, pouring the tea for them.” A faint sneer worked at Fir Linbeck’s mouth. “In fact, I’m going to take that as a yes, they did have tea. Thank you.” He dropped a mock bow. “Have you obliged Saldegren yet?”

Tilrey had been a fool, but he wouldn’t make that mistake again. “You were right when you said I shouldn’t listen to you, Fir. I can’t help you. And I need to go.”

“Oh my.” Fir Linbeck clicked his tongue again. “What a loyal little piece we are. Go on, then! Don’t let me interrupt your very serious reading. If you’re happy with Malsha, then clearly we’ve got no business to conduct.” He retreated, dropping a second, more exaggerated bow. “Forgive me for being so rude as to pester you in your free hours. You won’t tell Malsha what happened here, will you?”

Now that the intruder was leaving, Tilrey almost felt a little sorry to see him go. “Probably not,” he said, going for that teasing tone again and this time, perhaps, achieving it. “I guess you’ll find out, Fir.”

“I guess I will.” Fir Linbeck backed his way to the mouth of the aisle, not looking at all worried that Tilrey would rat on him. His twitchiness must have been part of the act. “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, my young friend. Malsha has good taste, at least. I hope he doesn’t chew you up and spit you out.”

***

Tilrey barely thought about that strange meeting in the Library until the next free-night, when he was lying on his side in bed doing his duties. The Magistrate was thrusting shallowly inside him, and it was taking a damned long time. When he felt Malsha’s erection soften, he nearly groaned in frustration.

“Oh dear.” Malsha stopped, catching his breath, and reached up to stroke Tilrey’s hair. “How embarrassing. But at my age, these things happen.” He moved his lips to Tilrey’s shoulder and opened them to suckle, then murmured, “I hope you don’t think it’s any sort of comment on you.”

“I don’t, Fir.”

The words came out too quickly. Malsha laughed, his breath warm against the skin he’d marked. “You don’t even care, do you? It’s all the same to you whether I come or not.”

Tilrey wanted very badly to say no, he didn’t care. But that was just the kind of dangerous frankness Malsha wanted. “Of course I care, Fir,” he said, hating the words. He remembered what Celinda had said about her Councillor wanting to hear her tell him he had a big cock. He could massage Upstarts’ flesh if he had to, but their vanity?

“Do you care, then?” Malsha nuzzled the sensitive skin of his nape. “You want me to be satisfied? You want to make me come?”

“Yes.” But the word came out angry, and he couldn’t take that back. “If you let me, I could finish you with my mouth,” he managed.

Another muffled laugh. Malsha shifted, his organ starting to harden again. “I don’t think that’s necessary. Tell me you despise me, love.”

“I—what?” His body moved automatically to meet the Magistrate’s renewed strokes, but his pulse was pounding. “Why?”

“Because you do despise me. And because I want you to.” Malsha was whispering in Tilrey’s ear now. His teeth caught the lobe and released it. “Come on now, sweetheart. This is how you make it good for me.”

Fuck you. His throat was aching the way it always did right before tears came, but he wasn’t going to cry tonight. Not a single tear. He gritted his teeth and raised his hips like the whore he was and said aloud, “Fuck you, Fir. I hate you.”

“Oh green hells, yes.” Malsha flipped Tilrey over and knotted a hand in his hair, pushing his face into the pillow with each increasingly forceful stroke. “Again.”

“I despise you, Fir.” It wasn’t a confession, was it? He was just obeying orders. Making things good for the Magistrate.

He didn’t resist in any way as Malsha finished. He lay limp beneath the man’s dead weight, waiting to be released.

Blood was still rushing in his ears, rage turning all his thoughts to jagged blades. Fir Linbeck was right. This life wasn’t for him. Artur and even Bror told him to make the best of it, but what did they know? Sure, they’d both done their time in this bed, but Malsha couldn’t possibly have played with them the way he did with Tilrey, twisting them into knots until they couldn’t recognize themselves. Maybe they weren’t as vulnerable as he was. Maybe they just didn’t care.

He was being chewed up, and he didn’t want to be spat out.

When Malsha finally rose with a creak of joints and padded off to the bathroom, Tilrey drew his arms so tight around himself that he thought his ribs would crack. The important thing was to hold back the tears. When Malsha returned with the usual warm towel and solicitous words, he would be stone-faced. Like a doll, like a machine.

Not that he’d fool Malsha, of course. Malsha always knew.

Impossible as it seemed, Fir Linbeck understood. Maybe his friend had been through something similar. Maybe Malsha played with Upstarts this way, too. Hadn’t Artur said it was every Councillor’s fantasy to treat a young Upstart the way they treated their kettle boys?

He couldn’t stop hearing those words: If you could get away from him, you would in a heartbeat. But how?

Notes:

I pulled a retcon in this chapter by having Tilrey meet Besha this early. In "A Serviceable Boy," Tilrey says he didn't meet Besha until after Malsha's exile, and that's why he didn't recognize Besha as the person he heard plotting with Malsha. But I couldn't resist bringing in Besha to play a role in this story, and I think that, with a few tweaks to the earlier story, it will work. If Tilrey doesn't have a whole lot of contact with Besha, and has reason not to think Besha and Malsha are allies, it's plausible he wouldn't recognize his voice.

Or that's what I'm telling myself as someone who is terrible at recognizing voices—actors doing voiceovers, for instance. :) Anyway, thank you for reading! <3

Chapter 11: Shared

Notes:

I'm off on vacation soon, so this will probably be the last posting till around the 20th, though I will post another chapter of "Crosscurrents and Consequences" before then. Thanks for reading! :)

Tilrey had been trained well. He knew how to function as currency and how to behave when he was sent to the home of another Councillor. He knew, for instance, that it wasn’t his responsibility to brew or pour the tea in Fir Councillor Saldegren’s apartment. But right now he would have been intensely grateful for such a duty, because just standing here alone with Saldegren was making him blush like a stupid, scared kid again.

Saldegren seemed to see it. “Please, sit,” he said, smiling in that breezy way that was clearly meant to set Tilrey at ease. “I’ll only be a moment.”

While Tilrey was dressing to come here—in the stupid snow-white suit that Malsha liked so much—Artur had tried to give him another pep talk, saying, “There’s nothing to be nervous about.”

“Who says I’m nervous?” Tilrey had asked curtly. “I can handle myself, Turshka. This isn’t anything new.”

Artur bristled. “I know you can handle it. But it’s your first time being shared with another Councillor. I’m just here—”

“—because Malsha told you to be.” He didn’t like the sound of his own voice—cold and sarcastic, like Ansha’s—but he didn’t like being talked down to, either. “Well, guess what. I’ve been ‘shared’ before, just not this particular way. I’m not an innocent who has to be protected, and even if I were, you wouldn’t be much of a protector, would you?”

Artur ran his fingers through his short, ruddy hair, looking like he’d gotten more than he bargained for. “I get it, okay? Been there. All I’m saying is, if you want to talk, we can meet tomorrow at the gym. If you like.”

“If I like,” Tilrey muttered. It wasn’t Artur’s fault that one of Malsha’s tactics was to make him cry, then send Artur to coddle him like a child or an invalid. But Artur did play along with it, and Tilrey was done talking about his feelings. From tonight on, he would be a hard, blank surface. Saldegren would marvel at how stoically he could endure.

Now, sitting on Saldegren’s couch, he rearranged his features into what he hoped was a slack, bored expression. Bring me whatever you have. I couldn’t care less.

The Councillor, however, didn’t seem disposed to any sort of aggressive behavior. He returned from the kitchen with the tea tray and poured for them both—ungracefully, Tilrey noted, sitting rather than kneeling. He handed Tilrey a tumbler—spilling a bit—and settled again, keeping a respectful distance between them. “How are you liking Redda, then?”

Was this man trying to coddle him, too? Tilrey raised his eyes, unable to keep the edge off his voice. “Every Councillor at the Lounge asked me that, Fir.”

“Oh dear.” The amber-brown eyes examined him in a curious, kind way. “I’m afraid I’m not very original. And what do you say to every Councillor who asks?”

“That the city’s very large, and I’m very impressed and intimidated.” Tilrey took a sip, feeling his cheeks pink again. They both knew why he was here. What was the point of small talk?

“Malsha was right,” Saldegren said after a moment. “You already sound less like a Skeinsha and more like a Reddan. You blend in well—though I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a Reddan boy blush like that.”

You like that, don’t you? But Tilrey had already been as cheeky as he dared. He dropped his eyes and drank his tea, giving Fir Saldegren his cue to take charge of whatever was going to transpire tonight.

After another moment or two of silence, the Councillor poured sap into his hand and held it out. Tilrey closed the gap between them, eager to get this over with. When he brought the hand to his lips, though, his training took over, and he took his time. Saldegren’s palm was darker, plumper, and less wrinkled than Malsha’s, with a faint pungency that might have been black-market tobacco. The part of Tilrey that was still shy with strangers cringed from the closeness.

But he wasn’t that sensitive, blushing boy anymore. He couldn’t be. The part that was now in control of him, the part that didn’t care, licked up every trace of sap with an almost mocking gusto.

Saldegren made a breathy sound in his throat. When they separated, he crossed his legs, tugging his tunic over what was probably a burgeoning erection. Unlike Malsha, he’d already removed his robe of office and unfastened his tunic at the waist and throat, no doubt to free his sizable paunch.

Tilrey felt a certain fastidious repulsion at the informality; he was buttoned up tight. But that was part of being a Councillor: You could have poor posture and wear your clothes wrong, and people still had to obey you.

“You don’t need to try to impress me,” Saldegren said very gently, withdrawing his hand. “I’d much rather you were just yourself.”

Right. That’ll work. But sap was flowing through Tilrey’s veins, taking the edge off his irritation. “Thank you, Fir.”

“Not ‘Fir,’ please.” A tentative, chaste pat on his knee. “Vanya will do.”

“Vanya, then. If you like, Fir.”

“This is awkward, isn’t it?” Saldegren said. “I mean, what we’re expected to do here. I always find it awkward.”

“It doesn’t have to be, Fir.” Maybe Tilrey should drop to his knees and end all this agonizing talking. But the shy part of him wasn’t ready to do that without preliminaries. When it came down to it, he needed to pretend this was an actual conversation, just as Saldegren apparently did.

He said the first thing he could think of: “Did you agree to vote for Fir Magistrate’s trade bill, then, Fir?”

Too late, he remembered that voting intentions were a sensitive matter. Fir Linbeck’s prying had taught him that all too well. But Saldegren didn’t seem surprised or bothered. “We’ve reached an agreement on the text of the bill, yes,” he said. “He’s a tiger of a negotiator, your Malsha.”

“Yes, he . . .” But he had nothing to say about Malsha.

As if seeing his discomfort, Saldegren changed the subject in his turn. “I believe I saw you at the pool about a ten-day ago. Do you swim regularly?”

This led to more questions about laps, times, stroking methods. The Councillor expressed polite admiration of Tilrey’s athletic prowess, then asked if he skied as well.

He’s humoring me. Saldegren must think these were topics Tilrey would enjoy more than politics, topics that would allow him to feel in control. And he was right. The slip-sliding panic was starting again under the pleasant buzz of sap—not another man, not a stranger—but as long as they were talking like this, Tilrey felt almost like a person. He felt almost whole.

When Saldegren poured sap into his palm again, Tilrey lowered his head to drink without thinking about it. Then the man’s plump fingers were in his hair, pulling his head up. Lips pressed his lips, a tongue nudging them open.

Not another one. I’ve barely gotten used to the first. But Tilrey’s head was thrumming again; the panic had retreated. He opened his mouth and gave himself up to a long, wet kiss. Fingers snaked around his waist, fumbling at the clasp of his tunic. He moved to give them room.

When they parted again, Saldegren was breathing rapidly. “I heard what Verán said, the nasty old codger,” he said, reaching out to unfasten Tilrey’s tunic at the neck. “That was his idea of a joke. I imagine you can tell I’m not a violent man. I just want you to know, I’ll be so slow, so gentle with you. The last thing I’d ever want is to hurt you in any way.”

Tilrey stiffened despite the sap. Did this idiot think he was scared of pain? That was the least of his concerns. Then he remembered what Bror and the other kettle boys were always saying: Upstarts liked to pretend you were practically virginal, quailing before their giant cocks. Sometimes they made you pretend, too.

Well, fine, then. He would perform the way he was expected to—and he could already tell that, unlike Malsha, Saldegren wouldn’t try to rip away the mask and expose the truth. He would take the performance at face value.

“I know, Fir—I mean Vanya,” he whispered, letting his body go lax again. “I can tell you’ll be gentle.”

“You trust me?”

“Of course. Thank you.” And he closed his eyes as Saldegren pulled him into a second kiss.

***

Malsha was waiting when he came home the next morning. “Come here, sweetheart,” he said when Tilrey tried to make a beeline for his own room.

Tilrey walked over without protest. His clothes felt itchy and wrong; he wanted to throw them off and stand under the hot shower until he felt clean. He wanted to go to the pool and swim laps until his legs buckled and his eyes stung. He kept his back straight, his hands behind him, his eyes on the opposite wall.

“You don’t look much worse for wear,” Malsha said, spooning up porridge. “How was Vanya? Enthusiastic, I imagine?”

“Yes, Fir.” Surely one word couldn’t be indiscreet.

“Did he put any marks on you? No, don’t answer that. If they last, I suppose I’ll see them soon enough.” Malsha leaned back with a grimace as if his back hurt him. “It pained me, you know. To send you off that way. It pains me to share you.”

Tilrey stared over the Magistrate’s head. His eyes burned a bit, but they hadn’t filled with tears, and they wouldn’t.

“Well, maybe it’s worth it for this moment,” Malsha said. “You know, I think I like you best this way, when you’re trying not to cry. When your eyes film over in spite of you.”

Tilrey’s hands clawed at each other, nails digging in. “May I go wash up?” he asked, unable to keep the thick rage out of his voice.

Malsha laughed gently. “Of course you may, sweetheart. Of course.”

***

“So, how was the rest of it?” Artur asked, sitting beside Tilrey on their usual high bench in the sauna. “Was Saldegren slow and gentle?”

There was an ironic edge to the question. Maybe Artur was starting to see Tilrey as a colleague rather than a kid to be managed and coddled. And rightly, because Tilrey had recovered a good deal since this morning. He put the same edge on his voice as he said, “I seem to remember someone giving me a long lecture about discretion.”

Artur flung out one bare arm to encompass the sauna, which they had to themselves. “It’s me. I won’t tattle. Don’t leave me in suspense.”

“Well, he tried to be gentle. Every single thing he did, he’d ask, ‘Are you okay? Does it hurt?’ And I’d say it was fine, of course. But Saldegren’s a big man—heavy. He’s got a lot of energy.”

“And a bigger cock than Malsha,” Artur pointed out.

Tilrey blushed reflexively, but he was finding, to his surprise, that he didn’t mind rehashing yesterday night. It was almost a relief to turn it into a story. “Right. I mean, it would’ve been fine—it was fine. I can deal with feeling a little smothered. But I kept wanting to laugh when he’d throw me around and then apologize in this crooning voice. I wanted to tell him I could take a lot worse.”

Artur’s gaze was distinctly approving. “You could. You’re strong, which I’m sure he could tell if he actually bothered to see you. So, anyway. What happened next?”

“He wanted to go twice. That surprised me.” Malsha almost never requested a second go-round after the tea-and-conversation-in-bed part of the evening.

Artur chuckled. “Very proud of his stamina, that Vanya. So, it was okay?”

Tilrey nodded. It hadn’t occurred to him till now that Artur must have obliged Vanya Saldegren, too, but of course he had, in his days as Malsha’s kettle boy. “Fine,” he said. “I mean, by the end of the second time, it didn’t feel great, but at least I didn’t have to blow him.”

“That’ll come next time. He likes variety. Did he give you pleasure at all?”

That did make Tilrey flinch and lower his eyes. “He touched me. He didn’t . . . finish me. He said he would next time.” It had been so embarrassing—the painful sincerity in Saldegren’s voice. Next time I want you to enjoy it, too, love. Malsha at least seemed to understand how cruel the charade of being lovers was. “I hate it when they do that,” he admitted.

Artur nodded, his gaze keen on Tilrey. “You’ll get used to it. Next time you can come for him, give him a little show. Just let your body take over. Nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I know. I just . . .” Tilrey stared down at the tiers of pine boards. Felt the heat seep into his skin and imagined it penetrating through tissue, all the way to bone. “I just want my body to be mine.”

It made no sense and too much sense, but Artur didn’t laugh, only gave him a brisk pat on the knee. “Don’t listen to Malsha. That stuff about you belonging to him—I mean, right, don’t fuck other Upstarts unless he tells you to. That’s a job requirement. But don’t let all that Feudal holdover bullshit get to you.”

Tilrey felt something come loose inside him. “I know it’s bullshit, but—”

“But they like to say it, right. I’m just saying, don’t let it get in your head.” Artur shifted his gaze to the wall. “After my year as a kettle boy, I never wanted to fuck or be fucked by anyone ever again. I was practically a virgin before Malsha, and after him, honestly, sex turned my stomach. I’d jerk off to relieve stress; that was it. But then the feelings . . . snuck back. Gradually. It took a while, but I got to where I could be with someone and enjoy it and not worry about their pleasure all the time. You will, too.”

He gave Tilrey’s hand a brief, friendly squeeze. “You belong to yourself. Whatever they fucking say.”

Chapter 12: Exchanged

“I have a list here of five Councillors,” Malsha said, “starting with our friend Saldegren. Men who can be useful to me. Beyond that privileged circle, I don’t intend to share you just now.”

What was Tilrey supposed to say? “I see, Fir.”

They were in bed, the Magistrate upright with his tablet in his lap while Tilrey lay beside him, tired from what they’d been doing. The tea was brewing in the other room, and the whole scene felt almost normal, almost comfortable, which was the worst thing about it.

Malsha’s fingers knotted themselves in Tilrey’s hair, then released it to stroke his scalp, careful and knowing. “Are you nervous about this, sweetheart?”

“No, Fir.” Tilrey stared straight ahead rather than hide his face in the pillow. He almost never blinked back tears anymore.

“It’ll take about three ten-days from now to complete one round of the list—with a second round for Saldegren—and that brings us up to the trade bill vote. After that, we can celebrate. Three ten-days. Five men. Five alliances that are important to me. Are you ready for that?”

“Yes.” Even to himself, he sounded amazingly calm. It was just a job, after all. It’s just a fucking job.

The Magistrate added almost tentatively, “I hate to mention this, since of course I do trust you, but if you happened to give one of these men a sob story about how you were brought to Redda under duress . . .”

Tilrey recited back the lesson Artur had taught him: “You would suffer some temporary, reparable embarrassment, while I would have my criminal record exposed and probably receive a two-year sentence. I’m not an idiot, Fir,” he added, unable to repress his irritation.

“Forgive me. I’m a cautious man.” Malsha tugged at Tilrey’s hair where it was long in the front. “Now, listen carefully while I give you a little preview of what you can expect from each of your new beaux. Forewarned is forearmed, after all.”

***

Mainland party leader Tollmann came first, “because I don’t have a choice,” Malsha said with a disgusted grimace. “It’s a gesture of fealty to the party, and then he’s my father-in-law. You see, even I’m a prisoner to my obligations. I apologize for the old boor in advance.”

Tollmann was ancient. When Tilrey arrived in his apartment, the old man looked him up and down with a scowl, just as he had when they met in the Lounge. “So that’s what pleases Malsha,” he said. “You look like a strong breeze could blow you over.”

This seemed unfair, as Tollmann himself was spindly and brittle, while Tilrey knew for a fact that his weightroom sessions were transforming him from lanky and lean to lanky and strapping. He clasped his hands behind his back. “I don’t break, Fir. I’m ready for anything.”

He didn’t mean the statement to sound defiant, but perhaps it did. Tollmann asked, “Are you?” and then cackled until the laugh became a raspy cough. “How convenient,” he said when he was finished. “And here I was thinking I’d have to be extra-special careful with Malsha’s precious little project. Bend over the back of the couch for me and pull down your trousers and drawers.”

For a solid moment, Tilrey couldn’t move. Couldn’t even think of obeying. His face was on fire, and he wanted to turn around and bolt into the frigid night—if the sensor-locked door would let him.

Tollmann laugh-hacked again. “Too proud for that, eh? Thought so.”

And something inside Tilrey snapped. Tollmann was just being frank. It didn’t make a lick of difference how respectfully he was treated. In a way, gentleness made it all worse, whether it was fake like Malsha’s or real like Saldegren’s.

Ignoring the burning of his face and eyes, he marched to the nearest couch and undid his trousers, staring straight ahead at the white wall. He hiked the tunic up and bent over. He could feel his heart beating furiously against the firm cushion, but he closed his eyes and breathed. After what felt like an endless moment, he remembered to spread his thighs, the gesture almost a challenge. You want this? Come get it.

It was agonizing years before the old Councillor got himself upright and hobbled over. It took even longer for Tollmann to take what was being offered, and Tilrey had to reach back and provide some manual assistance.

But that was okay. He’d avoided the worst part—the small talk. The pretending.

The old man managed to come once and then apparently decided not to press his luck. His main priorities seemed to be getting a good night’s rest and ensuring he was given proper respect. “You are to call your betters ‘Fir,’ always,” he said the one time Tilrey was careless enough to leave off the honorific.

“Yes, Fir.” A few ten-days ago, Tilrey might have been mortified. Now he was tempted to laugh, imagining how he’d describe this encounter to Bror. So he told me to undress, and then when I did, he sat in bed, all propped up on this elaborate pile of pillows, and read the Council Record on his handheld. Didn’t glance at me once until I asked him a question without calling him “Fir.”

Fir Councillor Tollmann hadn’t touched him once, either, since fucking him. It was almost . . . insulting. Finally, having flicked off the light and settled into bed, the old man patted Tilrey’s flank in a businesslike way. “You’re a good boy after all. Easy to get along with. No jibber-jabbering.”

“Thank you, Fir.”

“That’s what makes the company of your kind so refreshing,” Tollmann continued in his prim way. “No need to fuss over and verbalize everything. A Councillor who insists on explaining himself to a Drudge is a fool. You prefer it this way, don’t you?” Another pat. “Everything on the level.”

“Yes, Fir.”

“I’ll give you two V to take home. You’ve earned it. My son-in-law has always preferred to take his own path in life, neglecting his family obligations, but he seems to have made a solid choice in you. For once.”

“Thanks, Fir.” Tilrey wasn’t even sure why, but he felt like laughing again. Laughing and laughing until he cried.

***

The second man was Fir Councillor István, who was Bror’s patron and the Island Party’s other key swing voter. “Easy one,” Malsha said, rolling his eyes. “Just let him shower you with adoration.”

Thanks to Bror’s indiscreet talk in the Café, Tilrey had a good idea of what to expect, and he wasn’t disappointed. István must have been corpulent until he reached a certain age. Now his skin hung baggy on a meager frame, and he was all wobbles and wrinkles and fawning and crooning. “Such unspoiled beauty! And so shy!” he sang out, coaxing Tilrey to eat from a tray of pastries prepared at the Restaurant from imported ingredients.

While István didn’t cook himself, he declared it his “hobby,” describing the Restaurant chef’s process in detail. “But you’re skin and bones,” he protested when Tilrey failed to finish everything. “We must fatten you up.” And then, bringing out the sap: “You’ll like this; it’s the purest blend I know. I have a fellow in Clearwater who boils it specially for me using an old Outer recipe.”

When Tilrey licked the sap from his palm, István went into ecstasies, writhing as if he were on the verge of orgasm. “Ah, so beautiful and so clever! You’re more than I can handle, love. I don’t know if I can survive the night.”

Every now and then, the Councillor said something sensible that revealed his silliness as a mere affectation, perhaps one he adopted specifically with whores. “My Bror tells me you’re settling in,” he said at one point. “I’m so glad he’s taken you under his wing. Some kettle boys are catty and jealous, but not my Brorsha—he’s got a good heart.”

And for once Tilrey could say, “Yes, Fir” with complete sincerity.

By the end of the evening, he was wondering if István acted foolish as a form of condescension, because he enjoyed it, or both. The only time the man seemed the slightest bit displeased was when Tilrey mentioned off-hand that Malsha had plans to bring him to the Restaurant on the evening of the trade bill vote. “Has Malsha been talking politics to you?” the old man asked mournfully, his eyes darting around the room. “You must find that so dreadfully dull.”

“I don’t mind, Fir.”

“Oh, but it’s so dreary to mix pleasure with business. And especially with such a ravishing boy at one’s disposal—it feels wrong, my love. Let’s put aside such wonkery.”

There was a lot more of this praise, interspersed with fondling and pawing, until they got to the main event . . . sort of. While Tollmann seemed to see it as his solemn duty to fuck Tilrey, István didn’t even bother to try. He accepted the ministrations of Tilrey’s mouth, came, and dozed off peacefully among his many overstuffed pillows.

Tilrey waited patiently for two hours, sitting up in bed fully clothed, until Fir Councillor István awoke with a start and said, “But you must make yourself comfortable, my love. Don’t stand on ceremony for an old dolt like me!” He rolled over and promptly began snoring again.

***

The third man was Fir Councillor Enrik Lindahl. This was Ansha’s patron, the one who shunned the Lounge, supposedly because he disliked nightlife and crowds.

“He’s rather a mystery to me, frankly,” Malsha said. “He comes from an old technocrat family, and he’s only been a Councillor for five years. Verán touts him as a wizard of number crunching and efficiency, and he claims to hold himself aloof from ideology and vote on the basis of ‘facts.’ He could be the prig he appears to be, or he could be the most secretive of perverts. I’m not even sure I want to know which.”

To Tilrey’s surprise, Councillor Lindahl was no older than forty and strikingly handsome. He wore his chestnut-brown hair impeccably slicked back from his pale, poreless face. His smile as he said, “Come in, come in” was charming.

He did not, however, invite Tilrey to take a seat in his living room. Tilrey waited, hands clasped behind him, while Fir Lindahl tapped on a handheld and muttered to himself.

Five minutes later, the Councillor looked up, as startled as if he’d forgotten his guest’s existence. “Sit down, lad. Please.”

The handheld must have had an irresistible allure, though, for Lindahl promptly got sucked back in. Watching the man’s fingers flick and tap from the corner of his eye, Tilrey wondered for the first time what the precise attraction was. He’d never seen such personal devices until he came to Redda. Malsha seldom used them in his presence, declaring them “tiresome.” But some Upstarts, like this one, kept their little glowing boxes as close as lovers.

Or closer. Lindahl eventually put down the handheld and made a fitful attempt at conversation, but his eyes kept darting back to it. “How much schooling have you had, lad?” he asked—then, before Tilrey could answer, seized his box. “Never mind, I’ll just check your Record for myself.”

More tapping. “Ah. Really?” Lindahl raised his eyes again, almost accusatory. “You don’t have a normal background for a kettle boy.”

What did he mean? “I’m just a Skeinsha, Fir,” Tilrey said, trying to sound humble.

“You were on an academic track; you should take your terminal tests and be Notified. Why are you here in my home at all? Are you lazy?”

“I hope not, Fir, I—”

“Idleness, not stupidity, is the sworn enemy of merit,” Lindahl recited, raising his square chin. “Do you know who said that, boy?”

“Uh . . . Whyberg, Fir?”

“No!” The Councillor practically glowed with triumph. “That was Whyberg’s great-niece, Karina Gelmedyn, who edited and annotated his final maxims for posthumous publication. In the process, she added some of her own. Frankly, you don’t strike me as an especially sharp lad. Did you cheat your way up the ranks?”

“No, Fir, I swear I didn’t cheat.” Tilrey lowered his eyes. “But my friends helped me study. Maybe I am lazy.”

This seemed to satisfy Fir Lindahl, as if it allowed him to put Tilrey in a box. He rose and beckoned, his face stern. “Come along now, and don’t expect me to offer you sap, in my hand or otherwise. I don’t hold with barbaric customs inherited from Feudalism.”

“It’s fine, Fir, I don’t expect—”

“You don’t have a right to expect anything. You’re here at my pleasure.”

This new mood continued in the bedroom. Lindahl forgot about his handheld and abruptly became more passionate, or at least more physical. He tackled Tilrey onto the bed and began clumsily yanking his clothes off. Halfway through, he lost patience with the many fastenings and simply rolled him over. “Are you ready? I’m not up for foreplay tonight.”

“Yes, Fir.” Tilrey felt a weird mixture of dread and curiosity. So this was why Artur had told him to prep himself.

He winced at Lindahl’s first few strokes—they were punishing. Then the Councillor went abruptly still and said in a schoolmaster’s voice, “Give me the seven times table.”

Tilrey clutched a handful of bedspread, trying to keep his breathing even. “Fir?”

“You heard what I said. This should be elementary to a smart boy like you—assuming you aren’t a cheater after all.” Lindahl inhaled and started moving inside him again. “Seven times two?”

He wouldn’t do this. It was too humiliating. But to whom? And he could always tell Bror the story later. “Fourteen, Fir.”

Another stroke, this one deeper. “Keep going.”

“Twenty-one. Twenty-eight. Thirty-five.”

After Tilrey did the eight and nine times tables, Lindahl made him conjugate two irregular verbs, punctuating his demands with little slaps on Tilrey’s flank. He was spared further quizzing when the Councillor came.

“You’re lucky I gave you such easy assignments,” Lindahl murmured in the after-glow, his face against Tilrey’s shoulder. “Do you realize each brain is a precious resource to the Republic?”

“Yes, Fir.”

“Failing to use your brain for the common good is a form of shirking.” The man’s voice was still shaky with pleasure, but he seemed determined to make his point. “When individuals in a meritocracy don’t live up to their potential, all sorts of abuses result . . . inappropriate relationships, indiscretions, even misbirths.”

“Yes, Fir.” Tilrey was tempted to laugh again, but he managed to refrain. Knowing that men were at their least guarded when they were woozy with bliss, he asked, “Do you quiz your own kettle boy that way, Fir?”

The Councillor snorted. “My kettle boy is a pretty idiot, as a kettle boy should be. That’s his excuse.”

The evening lasted longer than Tilrey would have liked. Whatever they were doing, Lindahl broke off periodically to quiz him again, until Tilrey was tempted to say he’d cheated on every test he’d ever taken. He eventually decided that Lindahl wasn’t actually curious about him. The man didn’t care about him, barely even noticed him as an individual. He simply had some unresolved issues with Drudges who tested above their station.

And when Tilrey got a chance to use his mouth, the quizzing came to an abrupt end.

When he arrived home the next morning, Malsha took one look at him and said, “You needn’t say a word. Pervert, then.”

Tilrey had been trying to walk so as to hide the soreness, but now he relaxed. What was the point of pretending he hadn’t had a rough night? Malsha could always tell.

He said, “Oh, Fir Lindahl’s not a pervert at all, Fir. He’s a real Oslov with the quotations to prove it. He tells me I’m not living up to my potential.”

He wasn’t surprised when Malsha laughed appreciatively rather than reprimanding him for insolence. “He looked up your record. What a nosy little bastard. Did you tell him you’re going to take your E-Squareds?”

Tilrey shook his head. “I didn’t know if you’d want me to.”

“Good choice.” Malsha swung his feet up and leaned back, observing his kettle boy. “I didn’t mention it before, but our friend Lindahl has a bit of a scandal in his family. People like to whisper that his nephew is actually the son of his sister-in-law’s Drudge secretary.”

So that was why Lindahl had mentioned misbirth. “Is that really true?” Tilrey asked.

“Who knows?” Malsha’s eyes drifted. “Believe me, my sweet boy, the Sector holds a lot of secrets. The sooner you stop being shocked by any of it, the better for you.”

Despite himself, Tilrey found himself wanting to push the conversation further, to ask Malsha questions. If Upstarts were disobeying their own rules, he wanted to know. And, much as he hated to admit it, this complicity between them felt . . . good. At least Malsha knew Tilrey was smart enough to see when his betters were being ridiculous or hypocritical.

But that was the trap Artur had warned him about. Don’t open up to him. “You don’t like Lindahl much,” he said, forcing all his questions back down.

Malsha shrugged. “He was rough with you, love. I’ll send you back to him when it’s politically expedient, but I shan’t forget that. The meritocrat pervert is the worst pervert of all.”

Notes:

So, I'm not always entirely sure what I'm doing with this story, but right now it's an opportunity to explore the varieties of Councillor and why they mostly suck.

Here we see that Gersha wasn't the first one to notice Tilrey's educational background, and that he had reason for being wary of someone who pried into it. Also, Lindahl's nephew is the friend of Valgund Linnett who froze to death when they walked out of the city, as detailed in "Crosscurrents and Consequences." Writing these stories concurrently is interesting. Thanks for reading! :)

Chapter 13: Polished

Notes:

There's some drug use and massive amounts of hurt/comfort in this chapter. In the next chapter: Tilrey and Gersha's very first, unhappy meeting!

At this point, Tilrey began to see that Councillors fell into two basic categories: scolds and sensualists. Either they were bristling with priggish meritocratic virtue, or they were desperate to show you just how capable of pleasure and passion they were. Down deep, though, the two types were more alike than they wanted you to think. The sensualists had rebelled against their rigid upbringing, but they hadn’t forgotten it; you saw that in certain fleeting grimaces of guilt. And the scolds found sneaky ways to take their pleasures.

Malsha, he understood now, was a sensualist. The Magistrate’s self-conscious perversity was an extreme reaction to Whybergism, but it was shaped by Whybergism, too. In many ways, Malsha was as cautious and disciplined as his peers, if not more so: He worked hard and late; he covered his true feelings with a sociable mask; he seemed to trust no one whom he couldn’t threaten. Cruelty was his great indulgence, but meritocracy had its own cruel side. Lindahl had taught Tilrey that.

After such experiences, it was a relief for Tilrey to return to Saldegren’s bed in the third ten-day. The plump, good-natured Councillor was a sensualist, but he seemed genuinely to relish his pleasures. If he was a little oversolicitous, a little patronizing, at least he was kind.

“That was amazing,” he gasped after Tilrey had demonstrated what he could do with his mouth. “I didn’t expect you to be so proficient already.” He fumbled under the bedclothes and gave Tilrey’s cock a skillful tug. “Now let me reciprocate.”

Tilrey felt himself go hard even as his stomach twisted in revulsion. Green hells, he wanted that. But no, he didn’t want to be manipulated that way, to lie helplessly in thrall to a man’s touch, to owe a Councillor anything.

“I’m all right, Fir,” he said in a small voice, even as heat pooled in his belly and shivers coursed up his spine. How long since he’d bothered to jerk off? It was something he did quickly and furtively now, a mechanical release of tension. When he tried to fantasize about a partner—Dal, or a certain pretty boy in their class who’d visited his dreams for years—he felt Malsha’s touch instead, and then his mind shut down. None of that could be good anymore. Not for him.

“Nonsense.” Saldegren got a good grip and kept going. “You deserve a treat. You’ll be arching your back and showing me your throat by the time I’m done with you.”

I will not. Tilrey closed his eyes tight and tried to make his whole body into dead weight, but soon he couldn’t stop himself from writhing up into Saldegren’s caressing hand.

“Please, Fir.” Even he wasn’t sure if his cry was spontaneous or not. He only knew that it made Saldegren draw in his breath and say, “Verdant hells, you really are a jewel.”

With the part of his mind that was still detached, always detached now, Tilrey supposed Saldegren would relate this praise to Malsha. He wondered how mortifying it would be when Malsha related it back to him. He could tell from Saldegren’s breathing that getting him off was revving the man’s motor again, which meant more work for Tilrey before he could sleep. Artur had told him to let go in these situations and give his natural responses free rein, but he still hated himself when he came.

***

A few days later, Tilrey learned for himself what the Vacants were.

From the Café, he and Bror and the others took the tram to an Upstart-level building, where they used a chip wielded by Lus to access an empty apartment. There they settled in a sterile, unused bedroom a little less fancy than the ones Tilrey was now accustomed to.

He sat on the windowseat—above the others, who’d settled on the bed—hugging his knees. “Nobody lives here?”

“It’s a spare unit. There are little pockets like this all over the city.” Lus held out the vial of sap they’d been passing around. “Guess our population’s dropping. ’Nother hit?”

Tilrey had drunk from the vial once already, but this time he shook his head. Feeling them all staring, he added, “Fir Linnett doesn’t want me to develop a tolerance.”

“Fir Linnett doesn’t want it,” Ansha said in a falsetto. “Mustn’t do anything Fir Magistrate wouldn’t like, right?”

“Cut it out, Ansha.” Bror swigged from a bottle of rotgut. He lay sprawled on the bed in a huddle with Lus and Ansha, well on the way to being drunk or sapped, his eyes gleaming and his voice buoyant.

Celinda sat up against the head of the bed, looking more sober than she probably was. “The Magistrate doesn’t want his precious jewel to be sweet-drowned like us,” she suggested.

“Speak for yourself.” Ansha unfastened Bror’s tunic at the waist and snuck his hand inside. Tilrey expected Bror to push the younger boy away, but Bror only grunted and pulled Ansha up into a long, wet kiss.

So this was why they all giggled when they talked about the Vacants. Tilrey hugged himself tighter, feeling disgust and something he couldn’t identify. Bror’s kisses looked so tender, so generous. He could almost feel them on his own lips. Did Ansha deserve that sort of tenderness?

Tilrey had never liked Ansha—or vice versa, as far as he could tell. But ever since he’d obliged Councillor Lindahl, Ansha’s patron, his feelings about the ginger boy had been tinged with guilt and a new dread. My kettle boy is a pretty idiot. Tilrey could still hear Lindahl’s dismissive tone, and it made him cringe. Asshole or not, Ansha was a person.

A person with functioning hearing. Did Ansha know about that night? Maybe that was why he kept stepping up his insults. He could have been in the apartment, shut up in his own bedroom, the whole time Lindahl was fucking Tilrey through the times table.

Please don’t let him have been there. Tilrey didn’t even want to think about it.

“I’m feeling neglected,” Lus complained. Woozy with sap, as usual, he wriggled up to nuzzle against Bror’s shoulder. Bror rolled over and kissed Lus as warmly as he had Ansha.

Again Tilrey felt a ripping sensation in his chest. It wasn’t that he saw Bror as anything more than a friend. But as he watched Ansha reach between Bror’s legs and begin pumping his cock, his throat closed.

How could they be so casual? Malsha had told him and shown him that his body wasn’t his own property, but these three acted like pleasure was theirs for the taking. Lus had his hand in Ansha’s trousers now. The three of them were writhing and rutting in sync, three organisms resolving into one. Tilrey felt himself harden in sympathy, and he longed to reach into his own trousers, but he would not. Ansha might notice. He’d laugh.

He sat agonizingly still while the others squirmed and rubbed and moaned—except for Celinda. Statuelike at the head of the bed, she regarded Tilrey coldly. When he noticed, he held his breath, certain she saw beyond his surface calm to the shameful depths of his heart.

“Don’t want to join the show?” she asked him, quiet and deadpan.

Tilrey didn’t trust himself to nod or shake his head, let alone to speak. He wasn’t supposed to want things anymore, but it wasn’t that easy. He wanted what he saw on the bed. He wanted solace and pleasure. He wanted—he didn’t even know what.

***

“I want to know every detail of your workout regimen,” Fir Councillor Akeina said, his eyes narrow on Tilrey. “Don’t hold back. Everything.”

Apparently this was what it meant to Akeina to have a naked young man standing in his bedroom. He seemed to see Tilrey less as an object of desire than as a potential rival.

“He prefers women,” Malsha had briefed Tilrey about Akeina before sending him over to his colleague’s apartment. “He keeps a kettle girl in defiance of custom. Using your mouth on him is the best bet.” He hadn’t mentioned that Akeina was obsessed with cock size, though Celinda had been helpful in that regard.

“How long is it?” the Councillor demanded now, frowning.

Tilrey’s cheeks burned. “I, uh—I never measured it, Fir. I’m sorry.”

“Come here.” Tilrey did, and Akeina reached for his groin and poked and prodded, jiggling the balls back and forth, a furrow growing between his eyes. “What do you even need all this for? You’re always on your face or on your knees.”

And there came Tilrey’s blush again, reliable as clockwork. What I have between my legs and whether I “need” it isn’t your fucking business. “Whatever you like, I can do, Fir,” he murmured, biting his lip to keep annoyance from twisting his face.

“Well, I’m not going to ask you to put that monster inside me. I can tell you that.” Akeina gave Tilrey a smack on the ass, as if he’d dared suggest such a thing, and grabbed him around the waist to pull him down onto the bed. “I may not be your size,” he went on, guiding Tilrey’s hand between his legs, “but I think I can fill your mouth. What do you think?”

Like Councillor Lindahl, Akeina was middle-aged and not bad-looking for a Councillor, with a fit physique and flinty blue eyes that compensated for his thinning hair. Tilrey wondered if Celinda enjoyed obliging the man, or if she found him as irksome as Tilrey did right now. Remembering what she’d said in the Café, he fitted his palm to the man’s organ and reassured him, “You can fill my mouth and then some, Fir.”

“Mmm.” Akeina stretched out on his back, abandoning himself to Tilrey’s attentions. When Tilrey tried to replace his hand with his tongue, however, the Upstart clamped fingers on his shoulder, holding him in place. “You think I can choke you, then? Am I a bit big for you?”

The words stuck in Tilrey’s throat. Did he have to say it again? “You’re big, Fir.”

“Oh? You sound less than impressed, frankly.”

What the fuck? This must be a new kind of test—or a new kind of torture. Tilrey forced his jaw to unclench. Staring at the white wall, he managed, “No, really, Fir. You’ve got, uh, such girth, and you’re so fit. I imagine you could choke me if you wanted to. I hope you’re gentle.” Green hells, how did Celinda manage to fawn over this man’s thoroughly average organ? No wonder she was always in such a nasty mood.

To Tilrey’s intense relief, Akeina’s cock responded to the flattery. Groaning, the man tugged Tilrey into position and tangled bony fingers in his hair. “I’ll be gentle—if you earn it,” he rasped. “You want this, don’t you? You need your throat filled. You’re dying to swallow down my sweet seed.”

“Yes, Fir. I’m dying to.” Tilrey understood now, much better, why Matthias had insisted that sucking cock was power. It still wasn’t his favorite activity, but he could control most of it, and if nothing else, it was better than this wretched conversation.

“Go to it, then,” Akeina complained, and at last Tilrey was allowed to stop talking.

***

Someone was kissing him. Soft lips on his, warm breath on his cheek. A whisper: “You like this, huh?”

To his surprise, Tilrey did like it. Half-asleep, with only the vaguest sense of where or when he was, he arched up into the grip that had fastened itself around his cock. This wasn’t an Upstart’s clumsy, well-meaning hand. It knew exactly what he wanted and needed—the right amount of pressure, the steady stroke.

He must be dreaming. He’d had dreams like this before, about a boy in his class named Joral who had delicate freckles and a wide mouth. Joral and Dal were the only people he’d ever fantasized about, and if Dal found out, she’d mock him mercilessly, because poor Joral wasn’t very bright.

A hand slid under Tilrey’s shirt and teased at his right nipple, making all the fine hairs on his chest stand erect. He moaned until lips closed on his again, silencing him. A man’s lips and hands, rough and demanding. A tongue that snuck into his mouth while the hand kept pumping his cock, driving him ruthlessly toward that point where he’d lose all control, and he didn’t even mind.

He reached out to stroke the man or boy’s hair, to pull that sweet mouth back to his. He opened his eyes.

Sunlight glinted on red-golden hair. A pair of mocking brown eyes looked back at him.

Ansha. Tilrey froze, remembering abruptly where and when he was—in the Vacants on another long, idle afternoon. With Ansha’s hand on his cock.

Everything returned in a jarring flash. They’d all been sapping heavily. This time, instead of abstaining after the first dip, Tilrey had decided to finish off the two vials he’d been hoarding, the ones Fir Councillor Tollmann had given him as a reward for being a “good boy.” His head had gotten so heavy. Western sunlight had lit up the whole window like a solstice labyrinth, and he couldn’t remember anything else until—

“Get the fuck off him! What do you think you’re doing?”

Bror. Tilrey looked up woozily to see his friend collaring Ansha and dragging the redhead to his feet by main force. At the same moment, he realized his clothes were half-off and he was still hard.

He tugged his tunic back over his hips, hot with a mortification that might have been half disappointment. Where were the others? Had they been watching the whole thing?

Bror and Ansha were arguing, silhouettes against the window. “He was into it!” Ansha protested, backing away from the older boy’s imposing bulk. “He wanted me. He’s probably still rock hard—aren’t you?” he added with a triumphant glance at Tilrey, who hunched over in an effort to hide the evidence.

Bror’s normally relaxed face was tight with rage. “He was unconscious. He’s not responsible. Who the fuck gave you the right?”

“If you’d felt what I did—”

“I don’t wanna hear it.” Bror bent to take hold of Tilrey’s arm, much more gently than he’d grabbed Ansha. “Here we go, Rishka, okay? You drank too much sap. You need to walk in the fresh air.”

“’M fine.” Tilrey swung his legs over the side of the bed. When he tried to get up, though, the sun blinded him and made everything spin.

He wanted to collapse back into his warm nest and close his eyes, but Bror’s arms were around him, forcing him up. “Easy.” A soft growl. “Can you walk? Yeah, I think so. Lus, got the water bottle?”

A bottle was raised to Tilrey’s lips. Water spilled down his chin. He made himself swallow, choked, and swallowed again, leaning on the strong arm around his waist.

“It’s okay. Keep drinking,” Bror said. And then, pitching his voice across the room, “I don’t wanna know what you have to say for yourself, Ansha. The kid isn’t used to sap, and you know it.”

“He was responding.” Ansha sounded more subdued than before.

“Of course he was responding—so would you. We’re all fucking taught to.” Bror got one shoulder under Tilrey’s arm and began lugging him across the room. “C’mon, walk, Rishka. We’re gonna go out to the tram stop.”

Tilrey’s senses were still sluggish, registering the world in disorienting flashes, but he buried his face against Bror’s tunic and managed to make his legs work. He was dimly aware of doors opening and closing, light changing, several steps down—and then damp cold stung his exposed face and hands, taking his breath away.

His eyes snapped open. They were in the glass enclosure that overlooked an outdoor tram platform, the space empty except for benches along the walls. The cold wasn’t a quarter as fierce as it would be beyond the glass, but it still made him shudder and thrust his hands into his tunic pockets.

For the first time, he became fully aware of being held upright as if he were a child learning to walk. He tugged away, in relative control of his limbs. But the world spun round again, making his stomach lurch, and he sank onto a bench.

Bror wrestled him onto his feet again, his voice urgent. “Walk for me first, Tilrey. Little bit more. You don’t want to go to the clinic, huh?”

The clinic meant questions and reports. Reports to Malsha. Tilrey grunted a protest in Bror’s strong grip, then stopped struggling and walked the length of the small enclosure with his friend’s guidance, one foot after the other.

“There we go. Take it slow. See, gonna be fine. You bounce back fast.” Bror swung him around, patting his back encouragingly. “How many V did you drink?”

“Just two.” Tilrey shut his eyes as they passed into the sun again. “Lus drinks two all the time.”

“Yeah, because he’s sweet-drowned. Don’t be like him.”

“I’ve seen you drink two at a time.”

“Yeah, because I’m a dumb-ass. Don’t be like me, either.” Bror eased them down onto a bench and pressed the water bottle to Tilrey’s lips again. “Hydrate. Your system’s not prepared for two V. You passed out cold while I was in the john, and Lus and Celinda were too blitzed themselves to notice anything. Or maybe Celinda just wanted to watch—I wouldn’t put it past her.” He snorted angrily. “Fucking Ansha. I knew he was jealous, but I didn’t think he’d actually hurt you.”

“Didn’t hurt me.” Tilrey was still shuddering, his lips going a little numb. But the cold was doing its job, keeping him alert enough to talk back. “I mean, not in any way that matters.” He didn’t say what they both knew: He was no innocent anymore, and he was no stranger to being groped and even used while he was half-asleep. “And he’s right. I got hard.”

You little slut, Akeina had kept repeating while his cock was down Tilrey’s throat. There were other adjectives—“pretty,” “nasty,” “shameless,” “eager”—but that noun was a constant. It still made something twist in Tilrey’s belly, but he hadn’t stopped what he was doing, hadn’t even slowed down.

“Anyway,” he added now, “you all fool around in the Vacants. Why shouldn’t I?”

“He was using you. There’s a difference.”

“What difference?” Tilrey was resisting the temptation to let his head fall on Bror’s welcoming shoulder. “They all use me. That’s what I’m for.”

He gasped as Bror dragged him to his feet and turned him around, walking him the length of the enclosure again. When they reached the glass, Bror pushed Tilrey’s back hard against it and pivoted to glare down at him, hands bracing his shoulders.

“You can’t say shit like that,” he said. “You hear me, Tilrey? When you let men use you, that’s just your job. It’s not who you are.”

Tilrey was more awake every second, but he didn’t pull away. In a dim way, he wondered whether, if he pressed their hips together, Bror would be hard. “It is who I am,” he said matter-of-factly. “I’m good at it. I don’t even really mind anymore.”

What would happen if he squirmed free right now, dropped to his knees, and grabbed hold of Bror’s cock? Would Bror push him away? Or would he gasp in helpless eagerness, let his head fall back, and accept Tilrey’s attentions the way Upstarts did? Sucking cock was a foolproof way to end awkward conversations, which this certainly was, and maybe he should—

Bror slapped him. Not hard, just sharply enough to bring Tilrey back to a stinging awareness of everything he wanted to forget. “What the fuck,” Tilrey muttered, pressing his hand to his cheek.

Bror’s breath was hot on his forehead. “Yeah, exactly. What the fuck, Tilrey? It freaks me out to see you this way—like you’re not really you. Say it. ‘All that shit is just my posting. It’s not who I am.’”

A harsh laugh heaved its way out of Tilrey’s chest. “Maybe this is me now. Why do you care?”

“You’re my friend, okay? And I know.” The blue eyes blazed into his. “You can’t let Ansha or anybody else treat you like a piece when you’re not on the job. You’re a free citizen. Don’t let those bastard Strutters get inside your head.”

“Just because they’re inside everywhere else?” He giggled weakly. “That was a joke, Bror. A joke.”

Bror released him so abruptly that Tilrey nearly fell, sliding down the glass. “You know why Ansha’s jealous of you?”

He’d obviously do anything to be in your place, Fir Linbeck had said. Tilrey thought he understood why now. “Because I’m Fir Magistrate’s kettle boy. His jewel,” he said, unable to banish the sarcasm from his voice. “They all want to fuck me, and Ansha can barely even get his own Councillor to fuck him.”

“That’s true. But it’s not why.” Bror collapsed on the bench like his strength had deserted him. “Ansha’s jealous ’cause you can still think for yourself. ’Cause you don’t want to be the jewel. You know that’s bullshit. That’s what I thought till today, anyway.”

Tilrey sat down, too, leaving only a few inches between them. He missed the strong arms around him, holding him up. Everything had been easier when he couldn’t seem to stay awake by himself. “I don’t know what I want anymore,” he said. “It doesn’t matter what I want.”

“Course it matters.” Bror faced him, a frown tugging at broad lips that were shaped for smiling. “Just say it for me, Tilrey. ‘It’s not who I am.’”

“It’s not who I am,” Tilrey repeated obediently. And then, before he could stop himself, he touched Bror’s cheek, trying to smooth the sternness away. When Bror only sighed, he pressed in, hoping for a kiss. Let’s just forget all this. Sex is so much easier.

Bror caught Tilrey’s hand and held him at a safe distance, his enormous thumbs massaging Tilrey’s palm. “Green hills and valleys, stop trying to distract me.”

Tilrey remembered his first time in the Vacants and felt that pulse of envy again. “I’ve seen you kiss Ansha. More than kiss.”

“That’s just dumb shit, Rishka. We do it when we’re bored. You saw me fooling around with Lus, too.”

“So you don’t like me?” He wasn’t sure if it was just his stupid pride that was hurt or something deeper.

“Hell yeah, I like you.” Bror ducked his head, his cheeks going a startling pink. “If you’re up for it, if you want it, I bet I can make you come so hard you can’t see straight afterward.”

“So why—”

Bror’s flush was deepening. “Not when you’re like this, Rishka. Not when you’re sapped and out of it and repeating the fucked-up shit Strutters tell you. If we fooled around right now, I’d feel like I was using you.”

“Nobody else minds.” Tilrey sounded sulky to his own ears, but at the same time he was grateful, even if he wasn’t sure for what.

“I’d mind.” Bror was still holding Tilrey’s hand. Now he threw an arm over his shoulder, but the gesture stayed brotherly. “You’re not gonna be dumb with sap again, okay? Promise.”

Tilrey gazed through the glass. Shadows were taking possession of the empty platform, stray snowflakes sparking in the last rays of sun. It doesn’t matter. Nothing’s up to me.

“I wish you’d stop treating me like I’m going to break,” he said. “The way you kissed Ansha—that looked nice. I’d like that. Some time.”

Bror simply repeated, “Promise.”

And Tilrey did.

Chapter 14: Rejected

Notes:

Well, a meet cute it is not. But here's Tilrey and Gersha's first meeting with a chaser of Gersha POV.

I may take a break from this story for a few weeks while I work out some stuff in "Crosscurrents & Consequences." But there will be more. Thanks for reading!

Tilrey had a general sense of when the crucial trade bill vote would happen, but he was fuzzy on the date. The Sector calendar seemed to reshuffle itself constantly. So he wasn’t prepared when Malsha burst into the kitchen one free-night and swept him into an exuberant embrace.

“We’ve done it, my love!” The Magistrate pushed him back against the counter and kissed him, first lightly and then deeper. The excitement was infectious; for a moment Tilrey found himself not just cooperating but kissing back, his mind still half on the kettle that was approaching a boil.

“It was close, too. Twenty-four to twenty-two!” Malsha held Tilrey at arm’s length, beaming with benign satisfaction. Not for the first time, Tilrey noted how the refined Linnett features made almost every expression look noble, even when the feeling behind it was anything but.

“And I don’t think I could have done it without you,” Malsha continued. “Lindahl was on the fence, but Saldegren talked with him, and you sweetened the deal. I think that prissy fool likes you—Lindahl, I mean. Turned out we needed him, too, because a few of our more conservative Mainlanders defected, not that I wasn’t expecting that.”

The kettle began to hiss, and the Magistrate gave a start as if noticing it for the first time. “Turn that off, sweetheart—we won’t be dining at home tonight. I’m taking you to the Restaurant to eat whatever you like, and something else rather nice has presented itself. You’ll see.”

Tilrey took the kettle off and cleared away the tea things. He was looking forward to seeing the Restaurant for the first time, but Malsha’s final words had hatched unwelcome thoughts in his head. Surprises from the Magistrate were rarely pleasant, and Malsha had said, “You’ll see” with a certain constraint, as if he knew the “something rather nice” would be nicer for him than for Tilrey.

When they met again in the coldroom, Tilrey broached the question. “Are we going somewhere after the Restaurant, Fir?”

Malsha tossed him his coat. “Only home, I hope. Why?”

“You said . . . well, you know I like to be prepared.” He buttoned his coat, eyes down, trying to find the best phrasing. To avoid feeding Malsha’s perversions, he needed to present a blank surface, with no fear or trepidation. “You’ve been so kind about preparing me for the other Councillors.”

Malsha snorted and tousled Tilrey’s hair—reaching up to do so, since Tilrey now had nearly an inch on him. “Fretting again, are we? Don’t worry, you won’t be obliging another wrinkly old man tonight. I’ve made an appointment with a clever young programmer in Int/Sec to discuss his new translation database.”

This didn’t sound like something Malsha would be caught dead doing on a celebratory free-night. “A database, Fir?”

Malsha laughed affectionately at Tilrey’s incredulity. “You know me too well. I neglected to mention that this programmer is high-born, reclusive, and maddeningly lovely. Just my type. Ever since he came of age, I’ve dreamed of getting to know him better, shall we say, but I knew I had no chance because he didn’t need my patronage. Verán’s been cultivating him; he and the boy’s uncle were thick as thieves. Now, though . . .” He sighed. “I may still not have patronage to offer, but I have something better.”

The old man’s meaningful glance was impossible to misread. Tilrey managed to keep his voice level. “You want me to, uh, oblige the programmer? So he’ll oblige you?”

“That’s putting it awfully clinically.” Malsha draped an arm around Tilrey’s shoulders, slapped the door button, and led him out into the cold where the steaming car waited. “I thought we might have fun,” he added, drawing Tilrey closer as Krisha leapt from the front seat to open their door. “I know you’re self-conscious, love, but you can just forget I’m there. It won’t be much different from that first night in my bed with Artur. You and Fir Gádden can enjoy each other, and then, with any luck, I can enjoy him.”

Tilrey bowed his head and slid into the warmth of the backseat. He was proud of how calm he kept his face, considering that his heart had started battering his ribs when Malsha mentioned “that first night.” Now his damned imagination was putting him in Malsha’s bed with a strange man, going through the usual motions and feeling Malsha’s eyes on him the whole time.

And then, before he could stop it, he was back in that windowless room in the officers’ club. Someone was on top of him, while someone else pinned his hands and someone else had hold of his left foot, caressing the arch. Raucous laughter and the prickle of liquor in the air; drunken voices overlapping; a sap-sticky finger parting his lips. You like that, lad? You like that? Someone else saying, Give the poor kid a break, and a third voice complaining, Not till I get my turn.

His head was buzzing like he’d oversapped again. He realized he was crouched over, shoulders rigid. Malsha was busy with the seatbelt and didn’t seem to have noticed yet, thank everything green.

Tilrey relaxed and breathed. In, hold, out. It was just one more man. Malsha would be there to make sure nothing bad happened, and anyway, a reclusive young programmer probably wasn’t going to be rough, and anyway, he could take rough.

Was this a punishment? No, he hadn’t done anything. Was Malsha really that keen on the young programmer, or did he get off that much on seeing Tilrey squirm? Verdant hells, maybe it was both.

Observe their conversation, he ordered himself. Don’t disappear inside yourself. The more he understood what went on between Upstarts, the less of a victim he would be.

Malsha’s hand was under his coat, inching over his knee to pat his thigh. “My plan doesn’t bother you, I hope, sweetheart?”

You’d like it to, wouldn’t you? Tilrey remembered everything Bror had said in the Vacants. This isn’t me. It’s a job. In a voice that he hoped was cold and robotically bland, he said, “No, Fir. I just like to know in advance.”

Malsha knew him better than that, of course. He kept probing for the familiar weak spots. A half-hour later, as they waited for their appetizers and their dinner companion, he stroked Tilrey’s knee and said, “There’s nothing to be afraid of, love. Our guest may be more nervous than you are. He’s a sanctioned celibate, and my sources tell me he’s never had a public relationship with anyone.”

Tilrey tried to focus on anything but the possessive grip. Luckily, Malsha had poured him a glass of sweet-sour, fizzy stuff that was making him pleasantly lightheaded. If he drank enough of that, tonight might be a breeze.

“I’ll be fine, Fir.” He took another sip and gazed into the iron-ribbed window bay. The glass twinkled with the reflections of hundreds of tiny flickering lights, white and ice-blue.

So far, he liked the Restaurant much better than the Lounge. The booths and tables were arranged for privacy rather than visibility, divided by old-fashioned carved wooden consoles and pots of flourishing green succulents and flowering vines. The lighting was diffuse and salmon-pink, and spicy aromas wafted from the kitchen.

The muted conversations around him sounded amorous or familial rather than political. This was a place where Upstarts came to relax, to let down their guards. Malsha was hoping Fir Gádden would do precisely that, but what if he didn’t feel like it? What if Tilrey wasn’t his type?

Tilrey started a little as Malsha rose abruptly, releasing him. Their guest was here.

The slight young Upstart wore a thick scarf knotted around his neck. His posture suggested he might bolt at any minute. The Magistrate reached out of the booth, smiling charmingly, to press his palm. “My dear Gersha! So glad you could make it. Please, sit down and try this exquisite sparkling wine.”

Fir Gádden seemed to spot Tilrey at the same instant Tilrey got a good look at him. The young man flinched, his face reddening and twisting in a way that made it clear he was dismayed not to find Malsha alone.

Tilrey dropped his eyes, feeling his own face flush in sympathy. His glimpse of the newcomer had left an impression of pale skin and dark curls, expressive brows and enormous, fearful eyes.

No wonder Malsha wanted to bed this one, he thought, as Fir Gádden slid onto the banquette opposite them. He was pretty, shy, and high-named. The rank probably added a special savor to the thrill of aggressive seduction that Malsha seemed to enjoy so much.

But what would Gádden get out of letting himself be coaxed into bed? He would have to be coaxed; unlike Tilrey or even Artur, he was important enough to have a choice.

For a moment, Tilrey considered the possibility that Gádden was upset to see him because he wanted Malsha all to himself. But nothing in the young man’s body language or furtive glances suggested that he was attracted to Malsha—or that he regarded Tilrey as an incentive, for that matter. He didn’t appear to like anything about their company. Being generous, Tilrey gave Malsha’s plan a twenty percent chance of success.

But not for lack of effort. Malsha was in his most sociable and seductive mode. He filled Gádden’s glass and inquired after members of his family, then his supervisors at Int/Sec.

The young Upstart answered in monosyllables. His eyes kept darting toward Tilrey.

Malsha must have noticed, too. Slipping his hand onto Tilrey’s thigh again, he said with a steadying pat, “I fear I’ve been neglectful. Gersha, this is Rishka. He’s new in my house.”

That was the cue for Tilrey to raise his eyes and extend his hand. He did it automatically, but the look on Gádden’s face—flustered, unhappy, almost offended—made his cheeks sting. The young Upstart clasped Tilrey’s knuckles and dropped the hand immediately, as if it might burn him.

Revised estimate: five to ten percent chance. Relieved and frustrated at once, Tilrey withdrew his hand and lowered his eyes. What had he done? No other Upstart had ever reacted to him this way, even the ones who were insulting or dismissive. While they took him for granted, this one seemed put off by his very existence.

Gádden said in a choked voice to Malsha, “You said you were interested in my plan for a meta-dictionary of Harbourer usage based on Tangle sources?”

“Indeed so.” Malsha must have seen everything Tilrey had, but his voice stayed warm and pleasant, without a hint of disappointment, as he asked Gádden about his work.

The discussion that followed was surprisingly interesting, at least when it wasn’t focused on the technicalities of database architecture. Gádden and Malsha appeared to have read many of the same Tangle books. The younger man believed the old texts could offer the keys to a “meta-code” that Harbourer warlords used in their primitive radio and telegraph transmissions to their allies.

“This is all fascinating,” Malsha said, seeming quite sincere. “The question is, though—and I’m sure you’ve heard this one from your Int/Sec colleagues—why do we need to decode these transmissions? I mean, it’s a fruitful exercise, no doubt. Very educational. But considering the low level of threat that any little Harbourer bully poses to the Republic, why bother?”

“Not all my colleagues would agree with the description of the threat as minor, Magistrate.” The younger man seemed more at ease now, though his speech was still stilted. “Director Karishkov tells me that Harbourer propaganda aimed at our Laborer cities is an ongoing concern.”

“Really? The man is so paranoid sometimes. But then, I suppose that’s his job.”

Malsha laughed urbanely, while Tilrey froze in place. Harbourer propaganda referred to things like the transmission he’d translated at that cursed meeting—the whole reason he was here. Did Gádden know he’d been arrested for Dissidence? Was that why he seemed so upset by Tilrey’s presence? People said Int/Sec knew everything.

But if Gádden knew, he didn’t bring it up. And, to Tilrey’s relief, they dropped the topic. The server brought appetizers, then the main course. The food was like nothing Tilrey had ever eaten before: meat that wasn’t fish, hearty sauces, bizarre vegetables, and creamy sludges drizzled on top. At first he held back, worrying that he might be sick and make himself even less attractive to Gádden (if that were possible).

Then he decided, Who gives a fuck? and gave the chef’s fare the reverent attention it deserved. Malsha wouldn’t mind; he was always plying Tilrey with treats and telling him to stop picking at his food.

Still, Tilrey’s stomach lurched dangerously when, in addition to the expected teapot, the server brought them each a bowl of golden paste with nut slivers and a papery orange flower on top.

A quick glance showed him Gádden looking rather queasy, too. Maybe the young man had overeaten out of nervousness. Tilrey wondered if Malsha were right in assuming Gádden had a dearth of sexual experience. It seemed odd for anyone that attractive not to have been with someone at some point. Unless Gádden was not just celibate but asexual, in which case they were down to zero percent chance of success.

What would it be like always to keep your body to yourself? To spend every night alone, taking up all the space in the bed? Back in Thurskein, Tilrey had thought about sex a lot, practically obsessively, and the idea of a life of celibacy would have terrified him. Now it sounded very restful.

“Persimmon pudding with nasturtiums,” Malsha said grandly. “Common fare in the southwestern regions of Harbour, also sometimes eaten in Bettevy. Do you enjoy sweets, Gersha?”

The young Upstart picked up his spoon and took such a minuscule bite that Tilrey might have laughed if he weren’t so tense. “That is . . . extremely sweet,” he said. “My Uncle Per used to say that our Tangle forebears’ indulgence in white sugar was the primary reason for their downfall.”

“That sounds like your uncle.” Malsha helped himself to a generous spoonful. “A model citizen, to be sure, and an excellent Whybergian, may his last moment be bright.”

“May his last moment be bright,” Gádden echoed, sounding to Tilrey rather less than sincere.

“But,” Malsha said, taking another bite, “I’ve always suspected, to be frank, that you’re more interesting than your uncle, my dear Gersha. How did you get so interested in Tangle literature, anyway? It wasn’t an assignment, was it?”

Gádden was blushing again, those big eyes fixed on his bowl. “No, it started as a hobby. I’ve always envied the Harbourers their intimate knowledge of a culture we’ve largely forgotten.”

“Indeed, indeed, and what a fascinating culture it is. So rich in conflicts and contradictions.” Malsha was watching Gádden with an eagle eye now; Tilrey could tell. It was a vast relief to sense that attention focused elsewhere than on himself.

“No doubt that’s why the Tangle unraveled in such a spectacular way,” Gádden said, seeming to draw himself in a bit. “Long-term survival isn’t compatible with a fondness for conflict.”

“Indeed, hmm. But the richness! Everything has so many different levels of meaning in Harbour,” Malsha continued dreamily, washing down a sip of tea with wine. “So much resonance. The concept of ‘dessert,’ for instance. That’s the meal we’re eating now. But on a metaphorical level, it can mean any sort of treat that follows the more substantial fare. Often with a sexual connotation.”

Gádden’s spoon froze halfway to his mouth. He must have noticed Malsha’s predatory gaze, because his own became furtive. “I’ve seen that usage, I think, yes,” he said as his trembling hand delivered the food to its destination. “How odd to compare our daily nourishment to . . . carnal fulfillment.”

“Not that odd, really, my dear Gersha.” Malsha’s gaze didn’t flinch. In a dim and unsettled way, Tilrey almost admired his power over this poor man.

But the next moment, Malsha reached out and nudged Tilrey’s hair out of his eyes—a casual, intimate gesture that was clearly for Gádden’s benefit. Tilrey went very still. He could feel Gádden’s startled eyes on him as Malsha said, “Personally, I’m fond of sugar, but this is the dessert I prefer. Look at the delicate coloring, the sweet blush on his cheek, the way his eyes hold the light. Truly, even the chefs here are no match for what nature can whip up.”

Tilrey was blushing, his eyes tearing. He stared at the table, willing himself to be cold, blank, boring. Even obliging Gádden with Malsha watching would be easier than hearing himself described that way.

Perhaps Gádden was speechless, too. Anyway, he didn’t respond. And so Malsha clasped Tilrey’s arm and asked conversationally, “I wondered if you might like to come home and have dessert with me.”

One hideous instant of silence. Then the young man came to life all at once, practically leaping to his feet. “I’m very honored, Fir Magistrate, but I, I—I’m indisposed tonight. Fighting a cold. Actually, I’m just so frightfully busy. I must go right home to my desk. I have a deadline tomorrow.”

“The day after a free-night?” Malsha asked with gentle incredulity. But his whole demeanor had already changed, the disturbing intensity replaced by a face-saving casualness. “But of course, my dear Gersha. I wouldn’t want to take you from your work that does so much good to the Republic.”

A few more of these horrible false pleasantries, and the embarrassment was over. Gersha Gádden thanked Malsha for the meal and made his exit—escaped, Tilrey realized bitterly. They sat together in silence, Malsha’s fingers stiff around his arm.

Then Malsha exhaled gustily. He scooped a spoonful of pudding and raised it to Tilrey’s lips, the other hand releasing him. “Would you like dessert, my love?”

Tilrey was full, but he forced himself to accept the offering. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“Sorry?” Malsha drew a little closer. “What do you have to be sorry for?”

Why had he even said that? He was not sorry, and they both knew it. He shrugged.

“You thought I would punish you, perhaps? For not being alluring enough? Do you really think I’m so unfair?”

If Tilrey didn’t answer, Malsha would keep poking. So he said, “Not ‘unfair,’ Fir. Just . . . sometimes you seem fond of punishment for its own sake.”

Malsha laughed in the delighted way he nearly always did now when Tilrey said something cheeky. “Oh, you have my number, lad. But not tonight. I aimed for a skittish target, and unfortunately I missed. One can’t always hit the bull’s-eye. No need to blame the arrow.” An arm snuck around his waist. “What a miserable meal that was, at least for you. I at least had the pleasure of watching the little prude squirm on the stick he’s got up his ass. He was beautiful, though, wasn’t he? At least for a Strutter.”

It felt odd whenever Malsha used that slur for Upstarts, as if he were showing off. “Yes,” Tilrey said. “But . . . did you even really want him, Fir, or did you just want to embarrass him? It seemed so obvious that . . .”

He stopped, not wanting to blurt out that Malsha had come on way too strong with Gádden, overplaying his hand. For all the Magistrate’s psychological acuity, Tilrey had read the young man’s wariness better than he had—unless, of course, Malsha had flubbed his plan on purpose.

The Magistrate sighed. “Of course I wanted him. But when he sat down and I saw his reaction to you, I gave myself no more than fifteen percent probability of success.”

Tilrey laughed, though it hurt a little. “I gave you twenty.”

Malsha laughed, too. “You overestimate me. I’m flattered. Well, I’ll make this evening up to you,” he said, clapping Tilrey on the back. “Tell me, how would you like to see the Council chamber where we voted today?”

Tilrey nodded. I won’t overestimate you again.

***

The Council chamber was so small.

Listening to Councillors talk about their full sessions and their votes, Tilrey had imagined a grand, echoing space with a ceiling reaching to the heavens. In reality, the main chamber was no bigger than the Lounge, though the pale woodwork and marble wall paneling gave it a certain gravitas. An amphitheater with perhaps sixty seats sloped to a small stage that bore a podium and a long, oval table made of varnished wood, with fifteen chairs around it.

Malsha led Tilrey up the steps to the stage and patted the table. “This is the very table where Whyberg met with his first Council. As you can see, they were fewer than we are. I like to imagine them sitting here in their old-fashioned getups—furs, beards, possibly even lice in those beards—and arguing about all the idiotic little rules they would make to control the lives of future generations. Sometimes I wonder how they kept straight faces.”

Tilrey glanced around, but he was the only one hearing this seditious talk. Malsha had switched on the lights as they came in.

“Do you talk that way in front of your colleagues, Fir?” he asked, grateful that he was still slightly tipsy from the sparkling wine. Perhaps Malsha was, too; that would explain a lot.

Malsha laughed. He still wore his long white robe of office, as he often did at home, and it gave him the same superficial gravitas as the chamber. He came over and kissed Tilrey against the edge of the table, his mouth tasting of wine. “Sometimes,” he said. “Not all my colleagues would be shocked by such talk. And you mustn’t get the impression that I don’t respect the laws of Oslov, sweetheart. I swore to uphold the Republic when I took this office. I would safeguard those laws with my life.”

“But they’re ‘idiotic’?” Tilrey only said it because he was close enough to whisper the offending word directly into the Magistrate’s ear.

Before he could stop himself, he thought of his mother, so circumspect about upholding rules in her sector of Thurskein. If she could hear the head of the Republic mocking those same rules, what would she think? Did anything mean anything?

Malsha nipped Tilrey’s ear. “Those idiotic, unjust laws,” he said under his breath, “allow me to enjoy you. They give me power over you. Why on earth should I object to them?”

***

Gersha Gádden turned up the heat of the shower again and let the scalding water flow over his shoulders. He’d been in here so long his fingers were pruned and he could barely see for the steam, but he didn’t feel clean yet.

What had he done wrong? What had he said? How had he smiled? Had he walked suggestively, or cinched his tunic too tight, or been too enthusiastic when they were discussing Tangle literature? Had he let hints of passion and spontaneity slip out from under his sober, scholarly façade?

He hadn’t been able to refuse an opportunity to discuss his research with someone who’d actually spent years in Harbour. He’d barely cared that that someone was the General Magistrate. He knew Councillor Verán, who despised the Magistrate and had appointed himself Gersha’s patron without Gersha’s say-so, might be annoyed by their public meeting, but that was just politics. Nothing that mattered to Gersha. He’d apologize to Verán, he’d figured, and that would be it.

But apparently, when Verán called the Magistrate a “decadent” and warned Gersha to steer clear of him—as he had several times over the years—he wasn’t exaggerating.

Gersha was a programmer interested only in efficiency, an independent thinker interested only in truth. But Magistrate Linnett had looked at him and seen only . . . a treat. A dessert, no different from that poor boy whom the old man had described like he wasn’t a human being but a dish the server had placed on the table.

The boy had looked so young and so miserable, for all he was obviously trying to hide it. The way he’d kept his eyes down, not saying a word, still made Gersha shudder, because it hinted at a world of darker things under the surface. If Linnett could made Gersha’s skin crawl just with a polite invitation (yes, he told himself, it had been polite), what could the man do to someone who was truly in his power?

His Uncle Per had always said that Laborers had “thicker skins,” that they didn’t feel pain or humiliation the way Upstarts did, but, but—what if the boy were underage? Surely that was wrong, thicker skin or not.

Righteous outrage replaced shame, and Gersha was able to move again. He turned off the water and toweled off. Clad in a robe, he flopped on the bed with his laptop and did what he always did when something made him feel powerless—he hacked the system. Always in small ways. He’d known like-minded kids at school who got greedy and got in trouble, but he knew how to make his forays smooth and inconspicuous, nothing that could be traced back to him.

His Level and posting didn’t grant him access to other citizens’ records, but getting it was a maneuver he’d performed before. In a few seconds, he would know exactly how old the Magistrate’s “personal secretary” was. Maybe he could even detect whether Linnett had falsified the boy’s data.

But as his fingers approached the keyboard, ready to make the first stroke, they froze.

What if he did find out the boy was sixteen or seventeen? If Gersha made a stink about it, if he reported the case to a Constable or to Councillor Verán, everyone would assume his motivation was political. Moreover, he would have to explain where he’d gotten the information.

And by the time they were done grilling him, the Magistrate would have spirited the boy away somewhere. Perhaps the poor kid would end up worse off. Gersha knew little about kettle boys or sex workers generally, but he gathered that, beyond the tightly regulated Sanctioned Brothel, there were illicit brothels where the workers were sweet-drowned and horrific abuses went on.

A shiver snaked down his spine, and he shut his laptop. No, it would be better for everyone concerned if he didn’t go nosing around behind this particular façade.

He rolled on his side and pressed his knees to his chest, squeezing his eyes shut without hope of sleep. All night he would be hearing those honeyed words and seeing the too-sharp look the Magistrate had given him, as if he knew things about Gersha that even Gersha didn’t know.

And now those tormenting questions were back. When and how had Gersha sent the message that he was open to being seduced? Maybe he didn’t need to. Maybe his face and body, so much like his mother’s, had sent the message for him, betraying the weakness inside.

Because, deep down in a place Gersha kept hidden, he was not sober, scholarly, or uninterested in the affairs of the body. Deep down—green help him—he had found that poor boy attractive, too.

He got up again and exchanged the robe for his heaviest pajamas, trying not to glance at his own brief nudity. Trying not to imagine the Magistrate fantasizing about seeing him this way. He’s a disgusting old lech. It has nothing to do with me.

Was he flattering himself? Had he misread the whole encounter? It wasn’t that Gersha thought himself attractive—not like that boy, certainly—but apparently Linnett had seen something in him. Something receptive or yielding or just wrong.

He went into the kitchenette to brew a cup of tea, taking the laptop with him. He was not an object of lust. He was a scholar, a worker, a brain.

No, he didn’t actually have a deadline. But spending the night with code might help wipe away the memory of the lavishly decorated Restaurant and the sweet pudding and the Magistrate’s insinuating gaze and the boy’s beautiful, sad eyes.

Chapter 15: Tested

Notes:

If you've ever wondered how Tilrey got trained to be "responsive," this is how. And I'm introducing a character who preceded Tilrey as a protagonist in my Oslov head-canon. Here he's definitely no hero, just an example of how the system can break Upstarts, too.

I've got another chapter coming soon and plan to get to work on the sequel to "Crosscurrents and Consequences" as well. Thanks so much for reading! <3

Summer passed into fall passed into winter, so much darker and deeper in Redda than Tilrey was used to. Only a daily flicker of twilight at the horizon relieved the blackness. The winter festivals, which featured wild drinking, dancing, and music in Thurskein, were more muted here. But sometimes a full moon shone over the city, casting the ornate old apartment blocks in an unearthly glow. Fairy lights—silver, blue, magenta—twinkled in the windows of public buildings, trying desperately to fight the gloom.

After the solstice and before the New Year’s recess, Tilrey went to the Hall of Records and took his E-Squareds in an empty classroom, monitored by a teacher who looked eager to get away on holiday. He’d studied diligently, and the test frightened him no more than the practice tests had, but afterward he couldn’t remember anything about it—questions or answers. He evaded Malsha’s inquiries and took a certain private pleasure in the Magistrate’s furrowed brow. Was Malsha worried that his “jewel” didn’t sparkle as brightly as he’d hoped?

One night in mid-January, a knock came on the door of his room. Tilrey opened up expecting Krisha, since it wasn’t a free-night. Malsha stood there holding a bottle, an odd tightness to his mouth.

“Aren’t you proud of me for knocking?” the Magistrate asked, stepping in without being asked. “I do try to respect your time off. But I received your test scores an hour ago, and I thought you’d like to know.”

Were they bad, then? Either way, Tilrey knew better than to show a reaction. “Thank you, Fir,” he said, inclining his head.

“Verdant hells, you’re so cold these days. Sometimes you remind me of an Islander.” Malsha raised the bottle—a corked one, clearly a Harbourer import. “Do you know what this is, love?”

“Wine?” Tilrey asked doubtfully. They’d had that a few times, but it was red and this liquid was pale yellow.

“Not just any wine.” Malsha popped out the cork, and white foam spilled over his hands. “This is sparkling wine. What the Tangle folk used to call Champagne.”

Tilrey had taken a step back, alarmed. But the flow waned, the bottle managing not to explode. He followed the Magistrate through the living room into the kitchen, where Malsha poured the foamy stuff into vodka glasses.

“A traditional wine of celebration,” Malsha added, handing one to Tilrey. “Before we drink, we raise these and clink them—see?”

The wine popped and sparkled on Tilrey’s tongue, sweet and bitter at once. It tingled going down his throat and made him cough, but he wanted another sip at once. “So what about the scores, then, Fir?” he asked, once he could speak again.

Malsha’s grimace became a widening smile. “Oh, you’re the cool one, aren’t you? For a moment you had me thinking you didn’t care.”

Tilrey gulped more wine. The fire in his chest made him pleasantly bold, and he said, “For a moment you had me thinking I didn’t place in the top third.”

Malsha stared at him, pupils dilating, cheeks already flushed from the wine. “You placed in Redda’s top tenth. You’re much stronger on the verbal than the technical sections, true. But if we used a simple score cutoff instead of Notification Boards, you’d probably be an Upstart next spring.” Another smile for the sheer absurdity. “Come here, love. Let me offer my heartfelt congratulations.”

So the only real effect of Tilrey’s high scores was that his off night turned into a work night. The sparkling wine helped; by the time Malsha led him into the bedroom, he barely minded. He closed his eyes and focused on the delicious spinning in his head. By now, everything he had to contribute was automatic. Tongue, fingers, and cock inside various parts of him were only distant distractions.

Afterward, Malsha poured more wine. He held the glass to Tilrey’s lips, then tousled his hair and pulled him close. “Still so good,” he said in the dreamy, thick voice he always had after sex. “Some say that too much dallying with pretty boys makes a leader go soft-headed, but for me it’s the opposite. I need incentives. Have I ever told you that, before you came along, I couldn’t find it in myself to give a fuck about anything that happened in the Council?”

Tilrey was curious despite himself. “How did you manage that, Fir? Being the General Magistrate and all?”

“Oh, it’s easier than you think.” Malsha stroked his forehead. “Many GMs are basically figureheads. I let Tollmann handle policy and sent Artur to all those deadly committee meetings as my proxy. I didn’t need a kettle boy while other party elders were handling the business of keeping our coalition in line.”

“And then, Fir?” Tilrey was starting to sober up, but his head still felt heavy.

A soft kiss in his hair. “Then you came along and gave me back my ambition. I could have simply kept you, of course, without making you my kettle boy. There are ways. But what’s the fun of having a jewel if you can’t show it off and make your rivals seethe with jealousy?”

“Mmm.” Tilrey’s thoughts were starting to wander. This position was comfortable; maybe the wine would put him to sleep. Once he was actually out, Malsha generally let him stay that way.

Fingers in his hair, patting and soothing. “I was thinking of retiring, if you can believe that. Now I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m back in the game and enjoying the sport like I never have before. Which is why—” his voice shifted into a lower, darker gear; Tilrey heard that warning note even through his lethargy— “it’s so important for me to hold on to our friend Saldegren’s support. And you know, sweetheart, lately he’s had complaints about you.”

Tilrey’s eyes snapped open while his mind was still struggling back to full awareness. “Complaints? Vanya? What did he say?” He raised his head from Malsha’s shoulder. “He never told me, Fir.” Saldegren never seemed anything but fully satisfied by their nights together.

Malsha looked mildly amused—he’d gotten his reaction at last. “It’s nothing to be upset about, my love. But you do have a certain tendency to lie there like a dead fish, and you can’t expect us not to notice.”

Tilrey’s face burned. Malsha had never once objected to the way he “lay there,” never done anything but encourage it. “I don’t, though,” he said, unable to meet the Magistrate’s eye. “I mean, I do everything you want. I’m good with my mouth.”

There was so much else he did, too, simply because it was expected. Get on his hands and knees. Raise his hips. Throw back his head and arch his back. Not show any discomfort. He blinked away angry tears. Just last ten-day, Councillor István had said he “submitted beautifully.”

Malsha seemed positively tickled by his discomfiture. “No one’s disputing your oral skills, my boy. That’s not what bothers Saldegren. His problem is that when he’s fucking you he wants you to enjoy it.”

That. Saldegren was always grabbing his cock, trying to get him hard and eager in situations where he preferred to be numb. Tilrey asked, “That’s not what you want, though, is it?”

They both knew the answer. Malsha liked boys to endure his attentions in stiff or wincing obedience; the reluctance was part of what turned him on. If he’d wanted Tilrey to come, he would have demanded it long ago.

Malsha sighed. “Vanya and I have different tastes. But he has a point: We’ve never worked properly on your responsiveness. And he’s not the only man who likes an enthusiastic partner. I think it’s time to give it some focused attention.”

Tilrey’s dread must have shown on his face. Malsha tousled his hair again. “Come now. If you’ve mastered calculus and the G group of programming languages—things you’ll never actually use, by the way—you can master this.” He reached down and gave Tilrey’s cock a knowing squeeze. “Anyway, I have made you come before, and I imagine Saldegren has, too. Our task now is to make sure you come when you’re supposed to, and not before.”

Tilrey squirmed away, remembering how helpless he felt whenever Saldegren insisted on manipulating him. “I can’t. Control it, I mean. It just happens.”

A gentle smile. “Of course it does. You’re a healthy eighteen-year-old boy. Wouldn’t you like to learn to control it, though?”

Tilrey rolled over and curled into himself, hoping they wouldn’t have to start tonight. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Luckily, I do.”

***

They began on the next free-night, and it was as embarrassing as Tilrey had feared. In a few hours, he whined and flinched and protested enough to make up for all the preceding months of proud, stone-faced submission.

The worst part was that he ought to like it. Malsha’s fingers were firm and expert when they tightened around Tilrey’s cock. A few pumps were enough to make him rock-hard and moaning for more, feeling the tremors of need all the way to his toes.

“Nothing wrong with those responses,” Malsha said smugly, then gave Tilrey’s cock a hard swat. Tilrey doubled up in pain and tried to roll over, but Malsha said, “Breathe through it” and pressed his shoulder down and held him fast.

Tilrey breathed through it, willing the arousal to ebb away. Just when he finally seemed to have it under control, just when his aching cock was wilting, Malsha gave it a long, agonizing pump, and he was right back to struggling with a desperate, toe-curling need for release.

The third time Malsha repeated this torture, Tilrey came the instant the Magistrate’s hand began to move again—warm and sticky, all over his own chest. When Malsha returned with a washcloth, he was balled up with his face in the pillow, trying not to think.

Malsha made Tilrey turn over so he could sponge up the mess. “That wasn’t bad for a start,” he said. “But the goal is for you to hold yourself back rather than relying on an aversive stimulus from your partner. You need to expect the pain.”

Tilrey nodded, jaw clenched. He didn’t want to learn any of this, didn’t, but it would be easier if he did, and having control was always better than not having control, and he couldn’t help remembering how Malsha had beamed at him, full of admiration, when he revealed the test scores. It was like having the sun shine directly on you.

“How do I learn to do that?” he asked roughly.

“I’ve never been trained this way myself. But I would guess . . . practice?”

So they practiced. Twice that free-night and twice the next. Malsha experimented with different sorts of “aversive stimuli” to keep Tilrey from coming: twisting his balls, pinching his shoulder or thigh, once even slapping his face. Tilrey managed to hold out through four rounds, then five, then six, before he came the moment he was touched.

He squeezed his eyes shut and lay stiff as a ramrod and dug his nails into his palms and thought of all the least arousing things he could. He thought of the loose skin at Malsha’s neck and belly. He thought of Lindahl forcing him to recite prime numbers and square roots. He thought of the smell of boiled cabbage. But in the end, his cock simply would not cooperate.

Until now, he’d prided himself on his self-control, his ability to lie calmly and endure whatever others chose to inflict on him. What an idiot. Submission was nothing—it was easy.

And the worst part was knowing that Malsha loved this. The Magistrate’s cock went utterly neglected during these sessions. Yet, when he finally allowed Tilrey to rest, drawing Tilrey into his arms and petting and stroking him, the old man was practically purring.

“You mustn’t be too hard on yourself, sweetheart,” he said on their second night of practice, pressing Tilrey’s face against his chest. “I’m hardly an experienced trainer, but I think this takes a while. How about this? Once you get that unruly organ of yours under control, you’ll get a reward. To fuck me.”

“I—what?” Tilrey thought he must have misheard. Malsha had never asked for so much as a finger inside him. He tried to imagine mounting the old man, but the thought made him cringe with disgust, or perhaps just dread. “You wouldn’t enjoy that, though, Fir.”

“Of course I would. Or should, if you’re doing it right.” After a moment, Malsha sighed. “I haven’t given enough attention to stimulating you that way, have I? I’ve been selfish. Well, rest assured, you can enjoy a cock inside you. And when I’m done with you, you’ll know how to make a partner enjoy it, too.”

Tilrey had seen men in porn streams squirming in ecstasy when their prostates were stimulated; he’d felt twinges of that pleasure himself. But to make someone else feel it? While he himself was keeping his cock under control?

He hid his face against the Magistrate’s collarbone. “It’s not a reward you’re offering, then. It’s more work.”

Malsha laughed gleefully. “How right you are. But in the end, love, you may like it more than you expect. A big lad like you, growing bigger every day—oh yes, men are going to want you to stick that great big thing inside them. I can’t say I haven’t thought about it myself. And I’d hate for you to lose that particular virginity with anyone but me.”

***

The rest of January passed this way, then half of February. Once Malsha had a goal in his head, he was ruthless about accomplishing it.

It was hard for Tilrey not to blame Vanya Saldegren, just a little. He tried not to let on, but during one of their nights together, the man noticed his moodiness and asked what was wrong.

“Nothing, Fir.” Telling the truth would make Tilrey look like a sulky child. Vanya might ask Malsha to let up on him, and Malsha would give him a cold lecture about discretion. “I’m fine.”

Saldegren looked mournful, but he didn’t ask again.

Bror noticed Tilrey’s lowness, too—he always did. For a few days, Tilrey considered asking his friend for help. Bror had made passing mentions of fucking some of the Councillors he obliged, and of his particular skill at giving women pleasure that way. He was probably an expert cocksman, holding out for hours and coming on command—unlike Malsha, whose knowledge was all second hand.

But it was too humiliating, and anyway, Tilrey and Bror had never been intimate that way, despite Tilrey’s attempt on the wretched sap-drowned afternoon. If it was going to happen, ever, Tilrey wanted it to be something good for them both, not a lesson that would remind him of Malsha.

“Doin’ okay, Rishka?” Bror asked on a gray afternoon in the Café. He was playing his usual endless card game with Lus and Ansha while Tilrey sat huddled above them on the deep windowseat, watching flakes fling themselves through the twilight.

Bror waggled the toe of Tilrey’s boot, and Tilrey answered him: “Sure.” He’d brought a book up here as an excuse, but he hadn’t opened it. “I just wish I was . . . somewhere else.”

“Don’t we all,” Lus said, sticking his finger in a vial.

“Somewhere it’s summer,” Bror said. “Sunny all day. Can’t you walk outdoors, Tilrey, in Thurskein in the summer? Just like in the Southern Range?”

“Yeah.” Tilrey couldn’t let himself think about his summer days with Dal—sneaking over the barrier and hiking through the trees and along the thawed, burbling river. “In Harbour,” he said, “it must be sunny already.”

“Oh, we’re dreaming of Harbour again.” Ansha rolled his eyes. “My Councillor says the Magistrate gets so many luxuries from Bettevy it should be illegal. A taste for Harbourer goods is weak; we have enough for ourselves.”

Bror guffawed. “Does your Councillor Lindahl say the same thing when he’s eating a whole Harbourer brook trout, the way I saw him doing at the Restaurant the other night?”

“So, he’s human.” Ansha’s eyes hadn’t moved from Tilrey. “It’s funny, Rishka, the way you’re always on about Harbour. You seem to hate the Magistrate, but you sound more and more like him.”

The barb was trivial, like the slaps Malsha gave Tilrey to keep him from release. But seething frustration had been building inside Tilrey with every free-night. He saw himself slapping Ansha so hard the chair toppled backward. He felt the sting on his palm, his satisfaction as the other boy stumbled up from the floor with a look of disbelief. Oh yes.

He stayed put, of course. He wasn’t stupid. “It’s kind of sad, Ansha, the way you talk about Councillor Lindahl—like you worship him. He thinks you’re a brainless little piece. He told me so in bed.”

They were always slinging barbs at each other, but maybe they didn’t expect that from Tilrey, because the table went silent. Ansha reddened like he had been hit. “Lindahl’s an ass,” Bror murmured, after a moment.

Ansha recovered enough to say, “And I guess Lindahl thinks you’re brilliant.”

“Brilliant enough that he makes me recite the times table while he’s fucking me, anyhow.” Tilrey slid down from the windowseat. He’d just been indiscreet, giving Ansha ammunition for later battles, but he didn’t care. “My point isn’t that Lindahl likes me better—I don’t think he likes any of us. My point is that you shouldn’t idolize him just because he’s a Councillor and you have to suck his dick. Have some fucking pride.”

With that, he scooped up his book and strode across the polished pine floor and into the passage that led to the Library, ignoring Ansha’s outraged “Who the fuck does he think he is?” and Lus’s lazy drawl: “What crawled up that boy’s ass?”

Bror caught up to him in the passage. “Rishka, wait. He was being a prick, I know, but you gotta understand, he’s—”

“Jealous and insecure. Right.” Tilrey crossed his arms, still shaking a little from the thrill of speaking his mind. “And I’m just in a shitty mood. So neither of us is to blame, right?”

Bror looked grieved. “If you’re in a shitty mood, you can talk about it. You can tell me things.”

Not always. Tilrey was tired of being soothed like a child. “I stand by what I said. Ansha spends all his time shooting down any Drudge he thinks is more favored than he is. It’s sad.”

Bror spread his hands, still with the glum expression that looked wrong on him. “I know,” he said. “We all know. And the reason Ansha’s such a prick—well, one reason—is that he started out like you. He was the youngest, the newest, the favorite. All the Councillors doted on him. But after a few months they got bored of him and moved on, the way they always do. And now . . .”

Heat flushed Tilrey’s face. “I am not like him. I’ll never be like him. Don’t you remember what he tried to do to me in the Vacants?”

“Of course, and I told him if he ever tried that again, I’ll rearrange his pretty face in ways that would end his career. But—”

“But you’re still his friend. Or maybe you just feel sorry for him the way you do for me.”

Bror reached out, but Tilrey backed away. “Is that why you’re here?” he added. “To make sure I don’t end up like Ansha?”

Bror shook his head. “You’re nothing like him. Didn’t mean that. But I do worry about you.”

Tilrey had heard and seen enough. Bror’s woeful expression was starting to look a lot like pity. “Well, you shouldn’t,” he said, and turned briskly toward the stacks again. “Unlike Ansha, I’ve got a functioning backbone and test scores like a fucking Strutter’s, and I’ll be fine. Now, do me a favor and leave me alone.”

***

Tilrey fled several flights down to Research Collections, where Bror was less likely to find him, but he couldn’t concentrate on any book he picked up. He flipped through pictures of flora and fauna from the Tangle era, his mind on what had happened upstairs.

Would Bror take his request to be let alone seriously? He hadn’t meant forever. He wasn’t sure he could get through a ten-day without his friend’s easy laugh.

“Excuse me. Is that the American Southwest Field Guide?”

Tilrey looked up to find a young man carrying a stack of books. His first impression after the voice—assertive like an Upstart’s—was of eyes that reminded him of photos of the ocean swelling between icebergs, liquid and shocking turquoise.

“Yes, Fir.” He closed the book and pushed it across the table. “You can have it.”

“No, no!” The young man backed away a step, sounding less confident now. He might have been in his twenties or thirties; it was hard to tell from his slender, boyish figure. His tunic was loose and unflattering, with a low neck—a Discourser or Biologist, certainly not a Sector Diplomat.

“I was only curious because I recognized the picture.” The stranger came back and flipped through the book until he found the page Tilrey had been senselessly staring at. “That high ridge is called a mesa. And those are cacti. It’s like our Wastes, but as dry as they’re wet. And so hot. I’d love to go there, even just for a day, to feel that heat. To see that pink mesa.”

The Upstart sighed in a dramatic way that matched his appearance—those blue eyes set off by a pale face and jet-black hair. “Wouldn’t you?”

Tilrey was still smarting from Ansha’s comments about Harbour. (Did he really sound like Malsha?) “That’s a picture from the Tangle, Fir,” he said. “Hundreds of years ago. It’s probably all gone.”

“Oh, there are still deserts in the south. Malsha visited one on a diplomatic mission. You should ask him about it.”

Malsha? Was he everywhere, inescapable? Tilrey’s heart thudded. For an instant he thought the young man had read his mind, but then he remembered how visible he was as Malsha’s kettle boy. “I’m sorry, Fir. It seems you know me, but I don’t know you.”

“No, I’m sorry. I’ve been awfully rude.” The young man flashed him a conspiratorial, surprisingly radiant smile. “I do know who you are. I confess with chagrin, I’ve been watching you.” He held out his hand. “Adelbert Verán.”

The family name of Malsha’s arch-enemy bit into Tilrey like an icy wind, but he offered his hand and let the young Verán clasp his knuckles. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be talking to Islanders, Fir.”

“Oh, I’m no politician!” Again the beautiful smile. “My uncle’s the Island majority leader, right, but I never go near the Sector. I’m a mere Discourser.” He mimed ferocious typing. “I compose summaries of judicial decisions to go in Records. Pretty silly work, really. Mostly propaganda, spinning things the way the Sector wants them.” In a casual tone, he added, “I guess Malsha hasn’t mentioned me?”

“Not that I recall, Fir.”

All the animation left Adelbert. He slumped into a chair and scrubbed his palms across his face. “Not once?”

“I don’t think so.” Who was this man?

For a moment, silence. Then Adelbert said, “I’m not surprised. It’s been ten years since we lived together. Would you believe it? I used to sleep in the bed where you’re sleeping now.”

Oh. Somehow it had never occurred to Tilrey that Malsha might have had Upstart lovers, ones he couldn’t boss around. “I didn’t know,” he said, wondering why this handsome, high-named youth had chosen to share Malsha’s bed. “Artur didn’t mention you, Fir.”

“I was well before Artur’s time. I was only nineteen when I moved in, and twenty-two when I moved out.” The blue eyes were scrutinizing Tilrey openly now, moving from his face down his body. “But you’re even younger, aren’t you? He does like them young.”

The inspection made Tilrey’s skin crawl, but he was curious, too. He wished he were bold enough to ask Adelbert pointed questions: Has he always been like this? Was it better for you?

“Young, pretty, bright, and innocent. And a bit twitchy.” Adelbert’s lip curled. “You’re not Reddan, though, are you? That’s an interesting variation. Maybe his tastes are evolving.”

Heat rose to Tilrey’s cheeks, and he stood up with a jolt. “I should be going, Fir. It’s a free-night, and I—I . . .”

“Of course. You need to go serve his tea.” Adelbert didn’t sneer, as Strutters so often did; he said it matter-of-factly. “Look,” he said, gazing up at Tilrey. “I know you’re not supposed to speak to strangers, and I shouldn’t have been watching you. But I can’t help wondering, do you sometimes need someone to talk to?”

Tilrey swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Why would I . . . ? I’m fine, Fir.”

“Of course you are! Of course!” Those striking eyes stayed on him. “But you know, I used to say the same thing. And I was not fine.”

Neither am I. Help me. Tilrey stuck his hands in his pockets and managed to keep his face blank. Clearly things had ended poorly between Malsha and Adelbert, and Adelbert was resentful and possibly jealous, which meant the two of them shouldn’t be talking. Kettle boy ethics were simple: You never gave the time of day to anyone your patron was unhappy with.

But he couldn’t seem to walk away.

After a furtive look around the reading room, Adelbert added, “I don’t want to get you in trouble. It’s just—well, I’ve watched you before.”

He slid a scrap of folded paper from his tunic and held it out to Tilrey. “That’s my address. If you come over any fifth-day at six, we could at least talk. That helps sometimes, right? Up to you.”

Chapter 16: Compared

“Well?” Besha Linbeck asked his friend Adelbert Verán. “What happened? Did you get a chance to talk to Malsha’s boy?”

Besha was always so impatient since he’d started working in the Sector, so huffy and self-important. Sometimes Adelbert found it funny, and sometimes the transformation just depressed him.

Of all his schoolmates, Besha was the one for whom he’d least have predicted a rapid upward trajectory. Adelbert remembered him as a snot-nosed, nasal-voiced boy who always got picked last for games. But somehow or other, through mechanisms Adelbert didn’t choose to contemplate, cunning and a lack of scruples had gotten Besha far.

“I’ve talked to him, yeah.” Adelbert stretched to let warm vapor penetrate every inch of his body. They were in the white-tiled, cedar-benched steam room of the cushy R-10 gym that Besha frequented.

Adelbert was only R-7—barely an Upstart—but Besha had snuck him in, and he was more grateful than he liked to admit. Even ten years later, he couldn’t help missing the luxuries he’d enjoyed during his years living with Malsha.

“The boy seemed curious,” he said, “but jumpy. Malsha must have him on a short leash.”

“You invited him to your place? Like we agreed?”

“Of course.” Adelbert remembered how skittish poor Tilrey had been in the Library. “I don’t expect him to show, though.”

“Don’t say that!” Besha drew skinny knees up to his chest and ran nervy fingers through his sandy hair. “When I talked to the kid, I saw definite potential. He looked like he wanted to sink through the floor, and when I asked how things were with Malsha, he deflected every time.”

“Of course. He’s miserable.” Adelbert had read that in the boy’s posture with a shiver of empathy. He didn’t have to imagine how it felt to live under Malsha’s thumb.

But he hadn’t been able to stifle a second reaction—a quick, humiliating stab of jealousy. Malsha still adores you. Shows you off to all his friends. What do you have to be sad about?

“He’s just like I predicted to you before either of us laid eyes on him,” he told Besha. “Way too young, gorgeous, and so sad he’s practically wilting. Exactly Malsha’s type.”

“I know, but why?” Besha rubbed his hands; he could never stay still. “I mean, what does the boy have to be sad about? He’s a Skeinsha. This is a huge jump up the ration ladder for him.”

Typical Besha. Adelbert never asked questions about Besha’s own long-standing relationship with Malsha—he didn’t want to know. But he suspected that, if Besha thought he could better himself by going on his knees for the Magistrate, he’d hit the floor without a second’s hesitation. Some people were born without shame.

“The boy seems sensitive,” he said with a shrug.

“So, we use that. When the kid comes to you—and he will come—you offer to help him. Make the promises we talked about. Get him to meet you at your dad’s place in the Southern Range, next recess. I’ll handle the rest.”

The whole scheme was feeling less feasible by the minute—and less savory, now that the boy was a real person and not an abstraction. Buying time, Adelbert said, “You can’t expect me to go to all that trouble when you won’t tell me the endgame.”

“The less you know, the better you’ll play your part.”

Adelbert didn’t like being ordered around, particularly not since his time with Malsha, and he could always tell when his friend was hiding something. “My uncle doesn’t know about this, does he? It’s not his kind of tactic.”

“This isn’t Island business, no.”

“Then what is it?”

Adelbert had gotten on board in the first place because he was curious about the new kettle boy, and because he was fairly sure that Besha’s plan was aimed at hurting Malsha. Now, though, there was another factor in the equation. Adelbert wasn’t the type to fret over other people’s feelings. But he couldn’t help remembering how it felt to wear a hard shell, to walk around saying, “I’m fine” between gritted teeth.

Empathy and envy—he couldn’t seem to separate them. This was what Malsha did to you: He took your best impulses and poisoned them.

Besha glowered at his friend through the steam. “Bertsha, I trusted you because I thought we both hated Malsha’s guts. And I thought you trusted me. If you dare breathe a word of this to your uncle—” His eyes narrowed. “You may not think I can hurt you, but I can.”

Adelbert believed Besha could hurt him. But it was a long time since he’d had much to lose. “When have I ever told tales to my uncle?” he asked. “When has he ever listened to me? I don’t like being in the dark, that’s all. What’s your endgame with Malsha’s boy?”

A long-suffering sigh. “Look. When I was young and stupid, Malsha made me do some things, and he gave me some things in return. It worked out okay, but now he won’t stop acting like he has a claim on me. All I want is my freedom. And you—you want to stab Malsha where it hurts, right? Do you really care how?”

Trust Besha to lay it all out in a way that made Adelbert sound like a vengeful little bastard. But he wasn’t wrong. Three years ago, when Besha had come to Adelbert to propose a quiet alliance against the Magistrate, Adelbert hadn’t been reluctant—he’d spilled everything he knew about Malsha’s weak spots.

And he was still waiting for the payoff of seeing his former lover, his first and only real lover, in pain. He couldn’t wait forever.

“Okay,” Adelbert said, rising. The heat made blood rush to his head, and for an instant he thought he might faint. “We’ll see if the boy comes to me. If he does . . . well, I’ll talk to him. I have an idea how to go about it.”

***

Vanya Saldegren stopped what he’d been doing to peer anxiously down at Tilrey. “Am I hurting you?”

Tilrey shook his head, trying not to show the desperation he felt. The man’s hand was still on his cock, and it had brought him to the very knife-edge of release. His groin was a sea of heat, his balls high and tight; if that hand moved again, if he moved, if he even breathed, he would come. And if he came without being told, he would prove he had no control of anything.

“You look like you’re in pain.” Saldegren released his hold, and Tilrey exhaled with a long shudder. “Don’t you like that?”

“I—yes.” Tilrey closed his eyes and tried to think of boiled cabbage, dirty toilet bowls, cold clean snow. “I’m, uh, ready,” he admitted, though saying it was cheating. Malsha didn’t allow that: You wait for my signal. You wait patiently, without a word. “Whenever you want me to.”

“Ready to . . .? Oh, of course.” Saldegren closed his fingers again, making Tilrey gasp. “Then what are you waiting for?”

Was that a yes? Malsha might not think so, but Tilrey’s body seized the opportunity. His vision whited out as a spasm of pleasure arched his back. It lasted for one long, exquisite moment before fading, leaving him limp with humiliation and sticky with his own come. Why do I always feel so shitty afterward?

Rather than getting up to clean Tilrey off, the way Malsha always did, Saldegren pulled him close and kissed him wetly. “I love watching you come,” he whispered. “But why’d you hold back that way? To make it better?”

I wish. Tilrey pressed his forehead to the man’s shoulder. He shouldn’t say anything. But this new phase of his training was all Saldegren’s fault, and it seemed unfair that the man was allowed to play innocent.

“I’m trying to make it better for you, not me,” he said stiffly. “So it lasts as long as you want.”

“As long as I want?” Saldegren pulled away and regarded him skeptically. “But it’s your turn.”

“You want me to have a turn. This is for you.” Tilrey’s voice was tight with anger; he couldn’t seem to control that, either. “You said I wasn’t responsive, that my responses were bad. So I’m learning to control them to give you what you want, Fir.”

Understanding dawned on Saldegren’s face. “Malsha told you that? I never said anything about you was ‘bad,’ love. I only said it made me sad to see you lying there not enjoying yourself.”

Malsha could easily have misrepresented Saldegren’s words, but it didn’t matter now. “A whore has to have control,” Tilrey said, still in that choked voice. “You want me to come, sure, Fir. But if I do it when you’re not expecting it, it gets sloppy. Disgusting. You deserve better.”

“Did he tell you that?” Saldegren stroked Tilrey’s side, his voice full of a concern that made Tilrey queasy. “You shouldn’t call yourself a whore. That’s a nasty word, and there’s nothing nasty about you. I would never, ever find you disgusting.”

Well, aren’t you fucking enlightened, said a cold little voice inside Tilrey, a voice that sounded like Malsha. Aloud, he said, “I’m sorry, Fir. You won’t tell him I said any of that? Please?”

Saldegren made an aggrieved sound. “I have to clear this up with Malsha. I don’t like being spoken for.”

Tilrey rolled over in a flash and leaned into Saldegren’s paunch, keeping the sticky parts of himself carefully clear. “You mustn’t, Fir,” he said, letting one hand wander seductively down the curve of the man’s domed belly. “This is between Fir Magistrate and me. Let me handle it.” You’d only make it worse.

“I don’t like what you’re telling me,” Saldegren fretted—then gasped as Tilrey’s fingers closed around his cock. “But you are a smart boy,” he managed between sharp, excited inhalations. “I suppose you can look out for yourself.”

***

Tilrey wouldn’t go to Adelbert Verán’s apartment. He knew better.

The first fifth-day after their meeting in the Library, he tore up the paper on which the Upstart had written his address and flushed it down the toilet. But that didn’t stop him from recalling the building and apartment numbers, clear as day. At odd moments—using the rowing machine in the gym, sucking Akeina off—he found himself remembering the knowing tilt of the young Verán’s head as he asked, Do you sometimes need someone to talk to?

The problem was, Tilrey did. A month or so ago, he would have gone to Artur, but things had changed. He couldn’t tell Artur the worst thing about this new “training”—that, on some level, he wanted to please Malsha by learning to control himself.

Artur was so good at drawing boundaries. And Tilrey—well, maybe it was because he’d never had a father, an uncle, a loving grandfather. Maybe he was just too lonely or too weak. But some part of him, green help him, wanted every word of praise that fell from Malsha’s lips.

And something about the way Adelbert had spoken of Malsha made him think he wasn’t alone. This proud Upstart, this Verán—he’d felt the need for that approval, too.

On the second fifth-day after his meeting with Adelbert, Tilrey somehow found himself in Ring Three as six o’clock approached, standing on the tram platform and gazing up at a boxy sandstone tower swathed in icy mist.

He was free to wander the city now. He could stand here if he wanted. It didn’t mean he’d go in.

Then a tram came, and Adelbert Verán stepped off it. He was as pretty under the streetlights as he’d been in the Library, but there were smudges beneath his blue eyes, and his hood plastered black hair to his forehead in greasy streaks.

He didn’t seem surprised to see Tilrey. “Want to come in? You look like you need a nice cup of tea.”

Tilrey didn’t move. Adelbert turned, with a shrug that said Suit yourself, and headed for the lift.

After a moment, Tilrey followed. He hadn’t said a word, hadn’t offered his hand for the Upstart to clasp, and he half expected a sharp Where are your manners? Then he realized Adelbert didn’t give a fuck about his manners, and some part of him that had been tightly compressed began to open.

Adelbert’s apartment was the smallest Upstart living space Tilrey had ever seen, just a sitting room with a kitchenette on one side and a bed alcove on the other. Everything was white, a dingier white than he was used to. The windows were higher and smaller, too.

Tilrey sat on the single couch without being asked. Now that he was here, he felt the urge to bolt rising in him. “I didn’t mean to come,” he said stupidly.

“Yet here you are.” In the kitchenette, Adelbert was banging tea things around. “You shouldn’t worry so much. If you went right home and told Malsha you’d been with me, he’d probably find it hilarious.”

Tilrey wouldn’t be surprised. “When he laughs is when he’s most dangerous, Fir.”

The instant the words were out, he wanted to take them back. But Adelbert only laughed himself—a borderline hysterical cackle. “So you’re familiar with Malsha’s dark side.”

Of course I am. Tilrey reined himself in hard; he wasn’t dumb enough to spill his guts to a Verán. “I can’t talk about me and Malsha, Fir. It’s not discreet. I came because you seemed to have things you wanted to tell me.”

Adelbert returned and draped himself on the couch. His posture was half languid and half lazy, like he knew he’d look good no matter what. “Oh, there are lots of things I could tell you,” he said. “But only if you’re curious. How about you start by asking me questions? You must have some.”

Tilrey had so much to ask—much of it potentially disrespectful—that his mind went blank. Only one thing came out: “Are you the reason Malsha and Councillor Verán hate each other?”

Adelbert laughed at that, more gently this time. “I can’t take full credit, but I was a factor. Did you know Malsha used to be a swing voter, before he was Magistrate? The Linnetts have always been Mainlanders, but Malsha was pretty much nobody back then, because his family lost a lot of status after that episode with Edvard, the traitor. Malsha got his Council seat by doing favors for both sides, helping the Islanders set up a diplomacy deal with Harbour. So yeah, he and my uncle were on good terms back then. That’s actually how I—”

The kettle whistled. Adelbert dashed into the kitchenette and returned with a heavy ceramic kettle, which he plopped on a pad, then made a second trip for tumblers. “Sorry. This isn’t going to be as fancy as you’re used to. I don’t have my own private tea trees. Tell me, how old are you?”

“Nineteen, Fir.” Or he would be two months from now, but he didn’t want Adelbert thinking he was a child.

“If you keep calling me Fir, I might start climbing the walls. Just warning you.” Adelbert knelt beside the table and poured gracefully for them both as if he’d been trained like Tilrey. Maybe he had,

He passed Tilrey a tumbler, his cheeks flushed with steam. “See, you have to understand something about me—I’m what Upstarts call a Dissenter. I’ve never had a proper sense of Levels or boundaries. My uncle thinks it’s because my mother’s low-named and Dad married her for her looks, but I think it’s just me. I’m not a good Oslov. I always did like the wrong things.”

Tilrey took a sip. The tea was nicely steeped, with no telltale sweetness—so Adelbert wasn’t trying to get him sap-drowned. “What do you mean by that?” he asked. It was an effort to pose a direct question without softening it with “Fir.”

“Do you want to hear the whole sordid story? Because that’s how my story with Malsha starts—with me liking the wrong things. I did okay at school, but I never had a head for numbers.” Adelbert settled on the couch again, his tea in both hands. “What I enjoyed was playing make-believe like a little kid. When I was sixteen, I happened to run across a crew shooting an exterior scene for a stream. I stopped to watch. It was mesmerizing—the cameras, the lighting, the sound equipment, but especially the actors, how they’d slip in and out of their roles in a finger-snap. I spent all afternoon there, and then I asked the set manager if I could do odd jobs at the studio.”

Streams were mostly shot in Redda, but Tilrey knew next to nothing about the process. “Can Upstarts make streams, Fir?”

Adelbert shook his head. “It’s not considered knowledge work. And Veráns aren’t even supposed to watch streams, let alone make them. But I didn’t care—I was young. My Notification seemed so far away. The crew gave me errands to do, and I spent all my free hours at the studio. This went on for a year or so. The people in charge started noticing me, making a pet of me—my interest flattered them. I confessed that I wanted to act, and they encouraged me, gave me scripts to read and screen tests.”

He was blushing now, not looking at Tilrey. “I suspect I was quite bad. But I did look good on camera, and I was passionate about it. At least half the actors in streams are moonlighting whores from the Sanctioned, did you know? Most of them have a certain . . . roughness. I didn’t. One of the directors had a leading role that would be perfect for me. The only catch was that, to appear in a stream, I’d need a proper, official posting to the troupe. Which means I’d need to be Lowered at eighteen instead of Raised.”

Tilrey’s stomach twisted. “Lowered? But you couldn’t.”

Adelbert’s gaze locked onto Tilrey as if he’d been waiting for this reaction. “Couldn’t I? That’s what everyone in this whole goddamn city assumes—that no one would throw their rightful Level away just for a chance to do something they love. How irrational.” He was talking faster, his eyes fever-bright. “Because no one in this whole goddamn city cares about anything more than their goddamn Level.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“It’s okay.” Adelbert took a sip, and a shudder ran through him. “I’m not angry with you. I realize now I was a spoiled little twit. I even thought I could get away with it. I took my E-Squareds, but I never filled out my application for University, which means my Notification should have come back Laborer by default. And it would have, if one of those streamers hadn’t gone and tattled to my uncle.”

Tilrey couldn’t seem to untense his shoulders. Imagine choosing to be a Laborer in Redda—to be powerless. “What did your uncle do?”

“Oh, you can imagine,” Adelbert said breezily. “Uncle Visha locked me up in his spare room and threatened me with moral rehab. We had to ‘clean up this mess’ and ‘repair this dishonor,’ and the only way was for me to follow his orders. My uncle had a plan, see. He knew someone on the Education Committee—a certain Malsha Linnett. At this late date, getting me admitted to University was tricky. But with Malsha’s support, it could be done. Again, there was a catch, though. What do you think it was?”

Tilrey remembered how it felt to be locked in a Councillor’s spare room, and what he’d had to do (over and over) to secure his freedom. “I don’t know, Fir.”

“Yes, you do. I see it on your face. Don’t be shocked—things like this happen more often than you’d think. Uncle knew Malsha liked pretty boys. He told me that, as a penance for bringing dishonor on the family, I would have to sleep with his colleague for a single night. Give the man my virginity—oh yes, he got me to admit I was a virgin. When that was over, I could be a Strutter, and everything would be fine.”

Something inside Tilrey curled up, cringing. “You had a choice, though. Didn’t you?” You had to have more of a choice than I did.

“Sure. I held out for a few days. But I knew that once Uncle got me into moral rehab, I was pretty much fucked. I could petition, try to convince a judge I was sane and just wanted to be an actor. But nobody thought it was a sane decision, not even my streamer friends. So in the end, I caved.”

Tilrey put the tumbler down; it was about to spill. “That was how it started?”

“Oh no. Not yet.” Adelbert’s smile had a dangerous edge. “My uncle essentially sold me to Malsha, yes. We went to see him on a free-night and had tea together, so polite and formal—” his face twisted— “and then Uncle left me there. I was shaking like a sapling in a high wind. I’d never even kissed anyone.”

Tilrey rubbed his mouth as if to expel a bad taste. Too many memories.

“I was psyching myself up to get through it,” Adelbert said. “Malsha was in his fifties then, and he was actually quite handsome. I was attracted to him, in a way, but it was all too humiliating. He saw how upset I was, and he kept his distance from me and spoke to me in his gentlest voice—you know what I mean?”

Tilrey knew that voice well.

“He said, ‘I’m not comfortable with this. You’re clearly not here of your own free will.’ I begged him to go through with it because Uncle would kill me otherwise, and Malsha just looked at me in this sad, concerned way.

“I think that was his favorite part—watching me beg and try to seduce him. Me, a Verán. He let me do that for a while, pretending he was trying to soothe me. Finally, he said in his loftiest voice, ‘I shall tell your uncle we completed our transaction. Do me the favor of sleeping on my couch while I retire to bed.’”

Tilrey let out his breath. “He didn’t . . .?”

Adelbert reached for the kettle and poured for them both. “Malsha was playing a long game, my friend. He let me go because he knew I’d come back. He didn’t want me for a single night, the way Uncle planned. He wanted to possess me.”

A shiver snaked down Tilrey’s spine. He could almost feel Malsha’s hands tracing his own contours, those long, supple fingers tangling in his hair. “But why would you come back to him?”

“Good question.” Adelbert’s finger traced the rim of the tumbler. “I wish I had a good answer. It took nearly a year. I was at University, in a little hole of a room. I couldn’t go to the stream studio. Couldn’t see any of my friends there without Uncle finding out. And the other students all knew I’d tried to Lower myself. You can’t keep a secret like that. People avoided me like I was mad and it might rub off on them. By the end of that year, I practically was mad. And the only bright spot in my life?”

He raised those radiant blue eyes to Tilrey. “Malsha. He sent me little gifts sometimes. Letters. Nothing suggestive, just the sort of things a thoughtful uncle might send. He visited me—not in the dorm, because he didn’t want to draw attention, but in the Library stacks where I spent most of my time anyway. He watched me. He sought me out.”

Again Tilrey was catching on. “He courted you, Fir.”

Adelbert’s lips twisted. “But subtly. He was a sympathetic ear. He asked for the story behind my ‘mistake’—that was how everybody referred to it. I told him about the streamers, the studio, my acting, and he seemed interested. He told me that in Harbour, theater is a venerated institution and not just cheap entertainment. He’d seen a play in Bettevy, and he described every detail. He showed me pictures of actors and costumes and stages decorated with golden cloth and carvings and chandeliers . . .”

Adelbert gazed into space as if he still saw the phantom stages on which he’d dreamed of acting. “Malsha’s basically an actor himself, Tilrey—you must have noticed. His voice, his grace, his presence. He held himself back with me, he bided his time, and it didn’t take me long to start wanting him.”

This time the shudder rattled Tilrey’s spine. He fought an impulse to get up and run out before he caught whatever sickness Adelbert had. Maybe the man belonged in moral rehab after all.

“I invited myself over for tea,” Adelbert continued, seemingly oblivious to the effect his words were having. “I was the one who slid over on the couch and touched him. I did it because I couldn’t stand going back alone to my little room. But also because it was Malsha, and I wanted him.”

A hard blink; the blue eyes glittered with tears. “I was the one who kissed him first. I was the one who proposed going to bed. In the end, he got every single thing my uncle promised him, only it was given willingly.”

Tilrey’s fists had clenched. He made himself relax and sip his tea. “So. He seduced you, Fir. And he made you think you were the one seducing him.” That part made perfect sense. What didn’t was the part he didn’t dare say because it was terrifying: You loved him.

“Correct.” Adelbert leaned back on his elbows. “And things escalated from there. Two ten-days later, I moved in with him. We stopped hiding our relationship. My uncle raged, but he couldn’t do a thing—I was of age, and I had Malsha’s protection. After I finished my University course, Malsha gave me a posting in his office, writing speeches and reports. We worked well together—my verbal skills complemented his talent for social engineering. And each night we went home and played well together, too.” His eyes slipped away from Tilrey’s, focusing wistfully on empty air. “Three years of that.”

Tilrey heard the distant howl of the wind, the gurgle of pipes. He didn’t particularly want to know the rest of the story. Whatever was wrong with Adelbert, whatever weakness of character had made a young Upstart so susceptible to Malsha’s wiles, it had nothing to do with him.

And yet—and yet. He needed to know he wasn’t alone.

“How did it end?” he asked.

Adelbert’s eyes were dry now, his gaze cold. “May I be indiscreet?” He gave Tilrey a knowing, cynical wink. “Of course I may. Nothing I say can shock you. In the beginning, Malsha was a generous lover. He initiated me so tenderly I still dream of it sometimes. He was always admiring me, flattering me, using terms of endearment. But he let me know in subtle ways that my side of the equation left something to be desired. In short, I wasn’t a great lay.”

Against his will, Tilrey found himself imagining Malsha’s side of the story. The Magistrate liked to take headstrong young men and mold and crush them into vessels for his will. Tilrey had been easy: Tossing him in a brothel for a night and then threatening him with prison made him malleable. But Adelbert posed a different level of challenge—to take a high-born, privileged, emotionally raw young man and grind him down into a common whore. It must have required both stealth and craft—a sustained effort. Where Malsha could simply order Tilrey to do things, he’d had to convince Adelbert those things were his own idea.

“You wanted to please Malsha,” he said, staring down at his clasped hands. “So you asked him to teach you how to please him better.”

Adelbert’s laugh was light, surprised. “That’s right. I begged until he gave in and taught me everything he knew about how to satisfy him, in bed and everywhere else. And oh, I worked hard to keep him happy, day and night. Because I could tell he was starting to get tired of me.” A pause. “Bored of me.”

Lucky you was Tilrey’s first reaction. I wish he were bored of me.

And his second reaction was blank terror, because on a deeper level, he understood. The despair in Adelbert’s voice, the fear of being neglected and forgotten, wasn’t foreign. Tilrey would have done anything to have less of Malsha’s attention, yet he hated himself when he couldn’t control himself the way Malsha wanted. Some twisted part of him must be used to the old man’s praise.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice breaking.

“Yeah, well. It happens. And I imagine he won’t get bored of you any time soon.” Adelbert’s tone was different—speculative. “You’re so young, and you seem to hate his guts, though you try to hide it. He must love that. My worst quality in Malsha’s eyes was that I was willing. I think it vexed him that I actually wanted him back. You don’t ever want him, do you?”

The question was a bottomless pit. Tilrey couldn’t say he didn’t want the Magistrate’s attentions—too dangerous—but pride wouldn’t allow him to affirm the opposite, either. “It’s my posting,” he managed. “My duty. I don’t have to want anything about it.”

“You poor kid. I wish I could say I’m not jealous of you. I am, but I wouldn’t want to be in your shoes.”

The note of pity made Tilrey’s cheeks burn. “That doesn’t make any sense.”

“No, it doesn’t. Love makes people irrational—maybe you’ll understand that someday. Tell me, has he started giving you to other men yet?”

Another surge of blood to Tilrey’s face. He wanted to tell Adelbert it was none of his fucking business. “Of course. That’s part of my job.”

“He made me do it a few times—give myself to his friends for favors. I think he just wanted to see how far he could push me. Every time I said no, he’d give me the silent treatment for days on end. He knew I couldn’t stand to be ignored. Always, always, I’d come crawling back. Later, I tried to impress him by ‘volunteering’ to do what I already knew he wanted from me.” Adelbert’s voice tightened. “I remember once taking off my tunic and plunking myself down on Councillor István’s lap in the middle of a gathering. I actually thought I was being rebellious.”

It was Tilrey’s turn to feel pity now. “Did any of it work, Fir? I mean, did he—”

“Love me? He put up with me. My erratic behavior amused him, and that counts for a lot.” A sigh. “But in the end, I guess, even my drama bored him. He started pushing me to do things he knew would break me. Has he made you play crowd scenes yet, Tilrey? Perform for him with other men?”

Tilrey remembered that awful night at the Restaurant with Gersha Gádden. “No,” he said, low. “But he’s . . . talked about it.”

“Do yourself a favor. When he brings up the subject again, don’t look as horrified as you did just now.”

Had it been so obvious? He was gripping his own wrist, nails digging into flesh. “I know, Fir. I know not to show him how I feel.”

“But sooner or later, he will make you do it,” Adelbert said with clinical detachment. “It’s one of his favorite things, especially if he can tell you hate it. That was the last straw for me. He took me to this room in the Sanctioned and hired a whore so he could see the two of us together. I drank a whole V of sap and went through with it. But afterward, when I was coherent again—that was it. I packed my things and left.”

Lucky you again, Fir. Tilrey imagined packing a bag and storming out of Malsha’s apartment, slamming the door. Then he had to slam a mental door on the imagining; it hurt too much.

“I got a new posting,” Adelbert continued. “I haven’t spoken to Malsha since. I’ve followed him from afar, waiting to see who he’d do it to next. I had this fool idea that I could help whoever it was.”

“Help, Fir?” The word seemed foreign, senseless.

“First he got the Outer whore—Krisha, the one who’s his driver now. And I figured, well, an Outer isn’t going to be soft. He can handle it. He’s probably better off with Malsha than not. Then came Artur. He was a little older, and I heard he’d made a deal with Malsha, something to make the unpleasantness worth his while, so I figured, well, let it be. And then came you.”

“And I looked soft to you?” The words came out bitter, sarcastic. “How are you going to help me, exactly?”

He felt the pressure of Adelbert’s eyes, and then they were looking straight at each other. The Upstart’s face was blotchy under the whitish light. His jaw worked as if he were rehearsing lines under his breath.

“Everything Malsha did to me,” he said at last, “was one hundred percent legal and aboveboard. Can you say the same for yourself?”

Danger, the small voice inside Tilrey whispered. Something about this, all of it, was familiar.

He scrambled for words, knowing he shouldn’t have hesitated. “Of course. I mean, I’m not a judge or a law expert, but whatever Fir Magistrate does must be legal. Right?”

Adelbert was looking sidelong at him. “You’re not with him of your own free will, or to ‘better yourself,’ or whatever people say to make themselves feel okay about not intervening. You’re with him under coercion.”

How strange that no one else ever acknowledged that; even Bror and Artur found ways to avoid saying it aloud. Tilrey stared down at his hands; he couldn’t trust himself to speak.

“I’m not a law expert, either, but I work in the courts, and I can tell you coercion and extortion aren’t legal. If you tell me what Malsha has on you, what he’s holding over your head, I might be able to draw up a proper complaint for you.”

No. Adelbert couldn’t know about the expunged shirking charge and the threat of prison—or could he?

Now Tilrey realized why the conversation felt familiar. Someone else had pushed him this way—the shrimpy little Admin he’d met in the Library. The one who’d tried to pump him for information—Linbeck. Linbeck had known about the shirking charge. Linbeck worked for Councillor Verán.

Things were falling into place now. What had the little man said? I’ve heard a few things about Fir Magistrate. I had a friend who was his protégé and regretted it.

Tilrey swallowed hard. Was this all an elaborate trap, then?

He stood up and looked around for his outergear. “I’m sorry, Fir, but I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have come.”

Adelbert made no move to stop Tilrey. “You met my friend Besha?” He must have read the answer on Tilrey’s face, because he went on: “I’ll be honest—I asked him about you, because Besha knows everything. He told me a few things.”

Knew it. Tilrey jammed his right foot into its boot. The left boot toppled over, and he grabbed it, his head pounding till his sinuses ached. This had been about fucking politics, all along.

“But I’m not like Besha,” Adelbert protested. “I don’t work for my uncle—not now, not ever. I don’t give a fuck about politics. I’m not trying to use you.”

“No?” Tilrey was halfway to the door when the words rising in his chest finally broke free. “Even if that’s true, Fir, you’re just trying to use me a different way.”

He swung his coat over his shoulders and slapped his hand down on the door panel. He’d spent long enough listening to a privileged fuckup sing the sad song of a misspent life. Malsha was right about one thing—Adelbert was boring.

“And what way would that be?” Adelbert asked.

As the door slid open, Tilrey turned to face him a last time. “To hurt Malsha. That’s what you want to use me for. To hurt him the way he hurt you.”

As he stepped into the corridor, his whole body pulsing with mortification, he heard Adelbert ask in a dry, musing way, “Wouldn’t you like to hurt him, too?”

Notes:

How did this chapter get so long? I guess poor messed-up Adelbert's story absorbed me. I plan to post at least a few more chapters (and finish off this subplot) before I take another hiatus, but I'm working on the next story in the regular arc, too.

Wherever you are, please stay safe, everybody, and thanks for reading. <3

Chapter 17: Provoked

Notes:

My time in the bubble world of Oslov, even when it gets dark and twisted, is helping me get from day to day with a little less panic. Wishing health and hope to everyone here. <3

Fifteen days after his visit to Adelbert Verán’s apartment, Tilrey had his “final exam.”

“Damnation,” Malsha muttered. He was hunched close over his kettle boy, skin to skin, stroking Tilrey’s cock with one hand while working a finger inside him with the other. But his rhythm was off, and his own cock kept going soft against Tilrey’s cleft.

It was enough to make Tilrey grind his teeth. “I could help, Fir.”

The final challenge, Malsha had decided, was to demonstrate he could come on command with a man’s cock inside him. Once Tilrey got past his initial resistance, he had attacked the problem with the same ferocity he applied to solving differential equations on the E-Squareds. You just had to break it down and take the emotion out of it. Having found various ways to practice in his free time, he was so sure he’d mastered the trick that he was almost eager to show it off.

But when he reached back to take Malsha’s cock, the Magistrate slapped his hand lightly away. “I’m too sapped,” he said and rolled backward, relieving Tilrey of his weight. “Or else I’m just old. Either way, this maneuver takes a skilled and sober lover. I don’t think I have it in me to be your test proctor tonight—your sole test proctor, anyway.”

“We could do it another night?” Tilrey was almost disappointed.

Malsha laughed—and that was when a cold wave of foreboding broke over Tilrey.

“I don’t think so. You seem so very ready. Hop up and get dressed again—I’m taking you out on the town.”

***

Tilrey knew better than to protest.

Without a murmur, he put on his clothes and his outergear and held out the Magistrate’s coat for him to slip on. He stepped into the frigid dusk and boarded the waiting car. He sat quietly beside Malsha while a sulky Krisha, who’d expected to have the night off, piloted them into the city center.

When Tilrey spotted the jagged granite hulk of the Sanctioned Brothel, he tensed all over, but he kept quiet, his face blank. Out of the car again, he let Malsha take his arm and lead him into the coldroom for the ritual of removing their outergear. And then into the dramatic foyer where Krisha had brought him the first time, for his training with Matthias.

If only he were seeing Matthias again. That he could take.

Malsha led him over the black slate floor, under the skylights in the asymmetrical pitched ceiling. At night, the foyer was lit only by thin strips of rosy LEDs along the walls, and the dimness felt chic and companionable.

Behind the desk was the bald man Tilrey remembered from before, the one who looked like a midlevel bureaucrat. This time, he hastened out to greet them, inclining his head. “Fir Magistrate. It’s always an honor, though I’m afraid we weren’t expecting you.”

Malsha waved an impatient hand. “Who’s still available? Right now?”

“If you’d take a seat, Fir, I’d be happy to show you.” The man spoke in even, almost languid tones, but he ducked behind his desk with alacrity. Tilrey heard rapid tapping on a keyboard.

“What did you have in mind, Fir Magistrate? We have Varsha—an expert with his mouth. Or Lesta, if you were looking for someone to take the dominant role—he’s not one of your pretty boys”— the man’s eyes skimmed over Tilrey— “but he gets the job done.”

He offered Malsha a tablet, its screen lit up with photos. Tilrey caught a vivid glimpse of a brawny man splayed out naked on a white background. Would that be his “test proctor” tonight?

Adelbert’s words came back to him: Has he made you perform with other men? He’d had fair warning, but it didn’t stop his skin from crawling.

“Or perhaps Vansha, if you prefer a submissive, though I acknowledge he’s past his best years—”

“Why are you showing me workhorses that are ‘past their best years,’ Dhreil?” Malsha’s arm went around Tilrey’s waist, tugging him close. “When I bring you a boy like this, do you really think I just want a cock or a mouth for hire? If all your house jewels are occupied for the night, tell me so.”

Dhreil’s face went slack—with fear or relief, Tilrey couldn’t tell. “I’m afraid they are, Fir. If you’d reserved an hour earlier—”

“No excuses, please. I grasp the exigencies of your establishment.” Malsha swung Tilrey briskly toward where a doorway vanished into the Brothel’s interior, then back to face Dhreil. “But I want something better than your dregs tonight. Can you find someone to work your desk for an hour or so?”

The man looked startled, but an instant later his face smoothed to blankness again. “Of course, Fir. I’ll call someone.”

“Excellent. And find us a standard suite, if you would.”

Dhreil nodded—then seemed to hesitate. His eyes flew from his own baggy gray jerkin to Tilrey, who was dressed in one of the tight-waisted white suits Malsha was so fond of. “Did you want me to, uh, prepare in any way, Fir?”

Malsha laughed. “No, don’t bother. I suspect you have better hygiene than the Councillors he’s used to.”

Then, at last, Tilrey understood.

***

The suite looked exactly like a Councillor’s bedroom, with a truncated sitting room attached and a door that Tilrey supposed led to a bath. He had a sensation of dislocation stepping from the hallway of the Brothel—with its dark, rich palette and natural wood—into the gleaming whiteness he was so used to. Strange that high Upstarts would want their chambers of pleasure to look like their homes.

“Dull, isn’t it?” Malsha said as if reading his mind. “There are other suites that are more fun—silks, satins, pillows, that sort of thing—but I thought you’d feel most comfortable here.”

“It’s fine, Fir.”

Tilrey moved to unclasp his tunic, but Malsha said, “Not yet.” He switched off all the lights except the recessed ones in the bed canopy, then pulled a white armchair to the edge of the bed and settled in it.

It only took a minute or so for Dhreil to join them—not from the entrance they’d used, but from the side door leading to the bath. He still wore his gray jerkin, neat but drab on a stocky, nondescript figure, and he held his hands clasped behind his back. The low lighting emphasized the bags under his eyes. For the first time, it occurred to Tilrey that the man was no more excited about this than he was.

“Did you want some refreshment, Fir?” Dhreil asked in his smooth, unobtrusive way. “Tea, liquor, dumplings, sweets?”

“No, no. I over-refreshed at home.” Malsha knotted his hands under his chin and peered at their two standing figures. “We need to get down to business. I’m trying to work out the best arrangement.”

He explained succinctly what he wanted, while Tilrey stared at the floor. This time, somehow, his face didn’t betray his feelings with a blush.

Dhreil was nodding, just as poker-faced. “You’ll want him on his back, then, Fir. I’ll do my best not to get in your way.”

“Excellent. Why don’t you start by undressing him?”

Dhreil approached, and Tilrey braced himself. But before the man could touch him, Malsha added, “No, wait. Slow and tender, like a lover. Start with a kiss and then lead him to bed.”

Not slow. Please not slow. Tilrey wanted to throw off his clothes and splay himself out on the bed and get it over with.

To his surprise, though, Dhreil knew how to play the part Malsha wanted. His first touch was tentative—an arm sliding around Tilrey’s shoulder, fingertips on his chin. When their lips met, the man sighed like a lover who’s been dreaming of this moment for months, with a tiny flinch as if the intensity were too much.

Then he returned for a deeper, more skillful kiss, catching Tilrey’s bottom lip between his teeth. His mouth tasted of something antiseptic—he had washed, after all. “So beautiful,” he murmured and deepened the kiss again.

Tilrey opened his mouth automatically, though he stiffened as Dhreil closed the distance between them, and a hard cock prodded his thigh. He was used to all this, of course. But having two men in the room, one just observing, felt wrong. It reminded him of, of—

“He’s still a little shy, isn’t he?” Malsha spoke with the self-satisfaction of someone receiving a blow job or eating a decadent dessert at the Restaurant. But his voice did what it needed to—yank Tilrey from the abyss of memory back to reality. He was here, now, and he had control.

“So very shy, Fir,” Dhreil said in his erotic murmur, nothing like the businesslike way he’d been talking a few minutes ago. He twined an arm around Tilrey’s waist and led him to bed. “So precious. I shall be so very careful with him.”

The man sat Tilrey down and began to unclasp and unbutton his tunic, his hands working with crisp efficiency even as he nipped at Tilrey’s neck or whispered half-audible blandishments into his hair. And Tilrey remembered something else Adelbert had said—how he admired the actors who could “slip in and out of their roles in a finger-snap.”

Dhreil was an actor, as so many whores were apparently actors—both literally in streams and figuratively. The whole thing was a performance, a facsimile of desire. Though they were playing different roles, their job was essentially the same.

The realization made Tilrey go limp with relief, though he wasn’t sure why it mattered to him whether the man wanted him or was just pretending. He offered no resistance when Dhreil eased him flat on his back and tugged his trousers and briefs over his hips. He focused on breathing—the first, crucial piece of his apparatus of control—as the man’s fingers closed on his cock and began to work it.

Next came the greased fingers. Tilrey let himself be rolled into a position of painful exposure, knees to shoulders, and stared steadily up at the canopy. The key was to separate out the physical sensations of arousal and see them as a shape and color—something he could turn and view from different angles and shrink to a manageable size when he needed to. Red. No, too bright—burnt orange. Isosceles triangle.

He moaned as Dhreil’s first finger penetrated him, going straight to the right spot. But only his body felt the excitement. His mind held back, knowing there would be painful stretching before there was more pleasure. Neither sensation was part of him. They floated out there somewhere; all he needed do to dim their force was to retreat here, inward.

Two fingers—Tilrey winced and lengthened his exhales. Deeper, wider, and then a third finger made him rear up and clench his fist before settling again. Dhreil’s other hand kept hold of his cock, working it periodically just enough to keep it achingly hard. The man understood the plan of action; they were allies here, not enemies.

Now that they were nearing the end of the foreplay, Dhreil let up on the kisses and nuzzles, his motions becoming more mechanical. “Do you give him four fingers, Fir?”

“I don’t think I ever have.” Malsha still sounded as if he were getting that damn blow job. “I’m sure he could take it, but let’s save that for another time.”

“He’s nice and tight—you’ve been careful with him.” A clinical voice, as if Dhreil were assessing one of his own staff. “Beautiful responses, too.”

“Yes, well, that’s what we’re here to test. Aren’t we, love?”

Malsha was closer now, right above Tilrey—he must have moved from the chair to the bed. Tilrey tensed and then arched uncontrollably, his spine lifting off the bed, as Dhreil stroked him again.

For an instant he was out of control, thrusting wildly into the man’s hand. He bit down hard on his bottom lip, willing the feeling away—and there was the triangle again, floating in his mind’s eye. He breathed in. Out. Held on tight.

Malsha took Tilrey’s hand and patted it. “Good boy. Now, why don’t I take over half your job, Dhreil?”

Dhreil mounted Tilrey and lined himself up, while Malsha crept close and reached between their bodies to get a grip on Tilrey’s erection. They were squeezing Tilrey between them, bending him double. He’d have a back cramp when he got up, but for now he welcomed the pain. It kept the arousal at bay.

He breathed out as Dhreil’s cockhead breached him, stretching him wide open. Big—no surprise. At some point in the far past, when he was young and attractive, Dhreil had probably been a whore here. Tonight he was one again.

Tilrey forced himself to move into the pain and pressure instead of cringing away from it. He needed the discomfort to stay in control, because Malsha had a firm grip on his cock now and was working to synchronize the movement of his hand to Dhreil’s still fitful, shallow thrusts.

The whole thing was incredibly awkward. It would have worked so much better, Tilrey decided in a detached way, with him on his hands and knees and Dhreil reaching around to stimulate him. But Malsha insisted on a hands-on role, so here they were.

Dhreil had worked himself in deeper and was finding a rhythm, bracing himself on Tilrey’s shoulders and breathing in even, athletic huffs. The musk of his sweat hung in the air.

For a few strokes, he jogged directly against Tilrey’s prostate, and Tilrey’s eyes flew open. Waves of pleasure coursed over him as his mind flailed for control. He dug his nails into the palm of Malsha’s free hand and held on.

Thankfully, that was over soon. The more of the man’s cock Tilrey took, the more pain pushed pleasure to the margins, jarring him out of his body and putting his brain back in the driver’s seat. He couldn’t let his erection flag, of course, so he thrust his hips up to meet the invading cock, up into Malsha’s hand, and kept his imaginary orange triangle just within reach.

It went on and on—Dhreil’s organ rubbing him raw, harsh panting in his ears, his own cock hot and throbbing with blood, and Malsha’s hand stopping and starting and stopping again. Tilrey stared upward, around Dhreil’s contorted face, focusing on a fleck or chip on one of the lightbulbs. He counted his breaths—eighty-five, ninety.

Dhreil went abruptly still deep inside Tilrey, gasping for breath like he’d been running. “I may be reaching my limit, Fir.”

“Are you?” Malsha asked in a cool, curious tone. “All right, then. Fire at will.” He disentangled his hand from Tilrey’s death grip. “But you, sweetheart, wait for my command.”

Dhreil took three more desperate, ragged strokes and came, his whole body spasming, crushing Tilrey into the mattress along with Malsha’s hand and wrist. Malsha swore under his breath but didn’t loosen his grip. “Now,” he said when Dhreil went limp at last, his pleasure-sodden weight settling on Tilrey.

The relief of that release was so intense that Tilrey cried out. He felt his body spasming the way Dhreil’s had, his hips pumping and his anus clamping down on the cock that was still inside him. He let pleasure invade his body, the orange triangle swelling into a bloody red wave that swallowed his senses. But his mind remained where it had always been—separate. Safe.

He had passed.

By the time he was fully conscious of his surroundings again, Dhreil had silently disentangled himself and withdrawn. Malsha patted Tilrey impatiently, tugging him closer. “My turn, love.”

“Okay, Fir.” Tilrey rolled over and got himself up on his knees—it hurt, but nothing he couldn’t take—so he could bring Malsha to completion with his mouth and his hand. Then they both rested, drowsy, just close enough for Malsha to stroke Tilrey’s hair. It was like Dhreil had never been there, or had been a mere implement Malsha could take out and put away at will.

But the truth was, Tilrey thought, he and Dhreil had been steering the situation far more than Malsha had. A good whore was always in control.

As they lay there together, his thoughts wandered to Adelbert Verán. Ever since their conversation, he’d had fleeting fantasies of informing Malsha what he’d learned from his old lover. Tilrey doubted Malsha was capable of shame, but if he worked it just right, he might manage to make the man suffer some passing embarrassment. The idea was surprisingly tempting.

What would Malsha say if he suddenly announced: I knew you’d want to see me with another man, sooner or later. Adelbert warned me you were depraved?

But the words wouldn’t come out. Not because Tilrey wanted to spare Malsha, but because, because—well, he wasn’t even sure why. He simply had a sense that he wasn’t done with Adelbert yet, and if Malsha knew, he’d make sure they didn’t see each other again.

Instead, Tilrey said, “He’s very good at what he does, that Dhreil.”

A finger traced the seam of his lips. “Are you trying to make me jealous, sweetheart?”

“I was surprised, that’s all. I thought he was just the receptionist here.”

Malsha laughed. “Receptionist? He’s been the Brothel director for at least a decade. You may not realize, but it’s a powerful position. He has complete control over his staff’s comings and goings.”

And yet, when you snapped your fingers, he had to obey. “Before he was the director, was he . . . like me?”

“Nobody’s like you.” Lips nuzzled his shoulder. “No hourly or nightly whore could ever compete. But yes, I believe Dhreil was on staff—not one of the jewels, just what they call a mouth. You can imagine why. He earned the directorship through cunning, I suspect, not beauty or talent. Intelligence is a surprisingly valuable commodity in this place.”

No wonder Tilrey felt a kinship to Dhreil. What impressed him most, he realized, was the seamless way the Brothel keeper had switched between his new role of host and his old role of whore. With his subordinates, he probably played yet another role—the boss to be obeyed.

Imagine embodying all those different identities and not being trapped by any one of them. Perhaps someday Tilrey, too, would be able to give orders and make decisions.

But always with Malsha looking over his shoulder. He sighed and closed his eyes, giving himself to fatigue. He didn’t want to be like Artur, a loyal henchman executing Malsha’s orders, but what was the alternative?

Unless Adelbert was right. Unless there was another way.

***

It didn’t hit Tilrey for at least twelve hours.

They slept in the Brothel suite, woke together, showered, and dressed. Krisha was waiting with the car to bring them home, where Malsha paused just long enough to pick up some files. Then he was off to the Sector, while Tilrey went to his own room, as usual, to shower a second time and catch up on his sleep.

The whole time he was serene, almost glowing. He had control now, not just of his mouth but of his cock. No longer was he a pathetic adolescent begging for release. His “final exam” had made him like Dhreil—a professional, with all the expertise that entailed.

He was waking from a long, refreshing nap, still pushing aside his dreams, when the sensations of last night washed over his body.

On his back, shamelessly splayed, crushed between the two older men. The ruthless thrusts, the pressure, the harsh panting in his ears. Wrinkled skin slick with sweat moving against his skin; the sensation of being lubricated and open and helpless. And those were his moans and whimpers. He was making those sounds.

He sat up with a jerk. Drew his knees to his chest and hugged them tight. It’s all over.

But it wasn’t over. He was sore; he was cramped; he had bruises in places he wasn’t used to. When he went to the gym tomorrow, he would feel it everywhere. Bror would notice and address him in that awful hushed way, as if he might break. Krisha would fetch him a smoothie and rice cakes from the kiosk—a kindness, or a Malsha-mandated treat to reward Tilrey for good performance? He didn’t even know.

They were all controlling him, managing him. They were all touching him. They needed to stop.

He needed his body back. He didn’t want to have to float outside it. He wanted it to belong to him the way it had before Malsha, before the soldiers, before Fir Jena—back when he took his easy union with it for granted, skiing or kissing Dal or just stretching in the morning after a good sleep.

You shouldn’t call yourself a whore. That’s a nasty word, Saldegren had said. But what else was he? And now it didn’t feel powerful at all.

He rocked, trying to think of nothing, but that brought last night rushing back (dirty whore). He thought of his favorite ski run on Mount Arja, just outside Thurskein. On the last race day of fall, he’d gone so fast down the final stretch, wind whistling in his ears, banking around a curve while his mother cheered in the crowd.

Not her. Never think of her. He thought of blue-veined ice. He imagined pressing his forehead against it and feeling the deep, clean chill.

He’d be ready to get up and go out tomorrow. He’d hold his head high and pretend nothing had happened. But not now. Not for a bit.

***

On the next fifth-day—just four days before the start of the March recess—Tilrey returned to Adelbert’s tram stop.

When Adelbert stepped off the tram onto the platform, their eyes met. No words were spoken, but Tilrey followed the young man upstairs, keeping a meter between them.

When they were both safely inside Adelbert’s apartment, and the door was closed, and the outergear was hung up, Tilrey wheeled on Adelbert. He said, “If you’re working for your uncle, Fir, I’ll tell everyone you lured me here and sapped me and scared me into cooperating. I’m just a poor dumb naïve Skeinsha. I think most Councillors would believe that version.”

“Malsha wouldn’t.” Adelbert’s blue eyes brightened as he grasped what Tilrey was saying. “He knows very well you’re not dumb, I wager.”

“His colleagues don’t. They see what they want to see, Fir.” Tilrey sat down on the couch. It felt good to do as he liked without asking permission. “Just so you know, Fir Councillor Saldegren’s particularly fond of me. He’s an Islander, your uncle’s ally, but I know he’d take my side.”

Adelbert began pacing as if he were too excited or nervous to settle. “I’m not working for my uncle. How many times do I have to say that?”

“I just want you to know I have a contingency plan, Fir. So, now we’ve gotten that out of the way, tell me this plan of yours for hurting Malsha.” Verdant hells, it felt good to demand things, too—to be brisk and skeptical instead of endlessly deferent. “If you actually have one.”

Chapter 18: Rewarded

Notes:

This whole subplot is going to be ... dark. But then, this whole story is dark, isn't it? I'll get Tilrey to a slightly better place before I leave off again and give my attention to the next chapter in the saga.

The days were getting longer. When Tilrey and the Magistrate returned from a post-dinner stroll in the woods, the trees surrounding the villas still cast slender violet shadows on the pure, crusty snow. Tilrey couldn’t help noticing how deep and clear his prints were.

That wasn’t good. When he went out tomorrow evening, he didn’t want to leave a trail. “Is this weather supposed to hold?” he asked.

“Your legs are too long, sweetheart; I’m panting.” Malsha caught up and hooked his arm through Tilrey’s. “I don’t know, who pays attention to weather?”

“You said something about a walk to the ruins in the afternoon, Fir. Before you go to dine with your in-laws.”

“Right, of course. I’ll check the forecast.” The Magistrate swung around, taking Tilrey with him. “Look, the sun’s just dropping below the mountains. Have you ever seen a day this splendid?”

Indeed, the sky was deep azure above them, bleeding to the color of flame where the Southern Range etched its silhouette on the horizon. Malsha’s arm slipped around his waist, stroking his side and drawing him closer. Tilrey was so used to the possessive gesture by now that he barely felt it. “I thought you paid no attention to weather, Fir,” he said.

“My, aren’t we cheeky today.” The Magistrate gave him a squeeze, the familiar mixture of amusement and arousal back in his voice. “How long have we been together, love? Nearly a year now, isn’t it?” He turned again, and they walked unhurriedly toward the villa. “I wonder if you realize just how transformed you are. When we met, I could scarcely get a word out of you, and when I could, it was all plaintive questions and a Skeinsha accent I could cut with a knife. Now you talk nearly as cleverly as Artur, and you’re confident enough to tease me. You’ve blossomed.”

Warning bells rang in Tilrey’s head; a compliment from Malsha was always the prelude to a subtle jab or a full-on attack. “And do you prefer me before or after, Fir?” he asked neutrally.

“You’re so suspicious. Just like Artur. A person can’t even compliment you.” Malsha reached up and tousled Tilrey’s hair. “Honestly, I’m impressed with how you handled your final exam. I thought the circumstances might unnerve you, but you were cool as that brisk northern breeze.”

Danger. Danger. Malsha was probing him, watching eagerly for a wince or a flinch. He wanted to know Tilrey was more affected by that night in the Brothel than he’d let on.

Tilrey’s pride told him to stay frustratingly blank, just as Artur had taught him. But pride wasn’t his priority right now—raising no suspicions was. He and Adelbert had a plan.

He dropped his eyes, his cheeks flushing obligingly. “Was I really cool, Fir? I didn’t feel that way. I was afraid of, of—not being able to do what you wanted.”

“You were delicious that night.” As the villa loomed above them, Malsha took in his breath sharply, and Tilrey felt the man’s shiver of arousal. “You know what? Let’s skip the tea tonight and go straight to bed. We can bathe afterward. Have you forgotten that I promised you a reward?”

This time Tilrey’s hot blush was one hundred percent genuine. “I haven’t forgotten, Fir,” he said as they climbed the steps to the door.

***

Malsha sat on the bed and told Tilrey to undress slowly, in front of the exposed window. “It’s so nice to have you in the daylight again.”

Tilrey gave him the show he wanted; his mind was elsewhere. Tomorrow night he would sneak out of the house to Adelbert’s father’s villa. There he would write and sign a comprehensive account of how he had come to be Malsha’s kettle boy. Adelbert would pass this testimony on to Nella Lindblom, a high-named judge known for her devotion to rooting out corruption in the upper Levels.

“She won’t ignore it,” Adelbert had promised him. “Lindblom knows the sort of dealings Malsha has, and she’s itching to get a good, solid witness.”

Tilrey was skeptical. “What good is a Skeinsha witness with a charge of Dissidence on his record?”

“I already told you, the charge is a trifle. When Makari and your Supervisor threatened you with two years in prison, they were citing the maximum sentence. You were legally a minor when the offense took place, and you have extenuating circumstances. Lindblom will make sure you don’t get worse than a few years’ probation. You might not be allowed to return to Thurskein, though,” Adelbert added. “At least not for the foreseeable future. Would that bother you?”

Yes, yes, it would bother me. That was Tilrey’s first reaction. But when he thought more deeply and coldly about it, he had no idea how he would look his mother in the eye, so he said, “That would suit me fine. But what about Malsha? You don’t think he’d just let someone like Lindblom bring him down?”

“Oh, she doesn’t have the power to bring Malsha all the way down. But your complaint will embarrass him, and possibly even get him ousted from the Magistracy at the next election. Hard to say.” Adelbert looked straight at Tilrey, then. “That wouldn’t bother you, either?”

Tilrey looked back without blinking. Was Adelbert wondering if he had developed a pathetic affection for the old man, a weakness that would derail their plan?

“I don’t care what happens to him,” Tilrey said. “I just want to get the fuck out of his bed and his life.”

But first, it appeared, he would have to fuck Malsha, just as the Magistrate had promised or warned him earlier. And it didn’t feel like a reward at all; it felt like a second final exam.

He pulled off his briefs and placed them neatly on top of the pile of folded clothes, then turned to the bed. Malsha was stretched out there with his hand working under his robe, his breath coming in hoarse gasps. “Come along,” he said, holding out the bottle of lube. “You know how to do this part, don’t you?”

Tilrey took the bottle and slid onto the bed beside Malsha. “Are you sure about this, Fir?” he asked, squeezing some onto his shaking fingers.

Malsha laughed, low in his throat. He rolled over on all fours, parting the robe to bare his ass. “It tickles me how incredulous you are. Haven’t Dhreil and I shown you how pleasant the receptive role can be?”

It had felt good that time, Tilrey supposed, but he still didn’t quite understand why anyone would choose it. Maybe if he ever got fucked by someone attractive, someone he liked, he’d change his mind.

Back in Thurskein, his friend Pers had been interested in him that way, but it hadn’t felt right. At the time, Tilrey thought he simply preferred girls. Now—he didn’t know. A couple times he’d gotten hard watching Bror change in the locker room, imagining how it would feel to run his fingertips up the broad planes of his friend’s chest. Having Bror’s cock inside him might be just fine.

Or the other way round. Maybe he should imagine he was with Bror right now—taut and golden and muscular—instead of with a scrawny old man whose ass was all loose skin. “I’ll do my best,” he said, tentatively stroking the Magistrate’s flank. “Please tell me if I’m doing it wrong. Hurting you.”

Malsha’s hips rose to meet his hand. “Oh, believe me, I’ll tell you. Relax, though. This is a learning experience.”

This is Bror. Bror. Tilrey gently circled the puckered opening with his index finger. It wasn’t an easy leap of the imagination. Malsha had never been built the way Bror was, even in his prime.

Malsha had been handsome in middle age, though, or so Adelbert said. Adelbert. The young man’s slight form was more similar to Malsha’s; he probably had a skinny ass, too. But he was . . . he was . . .

For a moment, all Tilrey could think of were those blue, blue eyes, burning with passion in the pale face. So angry, so vengeful, so hurt, and so delicate at the same time. Why not? He would imagine he was with Adelbert.

He closed his eyes and visualized having the beautiful, high-Upstart boy totally at his mercy. Flipping a younger Adelbert onto his hands and knees. Spreading his legs. Making him beg and writhe first on one finger, then on two, then on three. Making it good for him.

He gasped harshly, feeling his cock lengthen and harden, and slipped his finger inside the Magistrate, hoping to distract him before he noticed Tilrey’s arousal and made some stupid comment. But Malsha only writhed, just as the imaginary Adelbert did, and said, “Yes. More, please.”

After that, it was easier. Imagining Malsha as Adelbert enabled Tilrey to do things that otherwise would have made him gag—stroke the man’s hair, kiss his neck, press up against the waiting cleft with a gasp of anticipation. He drew out the foreplay, touching himself only as often as he needed to stay hard. After each stroke of his own cock, he reached around to give Malsha’s (Adelbert’s) cock a stroke or a squeeze while spreading the slick fingers inside him.

It was tricky doing all these things at the same time; Tilrey could see now why Malsha had enlisted Dhreil’s help. Luckily, Malsha (Adelbert) proved responsive, bucking his hips and squirming and pleading, “Stop teasing me. I want your cock.”

I could so easily kill him now. But Tilrey had been down that fantasy road before; his escape route was elsewhere. He told himself the slim, trembling form before him was Adelbert Verán. He mounted it.

He’d fucked only one person in the world before—Dal—and he hadn’t been good at it. She’d been beautifully, excruciatingly tight—a virgin, like him—but this passage was even tighter. With only the head inside, he went absolutely still and inhaled and exhaled several times, getting himself back under control, before he pressed deeper.

“I’m not—that doesn’t hurt?” he whispered.

“Oh, it hurts.” The Magistrate’s voice had gone throaty. “It hurts the right way. Move, love.”

At this point, Tilrey’s fantasy of Adelbert evaporated, and mechanical impulses took over. He needed all his strength and concentration to ease himself into the passage without letting sheer eagerness get the upper hand. His first proper, deep stroke sent shivers all down his body. He forced his tearing eyes open and imagined a shape floating in midair, just out of reach—evening blue this time, trapezoid. It would stay there, intact, until he was allowed to reach out and shatter it into a thousand shimmering pieces. Not yet, not yet.

When he looked down, he realized he’d shoved Malsha’s face into the pillow—just as so many men had done to him as they perched on top of him, their slippery, sweaty weight making him want to scream.

Malsha didn’t seem inclined to scream, at least not for that reason. He ignored Tilrey’s frantic apology and pumped his hips, trying to get more of Tilrey’s cock, while growling, “I want to feel your nice plump balls. Then touch me.”

Somehow or other—he needed release so much it hurt—Tilrey managed to bring Malsha to a climax without reaching his own. He was still balls-deep, his mouth contorted by the effort and tears streaming down his cheeks, when Malsha said in a calm, smug voice, “All right, you can come now.”

The blue trapezoid shattered. Pieces went everywhere, glimmering under the canopy lights. The storm tore through Tilrey and left him a shuddering dead weight.

He was only dimly aware of Malsha rolling him off; he didn’t seem able to move by himself just now. He closed his eyes and relaxed into a light doze that felt like his true reward at last. When a hand tugged at his hair and a voice said, “Up you get,” he groaned in actual protest.

“Oh, you liked that, didn’t you?” A knowing laugh. “I’ve got tea for us, love.”

Tilrey opened his eyes and was mildly surprised to find them full of tears. He let them fall, wondering if his feelings would ever belong properly to him again. Malsha liked to see tears. They excited him in a way that seemed to go beyond his cock, into his soul.

“Did I do okay, Fir?” Tilrey whispered, scooting up to lean against the pillows and take the tea tumbler from Malsha’s hand.

He didn’t look at Malsha; he didn’t want to see the smugness he’d heard in that voice earlier. He didn’t flinch when the man stroked his thigh and kissed him on the cheek, each gesture lingering and proud and possessive.

“You did more than okay.” Malsha laughed again and turned Tilrey’s face to his, drinking in those tears. “I love the moments when you lose control.”

“I thought you wanted me to have more control.” His mouth was a distant appendage forming words of its own accord. He wasn’t in this conversation.

“That’s the whole point. If you didn’t have such excellent control, it wouldn’t be any fun to watch you lose it.” Malsha raised Tilrey’s free hand to his lips. “I’m almost afraid to set you loose upon the world.”

“Why?” Tilrey couldn’t imagine anyone being afraid of him.

“Because talents like yours are dangerous when a person knows how to use them. For now you still have shame, empathy. I think you actually were afraid to hurt me just now.”

Tilrey nodded. There was no point in pretending he was tougher or crueler than he was; Malsha would always see through that. But if Adelbert’s plan worked, Malsha’s low expectations might work in his favor.

“Mmm.” The man’s stony blue eyes drank him in. “Your mother raised you right; that’s clear. But when you lose those pretty scruples of yours. . . well, that will be quite something. How sweet and how cruel you could be.”

***

“I can’t do this,” Adelbert Verán said, his mouth a hard line. “It’s too cruel.”

“What did you think you were signing on for?” Besha paced the white carpet with nervous, springy steps, hands in his pockets. “It was your idea to invent the whole thing about the judge.”

“I didn’t invent it! I mean, I haven’t actually talked to her, no. But I could. She might even take the case. Nella’s your wife’s cousin; you know what she’s like.”

“She’s quite the crusader, yeah. Davita pretends to respect her, but I think they secretly hate each other.” Besha stopped short, glaring at Adelbert. “If you hand the boy over to Nella, though, he’s no use to me, and all of this has been for nothing. I didn’t set this up as a do-gooder project. I want to scare the shit out of Malsha.”

“Taking the boy away from him would do that.”

“Not if you do it that way. He’d just laugh and flick Nella over with his finger. He likes challenges.”

“She would publicly shame him.” But even as he spoke, Adelbert saw the flaw in that argument. Malsha had no shame.

“Give it up,” Besha said. “Look, I’ve been telling you from the beginning, all your whinging about this needs to stop. The kid is disgruntled, whatever. It’s a weakness we can exploit to hurt Malsha, but we don’t need to take it seriously. It’s not like he’s being physically beaten or tortured, right? Green hells, he’s big and strong and in the bloom of health. Why do you feel so sorry for him?”

Adelbert had asked himself the same question. When he spotted Tilrey in the Library, his first reaction was intense jealousy. Of course Malsha was besotted with the lad; he combined the beauty of a stream star and the innocence of a schoolboy. The whole Council was probably in love with him. The power someone could wield with that face . . .

But then Adelbert had gotten closer and seen how tense the boy was, how terrified. Tilrey wasn’t interested in wielding power. He hadn’t tried to seduce Adelbert or milk him for info on how to take advantage of his position. He was genuinely desperate for a way out.

How had Besha not seen it? Besha was usually an acute observer of people, but maybe he was less perceptive where Laborers were concerned. Maybe it took one victim of Malsha to recognize another. Or maybe Besha just didn’t care.

“You don’t know Tilrey.” Adelbert pulled his feet up and slumped deeper into the couch, feeling helpless. “You and I both chose to bind ourselves to Malsha, for our own foolish reasons, but he never chose at all.”

“Because he’s no one,” Besha said, emphasizing each word. His eyes blazed down at Adelbert. “Look, do what you want. But Malsha isn’t protecting you anymore. And if I told your uncle about your part in our little project? Without mentioning mine? He just might feel inspired to pack you off to moral rehab after all.”

Chapter 19: Trapped

The weather had turned in Tilrey’s favor. It was snowing lightly when Malsha left the villa to dine with his hated in-laws, and soon the flakes were coming down hard.

Tilrey already knew his hand-chip would open the door of the villa; he’d experimented surreptitiously. His main worry was how to leave without Krisha noticing. But, as it turned out, it was beneath a General Magistrate’s dignity to walk to the common shuttle that ferried people around the complex. Krisha drove Malsha off in a snow skimmer, and Tilrey didn’t wait to see if he’d return. He threw on his outergear and slipped outside.

It was getting dark, just a faint smudge of red to the north beyond the fringe of the storm. Following Adelbert’s directions across the complex, Tilrey saw only a few people out, Laborers doing maintenance work and Upstarts on dinner excursions. He kept to the belts of trees, letting twilight and snow hide him. If the complex had surveillance, he saw no evidence of it; that must be the freedom that being a high Upstart bought you.

Waiting behind a tree for an Upstart couple and their two kids to pass, he glanced off toward where the houses stopped and the trails and woods began. What if he just went for it? He had no illusions that he could reach Thurskein, through all the electrified fences and army perimeters and the natural barrier of cold, but it was there. He was so much closer to it now than he’d been in Redda—to his mom and Dal and Pers and all of them.

Even if this plan worked, he might never see them again, or not until he was much older. Something clenched in his chest, hard, and then he walked on.

Adelbert’s father’s villa was almost identical to Malsha’s, just a bit smaller. Maybe it had a periphery surveillance cam, because Adelbert opened the door while Tilrey was still on the steps. “C’mon in,” he said, his gaze darting nervously around the complex. “Don’t want anyone seeing you here.”

Tilrey slipped inside and pulled off his outergear. “I’ll be as quick as I can, Fir. I know what I want to say.”

“You didn’t write any drafts of your statement, did you?” Adelbert still looked jumpy, as if he expected Tilrey to be followed. “Nothing Malsha or his driver could find?”

“Of course not.” He tapped his temple. “It’s all in here.”

***

Tilrey was finished slightly less than an hour later, having used his most careful penmanship. The statement had to be legible and scannable. Adelbert had shown him to a little bedroom with a view of snow falling under a floodlight, and there he sat and wrote it, then read it over.

He’d whittled the story down to its essentials, using the circumspect language and bureaucratic euphemisms he’d learned from the Council Records that Malsha sometimes read aloud to him, either to illustrate a political point or to scoff at the absurd wording. Adelbert had told him to write in the third person, referring to himself as “Subject,” and it was actually easier that way. Supervisor Fernei informed Subject that he could choose between a two-year detention sentence and cooperating with Admin Makari. When Subject attempted to ask Admin Makari questions, he was forcibly drugged.

On and on. Tilrey left out the part about the officers’ club, because he didn’t want to describe it even in sterilized language, and he didn’t want to confess what he’d done to get himself sent there. The memory of Vera Linnett brought a shameful blush to his cheeks. Not even the most progressive judge in Oslov would look charitably on his role in that scenario. But it didn’t actually matter, because Malsha’s most “actionable” crime, according to Adelbert, wasn’t anything he’d done or had done to Tilrey. It was obstructing the judicial process by expunging the charge against Tilrey from the record.

So he didn’t write about how Makari had groped him, or how Councillor Jena had drugged him senseless the first time and had the driver hold him down the second time, or anything Malsha had done since. He only wrote: Subject did not consent formally or informally to the new posting after the conversation with Fernei, who misrepresented the consequences of non-compliance.

That should cover all the things he hadn’t consented to, back in the time when not consenting was even a possibility. It was a tiny sliver of time now, a few days set against a year of more or less total compliance. Tilrey wondered sometimes how long other people would have held out—Dal, for instance. He was sure it would have taken more to make her obey, but he didn’t like to think about it.

He still wasn’t tough or hard. But at least he’d improved from a year ago, when he’d been downright weak—a sheltered dreamer who followed authority figures’ orders without a second thought, never expecting those orders to harm or even inconvenience him. Never understanding why Dal was always on about tyranny and rebellion; his life seemed fine.

He understood now.

Adelbert had brewed tea, and the living room was fragrant with it. “Sit down a bit,” he said, holding out a tumbler with one hand as he took Tilrey’s statement with the other.

Tilrey shook his head; he was itching to get outside again. What if Krisha had come back and found him gone? “I don’t know how long Malsha’s going to be at dinner, Fir.”

“He’ll get away as soon as he can. He hates his in-laws.” Adelbert began to pace, his steps tight and irritable. “You know, Tilrey, I had a chance to speak to Fir’n Lindblom last night—the judge I told you about. She was at my uncle’s soirée, and I sort of snuck in. Anyway, she’s very interested in your case, just like I knew she’d be. But she doesn’t think we should proceed with a complaint through formal judicial channels.”

“Why not?” Tilrey didn’t like the sound of that.

“Malsha’s just too good at working the system. He has people everywhere; he knows how to make clerks ‘lose’ a file.” Adelbert didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. He played with the buttons of his tunic, flicked his hair out of his eyes. “So the judge’s idea is, if you want to get away from Malsha, just leave. Don’t go home tonight. Stay here and wait for Malsha to do something about it.”

Panic tightened Tilrey’s throat. This sounded like an even worse idea. “Won’t your father be coming back, Fir?”

“He’s in Redda with his mistress. No one will bother us.”

“But Malsha—I mean, we can’t just wait.” Surely Adelbert knew that Malsha was capable of sending Krisha over to drag Tilrey home by main force. He tried to keep his voice level. “He’ll figure out where I am, Fir—Adelbert. There’s a limited number of possibilities. Or if he thinks I ran away, out into the Wastes, he’ll sound the alarm, and things could get awkward. People might think you kidnapped me, or that we were involved, or—”

“That won’t happen!” But Adelbert’s bloodless face wasn’t reassuring. “It’s just for the night, okay? Judge Lindblom promised me she’ll go over to Malsha’s tomorrow. She’ll explain everything to him, show him a copy of your statement, and give him a chance to do the right thing. That’s always the best way to hold high Upstarts accountable—no public proceedings, no exposure. Just a private, respectful conversation. And she’s very persuasive—I’ve heard her in court. She’ll have you reposted this time tomorrow, out of his clutches for good. I promise.”

The young man’s voice broke on the last word. His eyes were averted from Tilrey’s.

Adelbert was hiding something. His mind made up in a flash, Tilrey turned toward the door. “If the judge is going to have a private talk with Malsha, Fir”— and he had his doubts about that— “she can do it with me there. I need to get home.”

He tugged at the door to the coldroom. It didn’t open. “Would you mind . . .?”

Adelbert stepped around Tilrey. But instead of touching the sensor and using his chip to release the door, he pressed his back to it. His chin trembled. “I can’t let you go, lad. It would be foolish.”

Tilrey’s heart was thudding. “More foolish than goading Malsha into a rage?”

Adelbert still wouldn’t meet his eyes. “You don’t understand. I can see that. But you need to trust me.”

“I did trust you, Fir.” But everything about Adelbert’s manner, from the instant he got here, had been a warning sign. “I don’t know about your judge. But you can’t poke Malsha with a stick and expect him not to retaliate.”

Adelbert edged away from Tilrey, back into the living room. His mouth was a hard line. “I’ve done a lot for you. Everything I could. You realize that?”

“Of course, Fir.” Tilrey swallowed, tense with the effort of seeming calm. It would be so easy to grab hold of Adelbert’s skinny wrist, pin an arm behind his back, and drag him to the door. Physically, the young Upstart was no match for him. All he had to do was get the back of Adelbert’s hand up against the sensor.

But once he got into the coldroom, there was the outer door with its own sensor to worry about. A successful escape would leave him guilty of assaulting an Upstart several times over. How friendly would Judge Lindblom be to his cause then?

Tilrey’s body went slack, his brain numb, as his options vanished before his mind’s eye. He wandered away from the door, sat on the couch, and closed his eyes, trying to gather himself.

Adelbert was acting this way for a reason, and he could only think of one reason. He didn’t want to believe it, but what else?

It would be so easy to give the man what he wanted. There was always the other option—telling Malsha that Adelbert had abducted him—but it would be tricky. And he wasn’t ready to give up on the possibility that this judge and her assistance were real.

When he opened his eyes again, Adelbert was hovering over him. “Please don’t be upset,” the Upstart said in a small voice.

Tilrey picked up the tumbler of lukewarm tea. “I’m not upset, Fir.” His own voice sounded so steady it heartened him. He might have walked into a trap, but he could still make his captor deeply uncomfortable.

He took a sip, tasted sap, and put the tea down again. “You should have told me your help had a price, that’s all. But I guess you were ashamed.”

Adelbert sank onto the couch. Tears made his beautiful eyes radiant. “What do you mean? What price?”

Tilrey smiled in the guileless way he knew men liked. “Don’t play with me, Fir. I know why you lured me here, and I know why you want me to stay.”

“I—what?” Adelbert blinked, and a tear slid down his cheek.

He was making a good show of innocence. Very pretty, Malsha might say. But the clock was ticking. If they did this quickly, Tilrey might still be able to get home before Malsha did.

“You don’t care whether I get away from Malsha,” he said, making each word crisp and cold. “What you want is to take something he cares about and put your hands all over it and make it yours. You want him to know you had me.”

Adelbert flinched almost convincingly. “I told you before, I don’t want that!”

“Then let me go. There’s no reason not to.” And there was no time to waste. Tilrey rose and stepped away from the couch. He unbuttoned the neck of his tunic and unclasped the waist. Shrugged the heavy garment off his shoulders, letting it slide to the floor. This time he wouldn’t bother to fold it.

“Tilrey. Don’t. Please.”

“You don’t have to pretend anymore, Fir. Did you think you’d have to sap my tea to make me cooperate? You were wrong.” Tilrey’s blood was pumping hard; it felt good to be doing something. “Tell me exactly what you want,” he said, shucking off one indoor boot with the opposite toe. “Believe me, it’s nothing I haven’t done before.”

Barefoot on the carpet, he tugged his shirt over his head, not too slow or too fast, and let it fall beside the tunic. Next, the stretchy undershirt. Reaching for his fly, he looked straight at the Upstart. “Or would you rather I do this in the bedroom?”

Adelbert rubbed his tear-stained face and said in a strained whisper, “We don’t have to do anything. We could just sleep side by side. I only want him to think that—”

“And I don’t have time to sleep side by side with you, Fir. Sweet as that sounds.” Tilrey stepped out of the trousers and threw them on the pile. Judging by Adelbert’s anguished look, this really was more about torturing Malsha than about anything he wanted.

Well, fine. They would torture Malsha together. Tilrey pulled off his briefs and tossed them in Adelbert’s direction. Adelbert flinched again. He tensed visibly as Tilrey went to his knees, crawled up to him, and reached for his cock.

“Bedroom. Please,” he said, shying away.

“I swear I didn’t plan it this way,” Adelbert continued as he led Tilrey down the hallway. “Or I did plan it, but then I decided I didn’t want anything like that after all, but then—I don’t know.”

To end the stream of pathetic excuses, Tilrey grasped Adelbert’s shoulders and shoved him against the bedroom door. If this was what the man wanted, why not get it over with?

He half expected his kiss to be rebuffed. But the smaller body untensed and melted against his. Adelbert opened his lips, wet and warm, and sighed into Tilrey’s mouth. He ground a hip against Tilrey’s cock.

A moment later, he disengaged himself, his eyes still wet even as his mouth formed a feeble half-smile. “This is going to be for you, all right?” he said, pulling Tilrey into the bedroom. “I want to please you.”

Tilrey stifled an urge to say, Don’t bother. That would take longer than just fucking him. But maybe a submissive need to please others was Adelbert’s kink and what had drawn him to Malsha in the first place. Tilrey could indulge that kink, just like all the others.

So when Adelbert told him to lie down, he lay down on the bed and threw his head back and closed his eyes. He let the young man climb on top of him and stroke him to aching hardness with nimble fingers. When Adelbert’s tongue circled his cockhead, he arched his back and gasped and pretended he wasn’t still in full control of his responses.

Adelbert was good with his mouth, no doubt thanks to Malsha’s tutelage. He took Tilrey deeper than other Upstarts did, hot and tight and generous. He ran his tongue up and down the length and paused now and then for little breathy moans of pleasure.

Tilrey gave part of himself up to the sensations, but he kept the other part focused on a silver rhombus at the edge of his vision. Controlling himself wasn’t even a choice anymore.

It didn’t take long for Adelbert to bring him to the brink. Tilrey caught himself and balanced on the knife-edge, his blood pounding with need and frustration and an odd sense of triumph—until Adelbert, perhaps thinking his approach wasn’t working, popped the cock out of his mouth and gave his attention to Tilrey’s balls instead.

Tilrey wasn’t sure how many times he almost came. Eventually the hot mouth withdrew, and Adelbert whispered in his ear, “Is there something else I should be doing?”

Tilrey grinned; he couldn’t help feeling a little proud. Clearly Malsha had never succeeded in teaching Adelbert this trick. “You have to tell me to come, Fir.”

“Oh.” The young man’s sigh could have been admiration or envy or pity. Tilrey didn’t let himself think about it. Anyway, then Adelbert was saying, “You can come now, please,” and he was coming.

As soon as his vision cleared and he regained full control of his limbs, Tilrey sat up and reached for Adelbert. What time was it? “Your turn now, Fir.”

Adelbert tried to make excuses and squirm away. But he was already hard. Tilrey got a hand inside the man’s trousers, pulled him out, and went to work with his mouth.

His motions were grimly efficient, calculated to get Adelbert off as quickly as possible. He almost groaned when Adelbert pushed his head away and sat up. “I want to come with you inside me.”

Fuck it. Tilrey could do that. He jerked himself off with vicious strokes while Adelbert lubed himself up. Then he reached for him again. “I’ll finish that.”

“Nip of sap first.” Adelbert stuck his finger in a vial and popped it in his mouth, then dipped it again and offered the finger to Tilrey. “It helps me loosen up.”

It was hardly any sap, so Tilrey sucked the finger obligingly. Then he said, “Ready?” and flipped Adelbert over.

Adelbert was already close, so the process was mercifully quick. Tilrey noted in a detached way that the passage wasn’t as tight as Malsha’s. Maybe fucking him felt like this. “Is that good, Fir? Does it hurt? Is that what you want?”

“Yes!” Adelbert was panting so hard he seemed ready to hyperventilate. “Right there—yes. Now deeper.”

This time, thank everything green, Adelbert told him to come without being reminded. Not until the instant he finally let go did Tilrey remember that he’d fantasized about fucking Adelbert last night when he was with Malsha, and it had been different in his imagination. Better—almost special, as if sex with Adelbert could be different from sex with anyone else.

Why on earth had he thought that? Because Adelbert’s pale skin was soft and unwrinkled? Because his body was lithe? Because his lips were ripe and his pretty eyes were bright with remorse?

It didn’t make the slightest difference. They were all the same; they all wanted the same things. He hated all of them.

He slumped on top of the slender form, too exhausted to move, and fell asleep marveling at how stupid he’d been.

***

The boy didn’t wake when Adelbert finally managed to roll out from under him. He only sighed and curled into himself, the side of his face pressed into the duvet. He looked very young when he was unconscious.

Adelbert sat up. His chest was sticky with his own dried come, but getting up right now would hurt. The boy had fucked him ruthlessly, just as he’d requested. He would feel it for the next few days and probably jerk off remembering it for months after that, each time hating himself a little more.

He propped himself on an elbow and gazed at Tilrey. The boy’s blond hair was darker at the temples, slicked with sweat. His lips were half open. Adelbert remembered how cold the blue eyes had been earlier, when the boy had said, Don’t play with me, Fir, and felt his cock harden against his will. Tilrey had sounded so contemptuous, so disgusted by Adelbert’s desires—almost like Malsha.

Adelbert hadn’t been lying, though. He hadn’t wanted to do this, hadn’t planned it. He was supposed to use the special vial of sap Besha had given him—Slip this in his tea; it’s concentrated. He’ll be out for the night. But Tilrey hadn’t drunk his tea, so Adelbert had used other methods. If nothing else, the nip of sap Tilrey had sucked from his finger—after Adelbert pretended to dose himself—might keep the boy dozing for a while.

Tilrey turned over and resettled with a soft grunt; his eyes didn’t open. Adelbert pulled a blanket over him. Then he stretched out beside him, so close he could feel the body heat, and pressed his forehead gently, gently against the warm cliff of Tilrey’s shoulder.

Besha was right, he told himself. This way was better for all of them. Tilrey might think he wanted out, but he was already learning to use his power. One day he might be strong and clever enough to turn things around on Malsha, and Adelbert hoped to be there when he did it.

Or maybe Malsha would crush the boy, just like he’d crushed Adelbert. And maybe Adelbert was only having these thoughts to make himself feel less like a despicable shit who’d lured a frightened schoolboy into a trap.

Softly, carefully, he stroked Tilrey’s flank with a single finger. As if they were lovers. As if they had anything in common. The boy didn’t stir.

***

Malsha didn’t stand up when Besha entered. He didn’t invite the younger man to sit down. A single table lamp shone in the corner, the rest of the room illuminated only by snowlight from the storm still whirling outside the window.

Besha looked uncomfortable—but then, he always did when he entered one of Malsha’s homes. He was a graceless little slithering thing; he didn’t belong in a place of beauty and taste.

“I imagine you know why I’m here,” he said, rubbing his hands.

Malsha put his feet up on the couch. This ungrateful boy didn’t deserve an iota of his respect. “Where is he?” he asked, getting right to the point.

If he sounded rude, too bad. In the half-hour since he’d arrived home and found Tilrey gone, his nerves had been rubbed raw. An aching well of fear had opened inside him when he imagined the boy wandering through the storm, perhaps deliberately exposing himself to the cold. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so worried.

And then he did remember. One night when his daughter was ten, she stayed out after dark rambling in the woods. He went after her, swinging a flashlight, and met her on the trail—started to yell at her, then hugged her instead.

How strange that the fear of losing Tilrey should feel so similar. He filed it away for further reflection.

Malsha had been berating Krisha, telling the driver to go find a Constable and sound a general alarm, when Besha appeared at the door. And everything fell into place.

Now Besha raised his chin. “You’ll find out when you meet my conditions.”

“Tilrey’s not at your wife’s villa, of course,” Malsha said, thinking aloud. “You’ve taken care to make sure she doesn’t find out about this. You don’t have any family important enough to have homes here, and you don’t have any friends you can trust. So . . .”

“So I’ve stumped you.” Besha’s voice was nasal with triumph. “Give it up, Fir fucking Magistrate. Unless you tell Krisha to torture me, you’re not going to find your precious boy on your own.”

“Hmm.” Malsha rested his chin on his index finger, balancing his pride against the fierce need to have his boy back. “I don’t think Krisha would mind torturing you. We might even both enjoy it.”

Even in the low light, he could see Besha flush. “I’m sure you would, but it’s easier just to give me what I want. And you know what I want.”

“You want to stop being my errand boy. ‘Doing my dirty work,’ as you like to call it.” Malsha savored the words a little, enjoying Besha’s embarrassment. The little rodent was so full of himself these days. “You were happy enough to fetch and carry for me back when you were just out of University. In fact, I seem to remember getting you the posting that eventually brought you your high and mighty wife.”

Besha’s eyes flashed. “You had nothing to do with that. You didn’t ‘bring’ Davita to me. She came to inspect the base, and I charmed her.”

“Ah, but I put you in a position to meet and charm her, didn’t I?”

Besha didn’t deny it. Like Malsha, he was probably remembering ten years back to when he’d been a scrawny, eager little climber who was just fresh and attractive enough to catch Malsha’s eye.

Not that Malsha ever wanted to screw the Linbeck boy. That would have been too easy, given the boy’s complete lack of pride. Mainly he got off on the spectacle of Besha’s ambition, like watching an eel wriggle helplessly in a tank. In Resurgence, a young man this clever and ruthless could have gotten far on his wits alone. But Besha had no way to advance in Oslov—until Malsha gave him one.

He’d offered the boy a succession of tasks and challenges and watched him slither his way to victory every time, not caring whom he hurt to get there. It was rich entertainment, and it was useful—until Besha inevitably tried to slither his way free.

“I can’t keep doing your errands and be married to Davita and part of the Island Party,” Besha complained now, crossing his arms. “Last seventh-day, Verán said something casual about putting me up for the next Council election. I think he might mean it.”

Malsha laughed. “What did you do in exchange—suck his cock? I know he likes to humiliate pretty Strutter boys.”

Besha didn’t seem to see the humor. “You’d know all about that.”

“I’d love to see you in a Councillor’s robe. It would be an insult to the whole office.”

“Yeah, well, you won’t see that if you keep fucking me over. Helping you puts me in danger, and you know that. Everything you ever gave me, I’ve earned back several times over. So let me go.”

Besha didn’t say what they both knew: Either of us knows enough to destroy the other. Malsha was grateful for that silence; it showed tact, for once. Besha’s wife must be teaching him some manners.

But he didn’t feel like being tactful just now, or beating around the bush. “Besha, if you’ve laid one finger on my boy, I will have you abducted by Outers, castrated, disemboweled, and burned alive.”

Besha threw his head back and laughed. “You haven’t lost your flair for threats.” His face went serious again. “I’m not stupid; no one’s laid a finger on him. In fact, he came completely willingly when I offered him a chance to free himself from you. I’m not the only one who wants out, eh?”

That hurt, but it wasn’t unexpected. Malsha would treat the wound later, once he had Tilrey back in his arms. “I want him in this house tonight,” he said, no more humor in his voice.

Besha nodded. “So? Do we have a deal?”

It stung to concede anything under duress, and Besha’s intel on Verán and the Islanders had always been useful. But Malsha could do without that. He couldn’t do without Tilrey.

Only because things were getting so interesting, he told himself, trying to ignore that wrenching sense of loss. Sometimes he got attached to one boy or another. Sooner or later he would get unattached again.

“Very well,” he said, inclining his head. “I won’t ask you for any more favors, Besha—except the one last thing we discussed. You’re still in touch with your little friend, aren’t you? The maintenance engineer with the clever coding fingers and the sap habit?”

“Willem? From the base? Sure.” Besha looked confused. “I thought you decided you wouldn’t need him after all. I mean, I thought the Harbourers—”

“You will remain in touch with Willem,” Malsha said curtly. No need for Besha to know he was waiting for a signal from Colonel Thibault, Oslov’s greatest enemy, to fulfill his end of a bargain he’d struck with her years ago. “When I summon you one last time, you will come immediately, and you will give me what I need. Until then, we’ll have no more contact. Fair?”

“Yeah.” Besha was still fidgeting. “After the thing with Willem, nothing more, right? You’ll leave me alone?”

Malsha smiled magnanimously. “I will leave you alone. You have my word. Now, where is my boy?”

“He’s busy writing up a formal complaint against you. I’ll make sure you get that, as well—wouldn’t do for me to hang on to something so potentially incriminating, would it?”

Malsha rolled his eyes. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

***

Tilrey woke with a start to find Adelbert sleeping peacefully beside him.

Shit. How long had he been out? It was black dark out there, the snow still falling.

He was tempted to shake Adelbert awake and demand he open the door immediately. But the young man would probably just drag his feet some more, maybe even ask for an encore.

So Tilrey slipped quietly out of bed and down the hall to the living room. His clothes lay where he’d tossed them, and he dressed quickly, his head still foggy with sleep. It could be after midnight. Late, too late, but there had to be a way out of here.

He tried the door—still locked—and crept around the living room, examining each of the windows in turn. They were all double glazed and tightly weather-sealed. Same in the kitchen and bathroom. There was no back door, only one in the laundry room that led down a flight of musty-smelling stairs.

The basement where the boiler hummed. Malsha’s villa had one of those, too. It was pitch dark at the bottom, but once his eyes adjusted, he could see pockets of pearly light just above his eyeline—windows covered with snow.

Adrenaline was pumping through him now. He had no coat or proper boots—he’d left those in the coldroom, which he couldn’t access. But it wasn’t far back to Malsha’s.

It didn’t take him long to find a box to stand on and a hammer to break the glass. He wrapped it in an old tarp to muffle the sound and shield his hand from splinters. The window shattered on the first try.

Clear the protruding glass away. Hoist himself through the tiny opening. As long as he focused on the next step, he didn’t have to think about anything else. For instance, why he was returning to the last place in the world he wanted to be.

The drifts against the window were still fluffy, not ice-hardened. He floundered through them on his belly and got himself upright. The cold wind nearly knocked him over again, and his fingertips were already numb, but he was free.

He jammed his bare hands under his armpits and walked briskly back the way he’d come. The storm wasn’t thick enough to obscure the landmarks, and now that it was late, he didn’t have to worry about being seen.

His return was just temporary. Adelbert would speak to the judge and give her the complaint—he’d promised, and a Verán’s promise had to mean something, didn’t it? But Tilrey couldn’t stop remembering how the young man’s eyes had swelled with tears, as if he knew something Tilrey didn’t.

The cold kept him alert and angry. He’d never walked so far in the snow in his indoor shoes before. He wouldn’t survive in the Wastes dressed like this; that was plain. Why was he even thinking about that?

He was halfway over to the next block of villas when he heard the burr of a snow skimmer in low gear, coming slowly toward him.

Were the Constables out looking for him already? Just as well. Tilrey supposed he should go toward the noise and the headlights, waving his arms. But instead he darted into a clump of trees, lowered himself against a pine, and waited.

Now that he’d stopped moving, he was shaking violently. He could barely feel his cheeks and nose. He wondered how long it would take him to succumb to hypothermia if he just stayed here. He wondered how angry it would make Malsha to learn he’d found an escape route so close to home.

The motor was deafening now, the light directly in his face. He couldn’t bring himself to be afraid, only shielded his eyes as the skimmer’s motor slowed to an idle.

Krisha’s voice called, “Don’t you fucking move!”

It was like a signal. Released from his trance, released from all logic, Tilrey rose on his half-numb feet and ran away from the skimmer, toward the trails and the woods and the Wastes. Toward the open.

He didn’t get far.

Notes:

After I finish off this dark and angsty arc (a few more chapters), I'll return to the main Oslov story—you know, the one where Tilrey has actual power and is not constantly getting screwed and screwed over. ): Thank you for reading, and please stay safe and be well. <3

Chapter 20: Broken?

Notes:

Warning for a very dark chapter. Adding a "sickness" tag, though it's a drug-induced state. Things will get more hopeful by the end of the next chapter, which will be up soonish. Be safe and well, everyone.

Tilrey was just past the second clump of trees when his stiff, tingling feet betrayed him, and he tripped and fell. He was up in an instant. But Krisha was there—wrenching his arms behind his back, marching him to the waiting snow skimmer.

Tilrey twisted and tried to kick—and then he was flat on his belly in the snow with Krisha’s weight crushing him.

“You fucking idiot,” the driver whispered in his ear. In a detached way, Tilrey thought Krisha sounded less pissed off than upset, as if he were the one in trouble. Maybe he was.

“Can I let you up now? Are you gonna keep fighting?”

Tilrey could still feel the snow’s stinging cold against his cheek, but just barely. After a moment, he said, “You can let me up.”

Krisha kept a firm hold on him as they returned to the skimmer. He shoved Tilrey into the passenger seat and buckled him in. “You try to get out, you’re dead.”

Like I care. But he stayed put.

The trip back to Malsha’s villa was over in a blink. “Where are your coat and boots?” Krisha grunted, yanking Tilrey up the steps. “Why’d you go out like that? Death wish?”

Tilrey couldn’t talk, so he laughed. His teeth were chattering.

He kept laughing as Krisha marched him into the small spare room and pushed him down on the bed. “Hold still. This’ll hurt if you don’t.”

Then a hand was in his hair, and his head was being wrenched back to bare his neck. He saw a flash of silver in Krisha’s palm a second before he felt the needle.

A tiny prick. He held still.

“What is that?” he asked, or thought he asked, after Krisha released him. But the words turned into nonsense syllables. His head lolled to the side, and he couldn’t seem to pull himself upright. It wasn’t just the cold—the drug must act fast. He lay where he was, helpless, as Krisha began to unfasten his tunic.

“I’m making you more comfortable,” Krisha said in a furious whisper. “You’ll be out in a second. When you can’t be responsible for yourself, this is what happens.”

Or something like that—Tilrey couldn’t quite process words. His eyelids were fluttering, too heavy to keep open. His head seemed to weigh five tons. When a dark wave closed over him, it felt almost good to surrender.

***

It didn’t feel so good to wake up.

He was aware of the sunlight first. Then a buzzing congestion in his head, behind his eyes, as if he had a low fever. The light hurt to look at, but when he tried to roll over and find the blissful darkness again, his joints protested. A chill made him shudder, and he closed his eyes and lay still.

“You only feel sick,” Malsha’s voice said. “Not to worry. You won’t have lasting consequences from your little excursion.”

Tilrey’s eyes snapped open. This time they found Malsha sitting at the foot of the bed in a dressing gown, tea tumbler in one hand and folder on his lap. The Magistrate looked comfortable, as if he’d been ensconced there a while.

Last night—was it last night? or longer ago?—was coming back in bits and pieces. Adelbert’s mouth. Adelbert’s glistening eyes. The snow skimmer. Being pushed facedown in the snow. Shit.

Malsha was still talking. “It’s called Vexonil. Often used in interrogations to destabilize the subject. A high dose causes flulike symptoms, but those will fade. For now, you’ll feel better if you don’t try to move.”

Why would you give me an interrogation drug? What are you doing to me? I can explain everything. But when Tilrey tried to talk, he seemed to have forgotten how. His mouth opened and shut and released a dry sob.

“I imagine you have plenty to say,” Malsha said conversationally. He pulled a sheet from his folder. “But I don’t need to hear it at the moment. The statement you gave my poor Adelbert is quite eloquent, in its terse way. It’s almost more interesting for what it doesn’t say than for what it does.”

Paper rustled, and then he read aloud: “Subject has met the requirements of his posting with diligence. However, subject has not had the opportunity to petition for reposting, as is his right under law. Nor has he been offered the option of serving the penalty for his original offense. Now, that’s interesting, Tilrey. If I understand correctly, you’d rather serve a penal sentence for Dissidence than continue to live with me. Do you think you’d be treated more gently and considerately in detention than you are here?”

Tilrey shifted his gaze to the alcove’s white ceiling. Malsha was bluffing, finding another way to torture him. “No,” he managed to say.

“I imagine Adelbert told you your sentence would be suspended.” Malsha shut the folder. “He’s a clever boy, my Bertsha. When he tries, he can be quite persuasive. Still, it amazes me that you couldn’t see he was playing you.”

I was desperate. Despite everything, Tilrey decided on the spot that he wasn’t sorry he’d seized the chance Adelbert pretended to offer. He didn’t have the words to defend his choices, but he hoped his face expressed how few fucks he gave about Malsha’s attempts to make him regret them.

“Right, right,” Malsha said, as if Tilrey had said the whole thing out loud. He sipped his tea and used the other hand to play with the hem of his robe—looking, for the first time since Tilrey had woken up, a little put out. “You know, you baffle me sometimes. You’ve been coming along so well—learning new habits, losing your inhibitions. And then the day before yesterday, after you fucked me, you seemed so vulnerable, so defenseless. I honestly thought I’d finally broken you.”

Broken. Tilrey wasn’t sure what the word meant anymore; it seemed to have happened to him so many times in so many ways. How would he look and act and feel when there was nothing left to break? Like Artur? Like Adelbert? Like Krisha?

He shook his head.

“Indeed, I was wrong,” Malsha said. “But you’re getting very good at faking for me—almost as good as Adelbert was. He always tried so hard to give me what I wanted.”

He rose and resettled himself, perching at the head of the bed—crowding Tilrey, who edged away from him. Even the smallest movements sent shock waves through his congested head.

“No, none of that.” Malsha got him by the shoulders and tugged him into a semi-sitting postion, propping him up with pillows. “Let’s get you some tea. It’s good for you.”

Tilrey closed his eyes and turned his face to the wall. What if he pretended none of this was happening? That tactic had worked for a while.

The sound of pouring, and then steam condensed on his cheeks. His head was turned, the cup brought to his lips. He wanted to thrust it away, but Malsha was right—the heat felt good. He wanted it in his throat. He drank a few burning sips, Malsha coaxing the whole time: “That’s right. Good, sweetheart. Not too fast.”

He sounded so caring that Tilrey’s stomach turned. I’m not really sick. He said so himself. He did this to me. When the cup was withdrawn, he turned to the wall, though the motion made his head swim.

“No, not broken at all.” Malsha’s fingers were in his hair, stroking it back from his forehead.

Pulling away would make Tilrey dizzy again, so he didn’t. He focused on the pleasant burn of the tea in his throat. It had made him feel a little more here, a little more real. Maybe soon he’d be able to talk properly.

The stroking was soothing, but Malsha was still talking, and that was not. “I feel bad asking you when you’re in this condition, Rishka. But I must, before I can let you drop off to sleep again. What did Adelbert do to you? Or perhaps I should say: What did you let him do to you?”

Tilrey tried to parse the sentences in his head; they were too complicated. Malsha felt bad. Adelbert had done something to him. Oh. Right.

He felt his lips form a smile, though he wasn’t amused. It was pathetic, Malsha caring so much about this. If Adelbert were here, he would be smiling, too.

After an endless effort, he got the words out. “Everything he wanted.”

He hoped this would hurt Malsha, but he lacked the energy to open his eyes and find out. He was so tired he might just drift off. Malsha’s hands were a distant distraction—plucking at the bedclothes, turning him over. He felt lips, too, rough kisses on his neck and shoulders, but he might be imagining those. With his general heaviness and the chills periodically racking him, it was hard to tell what was real.

Then an ice-cold finger jabbed itself up his ass, and he was wide awake.

The Magistrate’s whole weight was on top of him, and it was a greater weight than usual, heavy enough to smother. Tilrey clawed at the bedclothes, but he might as well have been trying to slough an entire snow skimmer off his back. All he could do was lie still and control his breathing as the finger continued to slide determinedly inside him. Back and forth.

His lips formed a single word that he wasn’t conscious of wanting to say: “Please.”

“Mmm,” Malsha said. The finger withdrew, not quickly. “You don’t want this, then? For Adelbert you willingly spread your legs, but not for me?”

Tilrey squeezed his eyes shut. “Please,” he said again.

“Not that I blame you.” Two slick fingers gently circled the sensitive opening, sending shivers up his spine. “Bertsha is an exquisite boy, even now he’s older. Honestly, I’m not angry. What bothers me is that I didn’t have a chance to watch you two together.”

Still bluffing. He’s furious. The words appeared distinctly in Tilrey’s mind. And then his mouth was forming words and forcing them out: “Never get what you want from me. Never.”

Malsha’s fingers went still. Tilrey heard only his breathing, the rhythm ragged with arousal or some other emotion.

Had he wounded the Magistrate enough to make his confidence waver for an instant? He didn’t dare hope it.

At length, Malsha’s breathing evened out. A hand cupped Tilrey’s ass and squeezed. The two fingers stopped circling and pressed inside him.

“What you may not understand, love,” Malsha said, soft in his ear, “is that I’m doing you a kindness. All this time I haven’t wanted to break you, not really. So I held back. I like seeing you struggle too much. I suppose that’s my special perversion.”

A wet kiss on his shoulder. The crushing weight shifted. The two fingers thrust deep inside, opening him efficiently with no concern for his pleasure.

“But we’ve reached the point where your struggling is hurting you, and it’s inconveniencing me. That won’t do.”

Tilrey knew he should be responding to what Malsha was doing—raising his hips, pushing out, relaxing and breathing. But everything that had been automatic was now impossible. His body was dead weight.

A third finger teased around his rim while the others held him open. He could feel Malsha’s erection through the dressing gown, prodding his thigh, and he knew perfectly well where this was going.

He was going to be fucked, but not the usual way. With the drug slowing everything down, he couldn’t use any of the skills he’d learned to help him detach, control, perform, minimize. He was with Jena again, being held down and forced, defenseless. He was with the soldiers.

At least his head was so foggy it was hard to care. If he felt anything, it wasn’t shame or despair but anger, a cold blade he’d grabbed hold of but couldn’t pull close enough to use.

Warm breath against his ear—so tender. Such a parody of caring. “So it’s time for all that to stop. It’s time for you to break, sweetheart. Once you do, once you finally let go, you’ll feel so much better.”

It did sound good, actually. But how did you do that? How shattered could you be? Where did it end?

Maybe he asked the questions aloud without realizing it. Because Malsha laughed gently and said, “Don’t worry. Relax and I’ll show you. Let go, sweetheart. Let go, my beauty. Let go.”

***

Was this what being broken felt like?

Tilrey gazed out the window of the private plane, all set to take off for Redda, while Malsha called to Krisha to fetch another blanket. “He’s shivering!”

“Right away, Fir.” Sullen-faced, Krisha banged an overhead bin open and rifled through it.

“And tea once we’re at safe altitude. Please.” Malsha settled beside Tilrey and patted his knee through the blankets. “Doing okay, sweetheart? Seatbelt’s not too tight?”

“Fine.” The plane was being sprayed with de-icer, clouds spurting through the air and dripping down the fuselage. Tilrey wished he were under a hot, steamy shower, everything being sluiced away.

Two days had passed—possibly three, he was fuzzy on time—and he still couldn’t walk or stand for more than a minute or so without leaning on Krisha. Malsha kept assuring him he’d soon be back to normal.

But being an invalid actually made everything easier. Tilrey let himself be taken care of or used, whatever Malsha preferred at the moment, while his brain drifted away in its low-fever haze.

Was this being broken, or was it just the lingering effects of the Vexonil? Either way, it was a relief. There were no goals now, no stakes. No worries. There was nothing, really.

Krisha handed the blanket over. Malsha draped it over Tilrey and was ridiculously assiduous about tucking it in. “That’s enough?” he fretted, then pulled up the hood of Tilrey’s fleece and cinched it. “I don’t want you taking a chill.”

“I’m fine.” He meant it. Normally he would have been fighting an urge to slap Malsha’s hands away. Now? He was fine. Everything was fine. Whatever.

If he stayed this way, in the fuzzy gray indifference, Malsha was going to get so bored with him. It was almost enough to make him smile.

As the plane began to taxi, Malsha buckled himself in and took out his handheld. “Ah,” he said, eyes on the screen, “Verán’s been busy this recess. He’s already announced his candidates for the next Council election, and what a mix of bores and rogues they are. I wonder if he really thinks he can get a majority with this brain trust.”

Tilrey looked out at the airfield. White and gray, land and sky indistinguishable, no trees to be seen from here. He wondered in a detached way if Adelbert was also going home today, and if he was satisfied with the outcome of his plan. All that crying—it hadn’t made a lot of sense. But Adelbert wasn’t the most rational person. Pitiable, really.

Malsha stowed his handheld as the engines whined into high gear. “I like when Visha Verán gets fired up to beat me. It fires me up, too.” He patted Tilrey again and picked up his hand, weaving their fingers together. “We’ll beat him, won’t we? Send him running with his tail between his legs.”

We’ll beat him? “Do you even care about your own party platform?” Tilrey found himself asking. “Or do you just want to crush Verán?”

The Magistrate looked almost startled. “A little of both. I do like my Harbourer imports and my diplomatic trips. My party’s platform dovetails with my personal interests in that respect.”

He squeezed Tilrey’s hand. “I plan to take you to Harbour in the next year or so. You can’t imagine how happy you’ll be there. Imagine walking barefoot in thick green grass. Swimming outdoors. You’ll be in your element.”

He was peering at Tilrey as if he expected his enthusiasm to be returned. Tilrey stared straight ahead at the fold-out desk made of shiny white polymer.

“I’m sure, Fir,” he said as the plane roared down the runway.

Chapter 21: Unbroken

“Shall I brew another pot, Fir?” Tilrey asked, loading plates and tumblers onto the tray.

Malsha looked up from his Council Record. Two ten-days had passed since their return from the Southern Range, and he’d developed a new way of looking at Tilrey—focused and a little wary. “No, I’m getting tired. Why don’t you run us a bath?”

Tilrey took the tray to the kitchen, loaded the dishwasher, and rinsed the teapot. Then he went into the bathroom and worked the taps. Steam billowed into the white-tiled room, and he closed his eyes and enjoyed it, his thoughts floating in that gray in-between space.

Physically, he was back to normal. He read and swam and worked out and lifted and did all his duties so efficiently that most people couldn’t see any difference. But Malsha could. He was always trying to start conversations with Tilrey, asking him questions. Tilrey answered every question he was asked, but the engagement bored him, and he made it clear.

He’d learned so much from Vexonil. If it was supposed to make interrogation subjects teary and forthcoming, it had failed miserably on him. Instead, it had given him a place to escape to, a place he could reach even with no drugs in his system.

Focusing on simple physical tasks helped. When Malsha came in and undressed for the bath, Tilrey took each garment from him in turn and folded it. He pulled out a fresh robe and set it in easy reach. He offered his sturdy arm to help the old man safely down into the foaming water. Then he took a few steps back, to offer a good view, and undressed himself—boots, socks, tunic, trousers, shirt, briefs. No rush. Everything folded and neatly set aside.

Naked, he stretched and flexed for a moment, gazing off into the steam. Then he dropped into the water and settled on the bench. When the handful of sap was offered, he bent his head and took his time licking it up, his tongue making leisurely circles on Malsha’s palm.

Malsha spoke above him, dry and amused. “That’s quite a performance for a quarter-V.”

True. The measly dose wouldn’t even get Tilrey groggy. Still, he let his eyelids droop lazily as he sat back into the circle of Malsha’s arm. “Thank you, Fir.”

Malsha sighed. The more passive Tilrey got, the more miffed he acted, even though there was nothing for him to reprimand. “Such gratitude. I’m honored.”

Tilrey blinked into the vapor. The gush of a jet felt good on his thigh. It’s almost like you didn’t really want me broken at all.

“Well, I’ve given you an exhaustive account of everything that’s happened in Council over the past three days, not that you seem interested. What about you? What have you been doing with yourself?”

Tilrey didn’t have to feign his indifference. That was the beauty of his post-Vexonil state. “The usual, Fir. Lifting. Swimming. Running. Sleeping. Reading.”

“What are you reading now? Tell me.”

It was a familiar trap, and Tilrey wouldn’t fall into it. He rattled off two titles he’d finished before vacation and was no longer excited about. His current reading was the only thing (besides baths and salmon dumplings) that he still enjoyed, and it was none of Malsha’s business.

“Ah, now that’s an odd one. The young man who turns into an insect. It’s like a fable, but all too easy to apply to ourselves, when you think about it. The ultimate rebellion, yet passive: when you’re an insect, you can’t work. Not in a human way, anyhow. I don’t think anyone alive today understands how subversive that story is.”

And on like that. Tilrey only half listened, until Malsha played with his hair and asked, “Do you ever wish you could transform into something hideous? That would free you from me, wouldn’t it?”

Another trap. Malsha wanted to remind him of the statement he’d written for Adelbert, rubbing his failed rebellion in. Tilrey leaned into the contact, resting his chin on the Magistrate’s shoulder as if he were sleepy. “Would it?” he asked, and reached down into the water for Malsha’s cock.

Simple tasks, performed by rote. He shut Malsha up with the brisk motions of his hand. He got Malsha off. He stepped out of the water and held a towel ready for Malsha to step into. Rubbed the Magistrate’s shoulders with it. Held the robe while Malsha slipped his arms into the sleeves. Picked up a second towel for himself.

In the bedroom, he mainly just had to lie there, obeying any instructions he was given. Malsha had eased up on making him perform in the ways they’d practiced, though the techniques still came in handy with Saldegren and sometimes István.

He lay on his back, looking up at the canopy, while the Magistrate labored on top of him. It was amazing how relaxing it was to be fucked, deep and hard and thoroughly. It was amazing that submitting this way had ever bothered him. It seemed like the ideal use for a body that consistently agitated people. Seeing himself from a distance, through the pleasant fog, he completely understood why people wanted to dominate and sometimes even hurt him. He made them feel less in control.

By the time Malsha came back with the usual tea and biscuits, Tilrey had dozed off and needed to be woken. He didn’t have much patience with the charade of tenderness these days, but he was polite about it.

He had to stay on his guard, because Malsha often used this time to try to provoke him into one of his old emotional reactions. Tonight was no exception. Offering Tilrey the plate of biscuits, Malsha asked, “Do you ever miss Adelbert?”

Tilrey’s first impulse was to smile derisively at the blunt probe. He checked himself and kept his face calm and his eyes wide. “I don’t really think about him, Fir. Why?”

“Well, you fucked him, didn’t you? Or the other way round. Or both. You never did tell me.” The old man’s eyes narrowed, his need to know all too transparent. “Didn’t you desire him at all? An Upstart, offering himself to you?”

Desire. It hung in the air between them, a concept that Tilrey couldn’t seem to wrap his head around. He was aroused when people wanted him to be, but that was different.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly and bit into one of the sesame seed biscuits. Sugary, with a sandy texture. Nice. He was almost as fond of these as of salmon dumplings.

Malsha said sharply, “Look at me. No, not like that. In the eye.”

Tilrey looked. He had to suppress a flicker of elation at the Magistrate’s puzzled annoyance. “Did I do something wrong?”

I’ve got to him, a voice said very deep inside him. But if he showed for even an instant that he was still in here, still capable of feeling things, then Malsha would pounce. Malsha would take him apart piece by piece and leave him so ruined he’d never put himself back together again.

The Magistrate shook his head. “This isn’t you,” he said. “You can’t fool me. I know you by now.”

Tilrey stared back. What would he answer if he were really and truly broken, beyond all forms of resistance?

“I can tell you everything I did with Adelbert if you want,” he said. Blinked. “I don’t mind.”

Malsha’s eyes didn’t leave him. “Oh? Tell me, then.”

Tilrey opened his mouth and started talking. He would divulge every detail with painstaking, clinical honesty, like one of Malsha’s machines spewing forth something it had been programmed with. He would let Malsha enjoy his coupling with Adelbert vicariously. Why not? It didn’t matter now.

***

The next day, while Tilrey was reading in his own room during the long, dead hours between the gym and dinner, a knock sounded on his door. He knew it was Artur because Krisha never bothered to knock anymore. “Come in.”

“I brought tea.” Artur wedged his foot in the door and entered with the steaming tray. He didn’t meet Tilrey’s eyes as he deftly set things up on the bedside table.

“It’s okay.” Tilrey took a tumbler, breathed in the steam, and slumped against the wall of the alcove. “I know why you’re actually here.”

“You do?” Artur sat at the foot of the bed. “Because I don’t think you can possibly imagine what a shitty time Malsha’s giving me in the office these days.”

Tilrey arched a brow. Pretending would be harder with Artur, possibly not even worth it. “What do you mean?”

“What do you think? He won’t stop poking and prodding me, trying to get a nice, juicy reaction.” The secretary’s eyes flashed. “And when I ask him why he’s being such an asshole, he says it’s because you’re ‘no fun’ and he can’t make you be fun anymore.”

Tilrey blew on his tea. “Did he tell you how that happened?”

“I practically had to force him. He told me about the Vexonil, not about whatever you did to push him over the line. I’m not prying, and I know it’s not your fault!” Artur added hastily, as if Tilrey had been glaring at him rather than looking totally blank. “I know Malsha. And I know Vexonil—it’s nasty stuff. But it doesn’t last for two ten-days, and it doesn’t change a person’s personality. He seems to think you’re putting on some kind of act.”

Tilrey took a swallow, hot enough to burn his throat. Did he trust Artur not to tell Malsha what they said here? Probably. “The gall of him,” he said.

I like seeing you struggle too much, Malsha had said in the villa. I suppose that’s my special perversion. Now he was vexed because the struggling had stopped, and he had the nerve to complain about it.

“I know.” Artur drew his knees to his chest. “I’m sorry. But it scares him, and now I’m seeing you for myself, it scares me a little, too. You seem slightly . . . vacant. Are you okay, Rishka?”

It hadn’t occurred to Tilrey that his dampened affect might make Malsha take out his frustrated sadism on someone else. The thought drove bile into his throat. Maybe that was why Krisha was in such a bad mood lately, too.

“He wanted me broken,” he said. “His word. Now he wants me what? Unbroken? So he can have more fun?”

“He is what he is.” Artur’s eyes were two dark holes. “You know it and I know it. I’m here to check on you, but also to warn you. If you don’t start responding, he’ll find ways to make you respond. And you won’t like them.”

That sounded like a challenge. “Like what?”

“Krisha.”

Tilrey allowed himself to laugh, breezy and full of bravado he didn’t quite feel. “He’ll give me to Krisha? Like I give a shit. Did he ever do that to you?”

Artur dropped his gaze. “A few times. Poor Krisha just does as he’s told, but he can get rough when Malsha wants him to. I thought you should know.”

The concerned tone stung. Did Artur really think Tilrey was afraid of “roughness”? Enough to be a good boy and give Malsha the kind of tremulous attention he wanted?

“You know,” he said, “I think I’d rather have Krisha giving me a nice hard plowing than you in here telling me how to act. All so Malsha will be a little nicer to you in the office.”

Artur looked at him, his thin lips twisting into a faint smile. And something caught in Tilrey’s throat. His vision blurred.

“I didn’t mean that,” he said. “Sorry. You don’t deserve him being shitty to you, either. I wish I could do something.”

Artur unfolded his long legs and held his hand out for Tilrey’s tumbler. “More?”

“Sure.” It was funny how much more human he felt just sharing tea with someone who wasn’t trying to fuck him.

Artur poured and handed the tumbler back. “You haven’t been acting normal, Tilrey. I talked to your friend Bror today, and he says you’ve been giving him the silent treatment at the gym and don’t come to the Café at all.”

“We had a fight.” Tilrey could barely remember what the fight had been about. The important thing was that Krisha was chaperoning him again these days, and he didn’t want Bror to tempt him into behavior like chatting or smiling or laughing that the driver might report to Malsha. “And I don’t like my friends discussing me behind my back.”

“I know. I apologize. What I’m trying to say, though, is that Bror and Malsha both had me thinking you were practically catatonic. I was worried. But from what I can see, you’re actually okay.”

“I am?”

Artur nodded. “You’re fooling Malsha by playing dead, but you can’t fool me. You’ve still got your smart mouth.”

“I don’t have a smart mouth.” But Tilrey was oddly flattered.

Artur grinned. “I’ll be the judge of that. Look, let me help you—I’ve got a plan. You’re headed for crisis right now. But if you give Malsha just enough of what he wants, enough to relieve the tension, things will go back to normal. He’ll be easier on you and all of us.”

Normal. The room suddenly felt small and suffocating. It was Malsha’s like everything else here, like Tilrey himself.

He set down his tea and folded his legs to his chest. “He broke me, like a kid throwing a toy against the wall, and now he wants to glue me back together. And you want me to go along with it.”

“You were never ‘broken’ and you never will be, except in his deranged imagination. He hurt you, and now you’re hurting him back in the only way you can.”

Tilrey opened his mouth to protest that he was incapable of hurting Malsha in any meaningful way, but Artur cut him off. “I know. Look, I’ve been where you are. I’ve given him the silent treatment. It was satisfying for a while, but in the end the price was too high. Do you want to outlive him?”

At first, Tilrey’s mind rebelled from thinking so far ahead. Malsha seemed to occupy the whole horizon.

Then he realized Artur was right. He didn’t want to end up like Adelbert, still obsessed with punishing the man who had poisoned his youth. He lifted his chin. “I will outlive him. I hope he dies alone. And I never want to be his fucking secretary.”

Artur didn’t seem to take this as an insult. “That’s the spirit,” he said. “Okay, here’s the plan. I’m going to tell him that we talked, and I sounded you out, and I found out what’s really bothering you . . .”

***

“You should have told me, sweetheart,” Malsha said, five days later.

They’d reached the post-fucking, tea-service phase of the night. Tilrey leaned back against the pillows and reached for a biscuit. “Told you what, Fir?”

“All the poisonous things Adelbert said to you.” The Magistrate actually looked morally outraged, his chin wobbling as if he were a hidebound elder. “The nerve of that boy.”

“Was anything he said not true, Fir?” Tilrey was genuinely curious. Everything in Adelbert’s story sounded perfectly in character for Malsha.

“He told you about my bargain with his uncle, didn’t he? A deal with him as currency?” The old man shook his head. “That was a long time ago, back when we were allies, and it was Verán’s idea.”

Tilrey nodded. That Malsha and Verán had once been allies was surprising, but things did tend to shift in the Council.

Malsha went on: “Artur tells me you’re worried I might hand you over to Verán for a night, just out of perversity. I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.”

“Oh.” Tilrey had to force himself not to roll his eyes. Couldn’t Artur have thought of a better lie? This one made his fears sound childish; everyone knew Malsha and Verán despised each other.

But he played along, lowering his gaze as if he were mortally ashamed. “I just thought—well, it shocked me. I didn’t know you used to swing toward the Island Party. And I—well, Verán looks at me like he wants to take me apart. And I know you think it’s fun to . . .” He broke off, unfeigned heat rising to his face.

Malsha reached over to flick Tilrey’s bangs out of his eyes. “What?”

“You like to hurt me.” Tilrey stared at his folded hands. “That’s all. Adelbert said you like to hurt people. That’s what I really learned from him.”

Not that I needed to, he added silently, hoping he could live with himself after this. He’d just handed the twisted old fuck exactly what he wanted: an opportunity to comfort him.

Malsha made a small sound in his throat. “I could kill Adelbert.”

Don’t blame Adelbert. You made him what he is. “It’s not his fault, Fir.”

Malsha tugged him into an embrace. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Can you really say you don’t like hurting me?” Tilrey’s gorge was rising, but he would not retch. Surely Malsha knew they were both play-acting. Apparently a fake display of weakness turned him on as much as a real one.

Fake weakness. Fake numbness. Fake pleasure. He had no idea who he actually was.

“Oh, my love.” A kiss on his forehead. “Forgive me. Please.”

The next five minutes or so were unbearable, full of caresses and promises to do better and value him more. When tears rose to Tilrey’s eyes, he let them fall. He let Malsha wipe them away.

Fuck you, Artur. But Artur had a point: If he wanted to survive this, he couldn’t opt out. Playing dead was a satisfying strategy, but not sustainable.

Eventually even Malsha got sick of his own sentimentality, and the caresses became more purposeful. Tilrey lay still and allowed himself to be jerked off. He held back and waited for the signal and finally came with his back arched and his eyes rolling as if Malsha had done him an enormous favor. Then he reciprocated.

When the conversation finally resumed, he was painfully clear-headed and impatient with all forms of pretending. It might be nicer to be numb again, but he had missed their political conversations.

“I wanted to ask you about another thing Adelbert told me,” he said, trying to tune out Malsha nuzzling his neck. “About why you needed an alliance with his uncle when you were starting out in the Council.”

“Mmmm?”

“He said your family had fallen from prominence. That your great-uncle was a traitor.”

If Malsha was offended by this mention of the black sheep of the Linnett line, he didn’t show it. “My great-uncle Edvard. Yes.” Warm breath against Tilrey’s throat. “He’s probably where I get my affinity for Harbour. The poor man was terrible at treason, though; he couldn’t even get himself exiled. I think he just wanted the attention. They decided he was merely pathological and packed him off to moral rehab for the rest of his life.”

Merely pathological sounded like a good description of a certain descendant of Edvard Linnett, but Tilrey didn’t give Malsha the satisfaction of saying so. “That sounds better than exile. At least he was allowed to live.”

Malsha was busy sucking on Tilrey’s jawline, probably leaving marks. When he was done, he propped himself up on an elbow. “Do you really think exile and death are the same, love? Are you that naïve?”

Another attempt to shock him with absurdities. “No one survives in the Wastes except Outers, Fir. That’s the whole point of exile.”

Malsha rolled over on his back, grinning. “What a good little boy you are. You believe what they tell you. For ordinary exiles without connections, yes—death is the usual outcome. But when a powerful person is exiled, things can go a bit differently.”

“Can they, Fir?” Tilrey opened his eyes wide, playing the naïve Skeinsha, and waited for Malsha to tell him a story about someone whose exile hadn’t gone as planned. He was actually curious—the process of exile was shrouded in mystery.

But Malsha only said, “Always be skeptical when you hear someone was exiled, my child. Sometimes it’s merely our government’s way of pretending none of us ever wants to escape.”

***

Tilrey swam fifty furious laps the next day. Sweated in the sauna and then headed straight to the weight room. When he finally emerged into the gym lobby, shaky-legged and bleary-eyed, it was early evening. Krisha, who usually waited for him there, was nowhere to be seen.

He could take the tram home, but he wouldn’t be able to enter the apartment; Malsha had reprogrammed the lock so his chip no longer worked. “Only temporary,” the Magistrate had promised soothingly last night. “You’ll have freedom again once you’ve proved you won’t abuse it.”

Tilrey hadn’t had much of an appetite since the Vexonil, but today’s workout had left him famished and impatient for his dinner. He was scanning the line at the smoothie kiosk, looking for Krisha, when a female voice spoke his name.

Tilrey couldn’t remember the last time he’d talked to a woman who wasn’t some sort of server or attendant. He turned to find a willowy girl about his age, dressed like a University student, with a downy cloud of short, coppery hair. For a moment, he had no idea who she was.

Then he registered the high cheekbones and forehead, the delicately cleft chin and wide-set eyes, and his whole body stiffened. “Fir’n Linnett.”

Vera Linnett’s face had gone the color of tomato broth. “How—how are you?”

She was staring at his clothes, he could tell. She was mortified by how they advertised his status as her grandfather’s kettle boy.

The first two times they met, in her family’s vacation villa, Vera had played at being his equal. Tilrey went along with it because he didn’t know better, didn’t even know how to show proper respect for Upstarts. He’d learned so much since then.

“Fine, Fir’n. And yourself?” He clasped his hands behind his back and stared straight ahead, not making eye contact. Respectful. Remote.

It was no wonder he hadn’t recognized her: Their interactions felt like a dream he’d had long ago. He could barely remember the person he’d been when he was a prisoner in Fir Jena’s spare room.

Such an idiot. He hadn’t even realized how many rules he was breaking. On their second meeting, when Vera started to edge closer to him and play with her hair and speak in intimate murmurs, he mainly worried about betraying Dal.

He told Vera he had a girlfriend, but he was flirting back the whole time. He couldn’t seem to help it. When she gave him a shy kiss on the cheek and turned red, he blushed, too, but he didn’t turn away. Her sweetness and her compliments were a warm balm after what he’d endured his first few nights as a kettle boy. He craved more.

It never even occurred to him that their clumsy caresses might drive her father into a frenzy of rage. And if it had, he probably still would have thrown caution to the winds like the stupid teenager he was.

Now he understood consequences.

“I’m well. I’m at University now, on the Diplomat track.” Vera’s voice faltered. “You look . . . bigger.”

Tilrey allowed himself a small smile. “I’ve grown, Fir’n.”

“No, but I mean you look stronger, too.” Vera cleared her throat. “You look so well, like you’re glowing all over. Healthy, I mean. I’m glad. To see you healthy. Well, I’m meeting my mother. I should go.”

“Good to see you, Fir’n. Please give my regards to Fir’n Councillor.”

“I shall.” Vera ducked her head and darted off toward the passage to the tram platform as if he might chase her.

Tilrey was still gazing after her when a belly laugh roiled the air. “Well, fuck me,” Bror said. “That girl’s ready to climb you like a tree.”

Tilrey’s face warmed as he turned, but not unpleasantly. “That’s the Linnett heir,” he reminded his friend.

“I know perfectly well who she is.” Bror bent to whisper in Tilrey’s ear: “Have you already done her? It looks like she wants a repeat performance.”

“I—no. Of course not.” But his burning face betrayed him. “Maybe once, almost. But it was ages ago.”

“Ages?” Bror looked skeptical. “You’ve only been here a year. But I guess it’s smart of you to put it in the past. I’ve been with some wives and daughters, but it can get dicey when you do it on the sly.”

Dicey. That was one word for it. “Is it ever not on the sly?” Tilrey asked, curious about Bror’s exploits.

“Discretion, right?” Bror chuckled. “Oh, I have stories for you, my friend, when we’re in private. Want to grab dinner at the Café, or is Krisha still stuck to your heels like shitty TP?”

Tilrey felt a surprising wave of longing and regret. He’d been so cold last time they were at the Café, accusing Bror of not seeing the difference between him and Ansha, and that snit had sent him straight into the arms of Adelbert. Bror would never offer him a mirage of freedom, and Bror would never betray him. There he stood, beaming at Tilrey like they’d never argued at all.

“Krisha’s still stuck to me,” he said. “Tomorrow, though? He doesn’t care where we go as long as he has his eye on me.”

“Fucking hell.” Bror rolled his eyes. “We all miss you in the Vacants, even Celinda. Just the other day she was asking me to check up on you.”

That made Tilrey blush again. “It shouldn’t be for much longer—the Krisha-glued-to-me thing, I mean.”

That seemed likely, given how happy and affectionate Malsha had been last night. Artur was right. Life was a lot better when you gave the old bastard what he wanted, even if it sometimes made you want to slit your wrists.

“Good man,” Bror said, slapping him on the back. “Where the fuck is Krisha, anyway? Let’s get a smoothie while we’re waiting.”

As they stood at the kiosk, a goofball grin spread over Bror’s face. Tilrey asked, “What?”

Bror leaned close and made his voice fluting. “You’re glowing all over.”

Tilrey shoved his friend away, but he was laughing. “Fuck off.”

“I’m telling you, you need to look out for that girl.”

Everything was back to normal. They could both joke about the parts of their lives they’d rather not look at too closely. “I might as well just do everybody in her family,” Tilrey said. “Why not?”

Bror’s laughter came out in a surprised bark. “We’ve finally corrupted you, Rishka. What would people back in ’Skein say?”

“We’re not in ’Skein.” And for once, Tilrey didn’t feel a painful wrenching at his heart as he spoke the name of his home city.

If he was corrupted, well, his defenses were the better for it. No one like Adelbert would ever fool him again.

When the girl gave him his smoothie, he slipped a half-V of sap out of his pocket—a present from Councillor Tollmann that he’d just remembered. He poured it in.

“I’m a Reddan now,” he said, raising his glass to Bror. “To decadence.”

“To decadence,” Bror said, imitating Tilrey and smiling his infectious smile. And for today, at least, everything was all right.

Notes:

I just had to pull Tilrey back from the brink and put him on an even keel before I left this story again. Needless to say, there's more to write and more being set up with the little conversation about exile. But for now I'm going to return to the present narrative and see what's going on with Einara in the Sanctioned Brothel.

Thank you to everyone reading this, and I hope you and yours are safe and well and hanging in there, wherever you are. I feel like I'm living on my own Oslov island right now, but things are basically okay and I'm grateful for that. <3

Chapter 22: Adored

Notes:

We've reached the part of the story involving Vera Linnett and her teenage angst, but I'm trying not to let her POV dominate. ;)

You can find a longer flashback to Tilrey and Vera's first meeting here. The consequences of her obsession unfold in "I'll Be Watching You" and "Crosscurrents and Consequences."

I hope everyone's having as good and safe a summer as you can, and thank you so much for reading! <3

Vera Linnett was obsessed.

Nearly three months had passed since she spoke with Tilrey in the lobby of the gym. (My grandfather’s kettle boy, she reminded herself sternly; even using his name was dangerous.) She’d been through exams and countless dull hours of class and two awkward sexual encounters with fellow students that ended with no one satisfied. One boy, one girl, both high-named and both blond, because she hoped running her fingers through honey-colored hair would get him out of her brain. It didn’t.

She’d known them both since Nursery, which made it even worse. “Do you think there’s something wrong with you, physiologically?” the boy had asked casually as he tugged on his trousers in her dorm room. “Because I really tried.”

And these were the same peers with whom she’d have to mingle for the rest of her life, in Sector offices and the Council chamber and her own living room. She knew them all too well already—their tics and pretensions and carefully combed hair and superior smiles. That was the curse of being at the top of the pyramid of meritocracy.

Just thinking about her meticulously planned future made Vera shudder and set down her tea. She was spending the afternoon at the Café in Ring One, where she usually headed when she couldn’t endure campus for another second. It was an exorbitant choice for someone with a student ration chip, but it was one of the few places where she was likely to see him.

And just like that, there he was.

He barged in from the coldroom with another, even bigger kettle boy, the two of them laughing. Tilrey’s hair was damp from the outdoors, and his cheeks were red, and his eyes glittered in that pale, almost feral way that had fascinated her ever since the day she opened the door of her father’s spare room to find him there.

Vera lowered her eyes, grateful that the two kettle boys had chosen a table on the far side of the room. She would slip out before Tilrey spotted her, and she would live for another ten-day on the memory of his face. He was like a prince hunting caribou in a Feudal tale, like the handsome ski racer in her favorite dramastream, like—

Like forbidden fruit. Like a kettle boy. Like a whore.

She didn’t leave after all. She stared at the resource-allocation chart on her handheld, not comprehending a bit of it because in her head she was busy using all the worst and crudest words to persuade herself not to get up when Tilrey left and follow him. For her: Drudge lover, shirker, underachiever, nihilist, dishonor magnet. For him: whore, slut, Drudge, piece, thing.

It hurt her to call him those things, even in her head. In the vacation house, he’d been nervous and shy with her at first, but he was always so sweet. After she begged him not to call her Fir’n—No ranks, no names, like Vodion and Válya in the legend—Tilrey grew more comfortable. Soon he was teasing her in a way that felt like the gentlest tickle up and down her spine, and one thing led to another.

After they were caught together, Vera’s mother gave Vera a stern lecture. She hadn’t used any crude words, but she seemed to find being attracted to a kettle boy similar to being attracted to a faucet or teapot, if the faucet or teapot were alive and could be harmed by your interest. “He’s not like you,” she kept saying in a strained, nervous way. “He was there to work, and now your father’s upset with him. I understand you didn’t mean any harm, but you have to understand the repercussions of your actions on people who aren’t as advantaged as you are.”

As for Vera’s father, he never acknowledged what had happened in any way. Only her brother, the one who’d tattled on them, was even slightly sympathetic. But Valgund was such an oddball. “He looked sad,” he said about Tilrey. “Maybe he was just hoping you’d help him escape.”

“Escape?” Vera frowned, remembering her foolish fantasies. Vodion in the legend was Válya’s father’s slave, but slavery hadn’t existed for centuries, and Tilrey hadn’t mentioned being unhappy, though he had looked it. “From what?”

Valgund just scowled.

Vera didn’t see Tilrey again for more than a year, until their chance meeting in the gym. The boy she encountered then was practically a stranger—taller and broader than before, respectful, impersonal, and dressed in embarrassing kettle-boy clothes like a parody of an Upstart.

She couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Now, from afar, Vera watched Tilrey chatter with his friend and order pot after pot of tea. He seemed relaxed and happy. But if she were to walk up to him, he would probably turn cold and painfully formal again.

A few other kettle boys joined them, and a card game began. Tilrey didn’t play; he slouched in his chair and watched, while a girl dressed like a boy—the only girl there—kept shooting him little glances that he didn’t return or even seem to see. The girl was stunning, Vera couldn’t help noticing, with hair like spun gold.

By the time Tilrey took leave of his friends, hours had passed. Vera’s left leg had gone numb from sitting in the same position. She shook it out, and then she rose and walked swiftly the way Tilrey had gone, into the Library.

In a second he would vanish, lost somewhere in the vast stacks and then in the spring twilight of the city. She might never see him again. That fear was enough to make her half-frantic, though she ducked into an aisle when she saw Tilrey waiting for the lift.

Then the lift door opened, and the fear flared again. As he stepped toward it, Vera dashed out and practically collided with him, tripping over her own undone boot lace.

There went her cool.

Tilrey reached out to steady her, the lift forgotten. “Fir’n Linnett! Are you all right?”

If Vera had ever thought up a sensible excuse for approaching him, she’d forgotten it now. “I saw you leaving,” she admitted, “and I’ve been wanting to talk to you. For a while now. Do you have just a second?”

Tilrey released her and took a step back, though there was no one around to see them together. Emotions passed rapidly over his beautiful face—surprise, alarm, and then a calm that might have been sympathy. “There’s never anybody down in Research Collections,” he said.

***

She looked like her father. She looked like her grandfather. Tilrey didn’t know how he hadn’t clocked the resemblance the instant he met Vera—but then, he hadn’t known Malsha yet. It was hard to imagine there’d ever been such a time.

As they settled at a table in the underground research stacks—the same place where he’d first met Adelbert Verán—Tilrey cataloged Vera’s features. The cloud of red hair and narrow, slightly vulpine eyes were Councillor Jena’s. The high cheekbones, strong chin, and broad brow were Malsha’s. It was a pretty face, in a sleepy, abstracted way. But that was none of his business.

“I’m sorry,” Vera said in a rush, leaning across the table. “I know it’s been more than a year now, but I’ve wanted to tell you the whole time that I’m so sorry. I never wanted to get you in trouble.”

Her voice was breathy like a frightened little girl’s, and her eyes were earnest. Strange. Tilrey remembered Vera as impossibly sophisticated. With her Reddan accent and her Upstart manners, she’d seemed so mature that he was surprised to learn they were the same age. She’d drawn him out and flirted and flattered and teased him and—well, none of that would happen here. He knew better now.

“You didn’t get me in trouble, Fir’n,” he lied. “But if your grandfather knew I was talking to you now, he might be . . . concerned.”

Concerned or perversely elated. With Malsha, it was tough to say.

Vera’s lips pressed together at the mention of her grandfather. “This is your free time, though, isn’t it?” she asked meekly. “Can’t you talk to whoever you want?”

“Of course.” He dropped his gaze; she was way too observant. “But I do have to consider what’s appropriate, Fir’n.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that.”

I’m trying to preserve a proper distance. But it wasn’t easy to be cold when her sad blue-gray eyes were beseeching him, her youthful energy just across the table. Tilrey spent so much of his time with old men. “It’s probably better if I do,” he said.

Vera wrung her hands. “Are you with that girl? The pretty one?”

“What?” Then he realized she meant Celinda and laughed explosively.

He hadn’t believed Vera wanted that from him, not still—not with him parading around in these clothes, not with her at University, where she could probably have whomever she wanted. But Bror was right; Bror was always right.

“No, Fir’n. It’s not like that.” He scrubbed his fingers through his hair, feeling weirdly bashful the way he did with Celinda. “You’re grown up now, that’s all. Everything’s different.”

“You’re grown up, too.” She emphasized the words, as if to reproach him for his childish inhibitions.

How could Tilrey put the truth in terms she understood, terms that wouldn’t shock or scandalize her? “But we have such different roles in life, Fir’n. You must be meeting so many new people. I’m surprised you remember me at all.”

When he saw tears filling Vera’s eyes, he added hurriedly, “I didn’t mean . . .”

Vera rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand. “Yes, you did. Have you really just forgotten everything that happened between us? It’s all right if you have. I’m not offended.”

Something was stuck in Tilrey’s throat. “I didn’t say that.”

Vera’s face hardened. “You were never attracted to me, were you, not really? You pretended.”

Was he supposed to insult her? To kill her hopes with one blow? But he couldn’t speak to a Linnett that way. There was no solution to the problem, so he pushed back his chair. “I should go now, Fir’n. We shouldn’t be seen together.”

“Go, then.” But Vera’s hand flashed across the table and seized his, holding him there. “Just say it. Make it easy for me. Say you never liked me, and then I can go back to campus and start forgetting you.”

Tilrey fought an impulse to twist away. “You’re putting me in a bad position, Fir’n.”

“I am? How?”

You could get me in so much fucking trouble. If she didn’t already know that, though, he couldn’t say it, so he settled for a hint: “We all have our duties.”

“Duty!” Vera said. Tilrey flinched as she gripped him tighter, an angry flush spilling across her pale cheeks. “I’m tired of doing what I’m told,” she said. “You know what duty is for someone like me? You study and study and work and work until you get married to some boring person you’ve known your whole life, and then you have two or three children, and then you advance in your career and get bigger offices, and then it’s over and you die.”

The rant had a familiar ring. Adelbert had been like this, bored and disdainful of his status in life, so he’d started hanging out with stream actors and thrown away everything he was born with. If Tilrey tempted Vera into making mistakes like Adelbert’s, Malsha would hurt him in ways he couldn’t imagine.

“That’s how everybody’s life is, Fir’n,” he said, trying to sound very mature although he knew next to nothing about the lives of young Upstarts. “We all do our duty and contribute to society.”

Vera stared at him, her face a patchwork of red and white and her eyes shining. “You don’t really believe that.”

Go. Just go. Tilrey stood up. Something pricked at his eyes, but he’d made a stupid mess with Adelbert, and he wouldn’t make another. “I need to get back, Fir’n. I’m expected.”

He turned sharply and walked away, barely hearing her call after him, “What are you afraid of?”

***

Vera did well at first, keeping a stoic face for her fellow tram passengers, but by the time she got off at the Uni stop, she was crying. He had lectured her as if she were a child. He despised her!

Blinded by tears, she ran into someone who said, “Pardon me!” and darted gracefully away as if they were playing a game.

Vera blinked, trying desperately to compose herself. But the tall, brown-skinned student didn’t appear to notice her distress, or maybe he just didn’t care. He wore, of all the bizarre things, a yellow scarf knotted around his neck. “You’re in my Labor Theory class, aren’t you?”

“I guess.” Vera managed to give him a stern glare—why was he dressed like an outlaw from the Outer Ring? “You’re going to get written up for that.”

“Oh, am I?” He grinned. “Actually, I’m a Gourmanian.”

“That doesn’t matter,” Vera said. No wonder Tilrey hated her—people with high names were so entitled. Did she sound like that?

The boy arched an ironic brow. “It shouldn’t matter, but it does. The worst I’ll get is docked rec rations, and I think I can handle a ten-day away from the game cylinder. There are better kinds of fun.”

A low whistle sounded below them from the roof of the neighboring building. The young man cocked his head. “Speaking of which.”

Then he did something Vera had never seen anyone do before in her life: He swung himself over the guardrail of the tram platform and let himself drop.

Vera’s stomach turned over. Startled enough to forget her misery, she ran to the guardrail and peered down.

To her relief, the drop to the roof was no more than ten feet. The young man was brushing snow from his parka and looking pleased with himself. Beside him stood another boy and two girls, all wearing brightly colored scarves like his: around a wrist or an ankle, protruding from a pocket. Their noses were ruddy, as if they’d been outside longer than was advisable. One of the girls had a smudge on the back of her hand—a tattoo.

Hargists, Vera realized with a jolt. She’d been warned about them before she went off to University, but this was her first sighting. Was that Svetta Lindahl, from her dorm pod at school? Her folks would be horrified if they could see her like this.

Not that Vera would tattle on any of them. Hadn’t she just mocked Tilrey for letting himself be bound by rules?

“You scared me half to death,” she called down, feeling like an idiot and knowing the young man wanted her to. “You’re coming inside now, aren’t you? It’s cold.”

The young man and his friends exchanged glances. The second boy—who was younger, wearing a school uniform—said, “We’re fine here.”

“We like to feel our feet on the ground,” Svetta said in a singsong. She traipsed to the edge of the roof and sat down there with her legs dangling, then turned to call upward: “You should come along sometime, Vera. Maybe you’d like it, too.”

Vera just stared, tongue-tied, as Svetta pushed off and jumped. Her stomach flipped again, but now she was reasonably sure none of them had self-maiming in mind. By negotiating the tiered roofs of the Uni’s caf and storage complexes, they could probably make their way to ground level without risking their necks.

Why would anyone want to be at ground level, where there was nothing but untouched snow and garbage bins and heating vents? Still, right now it almost sounded better than going back indoors.

Poised to follow Svetta, the young man tossed Vera a smile. “Come with us. It’s more fun than dramastreams or shooting wolves on a screen.”

Vera wanted to. She wanted to jump and feel the wind whistle past her ears; she wanted to cling tight to a helping hand; she wanted to gaze into someone’s laughing eyes (not this boy’s eyes, but he’d do) and feel her cheeks warm.

Then an ice-cold gust buffeted her, and she said, “You’re completely mad. Enjoy your time in the infirmary.”

She turned and walked away, just as Tilrey had done to her, with their wild, heedless laughter in her ears.

***

Nearly two ten-days passed before Tilrey saw Vera again.

He was in the Restaurant, facing Malsha across the table and confirming that yes, the preparation of stewed fish with bayberries and herbs was excellent, and he could taste the sage. He was a little tipsy on bloodred Harbourer wine. So far, it hadn’t been a bad night as free-nights went.

Then Malsha turned to greet someone, and there was Vera—standing at the head of their booth, straight-backed and solemn, staring pointedly at her grandfather as if Tilrey weren’t there.

“Vera, sweetheart.” Malsha pressed his granddaughter’s hand between his. He had a beautiful smile when he was genuinely pleased; Tilrey hated it.

Vera didn’t smile back. “I’m across the room with Mom and Dad and Grandmother and Gunsha,” she said. “Grandmother asked me to tell you she wants to come over and talk to you.”

Even from across the table, Tilrey could feel every muscle in the Magistrate’s body tense. He wondered, not for the first time, what Malsha’s wife had done to earn such enmity, and whether she could teach him how to make Malsha miserable, too.

“She can come whenever she likes.” Malsha sighed, visibly on edge. “I’m not sure why she finds an emissary necessary. I’m not going to fire cannons at her.” As Vera nodded, he said, “Verdant hells, you look so glum! Is Uni getting you down?”

Studying the wine-spattered tablecloth, Tilrey had to imagine Vera’s sullen shrug. She must be as painfully aware of his presence as he was of hers.

“We must talk soon,” the Magistrate said. “A nice dinner for just the two of us, next eighth-day—how does that sound?” He gave his granddaughter’s hand a final pat. “Now, run and tell your grandma to come over if she must, but make it quick.”

When Vera was gone, Malsha reached under the table and stroked Tilrey’s knee. “What a nuisance. Not Vera, of course—poor girl. I think Gunhild pulls stunts like this just to put her grandchildren on the spot and see how they react.”

Tilrey didn’t say what he was thinking, but Malsha read it on his face. “No, no, she’s much worse than me. At least I’m consistent. You’ll see.”

“I’m curious to, Fir,” Tilrey said innocently.

“Lucky you, then. Here she comes.”

An old woman—small and neat, her hair braided around her head— approached them from across the room. She was more or less what Tilrey imagined whenever he regretted not having a living granny of his own.

He couldn’t resist saying, “Terrifying, Fir.”

Malsha frowned. “Don’t scoff, sweetheart. She’ll do her best to shame me, and that means shaming you. Don’t speak, okay?”

He greeted his wife with a smile that had nothing in common with the one he’d shown Vera. “Gunhild, my dear. You look well, such a flush in your cheeks. Sit down, please.”

He slid over, but Gunhild Tollmann said, “No thank you, dear. I’ve found it’s good for me to spend some time on my feet.”

Her dry gray eyes slid over Tilrey, paying him no more attention than they paid the dishware or the glasses or the spiky tropical plant dangling in the window bay. “I apologize for interrupting your recreation.”

“No trouble at all, darling,” Malsha said—overdoing his unconcern, Tilrey thought. “So, what’s eating Vera? She looks out of sorts today.”

“She’s an adolescent,” Gunhild said. Her eyes flickered over Tilrey again—his own were politely cast down, but he could feel the pressure. “She’s had her troubles, but she’ll find herself on the right path now she’s at Uni. It’s her brother who concerns me.”

Malsha ate a sweet potato fry and washed it down with a sip of wine. “Oh?”

“You haven’t given him a thought, have you?” She didn’t sound surprised. “Vera was always your favorite. Tell me you’ve at least kept up enough to know that Valgund will be Notified this year, and that his quant scores disqualify him for a career in Programming.”

The Magistrate swiped his lips delicately with a napkin. “I know Albertine worries about him. But his quant scores are no worse than mine.”

A hiss of amused recognition told Tilrey that Gunhild somehow knew exactly what test scores Malsha had earned a half-century ago as a schoolboy. “You don’t see a problem there?”

Malsha shrugged. “Not everyone can be a genius like you, my dear. Why not just put Gunsha up for Diplo like his sister? I told Albertine if she did that, I’d make sure things went smoothly.”

Tilrey knew what that meant. Like Adelbert Verán, Valgund Linnett would become an Upstart whether he wanted to or not. And, because he wasn’t good with numbers, he would become a Diplomat, the blanket term for all Upstarts in government service.

“Ah, but there is a problem,” Gunhild said. “Technically, the choice is up to the boy, not his mother. And he’s dead set against Diplo.” A pause. Then she added, with a dryness that made Tilrey edge backward, “Your grandson doesn’t seem to want to follow in your footsteps.”

If Malsha felt the dig, he didn’t show it. “Valgund has always had an independent mind. I admire that about him. So, if he can’t do Prog and doesn’t like Diplo, what does he want to do with himself?”

“He says the only thing that interests him is botany.” Gunhild’s tone classed botany with garbage collection. “He wants to be a Biologist, he informs me, and live on a research station.”

Malsha dipped a fry in aioli and popped it in his mouth. “So,” he said in the gentle way that always made shivers run up and down Tilrey’s spine, “perhaps we should allow Valgund to do what he wants.”

For an instant, the two of them simply glared at each other. Then Gunhild gave Tilrey a little rap on the shoulder and said, “Shove over, boy. I’ve stood here long enough.”

Tilrey obeyed before he was conscious of it. He made room for her to sit facing Malsha, then slid into his corner and tried to disappear.

The old woman kept her eyes on her husband, as if Tilrey were a chair or table that had been in the way. “You’re responsible for this,” she said quietly. “You filled Valgund’s head with tales of Harbour, of jungles and flowers and mighty rivers.” She shot a glance at the foliage in the window bay as if it shared the blame. “I told you such talk isn’t appropriate for children, but you never listened. Even Albertine would never have specialized in Harbourer affairs if you hadn’t fired up her imagination.”

“She made a perfectly respectable career out of it.” But Malsha sounded subdued. Could he actually be on the defensive?

“Yes. A Diplomatic career.” Gunhild kept her voice low, as if she were telling scandalous secrets. “I know it amuses you to pretend you’re above everything, Bror. But you know perfectly well that for names like ours, there are only two paths: Prog and Diplo. A Linnett in Bio isn’t a real Linnett. What do they even do all day? Look at shrubs under microscopes?”

“Biologists improve our food supply and research life-saving medical treatments,” Malsha droned as if he were arguing for Bio funding before the Council. “And don’t call me that.”

“Bror is the name your mother gave you,” Gunhild said. “And if she were here, she would agree it’s your duty to devote yourself to persuading your grandson not to throw his life away, instead of spending your free time fucking children who are no older than he is.”

The temperature at the table plummeted. Tilrey hung his head, heat spreading over his face. Now he understood why Malsha had told him to keep quiet—so as not to give Gunhild more ammunition.

“Tilrey is actually Vera’s age,” Malsha said, dangerously mild again. “And his quant scores on the E-Squareds were quite respectable, for his class.”

Gunhild made a derisive sound. “You have more time for that than you do for your family. Does it really surprise you that both your grandchildren have found ways to be difficult?”

“He’s not a that, Gunhild. He’s a clever boy and an invaluable political tool.” Malsha snapped his fingers in Tilrey’s face, making Tilrey straighten up. “And you’re making him act like a sullen teenager, which generally I like, but I don’t need more of that tonight.” He sighed. “If you worked in the Sector, you’d understand our ways.”

“One more reason to be glad I code all day.” Gunhild cleared her throat, and Tilrey raised his eyes and found she was looking directly at him. “I know you like the clever ones, but cleverness is dangerous at that Level. Remember what happened to your grandfather.”

Malsha sighed. “I doubt you’ll ever let me forget.”

“I hope you keep him well away from both of them.”

Valgund and Vera, she must mean. Too late. But Tilrey’s secret only made him feel sick to his stomach.

“I do have some sense of decency,” Malsha said.

“One hopes.” Gunhild slid out of the banquette and rose to leave, her eyes still on Tilrey. “The way this one blushes, you’d think it was a virgin. Did you train it to do that?”

“I think I recall now,” Malsha said, “why I asked you never to trouble me during my meals. The sight of you puts me off my digestion.”

Gunhild chuckled as if in appreciation of the insult. “And how do you think I feel looking at you and your latest plaything? But never mind, that’s an old story. Will you talk to Valgund?”

“Considering your opinion of me, I wonder why you even bother to—”

Gunhild cut him off. “You will, of course. When you have no other choices left, you always do your duty—that’s what your mother used to tell me about you. I miss the poor woman, may her last moment be bright.” She gave Tilrey a last, scathing glance and added—to him or to Malsha or both—“Have a good night, my dear.”

When she was gone, Malsha picked up his wine and took a deep swallow. Then he refilled both their glasses. “So now you see.”

***

“It must have been hard for you,” Tilrey said in the car. “Spending so much time together.”

He hadn’t meant to comment on the conversation, but apparently the wine had addled him to the point of expressing sympathy for Malsha, who deserved it no more than Gunhild and probably less. Still, at least Malsha didn’t call him it.

“It was hard.” Malsha gazed out the window at the ice-glittering facades. “I volunteered for every diplomatic mission that I could just to avoid her, and that was how I fell in love with Harbour. My only regret is that it took me away from my daughter. Thank everything green, Albertine inherited her disposition from me. Gunhild tried to poison her against me, but she never succeeded.”

For Albertine’s sake—and Vera’s—Tilrey hoped she took after neither of her parents. “What did she mean about your grandfather?”

“Oh, that. The dual stain on our family name. My grandfather, Gunnar Linnett, was also General Magistrate. While his brother, Edvard, was busy writing subversive books about Harbour, Gunnar accidentally slipped some sensitive information to his kettle boy. The boy passed the information to shirkers, which resulted in a sabotage incident. My grandfather was exiled.”

Tilrey remembered what Malsha had already told him about exile: It didn’t mean death when it happened to the powerful. “Did he escape somewhere? Harbour?”

“Oh, I doubt it.” Malsha laughed. “I imagine he froze solid. My grandfather was a true Oslov, you see, and he would have regarded death as his due after such a mistake. That was a different time, too. People believed the highest Levels should be held to the highest standards. So my grandfather paid with his life while the treacherous kettle boy was merely packed off to moral rehab.”

Tilrey filed away this piece of history, gazing at the snowy buildings. Was it fairer to expect less of people like him, to punish them less severely than their betters, or was it just another way of underestimating them? Either way, he suspected Malsha wouldn’t have enjoyed his grandfather’s era.

After a moment Malsha added, “Times have changed. If you ever betrayed me that way, you wouldn’t live long enough to regret it.”

Tilrey believed this, but he saw no reason to give Malsha the satisfaction of telling him so. Anyway, he’d just noticed their own building sliding past. “Wait,” he said. “Are we not going home?”

Malsha snuck an arm around his waist. “Did I forget to tell you? Saldegren’s having a little party for his nephew Lindthardt, who’s just been elected Councillor on the Mainland side. You’re going to offer the young man your—my—very personal congratulations.”

***

A snow squall hit campus as Vera walked back to her dorm. Instead of taking the underground passage, which would have been sensible, she cut across the high terrace that people called the Quad.

Wind and snow battered her face, blotting out everything but the distant lights of surrounding buildings. She paused to let the storm buffet her, tearing her thoughts open until the memory of Tilrey sitting beside her grandfather in the Restaurant booth was swept away along with everything else. No longer did she have to see that cold indifference. There was nothing left but fury, inside and outside her.

Approaching the dorm, she tripped over a rag and bent to pick it up, thinking it might be someone’s scarf. It was, but not a proper warm one. Spreading it wide, Vera saw silky purple fabric shot through with golden spangles that caught the light.

This must belong to one of the Hargists. As she stood holding the scarf in both gloved hands, she heard shrieks of fear or glee in the distance, merging with the howls of the wind. Could it be the same group she’d seen at the tram stop? Close by, reveling in the storm? As she listened, though, the sounds frayed and vanished; perhaps they’d been only her imagination.

She knew she should leave the scarf where she’d found it, or toss it in the trash inside. But it was soft and shiny, and she wanted to run her bare fingertips over it just once to know how it felt.

She folded it carefully and pressed it to her chest as she went indoors.

***

Beirthrandt Lindthardt, the newly elected Councillor, was drunk but not too drunk to be extremely randy. And he was a self-satisfied prick.

Tilrey wasn’t sure why this even occurred to him. Councillors were what they were; his feelings were irrelevant. But this one was just ten or twelve years older than he was, and he couldn’t seem to stop judging the man the way he would have judged an arrogant boy at school.

Lindthardt had spent the whole party showing off for his elders, smarming and sucking up to Malsha in a transparently fake way. He was nice looking, with his tan skin and wrestler’s build and large mouth, and he probably knew Malsha appreciated it.

Now they were in the car on their way to the young man’s apartment, just the two of them and the driver, and Lindthardt already had half Tilrey’s clothes off and his hard cock jammed against Tilrey’s thigh. Apparently he didn’t value the gift he’d been given enough to wait and unwrap it in the bedroom.

“Like that, don’t you?” he said, reaching under Tilrey’s tunic to give his cock a squeeze. “Oh yeah, you like that. Show me.”

Tilrey hardened at the touch, as he always did now. He kept his face and voice stony, as if his mind were elsewhere. “Oh yes, that’s good, Fir.”

Lindthardt gave him a long kiss, all slobber, and finished by nipping his bottom lip. “You looked so bored sitting there on that stupid sofa in my uncle’s living room. It must be hell for you sucking those old men’s cocks all day.”

I don’t do it all day. “I do my job, Fir.”

“I’m sure you do.” Another squeeze. “Can they even get it up to fuck you? You haven’t been fucked properly in a while. I can tell.”

Tilrey surged under the man’s touch, but the arousal was a distant sensation. “Do it, Fir. Show me.”

“Beg me for it.” But at that point, the car left the grid with a rumble and hiss and turned into the garage.

“You want me to keep the electrical on for the heat, Fir?” the driver asked, clearly disapproving of such an energy-wasting indulgence.

“S’pose not.” With a frustrated groan, the young Councillor disentangled himself from Tilrey. “Get your coat and trousers back on, you sweet filthy slut. We’ll finish this indoors.”

They ended up in the coldroom, with Tilrey bracing himself against the wall while Lindthardt tore open his tunic and fumbled his trousers down again. The man had his own lube, and he used it competently and even periodically checked in (“You okay? That works?”), so maybe it wasn’t fair to call him a prick. But he was also annoyingly loud, and he demanded constant verbal reinforcement of how big he was and how good it felt. Tilrey held on, his own cock softening again and his forehead knocking against the wall with each thrust, and waited for it to end.

When that was over, they retired to the relative comfort of the bedroom, where Lindthardt spent two or three more hours—Tilrey didn’t get many looks at the clock—demonstrating his youth and virility. He ruined a perfectly good blow job by tossing Tilrey on his back and choking him with his cock, and there were various creative positions he insisted on trying, chattering the whole time about what such and such a whore at the Sanctioned Brothel had told him about how to intensify an orgasm.

By the time the young Councillor finally exhausted himself, Tilrey wasn’t sure he could stand up, and his bottom lip was swollen. He rolled over and feigned sleep.

Maybe Gunhild was right to call him an it. Most people, even whores, would have objected at some point. Bror had taught Tilrey some tactful ways to say no without actually saying it, but Tilrey had learned a different lesson from Malsha: Stoic endurance had its own dignity.

“Hey, hey.” The idiot was pawing his shoulder, holding out a vial. “You want a dip, don’t you?”

Tilrey drank the sap. He allowed Lindthardt to tug his head onto his lap and stroke his hair. He wondered how long it would take to get the man’s smell off him when he was able to shower.

But now the young Councillor was talkative. “What did the Magistrate tell you about me? Did he tell you I’m the youngest person to be elected to this office in the past five years?”

“He didn’t really say anything, Fir,” Tilrey said, knowing this would hurt Lindthardt.

He wasn’t sure why he was wasting his energy on hating this man; Lindthardt was certainly no more difficult to handle than, say, Lindahl or Akeina. Maybe it was the age thing again. Was he actually jealous?

“Ouch.” Lindthardt tousled Tilrey’s hair and gave one lock a hard tug. “Hasn’t anyone ever taught you when it’s polite to lie?” He meditated for a moment. “Oh, but you’re from Thurskein, aren’t you? I suppose you wouldn’t have much experience with politeness.”

Tilrey gritted his teeth quietly, while Lindthardt said, “It’s cute, really. I’ve got a real weakness for louts. I’ve already jerked off twice thinking about my driver, and I’ve only had my driver for two days. Have you ever been with a driver?”

“No, Fir.”

“Enough with the ‘Fir.’ Call me Beirthsha.” Another tug on his hair. “I like just saying it. My driver. You don’t like me, do you?”

Tilrey hadn’t expected Lindthardt to notice. “I’m here to oblige you,” he said. My personal feelings aren’t important—but no, that was admitting it. “It just came as a surprise, that’s all. I haven’t had . . . someone new in a while.”

“Because you’re so exclusive.” Lindthardt nipped Tilrey’s earlobe. “That’s what they tell me. But now I’ve had you, so even if it never happens again, I can always say I did. Even when I’m old and gray like the Magistrate.”

Tilrey’s stomach lurched as he imagined the two of them decades older, Lindthardt still giving him that cocky, possessive look. He remembered what Vera had said about the grim predictability of their lives: And then it’s over and you die. “Not much to boast of, Fir.”

Lindthardt didn’t catch that, or he ignored it. “What about the Magistrate’s granddaughter?” he asked, playing with Tilrey’s hair again. “She must come over sometimes. You know her?”

Tilrey held his breath—then made himself expel it. “Not really, Fir. I saw her at the Restaurant tonight. Why?”

“I need to know more about her. We weren’t at school together, but I want to know what she likes, what she’s fond of.” He gave Tilrey a brisk pat. “I think she might make a good wife for me, once she’s out of Uni and a little older. So tell me, is she as shy as she looks? Do you think she likes fucking men?”

Tilrey had no idea why he felt like someone was sliding the point of an icicle down his spine. “I wouldn’t know, Fir. I don’t think it would be respectful for me to even think about—”

“Oh please.” Lindthardt rolled Tilrey off his lap and onto his back, then climbed on top of him. “You’re not a robot. You have eyes. I won’t bother courting her if she’s not into sex with men, because I’m highly sexed and I don’t want a wife who doesn’t want to fuck me.” He sighed theatrically. “So, is she not into cock, or is she one of those shy little girls who’s secretly desperate for it? You have to have noticed.”

“I don’t know.” Tilrey couldn’t meet the man’s eyes. Now he was imagining Lindthardt on top of Vera, giving her one of those sloppy kisses. Surely she deserved at least a husband who was roughly her age and not . . . Lindthardt. “Why do you want to marry her if you don’t know her, Fir?”

The Councillor laughed as if Tilrey were adorably naïve. “She’s a Linnett. We’ll have excellent offspring. It’ll cement my favor with her grandfather. And she doesn’t look like the type who’ll try to tell me what to do—I hate nagging.” His growing erection prodded at Tilrey’s hip. “See what I mean about highly sexed? Shall we go again?”

***

Once Tilrey knew what he wanted to do, he realized he already knew how to do it.

He tucked three of the sap vials that Councillor Tollmann was always giving him into his pocket and walked through the tunnels of the Underground City to the Outer Ring. This time, older and wiser, he didn’t dawdle in the criminal district.

He found the old woman with the cart full of rags, Auntie Ravikasha, and gave her two vials in exchange for a set of student clothes and a backpack, plus the third vial to ensure her silence. He made her demonstrate to him that the chip-tags on the garments had been disabled.

Then he took the tunnels and the tram to the opposite end of Ring Eight, the University district, where he changed into his new clothes in a public bathroom. He hadn’t gotten himself new boots, because his were too bulky to stow in the backpack, but he hoped they weren’t too conspicuous.

Then he explored campus from end to end, wandering wherever his legs took him. Very few of the doors were chip-locked—not the caf, not the gym and rec center, not the classrooms, not the dorm lobbies, not the library.

No one batted an eye at him in his student parka and student tunic. No one stopped to stare or leer. It was strange to walk unnoticed among hundreds of people his own age, all doing the things that Upstarts his own age apparently did: study, eat, tap on tablets, gossip about the possible sexual habits of professors, flirt with each other.

A few hours into this exploration, he found Vera on the third floor of the student library in a carrel overlooking the concrete hulk of the rec center. When he saw her, his resolution deserted him. Not knowing what to say, he froze, watching as she turned a page—and glanced up.

Her mouth fell open; the color drained from her face. “Oh.”

Tilrey threw his shoulders back, the way he imagined Fir Lindthardt would have done, and looked right into her eyes. “Are you going to tell on me, Fir’n?”

Vera shook her head. Her eyes darted from side to side. “What are you doing here? Did he send you?”

“Your grandfather? Why would he send me looking like this?” Tilrey made himself smile at her. He made the smile dazzling, irresistible. He wasn’t even sure what he was doing, only that it felt good. “I came to talk to you, Fir’n. I’m sorry about how we ended things in the Library. Where can we go?”

Chapter 23: Caught

Notes:

Another long-ass chapter because I wanted to get through this Vera thing. You can find Vera's side of the scene in the Restaurant in "I'll Be Watching You." That story also covers the outcome of her Hargist phase. Tilrey and Krisha find their way to friendship of a sort in "The Trip to Harbour."

Next up is another story about Tilrey, Gersha, and Ceill. It won't be as fluffy as the last one, because Ceill's getting older, but I am looking forward to writing loving relationships again. :)

They went to Vera’s dorm room.

The place was just big enough for a bed, a desk, a chair, and a window, and when the door closed behind them, Vera had no idea what to do. Her face was swollen from blushing. Tilrey had made it clear he wasn’t willing to break any rules to be with her, yet here he was disguised in student clothes, committing a clear-cut wardrobe violation.

The slouchy student tunic and trousers set off the lines of his body. When he stripped off his parka, she flitted a few steps back, unable to take her eyes off his long legs and broad shoulders. “You look good in those clothes,” she said before she could stop herself.

“Yeah, well.” Tilrey glanced down at himself, brow furrowing as if he were just realizing how risky his masquerade was. He was passing as one of her peers, like the two friends she’d brought here to try to forget him—only she’d rather have him here, so much rather.

Hopefully he wasn’t actually worried she’d report him. To show him it was the last thing from her mind, Vera fished the Hargist scarf she’d found on the Quad out of its hiding place in a pillowcase and wound it around her neck. She’d slept with it on last night. “What do you think of my violation?”

Tilrey reached for the scarf, then stopped. “That’s pretty.”

“Isn’t it?” Vera held out one end invitingly.

He stroked the scarf as if it might bite him. “It’s from Harbour, isn’t it?”

“I suppose.” She bit back the explanation of how she’d found it. “Tomorrow I’m going to wear it to class.”

The look on Tilrey’s face—startled and a bit admiring—was worth the rash decision. “You won’t report me, will you?” Vera teased.

He smiled the radiant smile he’d shown her in the library. “I guess that would be awkward, Fir’n.”

“I guess it would.” But Vera couldn’t pretend this wasn’t weird. She sat down on the bed, keeping her back straight. “Was there something special you wanted to talk to me about?”

Tilrey stayed standing, hands fidgeting in his pockets. “Uh. Fir’n. I thought perhaps I should warn you about, uh, Councillor Lindthardt.”

“Who?” This didn’t sound promising.

“He was just elected, and your Fir Grandfather seems to favor him. That’s why I came—well, one reason. I probably shouldn’t have. I just, uh, I . . .”

Vera felt her self-assurance trickling back. She was the Upstart here; it was her job to take charge. “Sit,” she said, patting the bed beside her. “Whatever it is, don’t be afraid to tell me.”

Tilrey sat, not as close as she’d suggested. “I may be overstepping, Fir’n. I’m sorry. But Lindthardt—well, he asked me about you. He says he wants to marry you.”

Vera expelled the tension in a loud laugh. “I don’t even know this Councillor Lindthardt, and I’m not getting married for ages, maybe ever.”

“Oh, of course. He said so himself. But Fir Lindthardt . . . well, he asked me to tell him whether you would be … worth his while.”

Irritation brought fresh blood to Vera’s cheeks. “What does that mean? I’m not a crate of goods to be bartered, and I don’t like it when people talk that way behind my back.”

“I know,” Tilrey said. “I know the feeling.”

He raised his eyes, so wide and blue they stole Vera’s breath. Of course he knew, better than she did.

But she wouldn’t think about that. She wouldn’t think about how it had felt to find him at the Restaurant sharing a bottle of wine with her grandfather. Today, in these clothes, he was a student and a peer, because she wanted him to be.

“So,” she asked, “what exactly does Fir Councillor Lindthardt want in a wife?”

Something shifted in Tilrey’s eyes, and then he smiled again, blinding as the sun. “Sex,” he said. “He wants his wife to be very interested in it—with him, that is.”

“But why would he ask you whether I want to have sex with him?”

“I don’t know, Fir’n. I can’t imagine. He seemed to think I would be able to tell if you had any interest in . . . cock was how he put it. Sorry to be so crude.”

Vera reddened again. “And what did you tell him?”

“That it’s none of his business or mine.” He blinked. “Well, I said that in a more respectful way. But I came here to warn you in case he ever comes around trying to be sweet or anything.”

Vera couldn’t even visualize this Lindthardt. Right now she had eyes only for what was in front of her; she wanted to tug Tilrey’s shirt over his head and run her hands down his broad chest and feel his breath heave. She wanted to gasp under his weight; she wanted to pull his hips up against hers.

But she wasn’t sure he wanted any of those things. Trying to sound arch and witty, like one of the student wags in the caf, she said, “What makes you so sure it’s none of your business?”

It was Tilrey’s turn to blush. “You know.”

Vera knew all too well; he’d covered that in the Library. “Well,” she said, still in her put-on breezy tone, “if Lindthardt ever pesters you again, you can tell him I’m not interested in cock as an undifferentiated global category, and I don’t want his as my first, or probably at all.”

Tilrey didn’t answer, but his breathing sped up. Was Vera not being clear enough? Not daring to look at him, she reached across the bed and rested her hand very lightly on his thigh.

At last, Tilrey turned toward her. “You know we shouldn’t, Fir’n.”

“That’s right. But here you are.” Vera remembered the Hargist boy who’d teased her for her timidity. “You didn’t seriously come to talk about Fir Lindthardt, did you?”

His laugh was strangled. “He’s the last thing I want to talk about.”

His hand came down on top of hers. Feeling it tremble, Vera closed the distance between them.

As she raised her lips to Tilrey’s, she was terrified he would bat her away like a silly child. But he was breathing hard, his cheeks flushed. He lowered his head, dark-gold hair tumbling in his eyes, and kissed her so tentatively that she shuddered with need and frustration.

Then his arms were around her, and he was pulling her down and saying, “We shouldn’t, we shouldn’t,” but his body seemed to disagree, and she arched up against him and whispered in his ear, “I want you to be the first. Only you.”

***

Vera really did wear the purple scarf to her Industrial Budgeting class the next day. The professor paused in his lecture to give her a hard look, then returned to droning on about the numbers on his projection screen. An ancient retired bureaucrat, he probably thought his watery eyes had deceived him.

Someone else noticed, too. As the class broke up, a hand plucked at the hanging end of the scarf, making Vera whip around.

Svetta, the girl from her old dorm pod, stood glaring at her across a row of empty seats. “That’s mine.”

Vera pressed a protective hand to the scarf. “I—I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

Svetta’s expression softened a fraction. “You can have it if you want. They’re cheap in the Outer Ring. I just didn’t think someone like you would pick it up.”

“What do you mean, someone like me? A Linnett?”

“A Huddler.”

“A what?”

“Boring. Proper. Obedient. You always were. It’s not an insult.” Svetta smiled sweetly. “It just means you’re happy huddling indoors for warmth, and you don’t care that there’s a whole world out there. I told Ram not to bother with you, but he said he saw something in your face.”

“Ram?” That must be the boy at the tram stop; he’d seen Vera crying after Tilrey rejected her. What did that have to do with not being boring? Was she timid and boring, like someone huddling around the fire rather than forging out into the unknown?

No, she couldn’t be—not after what she and Tilrey had done. She would never be a Huddler again. “Maybe I just think there are better things to do with my free time than jump off buildings,” she said, trying to ignore the excited thudding of her heart.

Svetta smiled again, impish this time. “Oh, we do a lot more than that. Would you like to know more?”

***

“You look happy,” Artur said as they dressed in the locker room after a good long swim.

Malsha’s secretary was way too sharp-eyed. Suddenly acutely conscious of his expression and tone of voice, Tilrey said, “Endorphins.”

“Mmm.” Artur was giving him a long look. “But I noticed it before we went in the pool. Are you fucking somebody? That Bror?”

Tilrey pulled his shirt over his head. “Bror and I are just friends.”

“It wouldn’t be a problem if you did, as long as it’s another Drudge. Malsha probably won’t care at this point—or won’t feel threatened, anyway. You deserve to please yourself sometimes.”

If only it were that easy. Tilrey forced himself to grin roguishly. “If I were pleasing myself, I wouldn’t tell you about it.”

“No, you wouldn’t.” Artur grinned back, but his eyes rested on Tilrey an instant too long.

Next time would be the last, Tilrey vowed to himself. He would tell Vera as much when they met again in five days’ time, as they’d agreed. She had to understand. Maybe she’d even be sick of him by then, the novelty worn off.

He had “pleased himself” with her, at least at first. He’d gotten so carried away, so turned on by her eager hands and lips and the excitement of doing something forbidden, that he’d even dared hope Malsha’s training wouldn’t hold.

He relieved her of her unwanted virginity—carefully, watching for cues, knowing how much it hurt when someone did this by force. Then, at her urging, he kept going until he admitted to himself he couldn’t finish on his own. Not anymore, not with anyone. He collapsed on top of her, too embarrassed to ask her to order him to come, especially since he didn’t seem to have succeeded in bringing her to climax, either.

It was such a humiliating failure of everything he was supposed to be—someone who could always please others, if not himself—that he was stunned when Vera seemed not to mind. She snuggled up against him and nuzzled his neck and whispered, “I knew I made the right choice. I always knew it had to be you.” This was strange and terrifying but flattering, too.

When it got dark outside, and Tilrey had to go, Vera asked, “When will you come back? You don’t have to, you know.”

That embarrassed him again, and he said, “I want to” and proved it by kissing her long and hard.

One more time. If having a secret lover—Malsha’s granddaughter—was putting a little spring in Tilrey’s step, that just showed how deeply broken he was, didn’t it? Vera might claim she was old enough to do what she wanted, but he hadn’t forgotten her father’s vicious rage, more than a year ago now, or the bruises it had left on him. High Upstarts didn’t want their whores anywhere near their precious offspring.

Malsha noticed something different about him, too. “You’re looking relaxed, love,” he said on the next free-night, as they bathed together in the steam. “Is Lindthardt really good in bed or something?”

Tilrey knew how to deal with this sort of fishing question. “Are you going to invite him for a threesome, Fir?” he asked with an enigmatic smile. “You could find out that way.” Please don’t. Lindthardt was such a suck-up he would probably say yes, even if the thought of sex with Malsha made him cringe.

Malsha flicked Tilrey’s hair out of his eyes. “Don’t give me ideas. Beirthsha’s a handsome boy but not my type. Such a narcissist.” He rolled his eyes. “There can only be one of those in my bedroom. I’m glad, though—I thought you’d be upset after I shared you with him. I know you weren’t expecting it.”

Again Tilrey didn’t take the bait. “Why would I be upset? It’s my job to be shared.”

“Oh, come now.” Malsha moved closer. “You can pretend all you want,” he whispered in Tilrey’s ear, “but I know how proud you are, sweetheart. You know you’re worth ten of that Lindthardt boy, and it pained you to have to suck his pathetic little cock.”

Tilrey opened his mouth and let his body go supple. “His cock,” he said between kisses, “was actually quite respectable.”

***

The second time, Vera left the blinds open, and the room filled with sunlight. She showed Tilrey the sheer drop outside, no risk of anyone peering in, and said, “I like the sun. I like the outdoors.”

“Me too.” Tilrey perched on her bed in his student clothes, stiff-backed and awkward again. “I like it in Thurskein, anyway, where you can stay out for more than a second without getting frostbite.”

“Mmmm. You have to tell me more about Thurskein. I want to know all about it.” Ram and Svetta and Vera’s other new friends said that Laborers, particularly Laborers of the southern cities, lived closer to the earth. Upstarts were Huddlers, alienated from their origin as survivors on the tundra.

“But you know,” Vera went on, trying to look casual as she undressed, “the cold here isn’t as deadly as you’d think. In summer, you can walk at ground level for a whole half-hour. From the Outer Ring, you can see the sun rise and set over the Wastes. It’s magnificent.”

“I’ve seen it.” Tilrey blushed hard. “You’re beautiful,” he added as if to explain the reaction. “But . . . this should be our last time. Okay, Fir’n?”

“Let’s not think about other times. Let’s just be now.” Vera’s new friends believed in something they called “inhabiting the now.” When you leapt off buildings or lingered outdoors, the past and future disappeared in a rush of adrenaline that took hours to fade.

Still more self-conscious than she liked to admit, she stepped out of her panties and came to Tilrey wearing only the purple scarf. Down deep, she was confident this wouldn’t be the last time. She said in what she hoped was the voice of a mature, sexy woman, “And I want to make it good for you. Show me how.”

Tilrey laughed softly as his arms took her in, and her heart thumped against his.

“It’s always good for me,” he said. “Just touching you—you can’t imagine. No, that’s my job, Vera. Let me make it good for you. Show me how to make it better.”

***

And it was better this time, or at least Tilrey hoped so. Following her nervous instructions, he managed to get her close to the brink, possibly over it—he wasn’t sure.

Afterward, as they rested in each other’s arms, he admitted, “I wish I had more experience with women.”

“I don’t think anyone could be better than you.” Vera stroked his hair. “You’re perfect.”

Her tone was so plummy and magnanimous, as if she were imitating the way her elders talked, that Tilrey stifled a laugh. He wished he dared ask her if she’d come, but then he might have to admit he’d faked his own throes of release. Apparently she, too, was inexperienced enough not to know the difference.

“These things take practice,” he said, enjoying the unusual sensation of the sun on his bare shoulder. “There’s no shame in that.”

“Mmm.” Vera tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “I could practice forever with you.”

By the time the sun sank and he had to leave, Tilrey was wondering why he’d been so excited last time. When you came down to it, this girl was just one more Upstart who needed to be petted and serviced and lied to. She was pretty, and she was kind, and he liked her well enough, but he couldn’t shake the sensation of still being on the job.

Maybe that was just another way he was broken. Maybe he would never again feel the sort of consuming love he’d had for Dal.

He tore himself away from Vera’s clinging kisses. “It was good, but like I said, last time. You know why.”

“I know. I know. I just want you to know this is more than fun for me. I don’t think of you the way they do. I want you to know that I . . .”

She stopped, her expression so desperate that something twisted in Tilrey’s chest. He picked up her hand and raised it to his lips, a gesture that always seemed to touch Upstarts in some deep way. He thought of it as expressing fealty, but to them it was clearly more.

When he brushed her palm with a kiss, Vera shivered all over. Her eyes closed. Tilrey felt an unexpected shudder move down his spine, leaving him lightheaded and strangely excited. She isn’t pretending, and I’m not just a novelty for her. She really cares about me.

“Maybe one more time,” he said.

***

From the window of the neighboring dormitory, Krisha watched Tilrey exit Vera’s dorm and hurry toward the tram stop. The student clothes were a decent disguise, but not good enough when you knew what to look for.

The poor kid obviously didn’t know that the new chip he’d had implanted in his hand didn’t just unlock the door of the apartment. It also tracked his movements and sent the data to a reader in the Magistrate’s possession. After noticing “abnormal activity” in the log, Malsha had passed the device on to his driver and instructed him to conduct surveillance. The next time Tilrey headed for campus, Krisha was steps behind.

Taking his time now, Krisha strolled outdoors and back toward the car. He’d done his job; all that remained was to report to the Magistrate.

Back when he was a teenager in the garrison in the Wastes, Krisha had never snitched on any of the other Outer boys who lived there as servants or whores. He felt no loyalty to the Oslov soldiers who had burned his village and enslaved him. He was too proud to gain their favor at others’ expense.

But he was older and less proud now, and the Magistrate had earned his loyalty. He’d never been rough with Krisha, never beaten him in a drunken rage or burned him with the butt of a pipe. Thanks to him, Krisha had a decent posting, more than enough food to fill his belly, and a warm bed in his very own room. So if he was asked to snitch, he would snitch.

Still, watching snowflakes flit through the purple dusk, he wished he didn’t have to. Tilrey was an ungrateful brat who’d been given plenty of warnings, but it felt wrong anyway. Like he was betraying his own.

He wouldn’t risk covering for Tilrey; Malsha could always tell when he was lying. The boy would simply have to learn his place in the world, just as Krisha had.

With a heavy heart, he went to do his job.

***

“It’s beautiful, Fir,” Tilrey said as Malsha unrolled a long scarf across the Restaurant table. It was knitted from thick wool like your average scarf, but intricately striped with brilliant colors: scarlet and salmon-pink and ocean blue and russet and cream and black. “Is it from Harbour?”

“Of course. I brought back a few of these more than a decade ago, and I’d forgotten I had this one till I found it at the back of my closet.” Malsha gathered up the scarf and handed it to him. “It’s for you, love. Put it on.”

Tilrey wound the scarf around his neck. It was warm and soft. They were drinking aperitifs, surrounded by the aromas of delicious food they would soon be eating, and he said with sincerity, “Thank you. I love looking at it.” Then he added, “But can I actually wear it? It’s not regulation.”

Malsha chuckled. “No one’s going to write you up for wardrobe violations, my darling.” He tucked in the ends of the scarf for Tilrey and smoothed it. “There we go. Actually, it would please me if you wore it everywhere. Anyone who knows me will know I gave it to you.”

Another mark of ownership. Tilrey made himself smile; he had to tread carefully right now. “Of course, Fir.”

“Mmm.” Malsha sat back and contemplated him from across the table. “What a lovely picture you make. A dutiful little Skeinsha with a hint, just a hint, of luscious decadence.” He gave a little start, as if pulling himself out of a trance. “Oh, here she comes. Did I mention my granddaughter’s joining us for dinner tonight?”

Tilrey stared at him, at first just confused. Aside from Gunhild’s brief visit, no member of Malsha’s family had ever dined with them.

Then he saw Malsha’s hungry, predatory expression, and a flash of understanding iced his blood. He knows. This was all a setup. Malsha had lulled him into a good mood just to heighten the moment when the shock and terror of knowing he was caught spread over his face.

He turned wildly toward the entrance, looking for Vera as if he could warn her to stay away, not to walk into the trap. But Malsha yanked him back around, close enough to speak into his ear.

“You’re going to be quiet now,” the Magistrate said in a hiss. “Not a word, not a soulful look at her. If you don’t sit like a stone, you’ll regret it later.”

Tilrey said, “It was my fault.” The words sounded more pathetic and less impressive than they had in his head.

Malsha gave him a perplexed look. “You heard me. You’re furniture now, sweetheart. Not a word or you suffer for it later.”

Then he rose to greet his granddaughter with an embrace.

Tilrey’s heart was thudding, pumping panic through his body, but he managed to turn his face and focus on the snowy cornice outside the window. I’m not really here. Whatever happened next, he would survive it; the key was to leave his body and watch the scene from a distance.

Vera couldn’t do that, though. She didn’t know how. Malsha would be cruel to her, humiliate her, and she had none of the defenses that he did. He didn’t need to glance at her to know she was already betraying herself with blushes, shocked to find him part of what was supposed to be a tête-à-tête with her beloved grandfather.

Malsha ushered his granddaughter into the place he had vacated. Settling in beside Tilrey, he caught him around the waist and drew him close.

Tilrey clenched his teeth, but he didn’t budge. Malsha didn’t usually indulge in these public displays, even in the Lounge where they were expected. This was purposeful.

When the Magistrate spoke, his voice was so warm that Tilrey shivered. “You’ve met my piece?”

Tilrey could feel Vera twitch. She said with obviously put-on casualness, “Yes.”

“Yes. I imagine you’re confused.” The warmth left Malsha’s voice. “But so was I, when I learned you’d stolen something that belongs to me.”

The server arrived. Tilrey left his body and floated above the table, watching as Malsha made a long and bizarrely intricate dinner order. He noted in a detached way that he was learning something valuable about the Magistrate. The man wasn’t above sating his taste for other people’s discomfort on his own flesh and blood.

When the server finally left them, Vera was shaking; Tilrey felt her tension vibrate in the air. He hoped she wouldn’t make an outburst. Malsha wasn’t going to go easy on anyone tonight.

When the Magistrate’s hand seized his under the table, he almost yanked his free. Almost. Then he went limp and let Malsha lace their fingers together and place the intertwined hands where Vera could see them.

Tilrey’s eyes prickled; he blinked that away. If Vera was shocked, she shouldn’t be. He’d never hidden what he was. He leaned into Malsha’s arm, letting it support him. He kept his eyes down.

He doubted he would escape punishment this way, but escaping punishment wasn’t the goal. Not letting Malsha win was. Any rebellious gesture would only end up feeding the man’s bottomless appetite for pain and misery.

“I hope you’ll be understanding, Vera,” the Magistrate said. “I’ve never had cause to reprove you before. But there are boundaries, and I’m afraid you’ve crossed one.”

At last Vera spoke, in a strangled voice. “I don’t even know what you’re talking about!”

Malsha went on as if she’d just confessed her crime instead of denying it. “Yes, indeed, there was a witness. A concerned bystander who told my driver, who followed you on a second occasion. But that’s not the point, Vera. If you hadn’t known you were doing wrong, you wouldn’t have done it on the sly. You would have come right out and asked me.”

“Asked you what?”

She sounded panicked. Tilrey felt her eyes on him, wanting him to speak up, and he bit his lip. Malsha’s fingers squeezed his, warning and perversely reassuring at the same time. Not a word. I’m here with you.

“You didn’t ask me if you could use the boy,” the Magistrate said. His voice had gone from frosty to gentle again. “I would have said no, because it goes against his proper function as political currency, not to mention it’s downright unsavory, and rather absurd, for us to share him.”

In his detached way—because he was only a thing to be used, after all—Tilrey couldn’t help but admire how carefully Malsha picked his words to arouse and wound Vera’s pride. If the thrill of the forbidden had driven her toward Tilrey, shame would hold her back now.

It must be difficult to have such touchy emotions. He had arrived from Thurskein with pride and shame, he was fairly sure, but that felt longer than a year ago.

“But I wouldn’t have been offended by the request,” Malsha added with devastating calm. “I know how tempting he is.”

A sharp inhalation across the table. Then, at last, Vera gathered her courage and fought back. She said, “I would never ask to ‘use’ him. He’s a free citizen and not—not something that belongs to you.”

The flush of gratitude that bloomed inside Tilrey died just as quickly. She wasn’t helping him. She was grandstanding in her romantic way. She didn’t understand that he wasn’t free. Maybe that was his fault for not telling her; he had been fronting, too.

Malsha said, “I applaud your spirit, my dear, and your idealism. But there are certain realities one must face.” He loosened his grip on Tilrey’s hand enough to stroke it with theatrical tenderness. “No, I don’t own him. But, as his patron and protector, I do own his time, which is quite valuable, and it’s in my interest to control access to that.” Under the table, he pressed his thigh against Tilrey’s. “Now, can you offer me any good reason why you should steal my boy’s time?”

After a flustered pause, Vera said, “We’re friends. I knew him before you even did . . .”

Snow flurried outside, turning the guardlights’ radiance milky and dreamlike. Remembering what Vera had said about walking outdoors, Tilrey wondered how long he could survive sitting on that cornice before he froze to death. Not that Malsha would ever give him a chance to find out.

They were talking about what had happened in her father’s house in the Southern Range. Tilrey stopped listening and focused on the snow. The important thing was that Vera didn’t seem to know what her father had done to him, both before and after he found out about them.

She wanted a saga hero, a stream hero. If she learned the whole story, she might expect Tilrey to swear revenge on her family. She would never forgive him for submitting and enduring like a coward.

He couldn’t block out Malsha saying in an obscenely “concerned” voice: “What kind of friend are you, Vera, if you get him in trouble and cause him pain?”

Tilrey squeezed Malsha’s hand back, just a little, hoping to cut off the circulation. Look who’s talking.

Vera, of course, took no notice of this tiny act of resistance. She went silent for a long moment, lost in her own misery, before saying, “Please don’t punish him this time. Not for this. It was my fault.”

Don’t fucking say that. I’m a person. I made a choice, too. Tilrey wanted to shout it at her, his whole body tightening. But he couldn’t even move.

Malsha’s iron grip on his hand loosened a little. “Believe me, I don’t want to,” the Magistrate said, full of that awful concern again. “But I can’t punish you, and how else can I stop this from happening again?”

“It won’t! I promise you.”

Tilrey returned his attention to the window, very deliberately controlling each inhale and exhale. Whores are beyond shame. His cheeks didn’t heat even when Vera said, “I practically forced him. I won’t touch him again. Ever.”

Touch him, as if he really were a thing with no say in the matter. Had Malsha convinced her of that? Had she believed it all along?

“I swear,” Vera pleaded. “Please don’t make him suffer because I’m spoiled and selfish.”

Yes, you are, said a small, vicious voice inside Tilrey. She should have known things could end this way. In the new, Malsha-enforced version of events, she was the one who had made all the choices.

But Tilrey had bought the student clothes and come to her. He couldn’t forget that. He wondered who the “concerned bystander” who’d spotted him was, and whether it was someone he could find and give some form of comeuppance to. Her tattletale little brother again?

No. It wasn’t anyone else’s fault. This would have happened sooner or later.

At last, Malsha’s hand slipped free of his. The server had brought a carafe of something, and the Magistrate was pouring it into glasses. Vera—Vera was crying. Tilrey saw the glitter on her cheeks from the corner of his eye.

Breaking her seemed to have put Malsha in good spirits. “Drink up, my dear,” he said. “This isn’t worth all the theatrics. Since you’ve acknowledged your mistake, the boy won’t be punished.”

“You promise?” It was a whisper.

Tilrey bit his lip again, hard, reminding himself that Malsha was merely trying to teach Vera that actions have consequences. The decision to punish or not to punish would always be his.

“I promise,” the Magistrate said solemnly. “And I understand if you’d prefer to leave now.”

Vera was on her feet in an instant.

Anger choked Tilrey, and for the first time he disobeyed one of Malsha’s commandments. He looked up. He caught her eye.

She’d turned, perhaps for a last glimpse of him—her face a mess, her mouth twisted. Tilrey managed to keep his own eyes dry and steady as he looked back.

I am real. I am a person. And someday you’ll all be sorry you ever treated me like anything else.

Vera turned again and fled, her tears glittering in the Restaurant’s mood lighting.

“What did I say about soulful looks?” Malsha asked.

***

Malsha ended up eating most of the dinner. He showed an excellent appetite, exclaiming on the quality of each dish, and insisted on dessert. But he didn’t reprimand Tilrey for picking at his own food, and he didn’t try to talk about anything else, which was a mercy.

They were in the car coming home when the Magistrate finally said, “You should know there was no bystander. The chip in your hand is a tracker, love. Keep that in mind henceforth.”

Tilrey vised the back of his left hand with his right as if the hand itself could take the punishment for his foolishness. Should have known.

He released it. “Thanks for letting me know, Fir.”

“You’re welcome.” Fingers stroked his knee. “You behaved yourself, at least until the end. I think the lesson sank in. Wouldn’t you say?”

Tilrey didn’t answer. He was waiting for his own lesson.

It came soon enough. They went straight to the bedroom, where Malsha fed him a palmful of sap. Then the Magistrate sat in the armchair beside the bed and gave the signal to undress, two fingers slashing the air horizontally. “Everything but the briefs.”

The way Tilrey stripped was mechanical, timed to the second, but he made it look spontaneous every time. Do it like you’re by yourself, Malsha liked to say. Only a little slower.

He folded his trousers, set them on a chair, and stretched, rolling his shoulders as if pausing in a private routine. He stepped toward the bed, grateful for the sap numbing his senses.

“Not yet.” Malsha’s voice had turned sharp. “Go out and get Krisha.”

Tilrey froze, painfully present again. So that was how it was going to go.

For a split second, he considered his options. A flat no, repeated enough times, would eventually land him back at the officers’ club. Getting on his knees and pleading would amuse Malsha, but only enough to postpone the inevitable. This was like everything else: The only way out was through.

He reached for the robe hanging from the closet door. Malsha said, “No. As you are.”

Tilrey went out to the coldroom in his briefs. The interior door led him into a clammy vestibule, where he knocked at the door of Krisha’s quarters.

On the way, he’d considered yet another option: stepping out the other door, into the cold. But he wasn’t ready to die for his self-respect like someone in the sagas that Vera loved so much. He had never been her hero.

Krisha started backward at the sight of Tilrey standing nearly naked in the doorway. The driver wore his off-hours clothes, a baggy T-shirt and track pants, and he smelled of dried cod flakes. Behind him, light from the cylinder flickered around the room. The breathy sounds suggested porn, or maybe just an intense dramastream.

“Fir wants you in the bedroom,” Tilrey said.

Fighting the impulse to cover himself, or at least to cross his arms, he settled for turning and marching back inside without looking to see if Krisha followed. In the bedroom, he positioned himself before Malsha’s chair with hands clasped, the picture of submission—or indifference.

The driver arrived a moment later, wearing a fleece he must have grabbed to make himself presentable. “At your service, Fir Magistrate,” he said, glancing sheepishly at the bed before ducking his head.

“You look so awkward here, Krisha,” Malsha said. “One would think you’d never been in that bed before.”

Krisha examined the floor. His usual slack-jawed expression had turned glum.

“No one would think this was your lucky night, either,” Malsha said. “But it is. Sit on the bed.” As Krisha obeyed, he added, to Tilrey: “Can you tell me why this is happening, sweetheart? Of course you can, but I need to hear it from your mouth.”

Rage pulsed through Tilrey, but the only way out was through. He dug his nails into his palms. “What I did—what we did—endangered your reputation with your colleagues, Fir. If anyone knew, it would look like you can’t control your own household. It mustn’t happen again.”

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Malsha blinked placidly at them both. “As for the details, we can deal with those later. Come and sit on Krisha’s lap.”

Tilrey could see Krisha from the corner of his eye, perched on the edge of the bed with tight shoulders and bowed head. Clearly he didn’t want this, either. The driver might be a coarse fool, but he had never leered at Tilrey, never treated him like anything but a bother. Maybe that would make this bearable.

Tilrey took a step.

But still. To walk over there and lower himself onto the big man’s knee like a child.

He had to. Even if the blush set his face on fire.

Krisha winced as Tilrey sat down, then grunted under his weight. He shifted to tug Tilrey between his spread knees, keeping him just clear of his crotch.

They were both tense, their bodies warring magnetic poles, but they were also both aware of their impatient audience. After a moment Krisha took hold of Tilrey’s shoulders and pulled him in against his chest. “Better not fight,” he said under his breath.

Think I’m stupid? Fighting another rush of anger, Tilrey inched back enough to rub against the driver’s cock.

It was soft, but it hardened obligingly. Krisha made a hissing sound, his grip tightening.

“Kiss him,” Malsha said. “Make it real. And you, Rishka, take that ridiculous fleece off him.”

Krisha grunted again as Tilrey rocked back against him. He twisted Tilrey around to reach his lips and bestowed a quick, chaste kiss.

Cod flakes. Stubble. Suppressing the urge to retch or laugh, Tilrey peeled the fleece off Krisha’s shoulders.

He tried to see the situation objectively. Krisha was younger and better looking than most of the men he obliged—a beauty in his own right, with those broad cheekbones and glinting, hooded eyes. He was certainly more appetizing than Dhreil from the Sanctioned Brothel.

But he saw Krisha nearly every day and every single free-night. From now on, every time Krisha opened the car door or brought him dinner in his room or quizzed him on where he’d been, Tilrey would remember tonight. He would never fully shake the sense-memories, just as he’d never shaken the officers’ club. And Malsha knew it.

The old man tsk-tsked. “That wasn’t a proper kiss, Krisha. Tell me, are you holding back?”

Krisha’s nails dug into Tilrey’s bare arms. “He’s yours,” the driver said sullenly. “Don’t want to . . .”

“Hurt him?” Malsha’s eyes were wide and wet. “Is that what you’re worried about? You like to play rough when you’re on top, I seem to recall.” A chuckle. “Of course, you can’t help it. It’s how you were brought up.”

Krisha loosened his grip, and Tilrey released a long, controlled breath. He would show no reactions but those he physically couldn’t repress.

“But you don’t like him much, do you, Krisha?” Malsha’s voice dipped lower, into a rhythm. “The boy thinks he’s better than you because of your rough accent and your spotty grammar—oh yes, I’ve seen him roll his eyes. Maybe he’s seen how you still sound out the big words when you read. His whole life he’s had it easy; he has no idea what you’ve overcome. This little Skeinsha slut thinks he’s better than you. Maybe he deserves a little rough play.”

Tilrey and Krisha had both gone still, the driver’s cock hard and inert against Tilrey’s ass. But when Malsha said “slut,” Krisha’s fingers pressed into Tilrey’s flesh again.

“You want me to hurt him, Fir?” he asked as if his ears might have deceived him.

Malsha widened his eyes. Of course, you dunce. “You may be surprised at how well he can take it. And if he can’t by now—well, he’ll learn. So go on, Krisha. Do it the way you learned in the garrison. Start with a real kiss.”

Krisha stared at his master. “They didn’t . . .”

“No, I imagine the soldiers didn’t kiss you much, but indulge me. I want to see it.”

This kiss caught Tilrey unprepared—rough and wet, nothing tender about it. Krisha’s mouth locked on his, the tongue flicking down his throat.

Tilrey did his best to relax into it, but he couldn’t breathe, and the man’s grip on his biceps was sending shoots of pain up his arms. He squirmed away—only to yelp as Krisha reared up and tossed him down on his back in bed.

The driver’s weight came down before Tilrey could catch his breath. Fingers pinched below his collarbone, and white-hot pain lit up his whole left side, making him gasp and flail against the heavy form that crushed him into the bedclothes.

For a terrible moment, he couldn’t stop struggling. He bucked until Krisha straddled his body and pinned a wrist above his head. Then, at last, he lay still, his breath coming in hectic near-sobs.

The driver’s eyes were blank as a polar bear’s. “Don’t fight,” he repeated. Maybe it was his way of being considerate.

With his free hand, he ripped Tilrey’s briefs down a seam, then jerked the rags free and tossed them aside. “How d’you want me to have him, Fir?”

“However you like.”

Tilrey knew that tone, breathless with arousal. Malsha must have thrown Krisha the lube, because Krisha reached to catch something, releasing Tilrey’s hand as he did so.

Tilrey stayed still. Blinking back the tears wasn’t worth it, he decided; they were simply a physical reflex. This wasn’t the old days when he’d wept out of shame at the destruction of everything he was. That boy was long gone.

This boy would lie back and observe everything from a distance—Malsha’s quickened breath, Krisha’s pathetic fumbling with the bottle. If Malsha could find other people’s discomfort amusing, perhaps he could, too—his own included.

Krisha’s mouth twisted as if the burden of choosing put him in a funk. But he flipped Tilrey over, tugged him up on all fours, and kneed his thighs apart.

Tilrey knew the roughness of passion. This was different. It felt mechanical, like his own undressing, as if Krisha were channeling a long-held memory.

He shut his eyes and concentrated on his breathing as the driver’s greased finger probed inside him—gentler than it needed to be. He raised his hips.

When a second finger slipped in to the knuckle, pain skittered down his spine, making him writhe. A hand smacked his ass-cheek—new pain, hot and stinging, not entirely unpleasant. Krisha said in a lifeless voice, as if reciting a script, “Take it, slut.”

Tilrey’s nerves kept firing, tiny fireworks of pain bursting behind his closed lids. He released a sob, felt a hot tear flow down his cheek. He focused on his breathing and let it take him far away.

Krisha was big everywhere. When the bulky cockhead prodded his cleft, he shivered from head to toe. Before he could raise his hips again and brace himself, Krisha was breaching him, pushing in relentlessly deeper and deeper. Still a machine, one that had been programmed to prepare its partner carefully but knew nothing of reciprocity or cues.

Tilrey moaned. He turned his head and bit the flesh of his arm to ground the pain. But it was only pain, and he was somewhere else.

Krisha bottomed out, the furred balls soft against him. Tilrey let his head droop. He inhaled and exhaled in sync with the driver, breathing through the unendurable fullness till it became endurable.

Then Krisha began to move. Tears coursed down Tilrey’s cheeks. He didn’t arch up into the rough thrusts or pretend to enjoy them. But, as Krisha found a workmanlike rhythm, his mind grew calm enough to free itself again.

This was nothing. It would be over soon. He only wished Vera hadn’t had to see him like that. She would always despise him now, not that it mattered. But all the same.

Krisha’s hand tangled in his hair, jamming his face into the duvet. Forcing himself to relax and exhale into each thrust of that mechanical cock, Tilrey wondered if Malsha had trained Krisha to climax on command, too. He suspected not.

Sure enough. Five or fifteen minutes or perhaps a half-hour later, Krisha gave an animal grunt and pulled out. Another grunt, and warm wetness spattered the small of Tilrey’s back. He held himself still on aching joints, suppressing a shudder of repulsion, and waited for Krisha to collapse on top of him.

Krisha crumpled to the side instead, as if he didn’t want to touch Tilrey any more than he had to. After what seemed like a respectable interval, Tilrey inched up into a sitting position, equally mindful of the throbbing ache inside him and the danger of staining the bedclothes.

“There, there.” Leaning over the bed, Malsha nudged him down onto his stomach. “Rest a bit, and we’ll get you cleaned up.”

A finger stroked Tilrey’s bottom lip, slick and scented of pine. He licked the sap off and swallowed—a reflex.

“Yes, just like that, love.” Malsha returned to his armchair. “Krisha, my great brute, your service is appreciated. You’ll get some frozen dumplings and salmon-skin crisps in your rations this week. Now, back to your den.”

The sap made Tilrey’s head go light and loose. He barely heard Krisha leave.

“Hmmm.” That was Malsha, on the bed with him now. “If I were to take you with his seed drying on you, would that prove my dominance over both of you, or compromise it? What do you think?”

“Compromise it.” His voice sounded strange.

Malsha laughed. “It wasn’t a real question.”

Tilrey’s whole body shrank from the prospect of being fucked again. Finding Malsha’s hand beside him, he brought it to his lips. “Use my mouth. Please, Fir.”

Malsha didn’t pull his hand away, but he did take an agonizing pause. “Say that again?”

Tilrey kissed the palm a second time. “Use my mouth, please, Fir.”

He wasn’t ashamed. What good would it do to martyr himself now?

“Well, all right, then, sweetheart,” Malsha said. “As a reward for your cooperation.”

***

When they were done, Tilrey lay for a while curled into the Magistrate’s body, feeling Krisha’s leavings begin to dry and stiffen on his back. Nothing about this intimate position felt unnatural, or contradictory to the rage he’d felt earlier, or even particularly unpleasant. It was simply his reality.

“You know, I was shocked.” Malsha reached down to rub the nape of Tilrey’s neck. “You did manage to give me quite a fright, the two of you. Are you proud?”

Tilrey didn’t answer.

“I didn’t think either you or Vera had it in you,” Malsha continued. “Then again, I suppose she takes after me. Always a sentimental streak when it comes to a special boy.”

When Tilrey still didn’t respond, he added: “I don’t want to know about the gory details, obviously. But I am curious: Who took the initiative in this little romance?”

“Her. Then me. Then her again.”

“An equal effort, eh? How romantic.” Malsha tousled his hair. “I fell madly in love with a whore when I was just a little older than Vera. He was clever like you. Perhaps it’s a necessary phase. I even fell in with Dissenters during my student days—did you know that? Lost my virginity to one. I was so determined to despoil my name.” He sighed, his hand going still in Tilrey’s hair. “I hope you’re not in love with her.”

Tilrey couldn’t stop his body from stiffening. “I’m not in love with her, Fir. I’ll never feel that way about anybody, ever.”

“When you make pronouncements like that, I’m reminded of how young you are.” Malsha tucked a strand of hair behind Tilrey’s ear. “How can you tell the future? Anyway,” he continued, businesslike, “I need to know one detail, and you can help me. What’s our dear Vera so discontented about?”

Tilrey considered keeping Vera’s secrets, but only briefly. It simply wasn’t worth it. “She thinks her life is going to be miserable, Fir. Because it’s all so planned out.”

He couldn’t stop irony from edging into his voice. Poor Vera, forced into a box. Maybe someday she would learn to satisfy her taste for drama by tormenting others, just like her grandfather, or maybe she would find a kinder outlet. It was none of his business. “She doesn’t want to marry someone her parents choose for her,” he added.

“Who can blame her? Her parents despise each other, as do her grandparents.” Malsha wrapped an arm around Tilrey’s shoulders. “But being a Linnett has its compensations. She learned a harsh lesson tonight, but she’ll sort herself out in the end.”

“And you,” he added after a moment. “I’ll keep you close, my sly lad. To think I was almost convinced for a moment that you were broken.”

***

The night had cleared, and the cold only made the sky blaze brighter. Vera had just located the Pole Star when the door of her mother’s apartment opened, and her brother rushed out.

“Are you crazy?” Valgund seized her arm and yanked her toward the door. “I saw you through the window. How long have you been out here?”

Vera yanked back. “Don’t be silly. It’s twelve below—balmy.” Her fingertips were going numb, but he didn’t have to know that. “We were born to this place, Gunsha. We should know how to endure the cold like our ancestors did.”

“Our ancestors froze to death, like, regularly.” Valgund wore his coat and boots over his pajamas; he was visibly shivering. “Look, I won’t come in till you do. Do you want me to get frostbite? I’ll wake up Mom and tell her it’s your fault.”

“Could you go one day without ratting on me?”

“I haven’t done that in forever. Just come in.”

Vera heaved an exaggerated sigh. She’d lingered here on the parapet to clear her head and cry about what had happened at the Restaurant, but now her tears were dry and her throat was sore and she only felt cold.

This was no saga. She had seduced her grandfather’s kettle boy—used him—and she should have known how it would end. She wasn’t the first bored, spoiled girl to do something like this, and she wouldn’t be the last.

I didn’t use him. We made love and it was perfect. But she had no use for that rebellious inner voice now.

“Fine.” She touched her numbing hand to the sensor and hauled the door open. Valgund slipped into the coldroom after her and sealed it.

“Let’s continue living our wonderful civilized lives, then.” Vera sat on the bench and let the room’s delicious heat engulf her. “Why should we bother to feel the wind or the roughness of a tree trunk or look at the stars when we could be debugging a new program for automating the watering of a greenhouse?”

Valgund shed his coat. “You’re acting weird, Vera. I’m the one who’s supposed to say stupid things and be obsessed with the outdoors and plants.”

“Maybe you don’t know me.” Trying to peel off her gloves, Vera realized she had to rub the life back into her fingers first. “Maybe nobody does.”

“Are you a Hargist now?”

Her head jerked up. “How do you even know what that is?”

“We have them at school, too.” Valgund kicked off a boot. “When Mom asked me where you got that purple scarf, and I said I didn’t know, she told me Hargists wear them. I like it, by the way.”

“Oh, do you?” He was so young; what did he know about anything that mattered? “Well, guess what? I do have Hargist friends, and now you can rat me out yet again.”

“I only did it the one time,” Valgund said. “And it was only because that boy was so pretty, and I was jealous when I saw you going in his room.”

Vera stopped her rubbing to look at him. She’d guessed as much but never expected him to admit it. “Is that an apology?”

“Take it any way you want.” Her brother shoved his boots under the bench and stepped to the inner door. “Your Hargist friends. Could I meet them?”

“I thought you were scared of the cold.”

“Not scared, just sensible. You have to prepare for it with special gear. My friend Angar knows all about it; his uncle took him winter camping to toughen him up.” Valgund pressed his hand to the sensor. “You should meet Garsha—he’s a real daredevil. Your friends might already know him.”

“My friends don’t hang out with children.” At this point, Vera wasn’t even sure that Ram and his crew considered her a friend. Svetta still had a tendency to giggle and roll her eyes when Vera was around.

Maybe Svetta would be more impressed if she knew about what had happened with Tilrey. But that was private. Vera would lock those memories of sun-washed bliss in her heart and throw away the key.

(And she knew, though she scarcely dared admit it to herself, that she couldn’t risk her grandfather’s wrath again, for Tilrey’s sake and her own.)

“I’m not a child,” her brother said. “Mom and Dad are all set to disown me because I don’t want to be just like them. And, unlike you, I’m doing something about it—refusing to apply for Diplo.”

Vera tried to scoff. “Mom would never ‘disown’ you. You’re her favorite.”

But her brother had a point. While she kept her rebellion to the shadows, he was defying expectations in the open. Maybe they were more alike than she wanted to admit.

And Ram and Svetta might be impressed if she brought them a new recruit or two.

“I’ll consider introducing you to my friends,” she said, following her brother indoors. “If you manage not to rat on me about tonight, we’ll see.”

Chapter 24: Detained

Notes:

So, yeah. I'm back to post one of the darkest and most disturbing bits of this saga. I do plan to return to "The Tinderbox" next. But sometimes you're seriously stressed and you just feel like posting something full of pain, and that's what you do. (Btw, the next chapter is the one that gets the warnings; this one is just a short transition.)

The complete story of Tilrey’s time in detention is told in Chapter 11 of A Serviceable Boy, which is why I gloss over it here. If anyone's still reading this, thank you!

You spend nearly two years in a particular life, and although you once thought death would be preferable to this life, it becomes the only life you can imagine. You feel almost comfortable in it, as if it were a warm bed in which you could stretch out and doze. Nothing is difficult in this life anymore. Everything is automatic, even the worst parts.

You never imagine that it could come to an abrupt end.

For Tilrey, the months blurred together. Later, he would remember only two things clearly about this last part of his life with Malsha, and he would remember the second thing only because he had been interrogated about it later.

But he remembered the first thing because it was almost good, rather than just tolerable.

One free-night, Malsha came home early and took Tilrey to a greenhouse that was part of the Biology research complex. It was full of plants native to Harbour: trees with delicate, shiny leaves; fruit-bearing vines; lush grasses full of tiny flowers like stars.

The air was so humid that they had to remove their tunics and roll up their sleeves. Everything smelled of sweet, fertile earth, as if they had teleported into another part of the world. Tilrey walked from planting to planting, drinking in the sights and smells, while Malsha chattered beside him about which of these plants he’d seen growing in the wild on his diplomatic trips.

As they left the greenhouse and stepped back into the bone-chilling cold, the Magistrate touched Tilrey’s arm and said, “One day, you’ll see for yourself.”

“You always say that, Fir.” The plants had put Tilrey in a good mood, so his tone was teasing, not resentful.

“No, but I do mean it. Soon.”

From there, they went to the Lounge, where Malsha chatted with various Mainland Councillors about the past ten-day’s events in the Council. No one was allowed to linger in the booth, which meant Malsha planned to keep Tilrey for himself that night. And this seemed fine, too.

One of the last Councillors to stop by was Beirthrandt Lindthardt, never Tilrey’s favorite person. On this night, though, Tilrey’s body was still heavy with the heat of the greenhouse, his imagination at peace elsewhere. He barely felt the hungry glances the arrogant young man darted at him.

During the discussion of a budgetary measure, Lindthardt made a mistake, and Malsha crowed with laughter.

“Green hells, lad. Did you just tell me it takes thirty votes to pass a Special Exemption?”

Lindthardt bristled. Maybe he even blushed; it was too dark to tell. “Thirty. Thirty-two? Whatever.”

It wasn’t unusual for young Councillors to need tutoring in bureaucratic minutiae, but Malsha wouldn’t let this one go. “Whatever,” he mimicked, wiping his eyes. “Tilrey, how many votes does it actually take?”

“Twenty-eight, Fir. Unless it’s an emergency Special Exemption, in which case, you just need twenty-six.”

Too late, Tilrey realized he probably shouldn’t have given the correct answer, humiliating the young Councillor. Then he decided he didn’t care. Malsha would protect him.

“Ah, you see!” Malsha smiled placidly at his younger colleague. “It’s quite possible to remember the details if one tries.”

Lindthardt glared at Tilrey, but he tried to laugh it off. “I’m sure it is, for someone with nothing to do but lie around in bed all day.”

Malsha’s smile vanished. “Never make excuses for your ignorance,” he said coldly. “If I tested you both on Council procedure right now, we both know who would win.”

Rage burned in Lindthardt’s eyes, but eventually his mouth wobbled into a conciliating smile. “Maybe if I do some studying, I’ll eventually know half as much as your piece does.”

“To be worthy of a post, one must already know the work as intimately as the back of one’s hand,” Malsha quoted Whyberg.

Lindthardt looked as if he wanted to strangle the old man with his bare hands, but he bowed his head and said, “Quite right.”

On their drive home, Malsha complained, “The material I have to work with these days! I honestly think you’d make a better Councillor than that entitled little shit stain. You have the presence, the brains, really everything but the birth.”

Though he should have known better, Tilrey felt smug. In another life, he would have made a very fine Councillor indeed.

 

His other memories of that time were misty. But he knew that one evening—a ten-day before?—he returned home from the gym to find an unfamiliar scarf hanging in the coldroom.

It was similar to the Harbourer scarf that Malsha had given him, which he always wore now. But the pattern on this one was more crimson and scarlet, while his was more gray and blue.

Tilrey had never seen the Magistrate wear this scarf. He slipped into the apartment cautiously, avoiding the living room on the way to his own room, and overheard Malsha talking to another man about the activation of something called “Q-codes.” The other man had a naggingly familiar voice that sounded tense, perhaps upset.

Aside from the scarf, there was nothing odd about any of this. Malsha sometimes had work meetings at home, and he liked to needle his colleagues and get a rise out of them. The scarf was gone when Tilrey returned to the coldroom, and he forgot the incident.

Then one day, he went to the gym for his usual workout and never came home.

 

He was in the locker room, just dressed after a swim, when three red-jerkined soldiers converged on him. It was so unexpected, so surreal, that he could only gape. What have I done now?

“Bronn, Tilhard Edvard?” one of them boomed.

Tilrey nodded. Took a step backward, as a visceral memory of what had happened in the officers’ club washed over him.

Next thing he knew, they had him pinned against the nearest wall with both arms behind his back. He was conscious of pain and a soldier’s hot breath in his ear, but otherwise his body shut down, as it often did now when force was applied to it. Behind him, at a seemingly great distance, Bror was asking what the hell three low-rankers thought they were doing with the Magistrate’s kettle boy.

Tilrey knew no one would answer the question. Malsha himself might have sent the soldiers as part of one of his playlets or schemes. The best thing to do was react as little as possible.

A hand grabbed his nape and pressed his forehead to the wall. He winced at the familiar prick of a needle in his neck, but he didn’t struggle.

He knew what came next. Darkness, fast and strong and inescapable.

 

And after that: a tiny cell, full of more darkness.

Was the Magistrate watching and listening? At first, Tilrey was fairly sure he was, and he whispered into the darkness: “You can stop now, okay? Whatever point you wanted to make, you’ve made it.”

After a bit, he added, “I’m begging you, Fir.”

But no other voice broke the silence. He seemed to be alone, and he stayed that way—until, after what felt like days, the walls spoke with a disembodied Voice that was not Malsha’s.

The Voice forbade Tilrey to ask questions. It bombarded him with questions of its own, mostly about Malsha. When had Tilrey last seen him? What did they talk about? Had Tilrey seen Malsha consorting with Laborers? Dissidents? People with foreign accents? Had Tilrey and Malsha ever discussed Harbourer politics? Had he known?

After all the time in the dark, Tilrey’s brain worked slowly. It took him a while to notice that the Voice kept referring to Malsha as Fir Linnett rather than Fir Magistrate. But then he understood.

“What happened?” he asked, crouching in a corner with his arms over his head as if he could shut out the Voice (he couldn’t). “Isn’t Malsha still the Magistrate?”

The Voice ignored the forbidden question. The interrogation went on.

The whole thing lasted fifteen days, he would find out later, plus the few days before the Voice’s first appearance. Fifteen days of darkness with long patches of solitude, during which Tilrey occasionally screamed his lungs out but mostly huddled on the floor, counting the seconds to keep his sanity intact.

After a prolonged absence, the Voice reappeared without warning, this time as a flesh-and-blood Int/Sec agent who gave Tilrey a protein bar and congratulated him on his “stamina” under interrogation. It was an unsettling conversation, but a civil one.

By that time, Tilrey understood the basics of his new situation. Malsha hadn’t orchestrated any of this. He had finally committed a crime too terrible for his colleagues to ignore. He was gone, and he wasn’t coming back.

Tilrey supposed he should be happy. The downfall of Malsha couldn’t be bad, could it? But nothing seemed real right then except the one thing he actually wanted: to leave the cell and see the sky. If they let him leave the cell, he didn’t care what happened next.

He still wasn’t prepared.

Chapter 25: Reclaimed

Notes:

Warning: This chapter contains on-page gang rape, bukakke, semiconsensual drug use, and general humiliation.

We heard about all of this as backstory in "A Serviceable Boy," so it's not new to the story, but this is the close-up version.

Darkness. Then light glaring everywhere, and the soft wheeze of a door opening.

A long time had passed—how long?—since there’d been light in the cell. It hurt. Tilrey covered his eyes and backed deeper into his corner, away from the sudden din of men’s voices and footsteps.

These weren’t the soldiers, who always came in silence. His cell was full of arch, civilized laughter and accents that belonged to high-named Upstarts.

“Where’s that chair? Fetch it here, Besha.” An old man, querulous and demanding.

Tilrey knew the voice. He slid himself up the wall, back tight against it, and peered through his fingers as his eyes adjusted to the light.

Sure enough, it was Minority Leader Verán, Malsha’s nemesis—only he wasn’t the Minority Leader anymore, was he? The Voice had made it clear that Malsha had brought his entire party down with him. Was Verán the General Magistrate now?

Five other men crowded into the tiny room, two of them in the doorway. Tilrey recognized the weedy young one who was helping Verán into a folding chair. That was Besha Linbeck—Councillor Linbeck now—the Islander who’d tried to talk Tilrey into betraying Malsha during his early days in Redda. The man’s drawling, obsequious tone always made Tilrey cringe.

Three more of the men were Island Councillors he’d seen in the Lounge. The fifth was a driver, short and wiry, with luminous blue eyes. It was he who crossed the room and yanked Tilrey out of his corner.

Tilrey yanked back, though he knew it was pointless. The Voice had warned him that Verán would come to claim him as the Island’s kettle boy. Like everything he’d heard while he was in the darkness, though, it hadn’t seemed real.

“Get a clue,” the driver said under his breath, hauling Tilrey into the center of the room by one arm. “You want out of here?”

A few minutes ago, it was all Tilrey had wanted. Out, under any circumstances. Now, under the blinding light and the men’s keen gazes, he craved the darkness again.

“Green hells.” This came from a portly Councillor with curly black hair—Gourmanian, Tilrey remembered. “Was he so skinny before?”

Besha snickered his oily snicker. “What do you think they feed prisoners on? Fatty cod?”

“He needs a shower,” another man said.

“And a few good meals.”

Verán shushed them with a gesture. Though he walked with a cane—it was propped against the chair—there was nothing doddering about him. He easily dominated the room with his straight carriage and hawkish features.

“Get him dressed,” he told the driver. The ice-blue eyes moved to Tilrey. “You know who I am, lad?”

Tilrey’s hands were fisted at his sides. He fought a sudden impulse to clasp them behind his back. “Yes, Fir. Of course.”

“No backtalk,” the driver muttered. He held out a bundle of neatly folded clothes to Tilrey—one of his old kettle boy outfits. “Put these on.”

Tilrey reached for the clothes. But Verán said, “No.” His thin lips curved. “Not yet.”

Then his forefinger and thumb made a zipping motion in the air, the universal Upstart gesture for strip.

Tilrey swallowed. The other Councillors were grinning expectantly, and Besha looked downright eager.

But the display would be over quickly, and he might as well get used to it. And it would be good to discard the grimy prison coverall.

He let the coverall slide off his shoulders and over his hips, pooling at his feet and leaving him naked. The driver offered a pair of briefs, keeping his eyes politely averted.

“Not yet. Face me, lad.”

Tilrey had stood for inspection many times, but not for more than one man at once, and usually only for Malsha. His hands clasped reflexively behind his back. His gaze went to the floor as he turned toward Verán.

He stood that way for what felt like long minutes, staring down at the blank whiteness of the cell’s floor. His mind was just as empty.

“Skin and bones,” Gourmanian said sadly. “He was angular before, but not like this.”

“We’ll fatten him up.” Besha stayed close to Verán, as if he needed the older Councillor’s protection from the others.

“Still quite a specimen, though,” one of the others said.

“Malsha would never settle for anything less.” Verán’s fingers slashed the air again.

Tilrey swiveled. Now, at least, he could look at the wall.

“It’s quite an ass,” Gourmanian said in the tone of a connoisseur. “Or it would be, if it weren’t emaciated.”

Verán tut-tutted. “You’re so picky.”

When the driver finally handed Tilrey the briefs, he put them on gratefully. He had never felt so happy to pull on trousers or cinch the waist of a tunic. To wear real clothes, even if they were kettle boy clothes.

Next, the driver gave him boots and his old coat, smelling of Malsha’s apartment, and that smell filled him with memories he wasn’t ready for.

Where was he going now? Where was home? The thought dizzied him a little, or maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t eaten anything since the interrogator’s protein bar.

When Tilrey was dressed, Verán rose from his chair, leaning on the cane, and beckoned. “Come along.”

Tilrey went to him. He remembered dimly how Verán’s predatory attention had frightened him on his very first night at the Lounge. Now he felt only weary and eager to leave. He let the old man’s skinny arm grip his tight.

“To the victor belong the spoils,” Verán said.

The other men, especially Besha, chuckled as if he’d been very clever. Tilrey remembered the Voice using the same phrase. He wasn’t surprised when Verán asked, “To whom do you belong, lad?”

“To you, Fir.” The words were automatic. Meaningless.

Apparently it was the wrong answer, though, because they all giggled like schoolboys.

“You belong to the Island,” Verán reproved him. “There’s no cult of personality here. When our new Magistrate is well enough, you’ll live with him. For now, you’ll have to make do with me.” His hand crept around Tilrey’s waist. “So, to whom do you belong?”

“To the Island, Fir.”

Besha was still giggling. “He won’t know what hit him.”

 

They were in the car—Tilrey and Verán and the driver—when, all at once, Tilrey realized.

Malsha was dead.

A month ago, he would have said he wanted nothing more than Malsha dead. He would have looked forward to saying Good riddance. Later, in the cell, everything was weightless. He wasn’t shocked Malsha had done something worthy of exile; nothing Malsha did could surprise him.

But now, sitting in a car with the familiar car smells and the familiar sight of the city sliding past and a different Councillor beside him, he felt a loss. A deep, obscure ache inside him.

Surely this wasn’t grief. Malsha was his jailer, his torturer, his corrupter. As long as the Magistrate lived, he would never have peace.

But his tormentor was also his teacher, his companion, his mentor, his … friend? When he wasn’t being cruel, Malsha could be good company. Verán showed no tendencies in that direction.

And what about Artur? And Krisha? Tilrey sat bolt upright, wondering for the first time what had become of them.

“Has Artur Threindal been reposted, Fir?” he asked as the car floated toward the garage. Judging by the light, it was late afternoon. The Council must have taken a special early recess; normally, no one would be home at this hour.

“Who?” Verán asked as if Tilrey had spoken in a foreign language.

“Malsha’s secretary. We were friends, Fir. I hope he’s not … in trouble as well?”

“A secretary? How should I know?” As the driver steered them into the darkness, the Councillor added, “Maybe think about keeping yourself out of trouble.”

“Yes, Fir.” Tilrey would have to tread carefully. He could find out from Bror what had happened to Artur and Krisha.

Verán’s apartment was just around the block from Malsha’s in the city’s Core. Their interiors were nearly identical, which only increased the strange hollowness pressing on Tilrey’s chest.

When they exited the car, Verán took Tilrey’s arm and leaned on it, using his cane on the other side. Tilrey supposed there was something gratifying about knowing he could offer physical support, that his strength had a purpose.

There had to be an upside to this.

Once Verán was settled inside on the sofa, however, any illusion of partnership vanished. “Tea. Now,” the old man snapped.

“How would you like it, Fir?”

Verán looked like he’d never heard the question in his life. “Black and strong. Obviously.”

The kitchen was immaculate and well stocked, but it lacked the touch of life that Malsha’s bonsai trees had added. Waiting for the water to boil, Tilrey reminded himself this was his home for now. Best get used to it.

His brain rejected the idea. This was just another apartment, another assignation. At least Verán didn’t seem hale enough to be especially demanding in the bedroom.

Verán sniffed the brewed tea and took a haughty sip. “Sit.” He pulled a vial from his tunic. “A bit of sweet before we get started?”

Tilrey didn’t like the cloying tone. But he braced himself, then bowed his head and licked the sap from Verán’s withered hand.

He’d eaten so little in the past few days that the drug went immediately to his head. He complied at once when Verán tugged him closer. He barely felt anything when the Councillor stroked his thigh and slipped probing hands under his tunic.

The sap also loosened his tongue, though, pushing that bizarre, deep-down ache to the forefront of his mind. Before he knew it, he was asking, “Did you see the rite of exile, Fir? Were you there?”

Verán had Tilrey’s balls in one hand. He gave them a light squeeze through the fabric. “What sort of question is that, child?”

“I only wondered.” Tilrey wanted to know everything: how Malsha had looked, what he had said, whether he had gone quietly or cursed his enemies and struggled. “Did the former Magistrate dishonor himself, Fir?”

Verán released Tilrey and pulled his hand free of the tunic. “How he behaved is none of your concern. You belong to the Island now.”

“I know it, Fir.” Tilrey made a show of contrition, but his heart was galloping with excitement.

Verán had answered the question too quickly, with too much vitriol. There was something the Councillor wasn’t telling him.

Had Verán’s fragile health kept him from attending the exile of his rival, an event he should have savored? Had he attended and felt squeamish and ashamed?

Or … had there not been an exile?

What had Malsha told Tilrey, months ago? Always be skeptical when you hear someone was exiled, my child. Sometimes it’s merely our government’s way of pretending none of us ever wants to escape.

He’d been so insistent about it, too, as if he wanted Tilrey to absorb the words. As if he needed him to know.

Where would Malsha escape to, though? Where was there to go?

Tilrey remembered the greenhouse. Harbour, of course.

That one word transmuted the heaviness inside him into elation. He didn’t object when Verán sloppily kissed him and stroked his hair. He allowed his hand to be guided under the Councillor’s tunic. Moving without thought, he stroked Verán’s cock to full hardness.

Could Malsha really have pulled it off? He would have needed a plane. But Krisha was an experienced pilot; he often flew them south in the Magistrate’s small private craft. All they would need was more fuel and the equipment to evade Oslov radar. With his access to classified information and his skill with bribery, Malsha could surely arrange that.

Tilrey imagined Malsha in Harbour, sitting in a blossoming spring garden and enjoying a warm breeze, and couldn’t suppress a grin. No wonder the Islanders despised Malsha so. Had he really done what none of them dared to do?

Luckily, Verán’s attention was elsewhere. His erection had reached the urgent stage. He nudged Tilrey to the edge of the sofa, clearly wanting him on his knees.

If Malsha had pulled it off, nothing else mattered. And Krisha would be so happy to get out of Oslov. Artur, too, if he were there—Tilrey hoped he was, and not in a cell.

Kneeling, he released Verán’s cock from the trousers and teased around the tip with his tongue. A few more strokes, and he sheathed it in his mouth, ignoring the twinge of nausea from his empty stomach. Verán moaned, squirming like a schoolboy.

Oh yes. This man would be easy to handle, much easier than Malsha. Tilrey got to work, sucking the Councillor’s cock as eagerly as any baby at the breast.

He knew exactly what to do.

He brought Verán to the point of no return, where a refusal of pleasure would cause fleeting physical pain. Then he popped the slick cock out of his mouth and sat up, holding it tight at the base.

“Tell me the truth, Fir,” he said. “Was Malsha exiled?”

A shudder ran over Verán’s body; he seemed utterly thrown by the sudden collision of bliss and deprivation. “What are you talking about? Finish! Don’t leave me like this!”

“Then tell me.” Tilrey squeezed the man’s quivering cock a little tighter. “Tell me, and I’ll swallow every drop you have and love it. Was Malsha exiled? Or did he defect to Harbour?”

“Defect? What on earth?” Verán’s voice quavered pitifully. “What’s wrong with you? Are you still loyal to the man?”

“I need to know, Fir.”

“Of course you’re loyal.” Verán’s fingers clamped hard on Tilrey’s shoulders. “A piece should always be loyal to his protector, even when the man is a monster—and Malsha is. Was,” he corrected himself, digging his fingers into Tilrey’s hair for a better grip. “If you weren’t loyal to him, how can you be loyal to me? Now, finish up—that’s a good boy. I’ll forget we had this conversation.”

Tilrey easily resisted Verán’s efforts to reunite cock and mouth. “Tell me the truth, Fir,” he said, giving the man’s cock an artful stroke that wasn’t quite enough to push him over the edge. “Is Malsha alive?”

A cry burst from the Councillor’s lips. He threw his head back.

When he raised it again, his face was bloodless. “As far as I know, yes,” he said on a gasp. “And long may the traitor enjoy his wretched life, because he’s left his country in a greening mess. I never—”

The sentence remained unfinished as Tilrey kept his promise. The old man’s climax came immediately. He rode out the spasm with his gaunt fingers still in Tilrey’s hair, clamping the two of them together.

For a terrifying instant, Tilrey thought he was choking. Then reflex kicked in, and he swallowed, pushing the nausea aside again, and waited for Verán to release him.

The old man slumped back on the cushions, eyes closed, mouth slick with drool. Tilrey sat back up on the sofa, wiping his own mouth with the back of his hand.

His heart pounded to the rhythm of his new knowledge. Malsha was alive. Malsha was in Harbour.

Malsha, who had promised to take him to Harbour, had left him behind.

 

Given how the blow job had knocked Verán flat, Tilrey expected his work to end there. He was wrong.

Ten minutes after his orgasm, Verán rose and retired to the bathroom. Over his shoulder, he called, “In my bed. When I come back. Clothes off.”

Tilrey slipped into the bedroom and stripped once again. When Verán entered, he was sitting at the head of the bed, uncomfortably conscious that his last shower had been at least a few days ago.

Still dressed, Verán reached in a businesslike way for the lube in the nightstand. “On your belly. Legs spread.”

Tilrey obeyed again, though he didn’t like the tone. Malsha was only curt with him when he was trying to make a point. Verán didn’t seem to have any other register.

“Wider,” the Councillor said. He sat down and began working a slick finger inside Tilrey. “As you’ve already seen, I’m large. I’m also more vigorous than you probably imagine.”

“Yes, Fir.” Some men liked to work themselves up by praising their own performance in advance. Tilrey never contradicted them.

Once they got started, though, he had to admit Verán hadn’t oversold himself too much. He was indeed “vigorous,” to the point where Tilrey had to clench his fists and control his breathing.

Maybe it was just that he hadn’t been fucked in a good while. He raised his hips to meet each thrust and imagined himself back in the darkness of the cell, alone. In retrospect, it didn’t seem so bad.

What had the Voice of his interrogator said? That he’d “held out” better than other prisoners had. He tried to be stoic now, but the revelations about Malsha had left him limp as a wrung-out rag.

A memory drifted back. From a month ago, maybe? They were resting in Malsha’s bed, intertwined in a way that didn’t even feel so bad anymore.

You don’t like fucking me that much, do you? Tilrey had asked.

What on earth would make you think that? But Malsha was amused, not shocked.

I know. For you, it’s about the control. If I actually liked sex with you, you wouldn’t want to touch me. Control and pain—that’s all you get off on, isn’t it?

You make me sound so cold-blooded. But Malsha didn’t deny a thing he’d said.

He should be happy Malsha hadn’t taken him along to Harbour. This way, he wouldn’t have to spend any more of his life under the man’s thumb. Malsha had made it clear that Tilrey would remain part of his “household” for as long as he chose, just as Artur had.

However unpleasant Verán might be—and right now, he was pretty unpleasant—this wouldn’t last forever. The Majority Leader obviously did enjoy sex, but he didn’t seem to have any particular liking for Tilrey himself. Once Tilrey was no longer politically useful, Verán would set him free and say good riddance.

One could hope, anyway.

So why, as he lay limp under Verán in the wake of the man’s second climax, did Tilrey feel so desolate? As if no one would ever understand him again?

 

The driver’s voice woke him from a light doze. He was in his own room, and he had finally been allowed to shower. Naked under the duvet, he felt very clean.

But now the driver was urging him to get up and dressed again. “The party’s in a half-hour,” he insisted. “Most of the Island is coming.”

“’kay, ’kay.” Tilrey forced himself upright. Verán hadn’t said anything about a party, only told him to clean himself up and rest. Blast the man. “What’s your name?” he asked.

The driver looked startled. With his delicate frame and features and big blue eyes, he was almost pretty enough to be a kettle boy himself. “Why?”

“Since we’ll be spending a lot of time together, I’d rather call you something besides hey, you.” Tilrey threw off the duvet and took the fresh outfit the driver offered. It was one of those sparkling white ensembles that Malsha always favored on him. “I’m Tilrey,” he prompted.

“Vlastor. That’s my surname,” the driver said, as if his first name were a closely guarded secret.

“Speed it up,” he added as Tilrey rose to pull on the briefs. “These people—you don’t keep them waiting, okay? Now, what do we do about your hair?”

 

All the rush seemed needless. When Tilrey emerged into the sitting room, his damp hair combed and tousled into presentability, Verán was the only occupant. He heard voices, presumably caterers, in the kitchen.

The spring night had fallen, turning the windows black. Verán patted the cushion beside him and held out a palmful of sap.

So this was how things would go. Lots of sweet to soften him up, every time. Tilrey supposed he should be glad; Malsha had strictly limited his sap intake. He sat down—carefully, still sore from the afternoon—and bent to drink from the Councillor’s hand.

The hand darted upward, out of his reach. “First,” Verán said, “a promise from you, love. No more prattling.”

Prattling? Aside from Tilrey’s probing questions about Malsha, they had barely spoken. But Verán must mean the probing questions. By definition, kettle boys didn’t question their superiors.

“I’m sorry, Fir.” It wasn’t easy to sound sincere. “I was insolent before. I probably gave you the wrong impression of where my loyalties lie. I just had to know the facts.”

Verán stared at him. “What did I just say?”

“I only meant—”

“I didn’t ask you to explain yourself. Have you never heard the adage about keeping silent until you’re spoken to?”

If there was such an adage, Malsha had never mentioned it. Tilrey’s heart sank, though he wasn’t sure why—keeping his mouth shut was easy enough, now that he knew the truth. “Yes, Fir. I promise.”

The handful of sap returned. He lapped it up, anticipating the fizzing, numbing magic it would perform inside him.

He was surprised when Verán immediately poured him a second helping, perhaps a quarter-vial this time. “Isn’t that a lot, Fir?”

“Do you want to test my patience, or do you want to feel good?”

Tilrey drank the rest of the sap. After five or ten minutes, he felt very good indeed.

By the time the guests arrived, he was curled up with his heavy head on Verán’s shoulder and the man’s hand between his thighs, feeling not a bit embarrassed. No one spoke to him; nothing was required of him except to be there. Sometimes they spoke about him—he could tell by the cloying tones—but the words were just sounds and the faces were a blur.

The air of the room had thickened to a liquid. He was falling backward into it in slow motion, drowning without choking, without struggle, without pain. With sap pulsing in his veins, everything else was weightless and unreal. No wonder Malsha had kept this bliss from him. When was the last time the world had felt so good?

Then he was being shoved off Verán’s knee. Hauled to his feet by a new pair of hands. “Go with Gourmanian, love,” Verán said, laughing as if he were drunk or sweet-drowned himself.

The man who held Tilrey was the barrel-chested one with dark, curly hair who’d been in the cell earlier. “Come along,” he coaxed, thrusting a shoulder under Tilrey’s arm to keep him upright. “So loud in here.”

Was it? The room was full of voices, but they all blended into one voice—a high-named man of a certain age, full of liquor. If there’d been women here earlier, they were gone now.

Gourmanian walked him into the dim bedroom, lit by a single lamp on an end table. Maybe Verán’s closest lieutenants were getting special favors tonight.

With sap inside him, Tilrey found it easy to imagine he could stand aside and watch whatever happened next with a detached smile, the way Malsha used to like to do.

He sat on the loveseat and allowed Gourmanian to unfasten his tunic and kiss him for a few minutes (hours? So hard to tell). When the Councillor pressed him to his knees, he went. He undid Gourmanian’s trousers, pulled out the man’s cock, and got to work.

All the while, his other self stood by and watched. The buzzing in his head kept everything safely muffled or muted—the pressure of the cock in his throat, the smell of sweat, the taste of semen. The murmur of voices as other men entered the room.

Other men. Entering. Tilrey returned to himself with a lurch. But by that time, Gourmanian’s leavings were gushing down his throat, and he focused on swallowing.

When he was done, he rested his cheek on the edge of the loveseat and just breathed, trying to find that delicious sap-pulse again. The air had been throbbing—no, his whole body had. Why had it stopped? Why was he suddenly more aware of everything?

When he opened his eyes, another man had taken Gourmanian’s place.

The man held out his hand with a pool of darkness in the palm. “Ready for me, Nettsha?” he asked teasingly—as if they were old friends, when Tilrey was sure they were meeting for the first time.

Tilrey licked the sap from the stranger’s palm, eager to be numb again. He opened his mouth to ask who Nettsha was. But the man’s strong hand gripped the back of his neck and forced his head down, so he swallowed the man’s cock instead.

By the time he finished that one, the new dose had kicked in. Everything was pleasantly muffled and distant, though not quite as distant as it had been before.

The second man gave way to a third man, who tousled Tilrey’s hair before grabbing him by the nape and pressing him down on a stubby cock. Tilrey’s throat had started to ache, his muscles to ignore his commands. He forced himself through the routine.

His other self still stood apart. It watched everything with interest, head on one side, and said soothingly in Malsha’s voice, It’ll all be over soon. Just get through it. You know what to do.

Yes, of course. He could probably suck men off in his sleep. Buoyed by the imaginary Malsha’s reassurance, Tilrey didn’t protest when the third man left and a fourth sat down. He had … what had the interrogator said? He had stamina.

You’re a strong boy, Malsha crooned. You can do it.

Of course. But he was starting to lose control of the process. The new man grabbed his shoulders and wrestled him into a brutal rhythm.

It didn’t feel good; Tilrey needed to set the pace himself. But his thick tongue wouldn’t obey him anymore; he couldn’t deliver those little lashings of pleasure that turned men weak and desperate. He couldn’t do anything but not choke and wait for the nameless man to finish.

Above him, other men were speaking, no longer so softly. One phrase he kept hearing was … was he hearing it right? It was Feudal; he’d read it in a Saga. Spring tumble. Spring fling. Why were Island Councillors using a Feudal phrase?

The man came with a grunt. Tilrey managed to swallow, but his throat was on fire.

When a fifth man arrived, he scuttled away across the carpet. Out of reach of grabbing hands, he huddled up the way he had in the cell. Leave me alone.

Hands plucked him from the floor and tugged him upright. It was Gourmanian again, his breath smelling of liquor. “C’mon, love. One more.”

A high-pitched chuckle—that was Besha. “Or two. Maybe three.”

“Maybe four,” someone else said. “It is a spring fling.”

Tilrey shook his head. He tried to say that he just needed water and a little rest, maybe more sap. But bile rose in his throbbing throat, and his voice wouldn’t emerge.

“He’s had enough, poor lad,” one of the Councillors said with a nasty laugh. “What happened to our spring fling?”

“To the victor belong the spoils.”

“Hear, hear!”

“Oh, never fear,” Gourmanian said. He shoved Tilrey back down on the floor and straddled him. “Virsha, help me? Grab his feet.”

What happened next happened very fast and excruciatingly slowly. Tilrey was in his body again, too in it, but his body seemed to have drifted apart into flopping pieces that he couldn’t control.

Behind Tilrey’s head now, Gourmanian snatched his wrists and pressed them flat to the floor. At the same time, someone else seized his ankles and held them fast so he couldn’t kick.

He was back in the officers’ club, nearly two years ago. Closing his eyes, he saw the glaring fluorescent light and smelled the grainy ale the soldiers were drinking. He heard laughter. The birthday boy goes first! Hold him!

The men who surrounded him now weren’t common soldiers. They were the leaders of the entire greening Republic. But when a hard cock bobbed against his cheek and a man’s weight settled on his chest, it felt exactly the same.

Fingers pinched his jaw. “Open up, laddy.”

Tilrey opened his mouth. He tried to beg them not to do it this way, to tell them that it was a waste of his skills and an insult to him. Let me get back up on my knees, let me try again—

Only a grunt came out. The man’s scrotum flopped against Tilrey’s chin and lips as the nameless Councillor thrust in and out, fucking his mouth the way the soldiers had.

Time stood still. Time jumped forward. He was now, and he was then. He was in Verán’s bedroom, and he was in the officers’ club. A little soldier with a girlish voice was yelling, Let me have him, Flekka! Let me ride him!

The Islander finished and climbed off Tilrey. Gourmanian and the other man held him fast. And now there was a new man on top of him, a new cock prodding his lips.

Was Malsha still watching? Tilrey tried to rise above his body. He was dimly aware of writhing against his captors, of tears streaming down his cheeks. He said to Malsha, I think I’m crying. Isn’t that funny? I thought I was done crying for good.

Malsha said, You have no voice, love. I can’t hear you.

And then he was back in his body. It wouldn’t let him go.

In the middle of the sixth man, or maybe the seventh, Tilrey remembered what a spring fling was.

It was a yearly rite that some Feudal clans used to enforce mutual bonds. One girl was chosen by lottery—always a low-status girl? The Sagas didn’t say—and stripped and splayed out. The men took turns fucking her, from highest to lowest. When she gave birth nine months later, the child was considered kin to everyone in the clan. Some held that the offspring of a spring fling had magical powers. These children became shamans, priests, revered counselors. Once the brutality of the initial rite was over, they and their mothers were always treated with the utmost respect.

Tilrey was glad he’d remembered. It made him laugh. And now he’d lost count of the men, which was fine as well.

The Councillors had a brief, polite argument about who would go next. Tilrey’s wrists had gone numb in Gourmanian’s grip. While Gourmanian’s face hovered over his, he managed at last to gasp out words, expressing what seemed to him like the most pressing concern of the moment:

“Why do you … call it that? I don’t—I can’t...”

He meant to remind them he didn’t have the equipment to bear a child. That was the point, wasn’t it? Surely expending themselves in his mouth wasn’t enough to bond the Islanders in mutual harmony.

But Gourmanian stroked his hair and said, “Hush, almost done, and then you’ll have some more sweet.”

Tilrey was sitting up before he knew what he was doing. He ripped his hands from Gourmanian’s and his feet from the other man’s—it was surprisingly easy.

But when he tried to rise to his feet, the world wobbled on its axis. So he drew into himself, hugging his knees, and flopped face down. This is my last stand. Just let them try to roll him over and splay him out again. He was big and heavy, and he had inertia on his side.

Hands tugged at him—more cautious now, because they’d all seen he was strong. “Just a few more,” Gourmanian pleaded.

“Another dose.”

“No, let the poor lad be. He’s had enough.”

“Easy for you to say!” That was Besha’s nasal voice again. “You had your turn.”

Tilrey thrust the Councillors’ poking hands away. He scrambled onto his knees, head drooping so he didn’t have to face them. “Water.”

“What’s that, lad?”

Bile rose in his burning throat again. He retched, doubling up and covering his mouth to stop the contents of his stomach from bursting out.

That made the Councillors scatter—all except Besha, who took Tilrey by the arm and helped him to his feet.

“There we go, easy does it,” the small man said. And to the others: “Hygiene break. Can’t have him hurling on the carpet.”

They headed for the bathroom. The Councillors protested in bantering tones, some accusing Besha of wanting the “spoils” all to himself.

Tilrey barely heard. He staggered across the room and expelled the filth in his stomach into the toilet.

It was an awful upheaval but a brief one. When he finished, Besha was there with a tumbler of water and a cool washcloth. “You look like ass,” he said.

The voices from the bedroom were muffled—Besha had closed the door. Tilrey took a small sip of water, rubbed his face with the cloth, took another sip.

He scooted up against the wall, tumbler in both hands. He wanted to rinse his mouth at the sink, but the floor felt safer. “Thanks,” he managed.

Besha peered down at him. “You remember who I am?”

“The man from the Library. You said you were my friend. Tried to get me to betray Malsha.”

“Can’t blame me for trying.” Besha crossed his arms. Now that they were alone, he seemed wary of Tilrey. Perhaps it was the size difference between them. “You’d be better off now if you’d sided with us then.”

That cutting voice—Tilrey knew it too well. It must really carry across the Lounge.

“I don’t think so,” he said. Besha seemed to want to talk to him, and he would do anything to stay in here a little longer. “Fir Councillor Verán doesn’t like disloyal kettle boys. He told me so.”

A snicker. “You’ve got his number, Nettsha.”

“Why do you all keep calling me Nettsha? That’s not my name.”

“It’s because you were Linnett’s boy. When we do things to you, it’s almost like we’re doing them to him.”

“I hated him, too,” Tilrey muttered.

I did hate you! he told the invisible Malsha. It’s not my fault I miss you.

“What do you want, a medal?” Besha was tapping his foot. “Malsha got off on being hated by people who couldn’t hurt him, and anyway, your personal feelings don’t matter. Right now, all they want to do is carve Malsa into tiny little pieces, and they can’t. You shared his bed. Hurting you is the next best thing.”

It sounded like the way Malsha himself might have analyzed the situation. “Why are they so angry at Malsha?” Tilrey asked. “I know he stole classified information, but what did he do with it? Are we at war with Harbour now?”

Besha barked with laughter. “One missile from us would wipe Harbour off the face of the planet. They wouldn’t dare threaten us.”

“But then …”

“No, there’s no war to trouble your pretty head about.” Besha turned to face the mirror. “A missile was fired, and people died, but they weren’t in Oslov or Harbour or even in Resurgence—do you know about Resurgence? I guess you’re not supposed to know. Anyway, people died, but they were in the great wilderness. They weren’t our trading partners.” He straightened his tunic. “Savages. Malsha appropriated one of our weapons—stole it—to meddle in the internal politics of savages. It isn’t a threat to Oslov, but it’s embarrassing. We don’t do that sort of thing. Now do you understand why they all hate Malsha’s guts?”

“Yes,” Tilrey said. They and not we. Besha was interesting.

He tried to look Besha in the eye, but he couldn’t summon the usual power of his gaze. His throat was on fire and his head was throbbing, not in the good way. “Thank you for telling me, Fir Linbeck.”

Besha extended a hand to help him up. “Yeah, well, I hope you remember I did you a favor. Ready?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“No. My advice to you is—”

Tilrey bent over the sink. “I don’t need your advice, Fir.”

While he rinsed his mouth, Besha said, “You’re a snarky one, aren’t you? Malsha always liked that.”

Back into the bedroom, they’d extinguished the lamp, leaving only spillover light from the hallway. Tilrey couldn’t tell how many Councillors were sprawled on the loveseat, bed, and armchairs.

“Excuse me, Fir Councillor.” A hand seized his elbow—Vlastor, the driver. “Fir Councillor Verán’s orders,” he said, tugging Tilrey away from Besha and into the empty center of the room.

The murmurs around them stopped, leaving dead silence. Tilrey felt the pressure of many eyes.

Vlastor’s jaw was set. “Down on the floor,” he said. And then, in a lower voice, “They want to see me take you.”

Tilrey’s stomach heaved again. His fists clenched. What if he fought his way out of the room? Not one of them, even Vlastor, was strong enough to stop him.

But then? Where would he go?

Very softly, the driver added, “Then you’re done for the night.”

Tilrey released a breath. Let his fists fall open. He wasn’t conscious of making a choice.

Vlastor took over, shoving him to the floor with impersonal efficiency.

A metallic hum rose in Tilrey’s ears. Though he was sober now, the world did him the favor of receding. He watched from a safe distance as Vlastor ripped his shirt over his head, positioned him on his knees, and tugged down his trousers.

The driver couldn’t seem to get hard, so Tilrey had to turn round again and give him some help with his hand—not with his mouth, thank everything green. Then he returned to all fours and received Vlastor’s cock, enduring the man’s fitful, unpracticed thrusts and heavy breathing.

He wasn’t sure how long it lasted, only that no one made a sound. They just watched.

After an agonizing while, or possibly a minute or two, Vlastor withdrew and stood up, still panting as he fixed his clothes. He didn’t seem to have come, but he’d faked it well enough to convince the Councillors.

Tilrey felt them creeping toward him, stealthy footsteps on the carpet from every direction. You said I’d be done. But there was no use bickering with Vlastor, so he curled himself into a defensive ball again. Let them think he’d passed out. No one could make him get up.

No one tried. He felt them making a rough circle around him; he heard their ragged breathing. He didn’t consciously register what they were doing until a warm wetness hit him square in the small of his back.

He flinched hard. Got his hands under him, ready to surge to his feet.

Then he came to his senses and sank back into his huddle. They couldn’t hurt him this way. A little more cum to wash off in the shower, that was all.

One man’s load struck his hip. Another’s hit his forehead and spattered in his eyes. There were scattered cheers and laughter. They were finishing their spring fling. One way or another, all of them would have him.

Tilrey didn’t wipe anything off. He didn’t flinch again, either. What had Besha said? When we do things to you, it’s almost like we’re doing them to him.

But the joke was on them, because he was strong, so much stronger than Malsha. When they had nothing left in their balls, they would trundle off home, and he would be none the worse for it. He would barely even remember this night.

I told you you were strong, Malsha crooned far away. Tilrey ignored him.

He had outlasted them. Soon he would sleep.

Chapter 26: Locked Up

Notes:

Adding a tag for eating disorder.

This part of the prequel gets so dark that I have doubts about telling it. But Vlastor recently popped up in the main story, and Ansha (who will be in the next chapter of this one) is going to pop up again as well, so maybe it does provide some useful background.

The smell of food made Tilrey want to hurl. He rolled over and pulled the covers tightly over his head, willing his mind to return to unconsciousness. Sleep was a warm refuge where nothing hurt, and he wanted it never to end.

“I can see you’re awake,” an irritated voice said. “Sit up. You need to eat something.”

Tilrey threw off the covers and glared up into the face of Vlastor, Verán’s driver. Then he remembered last night—Vlastor’s hands on him, Vlastor’s cock inside him—and turned away as his stomach flipped over again. “Not hungry.”

Saying the two words was like dragging an iron comb through his throat. Everything hurt in there; even his lips felt crusted and bruised.

Was there dried cum on his face? Even after that long shower? He brushed his lips hastily with the back of his hand but didn’t dislodge the crusting; it must be a blister.

The driver hovered over him, offering a bowl that smelled overwhelmingly of salty fish-and-seaweed broth. For a split second, a ravenous pit opened in Tilrey’s stomach, and he nearly reached for the bowl. Then nausea closed in again. “No thanks.”

“You need this. You didn’t eat last night, did you?”

Tilrey couldn’t remember if Verán had fed him any of the goodies at the party. There’d been so much sap. He rolled away from Vlastor and the food, toward the wall, and pretended to sleep until the driver went away.

***

The next time he woke, he was alone, and the single slit of window was dark. Night again already?

He rose shakily and used the bathroom. Memories of last night dribbled back. After they’d finally let him leave Verán’s bedroom, he’d sat on the tiled floor of the shower and let scalding hot water wash over him for what felt like an hour, until Vlastor turned off the tap and dragged him to his feet.

So maybe he was clean, at least, though he didn’t feel that way. He caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror—dark-ringed eyes, crimson bruising around the mouth—and turned away quickly.

Island property. Repossessed.

Peering out the window, he saw only an air well: bleary lights, blowing snow, not even a glimpse of the city beyond. All of a sudden, his feeling of safety shifted to one of being painfully shut in, and he strode across the small room to the door and slapped the button.

The door didn’t open. He pressed the back of his hand to the sensor to release the lock, but the light flashed red. He tried again—same result.

He hadn’t been locked in a room since his earliest days with Malsha, unless you counted the Int/Sec cell.

He yanked hard on the door, not wanting to believe it. He pounded it once, twice, three times with his fist. Then, drained just as suddenly as he’d been energized, he returned to the bed and sank into his nest of blankets.

He would sleep a little more. When he woke up, the door would open. His face would be his face and not a swollen horror, and he would go to the Library and the Café and see Bror and his other friends, and life would go on pretty much as before, only minus Malsha.

Everything would be fine.

***

He woke to find Councillor Verán in the room. Vlastor trailed behind the old man, holding a fresh plate of food that smelled tantalizingly like dumplings.

But the sight of Verán, prim and proper in his snow-white robe of office, banished Tilrey’s hunger. When the Councillor sat down on the end of his bed, smiling magnanimously as if Tilrey were a chastened child, he swallowed hard, stomach acid forcing its way up his throat.

“How is our Nettsha?” The tone was full of concern. But when Verán reached out to pinch Tilrey’s chin and move his face into the light, his nails dug in hard. “Oh my,” he said. “Last night was rather rough on him. And he’s gaunt.” A disapproving glance down at Tilrey’s body, lost in the loose T-shirt and track pants. “What’s he eaten today?”

“A bowl of broth and rice, Fir,” Vlastor lied in a bored, effortless drawl. “I asked someone at the clinic; they said not to feed him too much at once. He’s still adjusting from prison rations.”

“Yes, but he’s lost so much weight. He looked different before, sleeker.” The Councillor tweaked the T-shirt off Tilrey’s left shoulder.

Tilrey backed away from the touch. Stupid, but he couldn’t help himself. “I’m not hungry, Fir,” he began—and stopped when he saw the amused look on Verán’s face.

Was it a joke, then, how hoarse he sounded? Apparently so; Vlastor was grimacing, too. How funny to think that all those cocks had been jammed one by one in Tilrey’s mouth last night while he lay pinioned on the floor. Hilarious.

“Make sure he eats those,” Verán said to Vlastor. Then he turned to Tilrey and held up a vial so it sparkled in the light. “Clean the plate, you get this.”

The whole vial? Tilrey remembered how they’d used sap to numb him last night, and he shook his head. That wouldn’t happen again. “Why is my door locked, Fir?”

Vlastor hissed something under his breath that sounded like Shut it.

Verán didn’t even seem to hear the question. He tossed Vlastor the vial and used his cane to lever himself off the bed.

Pausing in the doorway, he said, “If he isn’t back to his normal weight by the end of the month, moral rehab can take care of it.”

The door opened. Tilrey sat up—what if he ran to it right now? What if he jammed himself past the Councillor, through the gap? Where would he go next?

The door closed. Feeling almost relieved, he wilted back against the pillows. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.

Vlastor seemed annoyed—was he perpetually that way? “That was a stupid question to ask,” he said, passing the dumplings to Tilrey. “If you have any sense, you’ll get on his good side.

“Oh, I know how to get on Fir Councillor’s good side.” Tilrey examined the dumplings. He had never been one to refuse food before—not even in the cell, where they’d fed him on noxious protein bars. But right now he just didn’t feel hungry. “Why am I locked up?” he repeated.

“You shouldn’t be traipsing around the city by yourself, lad. You’re in a fragile state.”

Oh, am I? Tilrey supposed he could understand being confined to the apartment—Malsha had done that to him, too, for a while. “The door of the room is locked, though. My chip won’t open it. Is that a mistake?”

Vlastor’s jaw worked. “Eat the dumplings.”

“I’ll eat one if you answer the question.”

“Eat them all and you get the sap. And I’ll take you to the gym tomorrow, so you can get out all your stir-craziness on the treadmill.” The driver must have seen from Tilrey’s expression that he wasn’t painting an enticing enough picture, because after a moment he added, “You can’t blame the Fir, can you? You belonged to the opposition. He doesn’t want you wandering around his apartment, getting into his things.”

“But his study is locked. Studies are always locked! What could I possibly get into?” A spasm of anger, and then Tilrey collapsed back on the bed. It wasn’t worth arguing about—so little was.

He picked up a dumpling and bit into it. It hurt going down his throat; everything would, he supposed, for a while.

“I can’t just sit in here all day,” he said, taking another bite. It tasted like dust, like nothing, and suddenly he was overwhelmingly sleepy again. Just raising his hand to his mouth was an effort. “I can’t.”

“It’s better than a cell, right? Didn’t you hear what he said about moral rehab?”

Tilrey had, but it made no sense. Moral rehab was for mental illness or chronic misbehavior, and he hadn’t misbehaved last night—he had, in fact, obeyed in every possible way, because Malsha had trained him that bland obedience was the best way to avoid worse trouble. “I haven’t been doing anything.”

Vlastor snorted. “Keep eating, and we’ll see.”

Tilrey looked down at the plate. “But I’m not—”

“Hungry? Yeah, I know that trick. There was a kid on my squad who wouldn’t eat after they caught him trying to desert. He ended up in moral rehab with a tube down his throat.”

Tilrey had never heard of anyone being punished for not eating. Until this moment, it hadn’t occurred to him that his nausea might be anything more than a temporary condition caused by having been forced to swallow a bellyful of cum.

There were tricks of silent resistance that he didn’t know yet. Interesting.

“I don’t want the sap,” he told Vlastor. “I’ll eat one more, and you’ll take me to the Gym tomorrow. I need to stay fit, don’t I?”

Chapter 27: Existing

At this point, life fell into a pattern that was both familiar and disturbingly alien. Although Tilrey’s room had a window, and he could control the lights, he often lost track of time there, just as he had in his Int/Sec cell.

He woke and dozed and slept on no timetable. Lying in a shadowy half-sleep, he sometimes heard Malsha’s voice: What are you doing, love? Is this the lad who scored so high on the E-Squareds?

“Oh, fuck off,” Tilrey said aloud. “It’s your fault.”

On his second (?) day in the room, he woke very early in the morning and felt an irresistible urge to see if all his things—could he even call them “possessions”?—had come to his new home with him. When Vlastor entered with breakfast, Tilrey was sitting on the floor surrounded by the spread-out contents of the bureau: trousers, tunics, shirts, undergarments, and a few books that Malsha had gifted him.

Not all the books, though. How could he survive without his books? Suddenly he remembered exactly the chapter he’d been reading when the soldiers came to arrest him. The suspense of not knowing what happened next was unbearable.

He sprang to his feet and advanced on Vlastor, who was carrying a steaming bowl of porridge. “My books. The rest of them. Where are they?”

Vlastor backed away. “There were some Library books in your things. I took them back to the Library.”

“Then we’ll go there today. I need them.” Tilrey put a growl in his voice. He knew now that he could intimidate the driver with his size, just a little. “I won’t eat a bite of that slop unless you take me there after the Gym.”

***

The Gym didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right anymore.

They went there early, at Vlastor’s insistence—he had a whole day of Verán’s errands to do—so Bror wasn’t in the weight room, and Ansha was. He waved and smiled at Tilrey, but Tilrey didn’t acknowledge him. His mouth was still swollen, his wrists and ankles and other parts bruised. Bror was the only person he could imagine facing right now.

Well, besides Vlastor, who didn’t count. He insisted on being the one to spot Tilrey, taking Bror’s usual role, and he stuck to Tilrey like a burr. The whole time they were outside Verán’s apartment, there was never more than a few yards’ distance between them.

At least Vlastor’s touch and closeness felt impersonal, as if the man were merely performing what he considered his duty. There was no hint of desire, nothing to remind Tilrey that Vlastor’s cock had been inside him a few nights ago. He was grateful for that.

“Isn’t that Lindahl’s piece?” Vlastor asked, cocking his head toward Ansha. “Why don’t you go talk to him?”

“No, thanks. I’ll swim now.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Tilrey had to laugh. “I always swim at least twenty laps. Do you think I’m going to bash my head against the side of the pool and drown myself?”

Vlastor didn’t smile back. “Remember what I said about moral rehab.”

“It was a joke.” Malsha would have laughed. But Vlastor’s expression told Tilrey that nothing he said about hurting himself was a joke now.

He was beginning to grasp the full implications of being the Island’s possession, its spoils of war, an object that Verán needed to show off for political reasons. Vlastor’s protective closeness spoke volumes. Tilrey had no control over anything in his life anymore, but he still had value as currency, and that was a form of power, wasn’t it?

Maybe. Maybe not.

Back outside, he considered shaking off Vlastor’s grip and climbing the nearest parapet. He wasn’t ready for anything as final as jumping, but the thought of standing at the top and looking down was satisfying. Vlastor would be so pissed off.

If he gave Vlastor a scare, though, the Library might be out of bounds. And he had to get to the Library.

To his relief, Vlastor took him there without complaint—he seemed a little curious about the place. Tilrey led the way, since the driver had clearly never set foot there himself.

The greenish shade of the stacks enfolded them, along with the smell of ancient paper slowly turning to dust. Tilrey breathed more easily there than he had in many days. He went straight to the basement, the domain of his favorite old Harbourer and Tangle books, and sped from shelf to shelf collecting the ones he needed.

Then he handed the pile of books to Vlastor and held his breath, waiting for the driver to declare them inappropriate reading for him. Subversive, maybe.

The driver only looked mystified. “What do you want these for?” he asked, peering at the foreign words. “It’s not like you can read them.”

“I…” What could Tilrey say? “I know a few words. Malsha taught me.”

Vlastor flipped through one of the books and stopped at a gilded illustration of a mythological scene featuring a half-naked goddess. A childish grin spread over his face, as if he finally understood this whole strange errand. “Whoa, look at that! It glitters.” A wink at Tilrey. “I didn’t know these books were so racy.”

Tilrey said, “Now you see. I like the pretty pictures.”

***

Maybe it was a free-night. Maybe it was a worknight. Tilrey had completely lost track. Anyway, after eating half of what Vlastor brought him for dinner, he was told to shower and dress and “prepare himself,” which he could interpret well enough. Then they went out to the car again.

Keep your eyes open, Malsha whispered inside his head. Don’t let those Islanders fill you up with sap. Tilrey ignored him.

“Are we going to the Lounge?” he asked as Vlastor pulled into the parking dock of Government Sector. Perhaps Verán wanted to go there straight from work.

Vlastor just opened the car door and hustled Tilrey inside the building. To get there, they navigated a pedestrian bridge surrounded by temptingly vertiginous drop-offs. It was dusk, the last light in the sky drawing ghostly radiance from the snow. Fall or spring, but Tilrey no longer remembered which.

Don’t be stupid, lad. Keep track of time. That cell didn’t rot your brain, did it?

Up and down corridors they went, with Vlastor gripping Tilrey’s arm the whole way. He relinquished it only to transfer it to the Councillor when they reached Verán’s office.

Verán looked satisfied with himself, as if a major vote had just gone his way. “Wait in the car,” he told Vlastor with a dismissive wave. Ever obedient, Vlastor disappeared.

When the driver was gone, Verán poured a half-vial of sap into his hand and held it out. “More soon,” he said as if he were doing Tilrey an enormous favor.

Tilrey considered refusing, but he bent his head and drank. He had an intuition that he might need it.

From Verán’s office, they passed down a wider hallway to the towering doors that Tilrey recognized as those of the Council chamber. Malsha had brought him here once—when? Oh yes, the night they’d met that handsome, prissy Upstart with whom Malsha had tried to arrange a threesome. Tilrey wondered what had happened to him.

Fir Linbeck—Besha—waited outside the chamber, wearing a devilish grin like a kid up to mischief. He swung open one of the doors to admit them.

To Tilrey’s relief, the chamber contained no Councillors. It was a free-night, then—they must all have dispersed to their various pleasures. Only a few lights shone, and each step echoed. He peered up at the arch of the ceiling, remembering how Malsha had brought him here.

Verán gave his arm a tug. “No time to gawk. We have a bet to win.”

Besha giggled nastily. Tilrey decided he hated the little Councillor again.

Up a couple of marble steps at the foot of the amphitheater, on a stage, stood the long, oval table that Tilrey remembered. Whyberg and his friends had sat there in the age of the Founding, Malsha had said. Today the table wouldn’t fit all the Councillors; its value was strictly symbolic.

Yellow light pooled on the dark, varnished wood. Verán dropped Tilrey’s arm, set his cane on the table, and patted its surface. “Sit. Then help me.”

Sit on the table? Tilrey didn’t understand, but it was easy enough to hop up and then help the old man up beside him. He didn’t like the leer on Besha’s face.

Maybe Verán didn’t either, because he waved the younger man back toward the tall doors. “You keep watch. Make sure no one interrupts. The side doors are locked?”

“Of course, Visha.” Besha went where he was told, all oily deference.

Verán turned back to Tilrey. “You—hands and knees.”

Tilrey understood what was going to happen, then, but he didn’t move. Hot blood flooded his cheeks. “Here, Fir?”

“Yes, of course here! Do I have to spell things out? What does it matter to you where?” The Councillor inched toward him. “I assume you’re prepared?”

Tilrey nodded, lowering his eyes. At least the shadows hid his blush. He was starting to feel the sap, and he knew it was best not to object to this, humiliating as it was. Verán was right—what did it matter to him? He might as well be here as in a bed.

Malsha had pushed him up against this table and kissed him, but full-on sex? He couldn’t imagine it.

“It won’t be comfortable,” he said, maneuvering himself onto all fours. “Especially for you, I imagine.”

Verán rucked Tilrey’s tunic up to his waist and unfastened his trousers, his hands fumbling fussily and inefficiently. “No,” he said, “it won’t be comfortable.”

An awkward twenty minutes followed. The Councillor had trouble arousing himself, so Tilrey had to sit back on his haunches and manipulate the man’s cock to a passable hardness. Then he returned to his hands and knees and stared at a point at the far end of the room while Verán poked and jabbed his way inside him.

Because of his careful preparations, it didn’t hurt much, but Tilrey felt each thrust on his knees. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to stay in position, doing his best not to think about Besha watching them.

The doors were a good way off, so he couldn’t see the little man’s expression, but he could imagine.

He tried lowering his head and examining a knot in the grain of the table. When that wasn’t sufficiently distracting, he closed his eyes. On top of him, the Councillor panted and grunted, his exertions sounding more painful than pleasurable.

Verán didn’t actually want to do this. He’d said, We have a bet to win. And apparently it involved fucking the party’s new asset in a place that no one in their right mind would choose if not for the symbolism.

It went on and on. The table creaked. Verán’s joints cracked. Tilrey winced at an especially forceful thrust and realized he needed more sap. He pretended he was Besha, standing safely over by the doors—bored, fidgety, peering through the gloom for a better look.

Besha had never gotten his share on the night of the “spring fling.” Would Verán ever give Tilrey to him, or was Besha too low in the Island hierarchy? Tilrey decided not to think about it—it was none of his business, and what did it even matter? All cocks were alike.

His thoughts frayed. Absurd ideas appeared in his head: I could kill this man with my bare hands if I wanted to. Someday, I’ll stand at the head of this table and give orders to the Councillors seated below. Every single one of them will live or die on my order.

Malsha’s voice whispered in his head: Keep it together, love. Right now you just have to survive. It’s always nice to have ambitions, though.

Tilrey might have progressed to even more lurid revenge fantasies if Verán hadn’t finally come—a final poke, a gush, and then weight slumping on top of him. They exhaled together—Tilrey’s sigh deep and relieved, but quiet.

Five minutes later, they were both standing back on the floor, their clothes properly fastened and tucked. It was over.

Besha left the doors and floated back to them, flashing that naughty grin. “Sagas will be written about you someday, Visha,” he said, but Tilrey could see now that his admiration was a performance. Besha might not like Verán any better than he did.

Ignoring the flattery of his hanger-on, Verán poured a whole vial of sap into his hand and held it out to Tilrey. “Good lad,” he said. “So you see, I keep my word.”

After that, things became floaty and confused for a while. Sap hit a lot harder, Tilrey was discovering, when you drank it on an empty stomach.

Besha accompanied them back to the car, where Tilrey sat between the two men, just barely conscious of Verán’s hand on his thigh and Besha’s shoulder against his shoulder. Buildings streamed past in a curtain of light. Behind each glowing window was someone doing whatever that person wanted to be doing. He didn’t want anything, because he was the Island’s prize now, but the lights of Redda sank into him, filling him to overflowing, and that was enough. He liked being full of sensations. It was okay. It was good.

A blur of movement, a lash of cold wind on his cheek, the weight of a coat falling from his shoulders, and then he was inside again. White, white, white—they were in the sitting room. Besha was in the kitchen, waiting on them like a kettle boy—no, wait, was that Besha?

No. Tilrey was lying on his back with his head in someone’s lap. Councillor Verán’s, probably. His legs were draped over someone else, and that was Besha. The little man’s restless fingers played with Tilrey’s right ankle, encircling it like a manacle. Besha and Verán were talking about something stupid someone named Gourmanian had done in the Council; he had embarrassed himself.

“You’re going to give him the boy next, aren’t you?” Besha asked in his wheedling, sycophantic way.

Verán said, “The GM ought to be next, but he’s still recovering from his stroke. He’ll understand. And Gourmanian has been so loyal.”

Besha giggled. “Loyal and entertaining.”

So who was that in the kitchen? Tilrey raised his head. His vision swam, and he had to blink several times before he made out a lean, red-headed boy crossing the room bearing a steaming kettle.

A kettle boy dressed like him, only in charcoal gray. It was Ansha, sinking to his knees to pour the tea.

What was Ansha doing here without his Upstart, Enrik Lindahl? Tilrey’s drowned mind worked slowly. Malsha had given him to Lindahl regularly. Lindahl was a swing voter, an Islander who prided himself on being an independent thinker. He didn’t have much of a taste for his own kettle boy; they all used to tease Ansha about that at the Café. Ansha was just currency to him.

Lindahl must have sent Ansha over here to propitiate the newly powerful majority leader. It wasn’t the first time, either, because Ansha was clearly comfortable with Verán and even with Besha. He cozied up to them, his voice lilting over Tilrey’s head, laughing and flirting and even joining in their gossip. That was his finger stroking Tilrey’s neck, and then Tilrey’s hair.

Then Ansha was tugging Tilrey onto his feet. “C’mon,” he said, breath hissing warm on Tilrey’s cheek.

In the distance, Besha and Verán were saying their goodbyes. Besha’s voice sounded a little strained, as if he were raring to leave or wished he could stay; Tilrey couldn’t tell which. Malsha was right: Sap made it hard to observe people.

He let Ansha lead him into the Councillor’s bedroom and sit him on the bed, though he soon collapsed onto his side. It was so hard to keep his eyes open.

He remembered the time in the Vacants when he’d drunk too much sap and woken up to find Ansha pawing at him. Bror had stopped Ansha that time, but Bror wasn’t here now.

“How much did you have, Rishka?” Ansha asked, sounding worried. “You’re never like this.”

“Yes, I am. I was. You were there.” Tilrey struggled to shape the words. “Bror stopped you. You wanted me. Everybody does.”

“Got a high opinion of yourself.” Ansha’s voice was cool; he was probably more sober than Tilrey was. “But it’s not just about looks, right? You need to participate. Do you know how pathetic it is when you just lie there?”

Tilrey began to laugh, and he couldn’t stop. He was still laughing when Verán entered the room, and then he went quiet all at once.

The Councillor’s weight settled beside him. A businesslike pat on his thigh. “Let’s start with that pretty mouth of yours, if you’re capable.”

“Oh, he’s always capable, Fir,” Ansha said, sounding just as eager to please as Besha.

That must be what “participating” meant to Ansha—faking it all the time. Malsha had never wanted that; he had wanted to know Tilrey’s true feelings, then used the knowledge in the worst way. So maybe there was something to be said for faking.

Tilrey did not “just lie there.” He sucked off Verán, doing a very nice job of it the way he always did, and then he got another quarter-vial of sap, and then he lay down and let Ansha peel off his clothes.

Had he ever found Ansha repulsive? Was that why Bror had protected him from Ansha? What a funny thought. Ansha was young and lean and skilled, with bee-stung lips and clever hands. Because Verán was watching, he made a great show of whispering endearments in Tilrey’s ear and stroking and caressing him, and Tilrey’s body responded. Some detached part of him hated knowing Verán was watching, but what did it matter? He had been a spectacle in this room before, for a larger audience.

And Ansha knew how to do everything right, without pain or awkwardness. He rolled Tilrey over and coaxed slippery fingers into him. He eased Tilrey up onto his knees again and entered him carefully yet forcefully. “That’s right, love,” he murmured, finding his rhythm.

Their bodies fit together as if they’d been made for each other. Or maybe it was simply that they both knew every step of the dance by heart. Tilrey lifted his hips to receive the thrusts. Ansha broke off, panting, and gummed Tilrey’s shoulder, grazing it with his teeth. “You’re so good for me, green hells, you feel so good.”

“Harder.” Verán sounded bored. “Push his head down.”

It went on, getting intenser. But the quarter-vial had kicked in, and Tilrey hardly felt anything anymore. He missed the moment when Ansha came, or maybe it was all a blur. When he finally returned to something resembling a rational state, he was resting with his head on Ansha’s chest. Verán snored beside them in the darkness.

Tilrey yanked himself out of Ansha’s arms. He could feel the other boy’s leavings inside him, on top of Verán’s, and it turned his stomach. “What bet did Visha make? About me?”

“Shh,” Ansha said. “He’s a light sleeper.”

“Tell me.”

The other boy giggled softly in the darkness. “Did he actually do it?”

“Do what?”

Ansha propped himself up on one elbow, unable to resist the urge to tell a juicy secret. “A while ago,” he said, “maybe six months, Visha was watching you in the Lounge with Malsha. He saw how Malsha used you to coax Lindahl and Saldegren over to his side, and he got so annoyed that he said, ‘I’m going to have that piece one day, right on the Council table. I’ll stake my honor on it.’ I think the others all thought he was mad, honestly.”

He rolled onto his back, chuckling at the memory. “I can’t believe he literally did it. Was it hard on your knees?”

Tilrey said nothing. He wondered if Ansha knew it was only luck that had allowed Verán to win his bet—luck and Malsha’s retirement plans. Harbourers had died so that Malsha could have his dream of dying in Harbour. How many of them?

He turned his back to Ansha and wrapped the covers tightly around himself and remembered the strange thoughts that had come to him when he was on his knees on the Council table.

Someday, I’ll stand at the head of this table and give orders. Well, if Councillors could make stupid vows to themselves, then so could he.

***

He woke in the dark to find Ansha hovering over him, shaking his shoulder. His throat felt raw. “What the fuck?” the other kettle boy said. “You were thrashing around and yelling.”

Behind Ansha, Verán was sitting up, too. Tilrey must have woken him. “What’s wrong with him?” he quavered, as if Tilrey might have transformed into a monster.

“Just a nightmare,” Ansha said. “He didn’t mean to wake you—did you, Rishka?”

Tilrey shook his head. He had cloudy memories of the dream: many hands on him, holding him splayed out on the floor. He had been struggling as a cock was jammed down his throat.

“Out.” Verán stabbed a finger at the door. “You two can spend the rest of the night in the spare room. I need every second of my sleep.”

“Yes, Fir. We’re so sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Ansha hustled Tilrey into his own room, the one that Verán chose to call “spare.” Tilrey lay down in bed and pulled up the covers. When Ansha followed him, he rolled close to the wall, away from the other boy’s touch.

Ansha inched away in response. “Stop being so touchy. I’m not trying to molest you.”

The sap had worn off—it must be late—and Ansha’s closeness made Tilrey’s skin crawl. The memories of what they’d done earlier were an unpleasant jumble. It had seemed fine at the time, completely normal, but now he couldn’t imagine facing Ansha’s smug face across a table in the Café.

“No,” he said, “you only molest me when Fir Councillor orders you to.”

Ansha elbowed him in the ribs. “I’m doing my job, same as you—and I do mine better, to be honest. If he told me to roll over for you, I’d do it in a heartbeat. But you’d be too sapped to keep it up, wouldn’t you?”

“Fuck off.” Tilrey would have liked to say something more coherent, but a sick fatigue swamped him. He turned his back and pulled the pillow over his head.

***

A few hours later, when blue dawn spilled from the window, he lay in bed and watched Ansha dress. In a detached way, he admired the other boy’s long legs, broad shoulders, slim hips.

“I used to think you were ugly,” he said. “I don’t know what was wrong with me—you’re much prettier than Bror. Back then, I couldn’t see you the way a Councillor does.”

Ansha’s head jerked up. He must not have realized Tilrey was awake. “You’re such a spoiled little shit,” he said, though he didn’t sound angry. “You take it all for granted, don’t you?”

“What?”

“Being so fucking special.”

Tilrey smiled. In the old days, Ansha’s insults had wounded him, but now the pain was more of a tickle. It was strange to think of anyone envying him, strange enough to be interesting. He said, “You might have to wait for Vlastor to open the door. He keeps it locked from the outside.”

“You can’t open it?”

“No.” Tilrey wondered, with idle curiosity, how nasty he might have to be to make Ansha hit him. It wasn’t that he wanted to be hit, exactly, but he liked the idea of someone damaging Verán’s property.

“I don’t take anything for granted,” he said. “I just didn’t ask for this. You’re special, we all are, but I’m the most special. The shining jewel, the spoils of war, so special I have to be locked away. I can see why you’re jealous. You’ll never be anything but a person.”

Ansha paused with his tunic halfway on. “Rishka,” he asked after a moment, his gaze serious, “are you all right?”

Tilrey rolled on his back and grinned up at the roof of the alcove. “Never better.”

Chapter 28: Enduring

Notes:

Back to this story! I'll post a few chapters before I get deep into writing my final installment.

It must be fall, because the darkness lasted longer and longer. The nights stretched to engulf the days.

The room was Tilrey’s world now, and reading and sleeping were his life, or the only parts of his life he enjoyed. He had to be coaxed to do everything else: eating, bathing, working out, his job.

Occasionally he felt a hollowness in his chest that he supposed was loneliness, and then he sat up in bed and talked to Malsha.

I told you you’d be sorry if I ever went away.

“You tortured me.”

But they don’t even know you, do they? Not like I do. Then Malsha chuckled sympathetically, understanding. They have no idea who you are, they never will, and you need to be known. Maybe someday they’ll see. Shall we talk about that book you’re reading?

“Yes, please.”

He was in the thick of one of these conversations when Vlastor came to tell him to get ready for Fir Councillor Gourmanian.

Gourmanian—that was the one with the barrel chest and dark, curly hair. The one who had held him down on the night of the spring fling so that the others could sit astride him.

There was no use in dawdling, though. Tilrey threw off the covers and planted his feet on the floor. “I’m not hungry,” he said in response to Vlastor’s question about a bowl of rice and fish.

“I’m bringing it anyway.” The driver paused in the doorway. “Who were you talking to just now?”

“I wasn’t talking.”

“I heard you.” Worry twitched at the corner of Vlastor’s mouth, but he closed the door again.

Tilrey waited for his footsteps to retreat, then said, “I like how much he hates me. It’s fun.”

Sitting opposite Tilrey on the bed, Malsha tilted his head reprovingly. Annoying him is a petty self-indulgence. You’re not getting anywhere that way.

“Where am I supposed to get?” Tilrey rose to his feet, flinging out one arm to indicate the locked door. “This is it for me now. I’ll never be your secretary, never sit in an office in the Sector. This is my last stop.”

Don’t be defeatist. I’m getting tired of it.

“What do you suggest, then? What kind of attitude is appropriate for this situation?” Tilrey went into the bathroom and turned on the shower—but, of course, Malsha followed him. “Gourmanian is a brute,” he said, stripping off his clothes. “Am I supposed to look forward to that?”

You have nothing to be afraid of and plenty to gain. Think of every new man as an opportunity.

“Oh, that’s a positive attitude, all right.” He stepped into the stall and let the hot water soak his hair. “Opportunity for what, exactly?”

Find their vulnerabilities. Believe me, they have plenty.

“You spoiled me,” Tilrey muttered, spitting out a mouthful. “If you’d treated me like Verán does, I would know how to act with him and the rest of them. But you talked to me. You made me think I was real.”

Malsha didn’t answer; he had faded away again. Tilrey finished washing his hair in silence.

***

Gourmanian came to fetch him. As soon as they were settled in the darkness of the back seat, and the driver had pulled the car away from Verán’s building, the Councillor threw his arms around Tilrey. He kissed him as lengthily and tenderly as if they were lovers.

Tilrey didn’t resist, but he didn’t reciprocate, either. Remembering how Gourmanian had held his wrists pinioned to the floor of Verán’s bedroom, he held his mind at a distance and observed.

Think of every new man as an opportunity. An opportunity to do what?

Gourmanian emerged from the kiss breathing heavily. “Green hells, you’re beautiful,” he said, his cock jabbing Tilrey’s thigh. “Will you forgive me?”

“For what, Fir?”

“For…” Gourmanian’s grimace was only just visible in the dim car. “Let’s not pretend the night of the spring fling didn’t happen, shall we? I don’t want you holding a grudge.”

A grudge? What a strange idea. Over the past few ten-days with Verán, Tilrey had learned to view his feelings as distractions—or perhaps even illusions, because he was only the illusion of a person. “I’m none the worse for wear,” he said, not bothering to keep the annoyance out of his tone.

“Oh, but you’re angry with me.” Gourmanian’s voice had gone low and mournful. “It was unacceptable,” he said, massaging Tilrey’s jawline with his forefinger. “The sap, the group, the whole atmosphere—I let it carry me along. I’m not normally that person at all.”

“I never said you did anything wrong, Fir.”

“But we both know I did. Please don’t sulk. I want you to feel safe with me.”

I’m not sulking. Or was he? Maybe Tilrey needed to pay more attention to things beyond his own misery. There was something about Gourmanian’s excitement right now that wasn’t purely sexual, and it reminded him of Malsha. The man wanted to get inside his head.

“You like to hurt people,” he said experimentally. “You’d like to hurt me.”

The Councillor turned liquid eyes on him. “Not like that! Never again.”

“No, maybe not like that.” But Gourmanian hadn’t shown any ambivalence about holding him down so a procession of other Councillors could enjoy him. “You like to do it more privately,” Tilrey said, making a safe guess. “With rules. Maybe you even want to make me like it.”

The Councillor’s whole body seemed to thrum for an instant, and he pressed his erection harder against Tilrey. “You know, then,” he whispered. “You understand.”

They proceeded indoors, where Tilrey learned again how it felt to be taken care of. To have his mouth gently explored by a teasing tongue. To have his clothing stripped off piece by piece. To be complimented on everything he did with his own mouth, and then to hear gratifying moans of ecstasy. (Verán grunted sometimes, but he didn’t seem to believe in expressing his pleasure.)

“Where did you learn to do that?” Gourmanian asked once he had recovered from his orgasm. Then, without missing a beat: “You’re an eager dirty little slut, aren’t you? Someone should beat the cheek out of you.”

Tilrey winced. But then the Councillor winked, and he realized they were play-acting. “I’m not afraid of you, Fir!”

“No? Maybe it’s time I got you over my knee.”

Tilrey shook his head theatrically, then added in a low voice, “You won’t leave marks?”

“Of course not. Haven’t you done this before?”

Rather than admit he’d never been spanked, Tilrey draped himself over Gourmanian’s lap of his own accord. He clenched his fists, trying to ignore how humiliating the position was, and braced himself for something unpleasant.

Find their vulnerabilities. This kink was obviously one of Gourmanian’s, but what was he supposed to do with the knowledge?

The first blow stung so hard it brought tears to his eyes, followed by a rush of adrenaline. As the pain retreated, he became acutely aware of everything around him: the hum of the heating, the blur of bedspread under his cheek, the tang of sweat, Gourmanian’s ragged breathing. He had his ass in the air and a hand on his nape pressing his face into the bedclothes, yet he didn’t have the slightest impulse to move.

The second spank made him gasp as the token pain turned quickly to warmth. He could almost see the red flush spreading over his skin. Before he knew it, he was hard against Gourmanian’s thigh.

“Was that too much?” the Councillor asked, sounding a little worried.

“No, no.” Tilrey squeezed his eyes shut and felt a tear slip down his cheek. He had never enjoyed physical pain before. What was going on? “More, please.”

“If you’re sure.” Gourmanian took on the tone of a schoolmaster. “But we need to agree on a word you’ll use to stop me if things go too far for you.”

“Yes, Fir. Anything you want.”

Tilrey learned the safe word, but he didn’t use it—didn’t have to. Gourmanian knew better than to leave marks on him that Verán might notice later.

After a few more spanks, the Councillor laid Tilrey out on his back and used a soft, stretchy rope to tie his hands to hooks that had been cunningly screwed into the headboard. He took time over the knots, his fingers careful on the sensitive undersides of Tilrey’s wrists. When he was done, he reached down to give Tilrey’s cock a stroke. “Not too tight?”

“No.” It made Tilrey want to cry. Not the stimulation, but the closeness to another human being. When he said, “Please fuck me, Fir,” he actually meant it.

What was wrong with him? He pushed the question away. The sensations were so good, a warm reddish energy sparking and buzzing and tingling over his skin—so many sensations after all those hours alone with nothing but the walls of his room and the words of long-dead authors for company.

Gourmanian moved on top of him, inside him, touching him just often enough to keep him hard. Tilrey tugged on the rope and relished the resistance and the constriction of his wrists, firm boundaries that ensured he wouldn’t come apart completely. He wanted more, more, more.

The Councillor’s climax was a flooding warmth. When it was over, he bent and whispered in Tilrey’s ear, “You can come now.”

The command released Tilrey, and he obeyed without the slightest guilt. It was good to give and take pleasure from another body. It was so, so good.

Later, untied and resting in the humid nest of the Councillor’s arms, he asked, “How did you know?”

“Know what?”

“That you need to, uh . . .” He didn’t want to say the words, admitting what Malsha had done to him. “That I need help.”

“That you need permission to come?” Gourmanian kissed Tilrey’s earlobe, his voice a husky purr. “That’s pretty standard. He trained you well, didn’t he? I didn’t know he even liked this kind of thing.”

Tilrey didn’t want to talk about Malsha. Malsha was his. “Maybe I like it.”

The instant the words were out of his mouth, he no longer knew what they meant. Did he like it? Did he like anything?

Gourmanian, however, chuckled affectionately. “I had no idea you were such a beautiful submissive.”

“I am?”

“Verdant hells, yes. Most lads can pretend, but you’re the real thing, and that’s priceless. I couldn’t tell until tonight.” The Councillor stroked Tilrey’s hair. After a moment, he said, “Will you forgive me? You never said.”

Forgive you for what? Tilrey could barely remember their conversation on the way over. “Of course, Fir. I forgive you.”

***

That night he slept soundly, despite having had only a quarter vial of sap. There were no nightmares. Waking early, he lay for a while with his eyes closed, savoring the sensation of a warm body beside his. He was still awake when Gourmanian rose, dressed, and left—with a last tender kiss and a “See you again soon, I hope, love.”

I wish I could stay here. I wish I could live with you. But then Vlastor arrived to bring Tilrey home.

Home meant the room.

In daylight, the city was vast and intimidating. Tilrey didn’t mind leaving the car and stepping back into the coldroom and then the protective warmth of Verán’s apartment. When they reached the door of his cell, however, he hesitated.

“Go,” Vlastor said irritably, shoving him over the threshold.

Tilrey went. He knew the main apartment door wouldn’t open for him, even if he weren’t afraid of dying outdoors in the cold.

And the room wasn’t so bad. Once the walls closed around him, he felt quite safe, though in a colder, more antiseptic way than he had in Gourmanian’s bed.

Vlastor brought him a full vial of sap and a bowl of fish and rice. “Eat. I’m watching. You can shower after.”

Tilrey didn’t have the energy for a fight, so he ate. With each bite, the warm tingle of last night bled out of him, leaving a hollowness.

As his body went numb, his mind woke up again. And it had questions that made him feel as if he were threading his way along the edge of a precipice.

A beautiful submissive. Priceless. Then he heard Gourmanian’s coaxing voice on the night of the spring fling: Just a few more.

That was what Gourmanian wanted forgiveness for—holding him down so a whole string of men could use him. And Tilrey had granted him absolution without a moment’s thought.

What’s wrong with me?

He drank half the sap. After Vlastor left, he went to the bathroom and poured the rest down the toilet. Before he knew it, he was retching and heaving and puking up everything he’d eaten, too.

He showered in steamy water until he was red all over, pulled on sweats, then curled up in bed and sank into his familiar half sleep.

Apparently he needed more sap to stay in the pleasant doze, though, because he was soon wide awake again. He hugged himself, wishing he were still in Gourmanian’s bed. As he turned over, his ass tingled and ached from the spanking, and his face burned.

Malsha. Can you explain last night? What’s wrong with me?

This time Malsha didn’t answer.

Toss. Turn (ouch). Doze. Read a few pages, try to sleep again. He missed nightfall and woke in darkness to the sounds of two men arguing outside his door.

“Fir Councillor doesn’t want him wandering all over the city.” That was Vlastor, pompous as ever.

“He’s not gonna get lost. He’s twenty years old!”

The second voice, achingly familiar, made Tilrey sit up in bed. Could it really be, finally? Or was he dreaming?

He sprang up and crept to the door, through which he heard the driver saying something about him not being competent to take care of himself. Nothing new there.

“We’d watch out for him.” This time, there was no mistaking Bror’s friendly drawl. “You could chaperone if you gotta, like Krisha used to. Come to the Café and sit a few tables away.”

Bror! I’m right here! Tilrey had to stifle an impulse to pound on the door.

To his intense relief, after some grousing from Vlastor, the door opened, and the driver carried in a steaming tray. “Eavesdropping, huh?” he asked when he saw Tilrey standing in the middle of the room. “Better eat up if you wanna see your visitor.”

Bror loomed on the threshold. Vlastor shot him a glare, clearly telling him to wait outside, but Bror barged in. “Rishka,” he said, his voice rough with emotion, and dodged Vlastor to throw his arms around Tilrey. “I tried to come before.”

Something got jammed in Tilrey’s throat. He wanted to hug Bror back, but his joints seemed to have locked. It was an effort to breathe.

Bror must have sensed the tension. He released Tilrey and wheeled to face Vlastor, who was scowling at them.

“What? Is it against the rules to touch him now?”

“He’s valuable,” Vlastor said, his eyes darting from Bror to Tilrey and back. “I hope you appreciate that.”

“I sure do.” Bror reached for the tray. “You want him to eat this? No problem.” A glance at Tilrey. “You’re hungry, right?”

Tilrey couldn’t imagine chewing and swallowing right now, but he said, “Starving. Vlastor, please let him stay. Just us. I’ll eat everything.”

“Now you’re cooperative.” But Vlastor yielded the tray to Bror and backed out of the room. “Half hour, and I’ll be back for that. Better not lay your hands on him in any way that’s not strictly friendly, Birun.”

The door closed. They looked at each other—Bror happy and excited and beautifully himself, Tilrey frozen. He couldn’t help imagining how he must look to his friend: scrawny body, bloodless cheeks, dull eyes that expressed only resentment.

Bror glanced after Vlastor. “What a self-important prick. It took me ten minutes of arguing to get in here, and I had to hold myself back from slugging him. How do you do it?”

“Keep from slugging him? I never thought about it.” Tilrey sat down on the bed. “If I eat, he might let you stay a little longer.”

“Fucking hell.” Bror set the tray on the rumpled bedspread. “Tilrey, this is fucked. It’s like moral rehab. Do they have you on meds?”

Tilrey picked up a plastic fork—he wasn’t allowed proper cutlery, and he knew why. “Only sap. I’m okay, really,” he added because if Bror made too much of a fuss with Vlastor, he might not be allowed to come again. “He says they’ll let me out eventually, so stop worrying. It’s just good to see you.”

“Same.” Bror sat down. “I tried to talk to you at the gym, but Ansha got in the way. Said I might get you in trouble because my Councillor’s in the wrong party. I ended up waiting outside and ambushed your driver coming back from an errand. How do you stand him, seriously?”

“He means well. He’s just a little obsessive about his orders.” Surprised to find himself defending Vlastor, Tilrey twined noodles around the fork. They wouldn’t seem to stay on.

“You’re shaking. Here, let me.” Bror took the fork from him, deftly twirled it in the dish, and handed it back. “You don’t seem sapped, Rishka.”

“Not today. I dumped my dose,” Tilrey added in a furtive murmur, in case Vlastor were eavesdropping.

“Then you could be in withdrawal.” When the noodles fell off the fork again, Bror took it back, filled it, and raised it to Tilrey’s mouth. “You need to eat.”

“I’m okay!” But Tilrey allowed himself to be fed a few bites. When he had the same trouble with the broth, Bror helped him with that, too. The hot liquid felt surprisingly good going down.

“It’s not so bad, see?” Bror tore a bun in half and handed it to him. “Slow and steady. One bite at a time.”

Tilrey hadn’t forgotten the argument he’d overheard outside the door. Between bites, he said, “I guess you see what Vlastor meant now. I can’t take care of myself.”

Bror handed him the other half of the bun. “Rishka, how much time do you spend in this room?”

“Not that much. I go to the gym for a few hours most days, and I’m with Fir Verán and his friends on freenights. And the Library every ten-day or so.”

“But the rest of the time you’re here?” Bror’s expression darkened. “I feel like walking up to Verán and giving him a piece of my mind. Levels and politics be damned—even in moral rehab they have group recreation. You should at least have the run of the apartment. You don’t, do you?”

Tilrey wasn’t going to answer that. “It’s better than Int/Sec. There’s light and a window.” He stopped at the troubled look on Bror’s face “And I wasn’t there for long, either. Bror, please. Don’t do anything stupid.”

“Verán doesn’t scare me.” Bror’s brows were drawn down hard. “But you’re right, that wouldn’t help. I know a few Islanders who have Verán’s ear. If I work on them, they might be able to persuade him to treat you decently. Do you think the others even know you’re locked up?”

Tilrey accepted another spoonful of broth. “I don’t think they’d care much one way or the other. Spoils of war.” If he’d complained to Gourmanian last night—well, that would have been even more humiliating than everything he’d actually done.

Memories of the night flashed through his head, and his stomach turned over. He backed against the wall. “I’m full.”

“I don’t think you are.” Bror lifted a tumbler from the tray. “How about some nice buttered tea to settle your stomach?”

Tilrey took a sip. Before he could stop himself, he said, “I need to ask you something. I was with Angar Gourmanian last night.” He didn’t want Bror to know any of this. But Bror was a kettle boy, too; he wouldn’t be shocked. And if Tilrey didn’t let something out, it would all stay stewing inside him for hour after solitary hour. “He tied me up, stuff like that.”

“That’s his thing.”

“And after, he called me a . . . a beautiful submissive.” He ducked his head.

Bror’s frown deepened. “That man is so precious, it’s honestly a little creepy. He didn’t hurt you, did he? Not for real?”

“No!” Tilrey took the tumbler and managed to get it to his lips. The tea did steady him. After a few deep breaths, he said, “You know what happened the first night I was here.”

It wasn’t a question. Ansha had hinted that people were talking.

Bror’s mouth tightened. “I’ve heard a few things that made me want to punch somebody.”

“I was so sapped I barely remember anything.” Tilrey forced the words out. If only he could make himself believe they were true, things might be easier. “But I do know that Gourmanian took the lead. When things got bad, he . . . held me down.”

Seeing crimson rage flood Bror’s cheeks, he added hastily, “He apologized to me last night. Sort of. Anyway, it was all a blur and it’s over, I’m fine. What I need to ask you is how . . .”

The tumbler wobbled in his shaking fingers. Bror rescued it, covering Tilrey’s hand with one of his larger ones. “Go on. Nothing you say is gonna shock me.”

How did you talk about something like this? “I didn’t like what happened with all the Islanders that night.”

“Course you didn’t!”

“But the thing is, when Gourmanian did things to me last night, just him, I did like it. All of it.” Tilrey’s cheeks burned as the memories returned. “I mean, in terms of the actual amount of pain, discomfort, um, degradation, whatever, those two nights maybe weren’t so different. I don’t know. It’s hard to measure.”

Bror gave Tilrey’s hand a light squeeze. “It’s never just about the actual pain. It’s how you feel.”

“But my feelings don’t make sense.” Tilrey plowed on with his real question: “So, if I liked it the second night, does that mean I deserved what happened the first night?”

“Of course not! Why would it mean that?”

“Because I can like it.” He didn’t know how to explain. “Because I like . . . being hurt. Sometimes.”

“Tilrey, there are Upstarts who like playing the submissive role in the bedroom. It doesn’t mean they want to be held down and forced to do those things for real.”

Bror sounded very confident, but Tilrey wasn’t convinced. “How is it different, really?”

Beautiful submissive still rang in his ears. What if wanting to be hurt was his nature? What if Verán and the others were treating him the only way he could be treated?

“Strutters ask me to hurt them sometimes, and believe me, it’s different.” Bror scratched his temple. “They arrange it so they’re in control the whole time—did Gourmanian give you a safe word? Right, that’s one way to make sure things don’t get out of hand. And then they expect me to ‘hurt’ them in a special way and touch them and talk to them the whole time, so it’s not like really hurting somebody at all. Those are two different things, Rishka.”

Tilrey turned his hand over so he could clasp Bror’s. In a small voice, he said, “But maybe I should learn to like being hurt the other way? If they’re going to do it anyway?”

“I don’t think it works that way. A person has boundaries, Rishka. When other people cross them, it’s gotta be because you invited them.”

I’m not a person. I’m the Island’s jewel, the spoils of war. But right now, sitting here with his friend, Tilrey did feel like a person again. Almost.

“Boundaries,” he said. “I guess.”

“We all have stuff we like and don’t like. Crowd scenes, for instance—you don’t like them, do you? Me, I don’t mind putting on a little show, as long as most of the watchers don’t try to touch.” Bror picked up the tumbler and brought it to Tilrey’s lips again. “Getting turned on is good, Rishka. Part of being human. If you can get off on what they do to you, that’s your business and no one else’s. And it doesn’t excuse them hurting you, ever. Gourmanian was careful with you last night, wasn’t he?”

Tilrey nodded.

“Good. But you don’t have to accept his apology for what he did the other night—I sure as hell wouldn’t. Bet it was a shitty apology, too.”

“I told him I did accept it,” Tilrey admitted, dropping his eyes. “It made him happy.”

“You do what you gotta do, and don’t ever feel ashamed.” Bror pressed Tilrey’s hand to his heart. “Listen, I mean what I said before. I’m gonna talk to some Islanders about getting you out of here before you start climbing the walls. If Gourmanian likes you, I bet he’d help. Lindahl, too.”

“Don’t get yourself in trouble, Bror.” Or get me in deeper trouble—but he wouldn’t admit to his friend what a mass of anxieties he was these days. “Promise?”

“You’re taking this way too seriously, kid.” Bror’s breath caught as he looked at Tilrey. “No, forget I said that—it was a shitty thing to say. I haven’t been through what you have.”

“I’m okay! I swear to you.”

Bror just shook his head. “I’ll find a way to convince Verán that letting you have more freedom is his own idea. You just have to do your part and get this Vlastor on our side so I can visit you again. Which means you’ll start eating more, okay?”

His eyes swept up and down Tilrey’s body, and this time there was a barely perceptible wince. “I think that’d be good for you, too.”

Chapter 29: Provoking

Tilrey was alone in the room again, but Bror had left a little of his energy behind him. Alternately sapping and dozing no longer seemed so attractive. When Tilrey remembered how lethargic he’d been before his friend’s visit, he felt ashamed.

For the next few days, he choked down most of his food and dumped out the sap when Vlastor wasn’t watching. When he wasn’t reading, he did push-ups. And when he went to Verán’s bed on the next free-night, he resolved to say something.

He couldn’t refuse a dose of sap from the Councillor, of course, so he had to wait for it to wear off. By the time his head cleared, he was lying on his back in bed with Verán’s weight on top of him. The Councillor had taken his pleasure and fallen into a light sleep, snoring softly.

One of Tilrey’s knees was pinned under the old man’s body. He squirmed into a more comfortable position, jolting Verán halfway off him in the process.

“Stop that!” Verán’s eyes fluttered open.

“Sorry, Fir.” In his room, Tilrey had practiced a voice to use with the Councillor. He aimed to sound like an artless, earthy Drudge, the kind Upstarts never accused of insolence—someone like Krisha. He let a hint of his old Skeinsha accent sneak back. “I had a cramp.”

“Well, I hope you’re going to lie still now. I’m tired.” Verán settled back on top and nestled his head on Tilrey’s bare chest; he seemed to enjoy the closeness, for now. Closing his eyes again, he murmured, “Got quite a pounding, eh? Never knew what hit you.”

“I won’t be able to walk tomorrow, Fir.” Green hells, he hated flattering Strutters’ delusions.

The old man’s jaw had gone slack, as if he were drifting off again. Tilrey said hastily, “Not that I need to walk far these days. Locked up like I am.”

“Mmm.”

“Might as well be in detention.” He raised himself onto his elbows, rolling the Councillor carefully off him. “Sorry, Fir. My back.”

Verán’s eyes snapped open again, blue and baleful. “You don’t have back problems. You’re a child.” He sat up with an irritated grunt. “Why are you annoying me? Want another nip?”

Tilrey knew better than to refuse. While Verán rummaged on the headboard shelf for a vial, he got right to the point: “I don’t like being stuck in that room, Fir. It’s bad for my mental health—probably physical, too.”

Verán smiled icily as he pulled the stopper from the vial. “We all have to do things we don’t like, boy. That’s life. Doesn’t Vlastor bring you to the Gym every day?”

“Just for a few hours, Fir.” Tilrey lowered his gaze. “I’d like to go to the Café and see my friends.”

“What, and gossip and bitch about me?” Verán stuck his finger in the vial and licked it, then poured the rest into his palm. “I know how you Drudges get when you’re together.” He spoke with dry satisfaction, as if it pleased him to think he knew his inferiors intimately. Holding out his palm, he said, “You’ll stay close for now. You’re a security risk.”

Whose security? Risk to what? As far as Tilrey could tell, Malsha’s exile had left Verán in charge of his party and his party in charge of the Council. Was he absurdly paranoid? “I wish you’d trust me, Fir.”

“Drink it.”

This was pointless. Tilrey bent and licked up the sap, though he was careful not to swallow it all. When Verán was asleep again, he would wipe some of the sticky liquid off on the bedclothes.

While he was licking the Councillor’s palm clean, Verán said, “Trust is for equals. I don’t put trust in my inferiors, and certainly not in whores. You’d obey any man who gives you this stuff, wouldn’t you?”

Tilrey straightened and rubbed his mouth. It was still full of sap, so he only shook his head.

“Please!” A laugh. “As long as you behave, you’ll get more of that right here. No need to cadge it off your friends. Now, lie down and let me sleep.”

***

The days wore on. Tilrey saw Bror sometimes in the Gym now, and Vlastor even let them chat. But they didn’t dare discuss anything important, such as the progress of Bror’s efforts to enlist the help of other Island Councillors.

Eating everything on his plate was harder than Tilrey had anticipated. He didn’t like the feeling of having a full stomach; it tethered him to his body when he preferred to float away.

Verán was sending him to more Councillors now, Islanders who all blurred in his head. They were no worse than the men he had obliged when he was with Malsha, but they had all attended the spring fling. Each had his own distinctive way of acknowledging it—a knowing chuckle, an embarrassed duck of the head, a possessive stare. No one besides Gourmanian attempted to apologize.

One Councillor named Svallgren, who was about Malsha’s age with a round face and a perpetual look of wry amusement, did want to talk. While they were drinking tea in the sitting room, he said, “You look as if you’ve rebounded since the last time I saw you.”

He meant that miserable night, but Tilrey managed not to flinch or lower his gaze. If nothing else, he could deny them the satisfaction of knowing how badly they’d hurt him. “I wasn’t in the best shape that night, Fir,” he said. “An Int/Sec cell isn’t a spa, and I’d just come out of one.”

Svallgren chuckled. “No, it isn’t. I expect you were pretty well sapped that night, too.”

“I don’t remember much.”

Tilrey could almost see the Councillor relax, and he realized then that he was telling the Islanders exactly what they wanted to hear. It was easier for them to think of that night as a blur in his head—no faces, no dialogue, no precise awareness of anything they had done to him. And it was true to an extent—he couldn’t say he remembered this particular man’s cock in his mouth.

“So we’ll make our acquaintance anew.” The Councillor reached out to brush a lock of hair out of Tilrey’s eyes.

Tilrey leaned into the motion and let Svallgren’s palm cup his cheek, trying to look as if he enjoyed it. If he seemed nice and relaxed, then the Councillor wouldn’t give him such a large dose of sap to loosen him up.

It was a struggle, because his body and brain both craved the numbness, the sleepy detachment from what was happening. But he needed to cut down; he’d promised Bror.

“Mmm.” Svallgren was closer now, his lips ghosting over Tilrey’s cheek. “You’re lovely.”

The kiss began gentle and deepened by degrees. Tilrey opened his mouth to it, trying to experience the eager, rapturous surrender he had with Gourmanian. But he felt only bored and repelled.

The Councillor drew back to examine him. “Strange. You look so much like him at your age.”

“Who, Fir?”

“Malsha, of course. You don’t see the resemblance?”

Tilrey’s stomach curdled. Malsha had the delicate features of someone who had been handsome in his youth, yes, but— “I don’t look like him at all, Fir! Why would I? His grandson looks like him.”

Svallgren looked amused. “I’m not suggesting you’re secretly related. Only that the man was a narcissist; his ‘type’ was himself.”

“I don’t see it.” Or want to.

“It’s not that close a similarity.” The Councillor continued to stare, as if dissecting each element of Tilrey’s face. “There’s the coloring, your cheekbones, those lovely, wide-set eyes—but most of all, I think, your shyness is what reminds me of him. The way he used to duck his head to avoid meeting our eyes! His bashfulness was irresistible.”

Heat spread over Tilrey’s cheeks. “You and Malsha, Fir? You, uh . . .?”

“No, we never slept together.” Svallgren laughed fondly. “We were in the same class at school, year after year, so I felt like I knew him intimately. But we barely exchanged a word. Poor Malsha—he was always getting in trouble for his low quant scores. I offered to tutor him more than once, but he always made an excuse.”

Poor Malsha. Tilrey was mortified by the comparison, but now he was also curious. “That doesn’t sound like him, Fir. I’ve never known him to be shy.”

The old man was deep in his memories. “When we were at Uni, I tried to chat Malsha up a few times. He never outright rejected me, just slipped away. Then one day I saw him with Anton Brangán, the Hargist, and I knew I’d lost him to that crowd of would-be rebels and poseurs. Malsha was a natural follower, the sort of person you can mold to your will. But he chose the wrong leaders.”

Tilrey recognized the caressing tone in the old man’s voice; it was the way men often talked to or about him. He shivered, more confused than ever. “You think Malsha was under Hargist control when he . . . was exiled?”

“Perhaps their ideology poisoned him! Who knows? But his Hargist friends didn’t steer him toward treason; they were all long dead or in moral rehab or reformed by then.” Svallgren patted Tilrey’s knee. “Until Malsha was in his forties, we all wrote him off as a dreamy fool. After the Hargist phase, he didn’t seem interested in anything except old Harbourer books. And then!” He snapped his fingers. “He announces his candidacy for Council, he gives a few remarkably eloquent speeches, and the rest is history. Some people are late bloomers, I suppose.”

This was the first time Tilrey had ever heard Malsha described as dreamy or shy. But most of the Mainland Councillors he knew—Saldegren, for instance—were a few decades younger than Malsha, so they wouldn’t have known him then. And the ones who were older, such as Tollmann, weren’t chatty.

Why do I even care? But if there was something else Malsha had hidden from him, he wanted to know it. “Did Fir Verán think Malsha was a late bloomer?”

This time Svallgren’s laughter had a nasty edge. “Verán barely noticed Malsha’s existence until he had to. It nearly killed him to see ‘that fool Linnett’ become General Magistrate.”

More pieces of the picture fell into place. Tilrey understood now why Verán and the others called him Nettsha, a mocking diminutive of Malsha’s surname—they had always despised Malsha on some level.

Some people are late bloomers. That was a strange idea, at least here in Redda. Wasn’t your fate decided the moment you took the E-Squareds? Or with your first posting?

Still, he liked the idea that people could change. Someone could go from being despised by his peers to being grudgingly respected to standing on the podium in the Council chamber and giving orders to the whole Republic.

Tilrey had no illusions that his own future would be impressive. But maybe he could change, too, just enough. Maybe, if he ate properly and sat up straight and stopped sapping himself into insensibility, he could erase everyone’s memory of the night of the spring fling. And maybe someday, after Verán released him, he could find an honorable posting and return to Thurskein and his mother with his head high—no shame, no apologies.

He met Svallgren’s eyes. “So, when you use me tonight, you can pretend you’re fucking the young Malsha.”

The Councillor’s breath caught audibly. “Maybe.”

“Do you want me to be him for you?”

“Yes, please, if you’re willing. If we could pretend that you’re inexperienced, that I’m initiating you . . . I’d like that a lot.”

Of course you would. But Tilrey nodded. He liked the sound of if you’re willing; it was so rare for an Island Councillor to admit he might have some say in the matter. “Then maybe I’ll be a late bloomer, too, Fir,” he said, keeping his tone playful.

Svallgren stroked his arm. “I can’t wait to see what you bloom into.”

***

There were good nights and bad nights. That was one of the better ones. But eating was still a struggle, and Tilrey began flushing bits of food along with the sap. Naturally, one day the toilet got stopped up, and Vlastor found out. After that, the driver sat with him for the duration of every meal, watching each bite like a hawk.

“I don’t understand why you care so much,” Tilrey said one afternoon, picking his way through a bowl of fatty salt cod and rice. “The Fir said I had to be back to normal weight in a month, but it’s been more than a month, and he hasn’t said a thing.”

Vlastor cocked a brow. “He will.”

“I don’t think so. He’s happy as long as I’m sucking his cock. You think too much about what Fir Councillor wants.” Tilrey forced down a bite. “Do you have a fetish for following orders, Vlastor?”

Vlastor’s cheeks went pink. “Leave it to you to make everything sexual.”

The driver was so easy to tease. Tilrey hadn’t dared try it until he saw Bror’s breezy manner with Vlastor, but now he pushed a little further. “What do you want Fir Councillor to do—pat you on the head? I don’t think he’s that type. We’re all just machines to him, made to do his will.

“If I do my job right, then I am a machine. It doesn’t bother me.” But Vlastor looked distinctly uncomfortable. “Eat your food, Nettsha.”

Tilrey forked up some cod. “I’m a machine for him to fuck. You’re a machine for driving him around and keeping the household running. We don’t have a thought in our heads, either of us.”

“If you don’t like the way Councillors think, you shouldn’t have become a Councillor’s piece.”

I didn’t choose it. But no one wanted to hear that. “I wonder what would happen,” Tilrey said, “if you told Verán that being locked up here isn’t good for me and I’m wasting away. He must respect your opinion, you being such a good machine and all.”

Vlastor snorted, his blue eyes cold and humorless. “How about, instead of manipulating the Fir into giving you what you want, you work on giving him what he wants?”

“What more can I give him? I do everything he tells me to.” Tilrey took a swallow of tea. He estimated there were four bites left in the bowl. “I’m done,” he announced, holding it out.

Vlastor got up and took a look. “No, you’re not.”

“Close enough? If you’d give me a break this once—”

“If you’d act like an adult, I wouldn’t have to be here at all. You think I like babysitting you, Nettsha?” Vlastor glared at him. “You can’t imagine how much easier my life was before you came along.”

“Your life was easier?”

“Is that so hard to imagine? Do you ever think about anybody but yourself?”

Tilrey remembered how uncomfortable Vlastor had looked after he mentioned Verán patting him on the head. He knew he should stop provoking the driver; nothing good could come of it. But after Vlastor left, he would be alone for hours, perhaps all night, with no one but Malsha’s phantom for company. The least he could do was give the driver something to think about.

“Oh, I’m sure you were much happier before I came here,” he said, putting another bite in his mouth. “Verán didn’t have a kettle boy then, did he?”

“Not for a while. Other Councillors were happy to lend him theirs.”

“Weren’t there nights when he wanted his cock sucked and there was no one around to do it?”

Vlastor went pale. “I’m not a fucking whore.”

“Of course not. You’re ex-army and an ace mechanic and very tough and strong.” Tilrey chewed and swallowed. “But Verán chose you for a reason, didn’t he? You’re pretty for a driver. And if he asked, I doubt you said no.”

He felt the slap before he registered Vlastor moving. It was a light blow, nothing that would make a mark. But it left a stinging, surprisingly pleasant warmth on his cheek.

Vlastor recoiled as if his own impulse had frightened him. “You asked for that,” he said defensively.

Tilrey touched his cheek, still warm from the contact with Vlastor’s palm. He almost expected to see blood on his fingertips.

“So that’s a yes,” he said.

Vlastor moved as if to hit Tilrey again, but this time he stopped short. “I see what you’re doing, you little shit. You think this is funny.”

“Isn’t it?” It was strange how relaxed Tilrey felt now, as if a storm had broken inside him. The tension in his stomach subsided. While Vlastor looked daggers at him, he ate two more bites without even thinking about it.

“I don’t see why you’re ashamed,” he said, forking up the last bite. “You were just doing your job. I’ve certainly done worse—you know how much worse. You were there. Part of the show.”

Vlastor made an ugly sound in his throat. He wouldn’t meet Tilrey’s eyes. “Is that what this is about? Because I don’t want you that way. I was just—”

“You were just following orders. I know.” Tilrey handed over the empty bowl. “Look at that! I followed orders, too. So you can go back to your sad little apartment and feel proud of yourself.”

“Fuck off.”

Poor Vlastor. He was a wan little slug when his defenses were stripped away. “Now you know the secret,” Tilrey said. “All you have to do is knock me on the head occasionally, and I’ll behave.”

The driver took the bowl, glowering. “You’re not gonna tell the Fir I hit you, are you? It was only a tap.”

“Why would I tell? Do you actually think he would care?” Tilrey lay back in bed and gazed up at the ceiling of the alcove. “Don’t worry, Vlastor. Your secrets are safe with me.”

He hoped Malsha would visit later and help him make sense of the strange sensation that pulsed through him. It was as poisonous as sap and just as sweet, and the only name he could give it was cruelty.

He wanted to hurt Vlastor and himself and anyone within reach. He wanted to open veins, slowly and luxuriously, and watch blood trickle to the floor.

What the fuck is wrong with me? He’d promised Bror he would get Vlastor on his side. He’d gone and done just the opposite, and now he was having thoughts that didn’t even feel like his own.

At the door, Vlastor said, “I’ll tell the Fir you need to get out more. Anybody can see that.”

Tilrey closed his eyes. “Do whatever you like. I’m fine here.”

Chapter 30: Conniving

On the next fourth-day, Vlastor took Tilrey to get his hair cut—and not just cut this time. When the tech finished, Tilrey saw someone with platinum blond hair staring grumpily back at him from the mirror.

“Why?” he asked.

Malsha had always praised the subtle, natural colors of his hair—some strands like wet sand, others like honey, others pure gold. This silver helmet looked as artificial as it was.

Vlastor said, “He wants to make his mark on you, I guess. There’s one more thing—it won’t hurt.”

“Hurt?” Then Tilrey saw the tech had a needle. He backed away and warned, “I’m not taking anything!” —remembering when Malsha had dosed him with vexonil.

Vlastor and the tech shared a laugh. “It’s not that kind of needle. Haven’t you ever heard of an earring?”

“In Feudal times, sure. Or on outlaws. Isn’t that a wardrobe violation?”

“Not if it’s the majority leader’s idea. Now, you’re not scared of a little prick, are you?” Vlastor crooned. “Not a big strong lad like you.”

“Fuck off.”

Tilrey wasn’t scared, just annoyed. The pain, when it arrived, was the manageable kind that helped him focus. When it was over, he looked in the mirror and saw a shiny silver oval hanging from his ear, from which dangled two dingy clay beads and a tiny metal disc. It looked like trash he might have picked up in the Feudal ruins with Malsha. “What on earth?”

Vlastor looked bemused, too. “I think it’s an artifact?”

Tilrey understood, then. He had read his share of sagas in which Feudal lords treated their kettle boys like chattel.

They were living in civilized Oslov, but here was visible proof of Verán’s power to decorate his piece any way he chose. Everywhere Tilrey went, people would take notice of the change, whether they approved or disapproved, whether they coveted him or pitied him.

“Seems barbaric,” he said, channeling the Malsha in his head. “Whyberg would call it decadent. Funny how these high names imitate the parts of Feudalism they like and denounce the rest.”

“You want to say all that to the Fir’s face?”

Tilrey stood up with a bounce and felt the small, aching weight of the thing on his earlobe, tugging him downward. “Are we done?”

***

Ansha was having an unpleasant evening. Fir Councillor Enrik Lindahl and his boyfriend were having another squabble, and it was his job to fuel them with tea.

“Verán is a ghoul!” the boyfriend protested. “You don’t have to dance attendance on him. I thought you went your own way in the Council.”

“I do!” Lindahl kept tugging at his collar as if it chafed him. “I always vote scientifically, even when others don’t. But I wish you’d never suggested I play one party against the other. Look how that turned out.”

“It made the Island stop taking you for granted, but you’re right that it doesn’t work without Malsha. He left a vacuum.”

“Exactly. I don’t plan to ‘dance attendance on’ Verán, by the way—he sees my merit. I just need to show him that, well, I understand now that associating with Malsha was a mistake.”

The boyfriend rolled his eyes. He was only about seven years younger than Lindahl, with curly red hair and freckles and a temper. His name was Eivan Svanner, and he was also Lindahl’s secretary and the biological (not legal) father of Lindahl’s nephew.

The last part was a secret, but Ansha made it his business to know secrets. Nearly as secret was the fact that Eivan was the only Laborer whom Lindahl had ever allowed to speak to him as an equal.

“So you’re going to make a formal visit to Verán and fuck his kettle boy and receive your orders from him?” Eivan said now. “You might as well get on your knees for him, Enrishka.”

Ansha sat stone-faced, watching the Councillor’s cheeks redden. Eivan’s insult had hit the mark.

But instead of condemning the insolence and ordering Eivan out of his sight, Lindahl said softly, “That’s a terrible way to speak to me.” Blinking too fast, as if he were on the verge of tears, he turned to Ansha and gestured at the empty teapot. More.

More tea. Fetch my coat. Get me a vial. Don’t speak to me unless I speak to you.

Eivan had everything Ansha wanted, and look how little the fool appreciated it. But Ansha didn’t let his resentment show; he wasn’t like Eivan or that poor, wretched Tilrey. He was a professional. He bobbed his head and took the pot into the kitchen.

He had felt so lucky to be posted to a Councillor who was still fairly young and handsome and (everyone said) brilliant. But when he moved in with Lindahl, he’d quickly learned he would never be more than someone to fetch and carry. All the Councillor’s passions were wrapped up in the volatile Eivan, who had been his companion upwards of fifteen years.

It just wasn’t fair. One day the Councillor would realize that he could have had a bed partner who loved and supported him without question, instead of one who challenged him at every turn.

Warming the pot and waiting for the water to boil, Ansha listened to the conversation in the other room. The argument was rote at this point, like dozens of others they’d had. Lindahl was trying to change the subject in hopes of getting Eivan to spend the night with him, and Eivan was itching for an excuse to storm out.

“Garsha was over yesterday. I helped him with his logic problem sets,” Lindahl began. His nephew was always a safe topic, being both their pride and joy. “He’s having a much easier time, but he’s still hanging out with the Linnett boy. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Because of the Linnett boy’s grandfather? You certainly spent enough time with Malsha before you knew the truth about him.”

“I’m an adult. Garsha may be at University, but he’s still a vulnerable child in many ways.”

Eivan laughed harshly. He was really spoiling for a fight, Ansha decided. “Would you shelter Garsha like that if he were a Drudge? Or would you expect him to take care of himself?”

“He’s not a Drudge.”

“But he could be, couldn’t he? That kettle boy you like so much, the one Verán’s gonna give you as a reward for your obedience—how old is he? No older than Garsha, I’ll bet.”

“That’s a completely inappropriate comparison.”

“Is it?” Eivan’s voice had a nasty edge. “Weren’t you the one who told me the kettle boy was ‘worthy of you’ because he had good test scores?”

“Worthy for a Laborer. My sister’s son is on a different plane.”

“Garsha’s my son, too. And you didn’t think twice about manipulating me into bed. I’m not sure I mean any more to you than the kettle boy.”

“Are you jealous again?”

“Jealous? Of some poor child who doesn’t have a choice about sleeping with you? No, I pity him.”

Eivan had been jealous of Tilrey back when Lindahl first brought him home, Ansha remembered. But things had changed over the past two years. Now that Garsha was a legal adult, Eivan didn’t need Lindahl’s permission to visit him, and the power balance between them had swung dramatically to Eivan’s side.

Ansha felt for Lindahl (whom he called Enrishka in his head, though he didn’t dare do it aloud). Yes, the man could be callous and clueless, but he loved Eivan madly.

If any Upstart loved you that way, especially a high Upstart, you should love them back. Ansha felt this in his bones. Look at Tilrey—Malsha had doted on him, and all he’d done was complain. Now, perhaps, he understood how lucky he’d been.

“I have no idea what you’re getting at,” Lindahl snapped as Ansha returned to the sitting room with the heavy tea tray. “There’s no reason to pity a kettle boy. He’s living in the lap of luxury.”

“Oh, but is he? Verán keeps that boy locked in a room like a prisoner.”

Lindahl looked genuinely startled. “Why would he do that? And how would you know?”

“I heard it from Bror, István’s boy. He approached me, hoping I could convince you to help his friend. I don’t think anyone realizes how little you listen to me these days.”

Ansha set the tray soundlessly on the table and knelt to pour. Don’t mind me. Pretend I don’t exist.

“That sounds like nonsense to me. Kettle boy gossip,” Lindahl scoffed, then noticed Ansha again. “You’ve been at Verán’s. How are they treating Tilrey?”

“Fir Councillor Verán calls him Nettsha now, Fir,” Ansha said, not daring to look Lindahl in the eye. He had to admire the guts it had taken for Bror to go up against Verán’s will. And it was a clever move to petition Eivan rather than approaching Lindahl directly.

“Really? How odd. But that’s not what I asked. The boy isn’t locked up, is he?”

“Not just in the apartment,” Eivan said. “In one room, Bror told me. In Int/Sec, they’d classify that as a form of torture.”

Lindahl silenced his lover with a gesture. “Is he, Ansha?”

Ansha remembered sleeping in Tilrey’s room a few ten-days ago. When he went to leave, the door had been locked, just as Tilrey said it would be. Ansha had to knock on it for a good ten minutes before the driver opened up. He was so frustrated he nearly went back to bed, though Tilrey’s behavior was spooking him.

“Yes, Fir,” he admitted, hoping this wouldn’t get back to Verán. “Well, I know it was locked once. But the boy’s been sapping so much. Maybe they’re worried about him wandering outside.”

“That would justify locking the apartment, not the room.” Lindahl steepled his fingers. “I didn’t think he was sweet-drowned.”

“Verán’s pushing it on him, I’ll bet.” Eivan picked up his tea and examined it as if it might be poisoned. “So tomorrow you’ll go over there to reaffirm your alliance, and Verán will send you home with the kid he keeps locked in a room. Aren’t you just a bit ashamed?”

Before he could speak, Ansha said in a small voice, “There’s no shame in being a kettle boy, or in having one. It’s honorable.”

“Sure, when the boy’s not a drugged-up prisoner.” Eivan turned a cold gaze on Lindahl. “How do you think Garsha would feel if he knew?”

“It’s not fair to bring Garsha into this. Anyway, we’re still in the realm of gossip. When I see the boy, I’ll make sure he’s all—where are you going? We have a pot left!”

Eivan had risen from the sofa and strode to the mouth of the hallway, where he swung back to face his lover. “I said I couldn’t stay long, love.”

“You’re not being fair! Am I responsible for Verán’s behavior now?”

The Councillor went to Eivan and caught his hand, his expression beseeching, but Eivan tugged out of his grip and went to the door. “I’m not angry, Enrishka. Just tired.”

“You’re being ridiculous, Vanya!” Lindahl followed him. “Let’s talk about this rationally! What did I say?”

Ansha listened to their whispered debate. Lindahl would be trying to caress Eivan, while Eivan fended him off. Eivan was allowed to do that. He didn’t have to smile and pretend he always wanted to be touched, the way Ansha did.

Of course, Ansha was no prisoner. He had chosen this! Still, pretending could wear on a person, and you had to do it, unless you were like Tilrey and decided the rules didn’t apply to you.

Eivan’s tone grew firmer and Lindahl’s more pleading. Ansha could swear he heard the Councillor say, I need you.

When the door finally closed, he smiled privately to himself. Even a high name had to learn how rejection felt some time.

Maybe Lindahl would come to him for consolation. That might be nice, but he wasn’t counting on it. Tomorrow was a free-night, and Lindahl was going to Verán’s. He would be able to sate his desires with the Island’s jewel.

***

On the free-night, while they waited for their guest, Verán admired his handiwork. He made Tilrey stand before him and turn so he could see the new look from different angles. Then he wanted to fondle the hair and earring up close.

“Excellent. Exquisite. So becoming.” Verán held out a palm full of sap. When Tilrey bent to drink it, the old man hooked a strand of pale hair around a finger. “You don’t look like his anymore. It’s always best to make a clean break with bad associates. Don’t you agree, Enrishka?”

“Of course,” said an irritated voice from behind them.

Tilrey looked up to find the handsome, patrician features of Enrik Lindahl gazing down at him, clearly appalled.

He wondered what Lindahl was doing here. Could he really be Tilrey’s destination for the night? The man was a notorious swing voter, not part of Verán’s inner circle. He prided himself on his “renegade” thinking, and Verán had little tolerance for that now that the Island was triumphant.

Lindahl stood awkwardly in Verán’s sitting room, dressed all in white with his still-golden hair shining and a fastidious frown on his face. “What did you do to him, Visha?”

“Just a little reminder to everyone that he’s Island property now.” Verán flicked the disc dangling from Tilrey’s earring. “As are you.”

“Is that a joke? Joining a party is a rational act.”

Verán’s lips thinned. “Maybe. But joining a party means more than choosing one of your precious theories of political economy. It means supporting your leaders.”

“I’ve always supported you, Visha.” Lindahl actually sounded surprised, as if he considered himself above censure. “When I thought you were right.”

“And there’s the problem!” Verán wagged a finger. “We all know you’re brilliant, Enrishka. A credit to our party. But some problems can’t be solved with statistical models alone, and there are times when you have to bite your tongue and do as you’re told. Otherwise, winning your next election might be an uphill battle.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“I don’t need to. Do you understand that you’re only in the Council because I want you to be? Because I convinced the voters that you were more than an obnoxious, preachy, uptight little technocrat?”

His voice had turned to iron. Lindahl opened his mouth, but nothing emerged.

“You understand me.” Looking pleased with himself, Verán patted Tilrey’s knee. “Get up, lad. You’re going with the party’s little genius tonight—lucky you! I gather you two aren’t strangers.”

He winked lewdly, then turned his attention to Lindahl again. “I’m giving you this token of my favor because I believe in you.”

“You just said—”

“Did you think that was my opinion? I was describing how others view you. Ignorant people. You’re the best to come out of your cohort. I don’t blame you for testing the boundaries—all the bright ones do. But if you want to replace me someday, show yourself worthy.”

Tilrey rose and went to Lindahl. He kept his eyes down, trying to spare the younger Councillor’s pride, and managed not to tense when Lindahl’s cold fingers closed around his wrist.

At least this man was a known quantity. But Lindahl had annoying habits, and Tilrey hadn’t missed him the way he occasionally missed the cheerful, kindly Saldegren.

“You won’t regret this, Visha.” Lindahl’s voice was a little reedy. He tightened his grip on Tilrey’s wrist. “You can rely on me—within reason, of course.”

“Of course—reason reigns supreme, doesn’t it? Just make sure to temper science with loyalty from now on. And maybe loosen up a bit.”

“I will.” The younger man sounded defeated.

Verán was all smiles as he ushered them out. “Have a good night, Enrishka—I know you will!”

***

Lindahl didn’t say a word during the short drive to his apartment, nor did he touch Tilrey. He slid to the opposite end of the seat and stared out at the city lights, which were gauzy with snow.

Tilrey opened his mouth to break the ice—Have you been well, Fir? But the young Councillor’s tight posture made him shut it again.

In the coldroom, once they had removed their coats and boots, things changed without warning. Lindahl seized Tilrey by the shoulders and shoved him against the wall, mashing their bodies together.

“He’s mutilated you,” he hissed in Tilrey’s ear. “You look like a clown. Does he really expect me to want you now?”

Again Tilrey opened his mouth, though he wasn’t sure what to say—he wasn’t going to apologize. Then Lindahl shifted, and he felt the man’s hard cock against his thigh and understood.

Lindahl was angry because Feudal barbarisms turned him on—more than he liked to admit. “My hair will grow out, Fir,” Tilrey said.

The only answer was a grunt. Then the Councillor’s arms were around him, and he was devouring Tilrey’s mouth, filling it with his tongue and his warmth and harsh, gasping breaths. Every inch of his tall body pulsed with need as his hands crept down Tilrey’s back and squeezed handfuls of his ass. “Green hills and valleys, it’s been too long,” he murmured between kisses. “Way, way too long.”

Tilrey had never seen Lindahl so passionate. He was intrigued—and, despite himself, slightly aroused—as they made their way to the inner door.

Without releasing Tilrey from the embrace, Lindahl steered him into the sitting room and onto a sofa. Tilrey ended up on his back while Lindahl rutted on top of him, alternating wet kisses with increasingly vigorous thrusts.

The sofa was a little narrow for this kind of action, but Tilrey managed to get a hand free and slide it under Lindahl’s tunic and into his trousers. He knew from experience that the man wouldn’t reciprocate. But it was amusing to see the painfully earnest Councillor undone this way—groaning, his hips whipping and his teeth bared as he approached his climax.

Then Lindahl froze, his full weight coming down on Tilrey. He jerked his head upright to glare across the room. “What? What do you want?”

“You asked me to be ready with the tea, Fir.”

Tilrey twisted his neck—he was getting a cramp at the base of his spine—and saw Ansha standing in the kitchen doorway.

His cheeks burned, though embarrassment felt foolish. Lindahl’s kettle boy knew him now as intimately as Lindahl did.

“Well, get the fucking tea, then.” Lindahl shifted so that his sharp knee stabbed Tilrey in the abdomen, killing the last of Tilrey’s arousal. “And choose a better moment to serve it. Isn’t that what you’re trained for?”

Ansha’s jaw tensed. But when he spoke, he showed none of his usual irreverence. “Of course, Fir. Sorry, Fir.” He turned and was gone.

“That greening boy—always where he’s not wanted.” Lindahl bent and applied his wet mouth to Tilrey’s neck, sucking and nipping, teeth grazing the skin. “Mmm.” He kissed the sore spot. “Go on, before he comes back. Finish.”

Tilrey found Lindahl’s cock and started stroking again. But now he could only think of Ansha in the kitchen, listening to the Councillor’s guttural moans and knowing Tilrey was the one causing them.

His skin felt feverish. His vision blurred. His body was a well-trained machine, but his brain needed to stop obsessing on things that didn’t matter. Isn’t that what you’re trained for?

Lindahl came with a long groan, spilling half his load onto his own trousers and half on Tilrey’s. He barely paused to catch his breath before springing up again, fixing his clothes as he went. “That was mortifying. I’m going to change.”

Tilrey didn’t have that option. While Lindahl was gone, he sat up, wiping his raw-feeling mouth, and arranged his clothes as best he could, positioning a pillow over the wet spot on his thigh. When Ansha emerged with the tea tray, he was more or less presentable, but a hot blush spread over his face again.

To his relief, Ansha’s gaze didn’t linger on him. Setting the table with brisk efficiency, the other boy asked, “He still wants tea in here, right? Not the bedroom?”

“He didn’t say.” Tilrey hated how apologetic he sounded.

“Well, he can move the stuff if he wants. Or you can.” Ansha paused in his work, taking in Tilrey’s new appearance. “What did Visha do to you?”

“He thinks it’s exquisite,” Tilrey said wearily.

“Well, it’s different, all right.” Ansha cocked his head. “Actually, you look kind of badass, like the gangsters in Ring Eight. Like you might be carrying a knife.” He knelt beside the table, cradling the pot, and began to pour. “I guess Fir Majority Leader isn’t scared of you, though.”

“Nope.” Was Ansha cracking wise to make him more comfortable? That was new. Tilrey forced himself to smile. “He thinks I look like his property.”

“That sounds like him.” Ansha spoke so Lindahl wouldn’t hear, but he didn’t sound meek now. “Verán’s pretty easy to please. Not like this one.” He indicated Lindahl with a jerk of his head. “Anyway, you’re looking better these days. More awake. Less sap in you, huh?”

“I take what I’m given.” Tilrey kept an eye on the hallway to Lindahl’s bedroom. The conversation made him uneasy; was Ansha trying to trick him into saying something rebellious?

“I better run.” Ansha rose, cheeks pink with steam. “Glad you’re better, though. You were kinda scaring me.” He frowned. “Look, I gotta warn you. He might ask you how Verán’s treating you. Bror said something. You won’t say anything that could get my Fir in trouble, right?”

So Bror had gone ahead with the plan. Tilrey shook his head automatically; Lindahl seemed far too self-absorbed to be of any help. “I won’t lie, but I also won’t say anything bad about Verán—not that it would matter. Lindahl’s totally under his thumb.”

“He likes you! And he desperately needs a good fuck, so I hope you give him one.”

Ansha sounded bizarrely concerned, as if he actually cared for the man who had just snapped at him so rudely. Tilrey’s disbelief must have shown on his face.

Ansha said, “My Fir gets mean when he’s stressed, that’s all. So don’t be difficult or weird, okay? Calm him down.”

***

Lindahl offered no sap. So Tilrey had his mind clear—while they drank their tea, and later in the bedroom—to wonder about Ansha’s feelings for his Fir.

He hadn’t forgotten Ansha’s words in the Café, years ago: Your biggest complaint is that the most powerful man in the world is nice to you? That he calls you names that show how important you are to him?

At the time, Tilrey had been tongue-tied, unable to find words to explain how Malsha tormented him under the guise of kindness. Now, though, he could see Ansha’s point. Malsha had liked him, even if he had perverse ways of showing it. Maybe, in some hideous way, Malsha had even loved him.

I did, darling, Malsha whispered in his ear. Now you know how it feels to belong to someone who doesn’t. You’re only a thing for Verán, just as Ansha is only a thing for Lindahl. Yet Ansha keeps right on loving his Fir. It’s sad.

Ansha doesn’t “love” Lindahl. Tilrey’s whole being recoiled from the idea. At least, I hope not.

Lindahl had stretched him out on his back and stripped off his clothing piece by piece, then rolled him over. They were done with the endless caresses and getting down to business. Crouching facedown on the bed, Tilrey spread his legs and tried not to wince as Lindahl’s cold, lubed finger probed inside him. “Do you want me to say the square roots, Fir?”

“Square what? No, don’t bother.” Lindahl seemed to have recovered from the embarrassment of Ansha’s untimely appearance. He tangled a hand in Tilrey’s hair and pressed his face into the bedclothes, kissing his nape with renewed ardor. “At least no one can interrupt us here.”

Why was Lindahl so passionate tonight? Was it only because absence had made the heart grow fonder? Or did it have something to do with the scene with Verán, who had chastised and humiliated the younger Councillor almost as easily as he did Tilrey?

Lindahl’s cock jabbed his ass, and Tilrey raised his hips. He didn’t feel much of anything right now, pain or pleasure, despite not being sapped. What he did feel was the small, dry satisfaction of figuring out what made people tick. Upstarts, Laborers—they were all just people in the end.

And once you understand them, you can make them do what you want.

His body moved in tandem with Lindahl’s, but he didn’t pretend to enjoy being fucked. He could tell that Lindahl was too wrapped up in his own sensations to notice his partner’s lack of response—or care.

Lindahl drew things out for a while, speeding up and slowing down, until he finished with several violent thrusts and collapsed on top of Tilrey with a gasped “Good. So good.” After about a minute of silence, he added, “You look terrible, though.”

Tilrey laughed weakly. “Sorry, Fir.”

Lindahl slid off him and gave the earring a pinch. “Did this hurt?”

“Not really. Just a pinprick.”

“Turn over. Look at me.”

Tilrey did, though it was hard to meet the man’s intensely blue eyes. “You don’t look sapped,” Lindahl said after a brief examination. “He said you would be.”

“Who?”

“István’s boy—what’s his name?”

“Bror.” Tilrey had less faith in the plan by the minute. He only hoped it wouldn’t get Bror in trouble. “Bror talked to you about me, Fir?”

“Yes.” Lindahl looked cagey. “He said you were locked up and full of sap, but you look fine to me. I think you’ve even gotten taller than I am.”

Again Tilrey had to smile. He liked the idea that he looked fine—tall, strong, possibly a little intimidating with his outlaw’s earring. Better to look strong than like someone who was fed sap and locked in a room. Better not to look like a victim.

But he wanted to go to the Café and Library without Vlastor as a chaperone. He wanted to see Bror again. And that seemed to mean confirming what Bror had told Lindahl.

“Bror is a good friend to me, Fir,” he said. “I wasn’t doing so well when I saw him.”

Lindahl wrapped an arm around Tilrey and pulled him to his chest. He was still wearing his tunic, unbuttoned at the waist, and the dense wool knit scratched Tilrey’s cheek. “Ansha said the same,” he said. “That you’re locked in a room. But not all the time. Right?”

Tilrey was surprised Ansha had backed up Bror. He seemed so eager to suck up to Verán. “Not all the time,” he admitted.

“So Bror was exaggerating? I know kettle boys do that.”

Tilrey thought about it. His arms were around Lindahl, too. The warmth of a strong body felt good—companionable, protective, nothing like Verán’s cold assaults. His own body craved that contact, but his mind remained at a distance.

Confirming to Lindahl that he needed help would be embarrassing. But Bror and even Ansha had taken his part, which meant they thought he really was in a bad place.

“Why don’t you like Ansha, Fir?” he asked, not wanting to lie but also reluctant to open up to this man.

Lindahl stroked his hair. “He’s boring and stupid. I have him for political reasons—it was Admin Birkin’s idea.”

“But he’s gorgeous. And he serves you well, doesn’t he? What’s wrong with him?” Tilrey felt oddly outraged on Ansha’s behalf. “Why should you like me? I barely do anything for you.”

“He’s insignificant and you’re reasonably clever,” Lindahl said as if both things were self-evident. “Verán’s very lucky to have you at his disposal. I hope he appreciates it.”

Last chance. Tilrey swallowed hard and then spoke—only for Bror, he told himself. Because Bror seemed to think it was important. “I am locked in a room, Fir. That’s true. Though the driver takes me to the Gym most days.”

“Hmm.” Lindahl sounded drowsy. “Still, a room. I don’t think I would like that. Isn’t it a little like being in a cell?”

“There’s light. My cell was dark.” How did he even describe the experience that was the whole fabric of his days now? “I sleep a lot. Sometimes I feel like I’m already dead. That part isn’t so bad. But it’s lonely.” Except when Malsha’s there.

The Councillor tightened his grip on Tilrey. “Why is it necessary to lock you up? I don’t understand. You’re never any trouble.”

“Fir Verán says I’m a security risk.”

“A security risk?” Lindahl seemed to wake with a start, irritation bubbling in his tone. “Absurd. He just wants to show off his power. You can’t own a person; that’s in our constitution. You can’t force a person’s loyalty. You have to earn it.”

And there it is, Malsha whispered in Tilrey’s ear. His weakness—he knows he’s made himself Verán’s property, too, but he doesn’t want to believe it. Now you have him.

Tilrey chose his next words with great care. “Please don’t tell Fir Verán what I just said, Fir. I didn’t mean to complain. He would be angry, and nothing would change.”

“What do you mean, nothing would change?” Lindahl’s fingers tugged on Tilrey’s hair, making the roots smart. “Visha respects my judgment. If I say I don’t like how he’s treating you, he’ll listen.”

“I don’t know, Fir.”

“Don’t contradict me!” Lindahl kissed Tilrey’s forehead. “You’re a silly boy. If Verán has foolish notions about you, I’ll set him straight. Sitting in a room is bad for your complexion—you look paler already.” Another kiss. “We want you rosy and strong.”

Tilrey relaxed into the embrace. “Mmm. I do trust you, Fir. You’re so clever. I’m sure you’ll convince him.”

“I don’t need to ‘convince him.’ That’s for sycophants like that idiot Besha. I’ll present him with reason and facts.”

“Of course. Facts. Not opinions.” Tilrey wondered how far Lindahl could get in politics if he refused to understand just how much opinions mattered.

Maybe he needed a little help in formulating an argument. What would Malsha say if he were here? “You know, if everyone found out how Fir Councillor Verán treats me, that might be slightly embarrassing for him. It might make him seem insecure. Paranoid. Even irrational.”

“Irrational! No, he wouldn’t want anyone to think that. Ha!” Lindahl squeezed him tighter. “I stood up to Verán tonight. He tried to get me to pay obeisance to him, but I forced him to admit how much he actually respects me.”

“You did, Fir,” Tilrey assured him. “I don’t think he’ll ever take you for granted again.”

Notes:

I was going to leave the Eivan/Lindahl scene out of this because it didn't seem relevant. Eivan and Lindahl appear together in "Sleeping Arrangements," but that's the first time Tilrey meets Eivan, and the two of them don't play a key role in the saga until much, much later.

But I ended up including it because I think Bror would go to Eivan, and because I'm a little fascinated by this side relationship. It's sort of a dysfunctional doppelgänger to Tilrey/Gersha. And Lindahl's arrogant tech bro insistence on his rationality epitomizes something about Upstarts and why it's so hard for them to change. He has this long-term relationship with Eivan, which is loving in some ways, but Lindahl will never be able to see that it's built on exploitation, even when Eivan points it out to him.

I'm interested in these relationships that are semi-functional but basically unequal (Besha/Davita is another one). So anyway, that's why there's so much side character stuff here. Thanks for reading!

Chapter 31: Venturing

On the next free-night, Vlastor told Tilrey to dress in white and then drove him to the Lounge. “The Fir wants to show you off now, I guess,” he said. “Hope you’re gonna behave.”

“I think I’ll make a scene, actually.” Tilrey stopped then, because he couldn’t imagine a scene he could make that would be anything other than embarrassing to himself. If he made smart-ass comments, the way he was right now, Verán would punish him for it—or, more likely, pretend he hadn’t even heard.

Perhaps the majority leader actually didn’t hear things he didn’t want to hear. Tilrey wished he could have that talent.

Vlastor’s ears worked fine. “You better not be serious,” he told Tilrey, turning to glare from the driver’s seat.

“And you better hope I’m just fucking with your head.” Tilrey grinned lazily as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

The truth was, his insides were in an anxious whirl. The Lounge was the last place he wanted to be, with all those eyes on him, Islanders’ and Mainlanders’ both. He had told Bror that he wanted to go to the Café, to be a normal person among people again, but every step outside his room felt perilous. He hated wearing the formal clothes, the stiff collar. He wanted to curl up in his bed, pull the covers over his head, and slip into his usual evening doze.

The car bore them inexorably to the Lounge. Vlastor parked and opened Tilrey’s door, still scolding: “Acting like a brat doesn’t get you anywhere. Maybe your Malsha thought that was cute, but my Fir doesn’t.”

Tilrey didn’t bother to answer. Then they were in the coldroom, and then they were in the foyer.

He braced himself, grateful for the dim lighting. The earring felt heavy again, tugging on his tender lobe. A glance upward showed him the ceiling mural that Malsha had pointed out the first time they came here . . . how long ago now? It seemed like ten years, not just two.

Verán waited on a snow-white upholstered bench. “You’re late,” he snapped at Vlastor, then poured half a vial into his palm and held it out for Tilrey.

Tilrey bent and drank, grateful for the buffer of sap. He hadn’t seen Verán for three days, since his night with Lindahl. He didn’t know whether the younger Councillor had complained to the majority leader about keeping him locked up.

Verán didn’t seem upset, so either Lindahl hadn’t spoken yet, or the majority leader hadn’t listened. He dismissed Vlastor, then rose and hooked his arm through Tilrey’s, leaning his weight on him. “You can be my cane tonight, lad. Don’t stumble.”

They took the steps down into the Lounge one by one. The room was no more than half full. Tilrey heard conversations go silent as they appeared, and a few polite exclamations. He used the task of supporting the Councillor as an excuse to keep his eyes down.

Strange, how good it felt to be useful, even to someone he hated. Maybe that was the worst problem with being locked in a room—you were no use to anyone, including yourself.

Verán headed to the same central booth where Tilrey had always sat with Malsha. The sap was starting to cloud his head, and it felt good to sit down. He focused on the black soapstone table, the neat place setting.

The Drudge server materialized beside them. Verán ordered one drink, a bitter black licorice tea with a shot of liqueur.

When the server was gone, he turned to scrutinize Tilrey. “You look like someone just died. Would it hurt you to smile?”

“Sorry, Fir.”

“Don’t be sorry. Do it!” The Councillor sighed, exasperated, as Tilrey made an effort. “Ansha smiles and lights up a room. That’s what a piece should do.”

Tilrey followed his gaze across the Lounge to where Ansha was sharing a table with an older woman, Admin Birkin, who was busy on her handheld. The other kettle boy wasn’t lighting up the room today; on the contrary, he looked bored and gloomy.

But all that changed when Lindahl’s tall figure stalked up to the table. Ansha leapt up to greet his Fir, ushering him into the center spot on the banquette. And sure enough, now he was smiling radiantly.

Why is Ansha so in love with that asshole? Does he have no self-respect?

If Tilrey had been there with Malsha, he would have said the words aloud. Malsha would have laughed appreciatively, and they could have discussed the psychology of love. How some people (like Ansha) tended to love anyone who wielded power over them, and other people (like Tilrey) would rather eat nails than fawn that way.

You think you’re invulnerable, the absent Malsha whispered in his ear. But one day, love will catch up with you. I promise.

Now all Tilrey could do was swallow his anger at Ansha for being everything Verán wanted him to be—compliant, eager, servile. And the worst part was how little his own resistance accomplished. Vlastor was right: He was a brat. Nothing more.

“Smile,” Verán commanded again. “Better than that.”

Tilrey curved his lips. He tried to remember having reasons to smile. He tried to make the smile reach his eyes. He wished he were back in his room.

His heart sank when Verán finally said, “Beautiful. That’s what I want to see more often.”

***

Lindahl hated the Lounge. The whole scene was “frivolous chitchat,” he liked to say. So what was he doing there tonight?

Ansha ran to fetch the server, but Lindahl waved her away. “I don’t need anything. I’m not staying long.”

He was so tall and imperious, with his still thick, yellow hair and his patrician cheekbones—so much more attractive than the doddery Councillors who filled the other banquettes. Ansha couldn’t take his eyes off his Fir, who hadn’t even bothered to greet him.

He felt Admin Birkin’s amused gaze on him as he sat back down, but he ignored her. Birkin headed Lindahl’s staff and did everything for him that he considered beneath his notice, such as handing off Ansha to other Councillors whose favors he needed. She treated Ansha like a valuable tool who happened to have the unwieldy emotions of a person.

Don’t start mooning over Fir Councillor, she’d warned Ansha early in their acquaintance, after she plucked him out of the chemical factory where he’d expected to spend his whole life. Then, in her brusque way, she’d explained all about Lindahl’s passion for his secretary, Eivan Svanner.

“Are you bringing him to Verán tonight?” Lindahl asked Birkin. He clearly meant Ansha, though he still hadn’t looked at him.

“That was the plan. He goes about once a ten-day to keep Visha happy. But if you’d rather—”

“No, that’s fine.” Lindahl’s hand closed around Ansha’s arm, yanking him to his feet. “I’ll take him over. Visha and I need to talk.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” But Birkin kept her objection to an undertone; she couldn’t challenge Lindahl in any meaningful way. If Ansha was the Councillor’s tool, so was she—just a fancier one.

Ansha went where he was led. He had learned long ago that his Fir viewed questions as insolence. No one could blame someone as naturally gifted as Enrik Lindahl for feeling entitled, and no one did—except Eivan, who would probably regret it someday.

Someone else had gotten to Verán’s booth before they could—Besha Linbeck. He was cozied up beside the majority leader, talking to him in a low voice.

Not every Councillor had earned the right to be arrogant, in Ansha’s view—especially not this little parasite, puny and nasal-voiced and not much higher born than a Laborer. Besha’s test scores were embarrassing, according to Café gossip. He’d been elected Councillor only because he sucked up shamelessly to Verán.

There was another reason for Besha’s meteoric rise: He was good with people. Any kettle boy could recognize that kind of cleverness, but Ansha didn’t have to respect it.

Besha popped up as Lindahl approached—not to leave, as Ansha had hoped, but just to say, “Enrishka! What brings you to our den of vulgarity?”

Lindahl barely glanced at him. “I brought the boy,” he told Verán in his blunt way.

“Of course. Sit down!” Verán looked pleased with himself. “We were just discussing prospects for the next election.”

Besha held his place on the banquette, forcing Lindahl to slide in beside him and Ansha to perch on the very edge. On Verán’s other side, Tilrey stared into space. He looked like a beautiful Feudal prince in a history stream, wearing a white tunic that matched his bleached hair and made the brows seem dark by comparison. But his features were slack and expressionless. No wonder Verán thought he was slow.

“Maybe you could persuade Gersha Gádden to run, Lindahl,” Besha said. “He’s like you—too smart to give the rest of us the time of day.”

Lindahl frowned as if the name didn’t ring a bell. “Gádden? Can he code?”

“Like a fiend,” Verán said. “But Besha thinks he’s too stubborn to be a team player.”

“Like you again!” Besha cried, trying to provoke Lindahl.

“Besha, don’t be rude to our colleague. He’s very much a team player in his way.” Verán’s gaze swept over Lindahl from head to toe—admiringly, Ansha thought. As if he, too, saw Lindahl’s beauty. Then he asked, “How did you like our gift the other night?”

“Fine.” If the lights hadn’t been so low, Ansha suspected he would have seen his Fir blush.

“Only fine?” Besha clearly enjoyed his colleague’s discomfort. He shot a leer at Tilrey. “If I ever get the pleasure of this one’s company, I’ll find more to say about it. I may even write a whole saga.”

“I’m sure you would.” Verán’s arm moved. He was patting Besha’s knee under the table, Ansha realized—taking pleasure in his favorite’s cruel wit even as he scolded him for it. “But you’re making Enrishka uncomfortable. Let him express himself in as few or as many words as he likes.”

“By ‘fine’ I meant, of course, superior. A superior quality of experience.” Lindahl plowed ahead, still addressing Verán and ignoring Besha. “There’s just one thing, though, that, uh, I couldn’t help noticing. I . . . he . . .”

Besha’s eyes sparkled nastily. Ansha wished he could stamp on the little Councillor’s foot—that would teach him not to disrespect a high name.

“Spit it out, Lindahl,” Verán said.

“I’d hoped to discuss this privately, Visha, but . . .”

“Anything you want to say to me, you can say in front of Besha.” Another pat under the table. “He’s my right hand.”

“I don’t even contemplate having thoughts that deviate from Fir Majority Leader’s,” Besha said, fluttering his eyelids.

“Shush, Besha. I think you’re spooking him. What did you want to say, Enrik?”

“You keep the boy in a room.” Lindahl pronounced the words as if they belonged to a language he wasn’t sure he spoke fluently. He didn’t look at Tilrey. “Locked up like a prisoner. Is that necessary?”

Besha opened his mouth. But Lindahl spoke first: “And no, he didn’t complain to me. When I heard about this from my secretary, I thought it was nonsense. Kettle boy gossip. It wasn’t easy to make the boy admit it was true.”

Verán was no longer pleased with Lindahl. He had the preoccupied, superior look he always got whenever Ansha spoke more than a few sentences to him. “The boy is a security risk,” he said. “It surprises me to hear that Drudges are gossiping about my household arrangements. Or that you, Enrishka, would care what they say.”

Ansha winced. Lindahl didn’t seem bothered. “I care because I want the boy to be robust and healthy.”

“He’s healthy. He goes to the Gym every day.”

“He looks pale to me. And a security threat to you? Why?”

Verán looked affronted. “I said he was a risk. It’s very different.”

Besha was watching the exchange as if it were a racquetball match. “It is Visha’s household, Lindahl,” he said. “After the trouble with Malsha, he’s right to be careful.”

Lindahl’s jaw tensed. Verán gave a little bark of laughter. “Let’s not get carried away. This boy is no Malsha—he’s sweet-drowned for one thing and stupid for another.”

He turned to Tilrey. From the boy’s barely perceptible flinch, Ansha knew Verán was giving his knee a squeeze, too. “No, you aren’t the kind of boy one has to watch out for. But we can’t risk you being a Beirth Eikengren, can we, Nettsha?”

“Beirth who?” Besha asked. Ansha was wondering the same thing.

“Beirth Eikengren was Malsha’s grandfather’s kettle boy,” Verán explained. “A Skeinsha. The only reason anyone knows his name is that he passed information to a shirker cell about what he heard in his Fir’s house. Malsha’s grandfather was the General Magistrate, you see. The result of those loose lips was an attack that killed several soldiers, and the Council exiled the Magistrate for his carelessness. They didn’t play around in those days.”

“No, they didn’t play around,” Besha said as if he hadn’t only just heard the story, which Ansha was sure he had.

“What happened to the boy, Fir?” Ansha asked. He couldn’t help it—he wanted to know. “What happened to Beirth Eikengren?”

“The creature was an addict, I believe. They probably tossed him in moral rehab. But my point is, you need to be able to trust the people you keep close to you, whatever their Level. If you can’t, you find ways to secure them.”

It made sense when Verán explained it that way. But somehow he’d gotten the wrong idea about Tilrey—Ansha was sure of that now. “Nettsha wouldn’t do that, Fir,” he said. “I know him.”

If they’d been talking about Celinda, then he would have agreed with Verán. She had all kinds of clever, subversive opinions that spelled security risk, not that her Upstart or anyone else seemed to care.

But Tilrey? He was barely out of childhood, so new to Redda. It was unfair to accuse him of crimes he probably didn’t even know existed, just because of things Malsha had done. “Malsha wasn’t always kind to him,” Ansha added, remembering something Tilrey had said once in the Café. “They didn’t even like each other.”

Verán looked at Ansha in the way that always made Ansha wilt back into silence. But Besha said, “I’ve known Til—er, Nettsha—for a while, too, and I’d say he’s harmless. He’s not going to pull a Beirth Eikengren if you give him the run of the city. And I’m sure Ansha will keep an eye on him.”

He winked at Ansha, who ducked his head. From the corner of his eye, he saw Tilrey staring into space as if he weren’t hearing a word of the conversation that could decide his fate.

Verán sighed. “I abhor gossip, and my household is my domain. But I suppose he could go out with the driver as a chaperone. And have the run of the apartment.”

“It would send a message that you don’t feel insecure, Visha,” Lindahl said. “It’s good to be careful, but paranoia is a sign of weakness.”

That surprised Ansha—Lindahl wasn’t normally good at reading people. But he’d hit the nail on the head: Verán needed desperately to be seen as strong.

For once, Besha backed up Lindahl. “I can’t imagine what any of us have to be paranoid about. Malsha was the threat, and he’s gone.”

Verán’s eyes glittered with irritation, but Ansha could tell they’d won. And he had helped it happen, even if his Fir never gave him the slightest bit of credit.

***

If Tilrey was happy or grateful, he gave no sign. He lay on his back and stared up at the bed canopy with bleary eyes while Ansha stripped off his clothes, item by item, without hurrying. Slippers, tunic, shirt, trousers, undershirt, briefs.

Verán must have been tired that night. He sat beside them and just watched, surrounded by a fortress of pillows. After a while, his eyes wandered, and his head drooped as he dozed.

Ansha was on top of Tilrey by that time. He finished what he’d been doing, because it would have been disobeying the Fir to stop, even without an audience. But it felt weird, like fucking a corpse (he imagined). Tilrey’s eyes were closed, and he was so still.

When the performance was over, Ansha rolled to one side and said in Tilrey’s ear, “Did you hear? You can leave your room now.”

“I heard.”

Tilrey sounded perfectly lucid, even bored. Had he been pretending to be dead to the world this whole time?

Ansha suddenly felt like a fool, and angry at the person who’d made him feel that way. “You don’t even care, do you? My Fir went out on a limb for you.”

“It was a pretty sturdy limb. I wouldn’t worry about him.”

Ansha glared down at the pliant body he’d just fucked. “I don’t get you. Why do you play dumb? Do you just like the attention?”

Tilrey rolled toward Ansha and hid his face against the bedclothes, though he didn’t pull them up to cover his nakedness. “I’m tired, Ansha,” he said, muffled. “I hurt. That’s all.”

Ansha got up and switched off the light. When he returned to bed, he threw an arm over Tilrey and pulled him close—tentatively, because Verán wasn’t watching and because Tilrey wasn’t so pliant anymore. He looked tight as a spring.

To his relief, Tilrey’s body relaxed a little. He rested his head on Ansha’s shoulder and murmured, “Thank you.”

“For what?” Ansha couldn’t help being wary. Tilrey was clever and cruel with words: an Upstart kind of cleverness. He should have been grateful to Lindahl, instead of insinuating that there wasn’t much to be grateful for.

“For speaking up for me with the Fir. You said the right thing.”

“I just said the truth.” Ansha rubbed Tilrey’s back, kneading the swells of muscle. “Why didn’t you say it?”

“He doesn’t hear me.”

“He would if you were just honest and natural.” Ansha knew it wasn’t so simple, but Tilrey’s high-handed tone had annoyed him. “You’re a Skeinsha. Don’t try to act like a Strutter. They never like that, never.”

“I don’t try to act like them. I act like me.” But Tilrey sounded sleepy. He burrowed his nose into Ansha’s armpit. “I wish you weren’t like this.”

“Like what?” Ansha made a half-hearted attempt to stay angry.

“Your Fir treats you like shit, and you seem to think you deserve it. I wish you’d . . .” But then Tilrey sighed, as if he didn’t feel like finishing his thought. “Never mind. Anyway, thanks.”

His breathing slowed and leveled, and together they slept without nightmares.

***

The next morning, Tilrey returned to his room as usual. He showered, ate the bowl of porridge that Vlastor forced on him, curled up in the comforter, and went back to sleep.

That day, except for making him eat three meals, Vlastor left him alone. Tilrey read a little and slept a little and read and slept and checked the sky out his window and stretched out and curled up and slept again.

He thought of testing the door to see if Verán had kept his promise and Vlastor had executed the order. But that seemed beneath him, and what was he going to do? Stroll out there and interrupt the majority leader’s post-work tea time? That would go well.

Smile. Smile. Smile.

Everyone hates me. Verán says I’m depressing, Tilrey told Malsha irritably. Ansha says I’m not honest or natural.

Who cares? I thought you just wanted to be left alone.

I do. But . . .

Well, Verán is an egomaniac and Ansha is a fool, and both their brains are addled by all the stupidity of Oslov. Did you really think the whole world would be as in love with you as I am?

That isn’t love. And Tilrey opened his book to end the conversation.

With all the time in the world to consult the dictionary, he was getting so good at reading Harbourer. Malsha would have been proud. He woke after midnight, read two more chapters, and drifted off again close to dawn.

The next time he opened his eyes, it was daylight, the door was open, and Ansha was sitting on the edge of the bed.

Tilrey sat up with a start. Though he could see only a wedge of the sitting room through the open door, he didn’t like not having that barrier between him and Verán. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s afternoon, Rishka. Don’t you want to go to the Café?”

The Café. Now that it was a real possibility, sweat blossomed on Tilrey’s face and neck. “I’m tired.”

“Bror’s there,” Ansha said. “He’s expecting you.”

If Bror expected him, he had to go. Had to. “But I’d have to shower and dress. I haven’t even had breakfast. I haven’t been to the Gym.”

Ansha widened his eyes. “I’ll wait while you do the first two, and you can eat there. Vlastor will take you to the Gym afterward.”

“But I . . . how will I eat?” Tilrey knew the Café had food. He just wasn’t sure he could remember how to eat without Vlastor monitoring every bite to make sure he consumed the right number of calories.

Ansha got up and opened one of the dresser drawers. “Go shower while I get your clothes. Do you want out of this room or not?”

***

By the time they arrived, the arctic winter night had fallen. Vlastor drove them to the Café and then went off on his own errands, admonishing Tilrey to be ready for the Gym at four.

Tilrey paused at the door of the Café. He glimpsed their usual window table at the far end, and he heard Bror’s hearty laughter.

But thinking about crossing the room made him break into another sweat. There were too many people here—University students, young Upstarts slacking off from work, Café staff. They would stare at his earring, which felt like a boulder again.

Ansha took his arm and tugged him more or less gently toward the threshold. “C’mon.”

Tilrey stood his ground. “Do they know?”

“Know what?”

“You know.” He couldn’t say the words, but his cheeks burned, and Ansha must see the telltale blush.

“Are you talking about you and me?” Ansha gave him an impatient little shake. “Us fucking? That doesn’t even count. It never counts when a Strutter tells you to—or in the Vacants. You don’t have to be embarrassed about any of that.”

Bror stopped you from pawing me in the Vacants. He seemed to think it “counted.” But Tilrey went where he was led. It was easier that way.

As he approached the table, he suddenly saw the scene through Bror’s eyes. He wrenched himself away from Ansha and walked the rest of the way on his own.

“Hey!” Bror was on his feet instantly. He didn’t hug Tilrey—probably sensing how on edge he was—but he did clasp his hand and clap him on the back. “How’s it going, Rishka?”

Celinda took his hand after Bror released it. Her blue eyes were as cold as ever, but her mouth wobbled slightly as she said, “We thought you were lost to us forever.”

“Never!” Bror said. “We would never let him be lost.”

Lus stayed sprawled on his chair, but he gave Tilrey a friendly nod. “Now we can play Five-Square properly,” he said, indicating the game board.

Outside, snow whirled around the buildings, obscuring everything but the tram platform lights. Inside smelled like hot licorice and strong tea and wet wool. The familiarity of the whole scene brought tears to Tilrey’s eyes, and he said, “You know I hate Five-Square!”

That broke the tension. Lus said, “Hopeless.” Bror laughed and pulled out a chair for Tilrey. Celinda ran to the counter and came back with his favorite smoky buttered tea, making him duck his head because she was normally so haughty with him.

They didn’t ask him questions about his new situation. Bror must have told them not to, or maybe they just knew better. They teased and gossiped in their usual indolent way, occasionally drawing him into the conversation but mostly letting him listen.

They talked about stupid things. Councillor Zenteivva wanted a kettle boy, but no one was good enough for him. The Restaurant was serving a tart with real Harbourer berries that had to be tasted to be believed. The star of the latest sob-stream was a Sanctioned Brothel whore who was rumored to have a tattoo on his rump.

Everything was the same, and everything was different. Tilrey sat between Bror and Ansha, but Ansha’s presence exerted a subtle pull, because he was the one who had brought Tilrey here. He was the one who fetched rice pudding to serve as Tilrey’s breakfast. Now and then he touched Tilrey’s arm or the back of his hand, and Tilrey didn’t pull away.

Was that enough to tell everyone that he and Ansha had fucked? Ansha said it didn’t count, but Tilrey still wished Bror and Celinda didn’t have to know.

Lus was the only one whose judgment didn’t matter—and that was another new thing. Everything about Lus made more sense to Tilrey now: his heavy eyelids, his delayed reactions, his too-loud laughter. He was sapped all the time, and Tilrey knew how that felt. He missed it.

While Ansha was busy taking dishes to the counter, and Lus and Celinda were renewing a petty argument about the best way to prepare hot licorice, Tilrey turned to Bror. “Thank you,” he said. “How did you do it?”

“How did I . . .?”

“You said you’d get me out, and you did.”

“Was it really even me?” Bror’s cheeks flushed. “I did try. I told Lindahl’s secretary. But he brushed me off, I thought.”

“The secretary told Lindahl, and Lindahl told me.” Tilrey didn’t like talking about this—about anything to do with the conditions of his new life—but he needed Bror to know how much he appreciated it. “I put an idea in Lindahl’s head, and he used it on Fir Verán, and it worked!”

Bror beamed. “I always knew you were smart.”

“What? What did I miss?” Ansha slid back into his seat. “I hate how you two are always keeping secrets.”

Bror exchanged an amused glance with Tilrey. “I was just telling Rishka I think he’s gonna be just fine.”

Notes:

This part of the story is hard to write because it's so static/circular—it's hard to find an arc when the character is so powerless. But I do plan to speed it up a bit after this.

Meanwhile, I'm working on the final (?) chapter of the main story and will start posting that once I have a solid 30k. That one's tricky in its own way, and I want to make sure I'm on the right path. Thanks so much for reading! <3

Chapter 32: Reeling

Notes:

Warning: There's some bad stuff in this chapter, some physical abuse that gets a little worse than we've seen before. This is the beginning of the last and worst phase of the "breaking," though it won't be this intense all the time.

Tilrey was just developing a tolerable routine when the solstice holiday disrupted things.

For the first four days, he and Vlastor were left blissfully alone in the apartment while Verán spent time with his family in the Southern Range. Tilrey ventured out of his room, made himself tea, and even watched a few mindless streams on the sitting-room cylinder. Vlastor stopped policing his meals.

But then Vlastor said, “Pack your things.” And it was time to fly south and stay in the villa and entertain Verán’s friends.

Every evening, the majority leader welcomed four or five people into his sitting room, usually a mix of intimates and Councillors from whom he wanted favors. He gave Tilrey plenty of sap, and Tilrey never objected, though sometimes he spat half the dose surreptitiously into his own palm and wiped it off on his clothes.

He was already well acquainted with most of Verán’s friends and allies. But on this night, along with Besha and Councillor Svallgren, two strangers attended the soirée, and one of them was a rarity at these gatherings—a woman! Not only that, but a woman who dared to tease Verán.

“I think it’s a crime what you did to the boy’s hair,” she said, peering at Tilrey from her perch beside them on the couch. “At least the roots seem to be growing out.”

Verán had been absently stroking Tilrey’s thigh, as he often did. He always seemed more at ease when his kettle boy was half awake, drooping on his shoulder, so Tilrey had learned to feign being in a stupor most of the time.

Now the majority leader pushed him upright and examined a strand of his hair. “You’re right, my sweet Davita. Dark blond suits him. But I suppose I’ve made my point.”

So this was Councillor Davita Lindblom. Now he thought about it, Tilrey realized he’d seen her a few times in the Lounge—a tall, stunning woman with light brown skin and a river of black hair. Each time, Malsha had shaken his head and said something along the lines of “What was Davita thinking when she married Besha Linbeck? She’s nearly a decade his senior and could have had anyone.”

Besha’s wife, then, though they didn’t seem very affectionate tonight. Tilrey also wondered what she saw in him.

“You have made your point.” Besha wobbled over to the sofa and flopped down beside his wife. He’d already had a little too much of the sap-laced mulled wine. “Now leave his hair alone, please. I liked it the way it was.”

Verán laughed. “You’re just desperate to have him, aren’t you?”

Besha made a face, then kissed his wife on the cheek. “When I have this goddess at home?”

Davita pushed him away. “Don’t suck up to me, love. You know I hate that.”

“It was a sincere expression of my feelings!”

“He can suck up to me,” Verán said, patting Besha’s knee. “I don’t mind.”

He was always so affectionate with Besha, touching him casually the way he did Tilrey. Back when Tilrey was sapping heavily, he hadn’t noticed. But now that he was more alert—and bored—he wondered exactly how much sucking up Besha had done.

Malsha had told him plenty of Upstarts slept with other Upstarts in exchange for favors—better postings, a leg up in the system. Besha’s marriage to Davita had certainly advanced him in the world. But Tilrey couldn’t imagine a situation in which he would care enough about a job to choose to give himself to Verán. No, not even to be a Councillor like Besha, who had been elected last year.

Davita turned to the second stranger, who sat on the other sofa. “I hope we aren’t putting you off marriage, Tollsha! Personally, I’m a huge fan.”

Tollsha, a burly, handsome young man with pale blond hair, looked a little dazzled by her smile. “I can’t honestly say I’ve thought about it yet.”

“Your older sisters are both married,” Besha pointed out. Tilrey suspected that the younger man annoyed him.

Davita countered, “Oh, but you’re still a child, Tollsha. You need to have fun.”

Tollsha blushed as if she were flirting with him—was she? Tilrey couldn’t tell. He seldom saw any women except Celinda, who alternated between a strange, hostile brand of flirtation and anger at the whole world.

Now that he wasn’t draped over Verán anymore, he wasn’t sure where to look. It felt uncomfortable sitting silently while Davita chatted up Tollsha about his job and his dating history. He could tell that both of them were making an effort not to look at him. As for Besha and Svallgren, their eyes rested on him long and often, longer than he liked.

Sap had made everything easier. He slumped back against Verán and let his eyelids sag, pretending to be drowned in pleasant numbness.

Naturally, Besha noticed. “Don’t let the boy fall asleep!” he cried. “What will Linden think?”

Verán chuckled. “Linden can wake him up.”

Edmond Linden. The new General Magistrate, whom Tilrey knew only from glimpses in the Lounge. Was he headed to that man’s bed tonight? That was news to him.

Apparently to Davita, too. “Has Mosha recovered enough to entertain a kettle boy?” she asked, her rich voice full of cloying sympathy. “Since he hasn’t been back to the Council chamber since the stroke, I thought, well . . .”

“He’s much better now—mobile, and his speech is back to normal. The doctors just want him to take it easy for a month or so.”

That was Tollsha. Observing him through his lashes, Tilrey realized the boy and Linden had a family resemblance. He must be here because he was the Magistrate’s son or grandson or nephew.

“I invited Mosha tonight,” Verán said, “but he says he’s conserving his energy for his return to the chamber next session.” He slipped his arm around Tilrey. “I think it’s time he enjoyed our spoils of war. He was gladder to get rid of Malsha than any of us.”

“There’s nothing worse than an ally turned enemy,” Besha said in his nasty, knowing way.

Tilrey remembered what Adelbert Verán had told him: that Malsha and the Islanders had once been allies. He wondered what had gone wrong between them—was it just Malsha’s seduction of Adelbert? That didn’t seem like something Verán would forgive, even though he had deliberately pimped out his rebellious nephew to his colleague.

Davita deflected the conversation: “Visha, weren’t you planning for the boy to live with Linden as soon as he was recovered?”

“Of course!” Verán replied. “The Island’s kettle boy must live with the leader of the party, and he will.” There was an edge on his voice; he wasn’t feeling as smug as usual. “As soon as Mosha has fully recovered from his unfortunate condition.”

“Meanwhile, you’ve taken the responsibility on yourself.” Davita was back in teasing mode, but there was a sharpness to her tone. “It must be such a burden, Visha, having a stunning creature like Linnett’s boy in your bed whenever you want him.”

“Don’t call him ‘Linnett’s boy,’” Verán said peevishly.

“Why not? Didn’t Malsha pluck him from the depths of Karkei or wherever it was?”

“Thurskein,” Besha corrected.

“What does it matter? He’s here now, and we call him Nettsha to honor his unsavory origins.” Verán shoved Tilrey upright again. “Open your eyes, you lout. You’re sweet-drowned and doing no work at all.”

Tilrey opened his eyes. Tollsha’s gaze darted away instantly—did the situation embarrass him? Poor boy, Tilrey thought acidly.

“They’re bewitching eyes, aren’t they?” Verán said. “Have you ever seen a blue like that?”

Tilrey knew the old man was annoyed because Davita had suggested—subtly and playfully, but still—that he was monopolizing Tilrey when Linden had a better claim to him. If there was one thing Verán hated, it was any suggestion that he had overreached or claimed more than he was entitled to. In his mind, everything he had was deserved, including the enthusiastic sexual compliance of his inferiors. Tilrey doubted it had ever occurred to him that kettle boys like Ansha, who moaned and complimented his prowess, were just playing along.

Well observed, Malsha whispered. So, you know what the old fool wants—what he expects. Why can’t you give it to him?

Why should I if I don’t want to?

“Never seen eyes like Nettsha’s in my life,” Besha said, sucking up to Verán again. He knew how the game was played.

A dry chuckle, and Verán gave Tilrey a push. “Get up, boy—time to earn your keep. Go to Besha.”

Tilrey stood up, but he stopped short when he saw Davita’s aggressively raised eyebrow. Even Besha seemed startled, a pink flush across his freckled nose making him look younger.

“No, wait, that won’t do,” Verán amended. “Besha, go sit in the armchair.”

“Oh, my.” Besha shot an apologetic look at his wife as he obeyed the order. “What on earth do you have in mind, Visha? It’s not my birthday.”

“You’ve done good work getting the stragglers in line this session. Nettsha, go to him.” Verán made a gesture Tilrey knew well, palm to the floor. On your knees.

Tilrey swallowed. In his peripheral vision, he saw Tollsha crossing his arms and averting his gaze, while Svallgren leaned in, a half smile on his lips. Not everyone wanted to see this, apparently.

It was easy for them. They could choose to look away.

“Go.” Verán’s voice was a whiplash.

The old Tilrey hated being a spectacle, but Nettsha couldn’t afford to be so sensitive. Sensitivities were for Strutters, and it wasn’t a real crowd scene if he was only obliging Besha. Anyway, saying no would embarrass Verán. Saying no would mean losing privileges.

Tilrey crossed the carpet in a few paces—it felt longer—and knelt in front of Besha’s armchair. Keeping his gaze down, he nudged the young Councillor’s knees apart and fumbled under his tunic.

Behind him, someone inhaled sharply—Tollsha, probably. Even Besha gave a little start. But he didn’t resist when Tilrey stroked him through his trousers, and he was hard within seconds.

Focus. They aren’t here. Tilrey willed himself to be aware of only Besha’s increasing arousal—not Verán’s or Svallgren’s excitement, not Tollsha’s mortification, not Davita’s cold scrutiny. He unbuttoned Besha’s fly and got a good grip on his cock. It was nothing too impressive, but the little Councillor probably had all sorts of clever ways of pleasing his beautiful, high-named wife.

Besha threw his head back, his breath already coming in anguished gasps. “Green hells—that’s good. Mouth now. Please.” Then he seemed to realize his mistake, and he glanced over at Verán. “Please, could I?”

“You’re embarrassing yourself, darling,” Davita said. But she sounded resigned to the situation—and perhaps a little aroused herself, Tilrey thought.

“Let him take his time,” Verán said magnanimously. “The boy knows what he’s doing.”

When I’m touching someone’s cock, suddenly I know things. Suddenly I’m good for something. Tilrey wanted to stop, but his body was on autopilot, palming Besha’s cock as he crept in between the man’s knees. He didn’t choose the moment when he bent and ran his tongue around the tip; it just happened.

A thrill ran through Besha from head to toe, as if he’d been electrified. “Don’t stop,” he moaned under his breath.

Was he performing a bit, too? Tilrey wondered as he licked a stripe up the man’s straining organ, then bent to flick the balls with his tongue. He thanked everything green that his body knew what it was doing, granting his mind free rein.

In the background, Svallgren and Verán chuckled over something, but he willed himself to pay no attention. They didn’t matter. He teased Besha’s cock for a minute or so longer, until the young Councillor was straining and arching his back and cursing, before he took the full length into his throat.

Besha wasn’t one of those men who could maintain a stoic exterior. A stifled cry burst from him, and then he was pumping his hips shamelessly.

The thrusting pressure gave Tilrey a visceral flashback to the night of the Spring Fling—being held down and choked, over and over. But he knew how to handle those memories now. He stamped on them and locked them in an imaginary trunk and sat on it.

Anyway, he was in control tonight. When Besha tangled fingers in his hair and pressed Tilrey down on his cock till he couldn’t breathe, Tilrey let it happen—but only for a few seconds. Then he yanked away, freeing himself enough to use his tongue again.

Another cry, and Besha’s grip loosened. The man was close to his climax, and he wouldn’t do anything to endanger it.

I know you better than you know yourself. Besha would want to be teased first; he would want to beg for it. Verán would want to see him do that, too.

And so Tilrey teased for what felt like a good half hour, though it was probably less than five minutes. He gave the man his whole mouth and then pulled back to play with the cockhead and balls again, making Besha squirm and convulse and even sob.

When he finally allowed Besha to come, gushing into his throat, he was tired. Besha uttered a strangled scream and collapsed as if he’d been mortally wounded.

Well. That was interesting. Tilrey swallowed, pulled out, and gave the Councillor a rapid cleaning with his tongue. Then he sat back on his haunches and tucked Besha into his briefs and trousers. The young Councillor lay limp, face slack and skin grayish.

“I think you’ve killed my husband.” Davita’s tone was ironic, but Tilrey thought he caught a hint of admiration. “Visha, do you even realize what you’ve unleashed? Our child and future children need a father.”

Besha grunted something Tilrey couldn’t make out—“Not now,” perhaps. He still seemed incapable of opening his eyes, much less fixing his clothes, so Tilrey tugged the skirt of the man’s tunic back down and scooted away.

When he turned his eyes to Verán, he wasn’t surprised to see the majority leader holding out a palmful of sap.

He rose and returned to his original seat, stiff-legged. His throat ached, but not in any serious way. He bent and licked up the sticky black puddle from his Fir’s hand, while Verán said, “Maybe you’re not so lazy after all.”

***

Fir Magistrate Linden’s villa was only a few steps away. Tilrey followed Tollsha up the snowy path, grateful for a few seconds under the stars, even if the midwinter night was cold enough to kill them both.

“Is Fir Magistrate your grandfather, Fir?” he asked through the scarf that protected his face.

Tollsha didn’t answer until they’d climbed the salted steps of the villa and reached the safety of the coldroom. “He’s my uncle,” he said, sitting down to pull off his boots. “Listen, be careful with him, okay? He’s not like Besha.”

What did that mean? “I’m used to older men, Fir,” Tilrey assured the young Upstart, stripping off his own outergear. “And I know he’s been ill. Do you mean . . . well, are there things it’s not safe for him to do?”

Tollsha looked disgusted by the suggestion. “No! I mean, what would I know about it? The doctor didn’t say anything was off-limits. What I mean is, my uncle . . . well, he’s not very adaptable, and he doesn’t appreciate teasing.”

“I don’t tease, Fir.” Or not with words, anyway—Davita was the one who did that.

Tollsha looked Tilrey up and down. The room was too dim for Tilrey to get a good look at his features, but wariness and contempt radiated from him. “You’re big,” he said, “and you hold up your head like an Upstart, at least when you aren’t sweet-drowned. You might confuse him. Uncle mixes me up with my father sometimes. My father’s dead.”

Tilrey struggled to understand what these different facts had to do with each other. Did he really hold his head higher than he should? Malsha had always told him not to hang his head, not to slouch. “I understand, Fir.”

“I’m not talking about dementia. So don’t go and tell Verán that! They tested him, and he remembers things like Council procedure just fine.” Tollsha hit the button, and the inner door hissed open. “Uncle gets confused about people, that’s all. I think he’s reached an age where he can’t be bothered. So don’t do anything that could upset him.”

Tilrey followed him inside, blinking in the brightness. They found the Magistrate by the gas fire in the sitting room, reading the Council Record with a tea tumbler beside him.

Mosha Linden had been a sleek, corpulent man when Tilrey saw him in the Lounge, but age or illness had shrunken him. His head was still large and round, his cheeks doughy and disturbingly pale, but his body disappeared inside the white dressing gown. He took no notice of their approach. Tollsha had to say, “Uncle, I’ve brought the boy. Uncle!” before he looked up.

Linden’s eyes were large and silvery blue like Tollsha’s. They didn’t quite seem to focus. “What boy?”

“Verán’s boy. The Island’s boy. Verán wants you to have him tonight.” The old man still looked blank, and Tollsha cleared his throat and said, “Linnett’s boy.”

Linden’s eyes narrowed, as if he were finally seeing Tilrey. “Malsha,” he said in a knowing way. “But of course.”

“Yes, Malsha’s.” Tollsha gave Tilrey a nudge forward—the first time he had touched him.

“How did Visha seem?” the old man asked his nephew, his gaze leaving Tilrey. “Did he talk about the greenhouse provision in the budget?”

“No, he didn’t talk shop at all. The Lindblom woman and her husband were there, and they sapped and gossiped, mostly.”

Linden sighed—a wheezing sound that seemed to traverse his whole body. “That wretched hussy thinks the world revolves around her. Spoiled. And her husband is a no-name. At least your father had the sense not to get into politics—not that I would ever have supported that kind of foolishness.”

Tollsha shot a glance at Tilrey, as if the mention of his father embarrassed him. “No need to speak ill of the dead.”

The Magistrate drank from his tumbler and set it down. “Your father knew his place, Tollsha. More of us should. He was a handsome, gaudy man who married my sister for her name, and he never pretended otherwise. I do wish there weren’t so much of him in you.”

Tollsha fidgeted with his scarf. “Uncle, it’s late.”

“Next time, notice more when you’re at Visha’s. He’s a show-off, and he surrounds himself with an audience of cawing crows who chatter and covet and don’t know how to hide it.”

“They’re your allies, Uncle.”

“Yes.” Linden sighed again, as if he regretted the alliance deeply. “In my youth, both parties were purer. Pay better attention next time.”

“I’ll try.” Tollsha looked as if he were itching to escape. “Well, I’m going upstairs to bed, unless you want more tea?”

“No, I’m fine, boy. Go.”

As Tollsha fled up the stairs, those pale eyes locked on Tilrey again. “Tiresome. Everything so tiresome,” the old man said.

And then, as Tilrey met his gaze, he cried, “Eyes down!”

Tilrey obeyed, clasping his hands behind his back. The elderly Magistrate seemed fragile, like a relic of past centuries. Yet he spoke with such force that it was hard to know whether to be vexed or amused.

Linden continued to talk—but quietly, as if to himself. “Crows. Ravens. Socialites. Chatterers! They ruin everything they touch. Drudges, Upstarts, everything beautiful. Even a fine youth like Adelbert.”

The name made Tilrey lift his head again. In all his time in Verán’s house, he couldn’t recall having heard the majority leader’s rebellious nephew mentioned. “Do you mean Adelbert Verán, Fir?”

He froze when he saw the look on the Magistrate’s face—a mixture of shock and revulsion, as if one of the armchairs had spoken to him.

“I don’t abide gaudy-feathered birds here,” the man said after a moment. He snapped his fingers so loudly that Tilrey flinched. “Bedroom.”

With that, the Magistrate rose laboriously from the sofa. Tilrey made a brief attempt to assist him, as he’d learned to do with Verán. But one look at Linden’s forbidding expression stopped him dead.

He trailed behind Linden to a large first-floor bedroom that was the twin of Verán’s and Malsha’s, with its lofty, raftered ceiling. The Magistrate flicked on the recessed ceiling lights. The bed was unmade, and a whiff of disinfectant lingered in the air.

Linden plumped himself down on the bed and pointed upward. “Those off again.” He indicated the bedside lamp. “Just that.”

“Yes, Fir.” Tilrey turned out the overheads and flicked on the lamp, hoping he’d understood the order correctly. Linden sat in the single pool of light now, while he stood in darkness, which emboldened him to say, “I meant no disrespect, Fir. Only, I met Fir Adelbert Verán a year or so ago, and I wondered—”

“Shh!” An angry hiss. Linden snapped his fingers again, silencing Tilrey. Then he made the familiar slash of thumb and forefinger through the air: Undress.

This at least was well-worn territory, though the order was abrupt. Keeping his gaze down, Tilrey stripped swiftly and smoothly, folding his clothes the way Malsha had taught him and placing them neatly on the carpet.

When he looked up, he saw the Magistrate wasn’t even watching. He was frowning at his handheld. Tilrey had to wait another minute or so, naked and struggling not to fidget, before Linden put the device down and surveyed him from head to toe.

“Hmm.” The frown did not vanish. “Malsha’s. Bror Malkien Linnett’s.” He seemed to enjoy pronouncing each syllable of the full name that Malsha had hated. But if Tilrey’s body interested him, he gave no sign. “He always did like the tall ones, the strong ones. The brutes.”

“I’m not . . .” This time the words died in Tilrey’s throat. Just as he could see into Verán’s mind, with its hunger for fawning attention, he already knew Linden wanted him to follow orders in silence, like a machine. “Sorry, Fir.”

Linden inhaled sharply through his nose, then flapped a hand at the floor the way Verán had done earlier. “Here, lad.”

On my knees for the second time in an hour. But Tilrey was relieved. This would be a lot less awkward than standing naked in the middle of the room.

He went to the Magistrate, knelt before him, and lifted the hem of his dressing gown. Linden’s hand caught his and guided it.

For a few minutes, everything was easier as autopilot kicked in again. Stroke, squeeze, tease, fondle. The old man sat like a stone as Tilrey worked, the opposite of the excitable Besha. But his cock did harden, albeit slowly, and eventually Tilrey decided it was time to dip his head and slide the stiff length into his mouth.

He worked diligently, using all his tricks—the tongue around the head, the firm grip on the base, the gentlest strokes and squeezes to the vulnerable testicles. He went through the whole roster, then repeated it in a slightly different order.

The Magistrate tensed and made a humming sound when Tilrey deep-throated him, but otherwise he barely reacted. It was like sucking off a fat raw daikon.

Why was it taking so long? Old men sometimes failed to reach completion when they fucked him, but his mouth usually got the job done. Maybe he should have had more appreciation for Besha’s responsiveness.

As he ran through all his maneuvers again—his tongue stiff and heavy with the sustained effort—he wondered about Besha. Had the young Councillor really lost control, or had he been performing for Verán’s sake? The majority leader had certainly enjoyed watching them together, though Tilrey wasn’t so sure about Besha’s wife.

He cupped Linden’s balls in his free hand, desperate to find the man’s path to climax. Was he one of those who liked a finger in his ass? Surely he would have said so. His position precluded experimenting, even if Tilrey had dared.

He should have thought ahead and asked Bror or Ansha about the Magistrate’s preferences. He saw them at the Café a few days out of every ten now, usually after the Gym. Sometimes Vlastor even allowed Bror to be the one to chaperone Tilrey home. He was nearly back to his normal weight, and soon he hoped to be allowed to walk around the city by himself.

That would be nice, especially as the days lengthened—to walk for hours with no destination. Maybe he and Bror could go to the Restaurant, where Bror’s cousin worked, and scavenge leftovers from the kitchen. Or they could go lounge in the Vacants the way they used to, far from Upstart eyes.

From the others’ hints, Tilrey knew that all sorts of recreational sex happened in the Vacants. Bror had always tried to distance him from those activities. But he was older now, and there was no need to protect him. He had been with Ansha—why not the others? Why not Bror himself?

If only he were sucking Bror’s cock right now. That would be so much easier—even nice! Bror would gasp and grab Tilrey’s head the way Besha had, but then he would release it, because Bror cared about Tilrey’s comfort. Bror would tell him how good it felt. Bror would thank him and kiss him and hold him afterward.

Why was it taking so long? His throat was numb. The stale smell of Linden’s sweat made his stomach turn over. And was it his imagination, or was the Magistrate’s cock softening?

Shit! Please, no—but these things happened to every man, didn’t they? Maybe it was better to admit defeat.

Tilrey popped the man’s flabby organ out of his mouth with a shudder he couldn’t repress. He sat back. “I’m sorry, Fir. It happens. Maybe if we waited a little—”

Linden smacked him across the face.

Verán slapped Tilrey now and then, when he backtalked or was slow to do something. But those smacks were token, just making a point. This one was meant to cause pain.

Tilrey rocked back on his haunches, cheeks and nose stinging. He wasn’t really hurt, of course—an old man couldn’t hurt him. But he felt the impact of Linden’s palm on his cheek. An oddly smooth, plump palm, like a child’s, not something that should be able to injure anyone.

“I’m sorry, Fir.” He hung his head. Hadn’t the man heard his apology the first time? What was he supposed to do, suck on a limp cock all night? “My fault. I’ll try again if you like—”

This time, he didn’t see the blow coming. A sharp cuff on the right side of his head jolted him sideways, making his ears ring.

As he righted himself, everything seemed to come into sharper focus—the muted colors, the disinfectant smell, the glow of the lamp. There was nothing in the world but this room and his own naked, crouching body and the white slug of the Magistrate hunched before him.

He felt different, as if the two blows had knocked him out of a deep sleep. His whole body was alive now, from his sinuses to his fingertips, and he knew that if he’d wanted to, he could have hauled the old man out of bed and dashed his brains out on the bedside table.

He didn’t want to, of course. He preferred to live, so he stayed where he was, waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside. This time he held his tongue.

So he wasn’t expecting the third blow, either—a cuff on the left to match the one on the right. Or the fourth blow: a second frontal smack, harder than the first, that left him clutching his nose and tasting blood.

That was enough. Bruises were out of bounds. Tilrey scuttled backward and rose to his feet. “I told you I was sorry, Fir!”

No, that wasn’t good enough—he needed to salvage the old man’s pride. “I’ve had too much sap tonight. I’m just not my best.” His tongue and throat moved sluggishly; it was hard to talk. “Please let me try again!”

The sharp snap of Linden’s fingers cut through his apologies. “Down,” the man ordered, pointing to the floor in front of him.

I can’t suck you off any more. I can’t, I can’t. But he’d asked to try again, so Tilrey returned to his knees. His sensitive skin smarted, but nothing was broken. He would humiliate himself, if that was what the old fool got off on. He would laugh about it with Bror later.

That soft hand seized his jaw, squeezing, and pulled him closer. “Brute,” Linden said, his nails digging into Tilrey’s skin. “He speaks when he’s spoken to from now on. He looks where he’s told to look. Understood?”

It was an archaic form of address, used in Feudal times from superiors to inferiors—a way to avoid saying you. Tilrey had never heard it from an Upstart before.

I could shake him off. I could crush him. It was such an effort to stay still that tears rose to his eyes. When Linden repeated the question, he nodded.

The Magistrate released him, then delivered two more open-handed slaps, fore- and back-hand. Tilrey barely felt them this time. He was floating, dizzy with the strange, sick effort of not fighting back.

What was he supposed to do, hit the General Magistrate of the Republic? Pin his arms? Sit on him? This frail, elderly man? No. Verán, Tollsha, none of them would understand. Anyway, Tilrey could do so much better than that. He could just not care.

The sense of effort melted away. He felt bizarrely powerful, knowing he could absorb Linden’s anger and so much more. He closed his eyes and silently dared the Magistrate: Do it. Hit me again, use your fist, break my nose. See how much it matters to me.

But no more blows arrived. Tilrey brought his knees to his chest and sat for a bit, barely conscious of blood trickling down his chin. He heard Linden rising and moving around the room, the door opening, then low voices. Linden and a younger man. Tollsha?

Footsteps approached. A hand, not the Magistrate’s, lifted his chin. “Oh shit, he’s bleeding, Fir! I better clean him up.”

Not Tollsha after all. The young man spoke with an accent so familiar it brought fresh tears to Tilrey’s eyes. He was a Laborer, a Skeinsha, and he sounded like Dal’s family, like every factory family in Sector Six. Once Tilrey must have sounded that way himself, at least to Reddan ears.

“Bring him to your room,” the Magistrate said from the bed. “I’ve had enough.”

The fellow Skeinsha helped Tilrey to his feet. He wore a driver’s uniform, but he lacked Vlastor’s military posture and officious manner. “Where are your clothes?” he asked, then snagged them from the floor. “’S okay,” he added under his breath as he guided Tilrey to the door with a hand placed lightly on his back. “This way. Gonna be fine.”

Tilrey tried to dress in the sitting room, but the driver hurried him to the bathroom and gave him a robe, then sat him down and swabbed the drying blood from his lip. “Just a nick,” he said, rubbing in some cream. “Won’t last.”

“The bruises will.” Tilrey’s hoarse voice sounded barely human to him. He could already see an indigo smudge forming on his left cheek. Because he knew it wasn’t the driver’s fault, he added, “I’m . . . Nettsha, I guess. What’s your name?”

“Jorning, Boris.” The driver had a shock of light brown hair and a nice, open young face. He was almost as big as Bror. “Everybody calls me Jorning.”

“What sector are you from?” Tilrey asked, letting a little of the Thurskein sneak back into his own syllables.

Jorning’s face lit up. “You too? Or are you just taking the piss?”

“Born and raised in Sector Six.”

“No kidding! I’m Seven.”

Jorning had a room in the back of the villa, no bigger than Tilrey’s room at home. “I was kinda snoozing when the Fir buzzed me,” he said apologetically as they entered, gesturing at the messy single bed. “You can take that, and I’ll take the floor.”

“We’ll share. You don’t scare me.” Tilrey got into bed and slid over against the wall.

Jorning brought him a painkiller tablet and a glass of water, then got into bed with him and turned out the lights. “How long since you were home?” he asked.

“Two and a half years.” Why did it feel so much longer?

“You’re young.” Jorning was carefully keeping space between himself and Tilrey. “Eight years for me. I enlisted, but I didn’t like it, so I came here to be a mechanic. Then Fir Magistrate’s old driver asked me to replace him.”

“So you’ve been with him a while.”

“Almost four years.” Jorning sounded drowsy. “It’s okay, mostly—not much to do. When I was in the army, they had me patrolling every night in the frozen ass-end of nowhere. Here, y’know, the food’s good, and I don’t get frostbite.”

Tilrey didn’t want to keep the driver up, but he needed to talk. While the cream had numbed his lip, the rest of his body still sang with adrenaline. “Jorning,” he said, “has he ever . . . well, have you ever seen him do what he did tonight? Does he do it to you?”

Tollsha had tried to warn him, he realized belatedly. But the young Upstart hadn’t been nearly clear enough.

Jorning’s long form tensed in the darkness. “He gives me a wallop sometimes, when I’m slow. Never made me bleed. Been worse since the stroke, though, like he’s always angry. Guess he feels Brother Owl sneaking up on him.”

Brother Owl was death—an old phrase that Tilrey had only ever heard in Thurskein. “I tried, you know,” he said in a low voice. The bed was pleasantly warm from Jorning’s body, and he was starting to feel sleepy despite himself. “But I . . . couldn’t.”

Jorning’s nod showed he guessed what had happened in the bedroom. “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Green knows, a body like yours would give a boner to a dead man.” He shifted, widening the distance between them. “Sorry, shouldna said that. I respect you, promise.”

Tilrey laughed. He could almost see the scarlet on Jorning’s cheeks—such an innocent. “I told you, you don’t scare me. But I need my sleep, so if you try anything, I’ll sock you in the nose.”

To his relief, Jorning laughed back. “You just try. I used to box when I was in the regiment.”

“Maybe you could teach me a few things.” If he really did have to live with Linden, Tilrey might need the knowledge. But he pushed the thought away—not now. Deal with it later.

Verán’s household, which had seemed hellish to him a few hours ago, was now somewhere he was eager to escape back to. The majority leader was unpleasant, but he was consistent and manageable. What could you do with a man who took out his rage at his own impotence on you?

Jorning said, “I bet you’d learn quick, a strong lad like you.”

“I bet I would.” Tilrey was good at his job. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen. He added, “Tell me, do you . . . well, you probably wouldn’t. But do you know any reliable way to get him off?”

Jorning didn’t seem to take offense to the question. “Before the stroke, he’d have whores in sometimes. I helped him with them. It wasn’t good, what he wanted me to do to them,” he added after a moment’s reflection. “I didn’t like it. But I made sure they didn’t get hurt bad. No bruises that would show.”

“Could you ‘help him’ with me next time?” Tilrey wanted to ask what he was letting himself in for, but he told himself it didn’t matter. I’ll figure Linden out. I won’t let this happen again. If he had to be hurt, he would know it was coming.

“Sure.” Jorning sighed heavily. “I was hoping the Fir was done with all that.”

“Maybe he is. But with these old men, you know, sometimes it’s more about pride than desire.” Tilrey thought of Verán, desperate to prove his prowess; Linden might claim to be contemptuous of his colleague, but he still wanted his respect.

“I’ll help you if I can,” Jorning said. “It’s good to meet somebody from home. Night, Nettsha.”

“Night.”

Notes:

I'm working on the next chapter of this story as well as the final (?) story of the saga. I'll start posting the latter once I'm at 30k; I'm about halfway there.

I have to say, it's helpful to go back and forth between the two stories. Why does Tilrey have so much trouble claiming power when he finally has a chance? This story lays the groundwork for that, I hope. And here we have the intro to Davita Lindblom, who eventually gets major antagonist status.

Thank you for reading!

Chapter 33: Damaged

Notes:

I was going to have a quite long chapter, but then I got an idea and decided to split it in two, and this is the first half. As you can see, Tilrey's struggling to process what happened and retain some sense of control, and that can mean thinking things that are off-kilter or just plain wrong, like blaming himself when he is the victim here.

In the morning, Vlastor took one look at Tilrey’s face and said, “Oh, fuck. What did you do?”

Tilrey didn’t answer until they’d left Linden’s villa and were walking the short distance back to Verán’s against a howling wind. “I didn’t do a fucking thing except my job.” Out here, with no Upstarts in earshot, he didn’t have to sugarcoat things. “The man can’t keep it up, and he decided that’s my fault.”

Vlastor’s expression softened toward pity—then darkened again. “I’m gonna have to tell the Fir. We can’t hide this.”

“I know.”

Vlastor didn’t have to tell Verán, as it turned out. When they came in, the old man was taking his breakfast alone in the sitting room. “Seven green hells,” he said when he got a look at Tilrey’s face. “What did you do, lad?”

Tilrey glared at the carpet, while Vlastor said awkwardly, “Fir Magistrate was ill-disposed, Fir.”

“Oh, was he?” Verán beckoned, clawing the air. “Nettsha, come and explain yourself.”

Tilrey sat down beside the majority leader. His lip and cheeks were a little tender, but the damage looked worse than it was, in his view. He cursed his milky complexion.

When Vlastor had stepped out, he said, “I obeyed every order from the Magistrate, Fir. Just like I did from you in this room last night.”

“Poor Besha, beet red! I’m not sure he’ll ever recover from you.” Verán clearly relished the memory, but then his smile faded. “You didn’t wise off to Mosha, did you? He’s very old-fashioned. Needs constant deference.”

Tilrey shook his head. There was no way to explain that every word he’d spoken had been bizarrely aggravating to the Magistrate. Anyway, giving details would be viewed as a breach of discretion, which he suspected Verán took even more seriously than Malsha did. “I did my best with him, Fir. Discretion forbids me to say more, but . . . maybe he’s not quite as recovered as his nephew thought.”

To his relief, Verán took the hint. “Green hells, poor Mosha. He used to be quite the cocksman, if the gossip is any indication. Ah well, I suppose infirmity comes for all of us.”

A smug smile tugged at the corner of his mouth—he didn’t have that problem, he was clearly thinking. “What a pity. And I do wish he’d been more considerate. You’re sure you didn’t provoke him? You didn’t mention Malsha?”

Tilrey shook his head. Asking about Adelbert had been a misstep, but Verán didn’t need to know he’d done that. Anyway, Linden had brought up the majority leader’s nephew first. “I swear I was respectful, Fir.”

“Fine, fine, enough.” Verán dug a spoon into his porridge. “I suppose we’ll hold off for a bit on moving you into his apartment. We don’t want you damaged—more damaged. I was going to give you to Svallgren again tomorrow night, but it’ll have to be Gourmanian instead. He’s less likely to gossip, and he might even like you looking worse for wear.”

He pointed the spoon sternly at Tilrey. “But not a word to him or anyone else. Mosha has a quick temper with his inferiors, but he’s competent to hold office. We don’t want anyone thinking otherwise.”

“Why not, Fir?” Tilrey’s curiosity, which Malsha had always encouraged, got the better of him. “I mean, why not be GM yourself? You do such a good job of running the party,” he added, hoping flattery would make the question less offensive.

Verán barked with laughter. “Poor child, you have no idea how things work. Over in Malsha’s party, they’ve cut themselves free of the traditions—they had to, to allow themselves to be led by him. But we do things differently in the Island. Mosha is the General Magistrate because his quant score was a full fifteen points higher than mine.”

Was Verán really talking about the E-Squareds, a test they’d all taken a single time when they were eighteen? “But . . . that was so long ago, Fir.”

Tilrey’s disbelief must have looked comical. Verán laughed again. “Shut your mouth, boy, you look like a raving idiot. I wouldn’t expect you to understand.”

***

Gourmanian winced when he saw Tilrey’s bruises. “I heard you took a spill on your skis yesterday.”

“He’s learned his lesson about being careful, Fir,” Vlastor said grimly. “He went off-trail and straight over a precipice. We’re lucky he doesn’t have a concussion.”

Tilrey hadn’t been on skis since his time with Malsha. He said nothing and tried to look contrite.

Gourmanian wasn’t that gullible, though. He was gentle with Tilrey that night, insisting on pleasuring him with his mouth and refusing to use the usual restraints. When they had finished and were resting in each other’s arms, he said, “You went to Mosha Linden, didn’t you?”

“I saw him, Fir.” He couldn’t confirm what had happened, but he didn’t have to deny anything, either.

“The man’s always had a short fuse, and he seems to get worse every year as he loses his faculties.” Gourmanian sat up and tugged Tilrey’s head into his lap. “I hope Visha gives him a talking to. I hate seeing you this way.”

“It looks worse than it is, Fir.” But Tilrey couldn’t help probing a little. “I thought you liked seeing me hurt.”

“Verdant hells, that’s not the same!” The Councillor stroked his hair. “A little hurt is different, and you like that, too, don’t you?”

Tilrey remembered how it felt to be hauled onto Gourmanian’s lap and spanked; yes, he liked that. It put him on another plane, where his body burned with need and nothing else mattered.

But hadn’t he also felt that way when Linden was hitting him, just a little? Dizzy and focused at the same time, every nerve in his body straining with overstimulation? It wasn’t quite the same: He’d been unnerved and angry, and his cock certainly hadn’t been aroused by the beating. But some other, heretofore unknown pleasure center in his brain had clicked on. He’d felt high.

And Verán had been so annoyed to see him “damaged.” That gave him a stealthy pleasure.

“I do like it, Fir.” He burrowed his face into the Councillor’s dressing gown. “Sometimes I need it. Anyway, it takes more than a few measly slaps to hurt me. I’m strong.”

***

Vlastor walked Tilrey home in the morning but didn’t follow him inside. “I have to go pick up supplies,” he said in the coldroom. “The Fir’s got a guest. You go in and pour the tea for them.”

“A guest?” After his work nights, Tilrey never liked seeing anyone until he’d been able to shower, preferably hole up in his room for a while as well. He felt raw and exposed on these mornings, and the bruises only made it worse.

“Not that kind of a guest. Just some younger relation he’s giving a scolding.”

Tilrey went reluctantly into the sitting room and found himself face to face with Verán and his nephew, Adelbert.

It was their first meeting since the night more than a year ago when Adelbert had lured Tilrey to his father’s villa with promises to help him bring a judicial complaint against Malsha. One look at the scrawny, black-haired, sheepish-faced young man brought memories flooding back.

Tilrey couldn’t believe he’d thrown himself at this pathetic young Upstart, thinking a good fuck might be the revenge on Malsha that Adelbert wanted. The last words they’d exchanged were Adelbert giving him permission to climax.

I actually fucked him. What would Verán do if he knew?

At least Adelbert wouldn’t tell—he was too ashamed. The blood had drained from his face, and he was busy looking anywhere but at Tilrey.

And Tilrey had plenty of experience in keeping his own face blank. “Another pot of tea, Fir?”

“Of course! I was about to ask Bertsha to do it.”

Verán didn’t bother to introduce them, not even when Tilrey returned from the kitchen with the fresh pot. He was busy giving his nephew a scolding, just as Vlastor had said, and he didn’t seem to care if Tilrey overheard.

“You came into this world with every advantage, yet you only think of yourself,” he told Adelbert as Tilrey knelt to pour the tea. “This is a family. When you want to get yourself reposted, you tell me.”

“I didn’t think you’d care.” Adelbert’s shoulders were hunched, but his tone was defiant. “It’s a perfectly respectable job for my R-level. And,” he added with more vehemence, “I’ll be damned if I have anything more to do with the Judiciary. Do you know what my job actually was, Uncle? They had me using fancy words and Whyberg quotes to justify decisions that had fuck-all to do with justice. Do you have any idea what happens when a Laborer accuses one of us of rape?”

The word made Tilrey blink, as if Adelbert had lit a match in his face. But he finished pouring with steady hands and sat down.

Verán didn’t seem bothered. “A nasty word, and a notoriously difficult charge to prove.”

“Maybe. But I can tell you it suddenly gets a lot easier when it’s one of us accusing one of them.”

Tilrey examined the carpet, wishing he had something to do with his hands so that he would stop thinking about wringing the young Upstart’s neck. Adelbert had no right to use the word “rape”—not after he’d tricked and trapped Tilrey into bed and then handed the judicial complaint over to Malsha so that Malsha could mock Tilrey with it. Why was he posing as a crusader for justice when he was as bad as any of them? Did it ease his conscience?

Verán said, “You’re trying to distract me from the real issue, which is that you’re falling back into bad habits. A posting in the Bureau of Diversions, really? So you can get close to your precious stream makers again?”

“I won’t be ‘close’ to them. I’ll be editing and censoring their work. But at least I’ll be doing something I don’t hate.”

Verán sighed. “I don’t want you working too closely with Drudges, Bertsha. I don’t want you tempted.”

“Tempted to what?”

“You know what I mean.”

“You think I’m slumming with this new job? You think I’m going to try to Lower myself again?” Adelbert laughed wildly. “This might surprise you, Uncle, but stream makers don’t want to be my friends. They have too much sense to come between me and my family, especially after how that turned out last time.”

Tilrey wondered if Verán had found ways to punish the Laborers who had “tempted” Adelbert to take a role in their stream. He hoped not.

“I’m glad to hear that, but I don’t trust them to keep their distance. A bleeding heart like yours is irresistible to an ambitious Drudge. They’ll try to exploit you for your connections.” Verán picked up Tilrey’s hand absently. “I’ll tell you what, Bertsha. I’ll allow this posting if you marry and get to work on giving your father a grandchild.”

Adelbert’s laughter was tinged with acid this time. “You’re forgetting I’m an adult, Uncle. You have no power to allow or forbid me to do anything. Anyway, Dad doesn’t want a grandchild. He knows I plan to apply for Sanctioned Celibacy.”

“Your father is a dreamer,” Verán snapped, his fingers tightening around Tilrey’s. “If he hadn’t made a bad match with an empty-headed beauty, I wouldn’t have to deal with you at all.”

“Oh, we’re being honest now?” Adelbert laughed again, but it sounded forced. He stretched and rose from the sofa, clearly trying to make the movements look more languid and indifferent than they were. “Fine. You despise me except as a tool to continue your family line. I don’t choose to be a tool. I think we’re done here—unless you want to threaten me with moral rehab again?”

“I don’t despise you, Bertsha.” Verán released Tilrey’s hand and stroked his knee instead—using me like he uses his cane, Tilrey thought, wondering why the old man needed a prop right now. “You’re a young man of many gifts, as I already said, but we all have our duties. We all make sacrifices to the greater good.”

“Aren’t some people’s sacrifices a little bigger than others?”

“If you’re talking about yourself—” Verán began.

“Not this time.”

Tilrey felt the pressure of a gaze on him. He looked up straight into Adelbert’s eyes, seething like gas flames.

“Did you do that to him?” Adelbert asked his uncle. “Is that part of his duty? Letting you beat him black and blue?”

Tilrey tensed up—couldn’t help it. He opened his mouth to say that no one could beat him black and blue without his consent.

No, he couldn’t say that. Who consents to being beaten? But he hadn’t resisted, after all, when he could easily have overpowered Linden. So yes, he supposed he’d consented in some sense, just as surely as he’d consented to fucking Adelbert while knowing it was a terrible idea.

In his mind, he saw Malsha looking dubious. Shaking his head. And Tilrey repeated firmly to himself: No one can make me do anything. I don’t need Adelbert’s pity.

Before he could say anything rash, Verán replied to his nephew’s outburst: “Now you’re reaching, Bertsha. Don’t bring the piece into it—he’s a good lad.” His hand closed possessively on Tilrey’s knee. “No one’s been beating him. He took a tumble skiing, as reckless boys do. But I can assure you he knows his duty better than you know yours.”

***

Vlastor looked sadly down at Tilrey. “You’re not eating.”

“I ate half.” Arguing took energy, so Tilrey rolled toward the wall.

“Sit up. Let me see your face.”

“It’s only been three days!” But Tilrey let the driver pull him into the light and examine him.

The bruises meant Verán couldn’t show him off at parties for the remainder of the recess, which was nice. But Verán also wanted him to stay out of sight, and he missed being outdoors. Listening to Verán’s grandchildren come in from their skiing excursions, banging boots and poles around and yelling happily, summoned painfully vivid memories of his own childhood.

In those days, he had taken all kinds of risks on the slopes, the one place where his shyness never held him back. His mother shook her head at the bruises and scrapes, and sometimes she lectured him on the dangers of concussion—but affectionately. His dad had been the same way, she said.

Malsha had let him cross-country ski, but downhill was out of the question. “We can’t damage you.” Now here he was, damaged anyway. Apparently it couldn’t be avoided.

What Vlastor saw on Tilrey’s face clearly didn’t please him. “Eat the rest,” he said, setting the bowl down again in Tilrey’s lap.

“I’m not hungry.” Tilrey sifted around for an excuse. “I filled up on sticky rice cakes last night.”

The truth was that he wasn’t sleeping well. Often when he tried to drift off, the sensations of the beating returned in a half dream, making him sit bolt upright. He would lie back down, determined to sleep, but the agitation made acid curdle in his stomach and surge up his throat. And he would sit up gasping again, this time because he couldn’t take a full breath.

Since he couldn’t change what happened in his sleep, he preferred to keep his stomach close to empty. There was no point in explaining that to Vlastor, though, who would just give him an antacid that wouldn’t work.

With a sigh, he dug his fork into the bowl of noodles and made a show of taking a bite. “You overfeed me, and I’m fine. Big and strong enough to take twenty more thrashings.”

When he looked up, Vlastor was frowning. “Don’t talk like that.”

“Why not? Everybody says I’m strong.”

“Don’t . . . joke about it. It’s not funny, you being hurt.”

Tilrey really did laugh then. He didn’t know why he found it so funny, Vlastor drawing the line for him. But he kept chuckling as he forced down the food, until the driver got exasperated and said, “I don’t understand you at all.”

Chapter 34: Exposed

A few days later, they were back in the city. But instead of bringing Tilrey to the Gym on their first afternoon back, Vlastor drove him all the way out to the Outer Ring. He headed for a low, gray building that loomed from the blue midday dusk, swathed in whirling snowflakes, sprawling across the last few acres before the city ended and the tundra took over.

Harsh white lights showed Tilrey an almost windowless façade. “What’s this place?”

Vlastor didn’t answer. He moored the car in an underground garage and ushered Tilrey out into a lift.

Upstairs, they walked through a seemingly endless series of concrete corridors to an equally vast concrete foyer. The whole place smelled aggressively of disinfectant, reminding Tilrey of Linden’s bedroom. At the far end stood a receptionist’s desk, followed by a checkpoint with armed guards.

And there was a sign: Mental and Moral Rehabilitation Facility for Levels R-1-4.

Tilrey stopped in his tracks. The gray walls, the white uniforms, the echoing footsteps—it all spun sickeningly around him. He had been threatened so many times with this place that all he could say was “No.”

Vlastor tugged him by one arm. “We’re only here for you to see a counselor. I promise.”

Counselor? “I don’t need to see anyone. I’m fine.” Then it dawned on Tilrey. “Did you tell the Fir I’m not eating again?”

“I had to, okay?” Vlastor slung an arm around Tilrey’s waist and walked him toward the desk. “I said it was a minor setback, and he thought this might help. But if it doesn’t help, next time you might have to stay overnight or longer. You might need to get fed through an IV. You understand?”

Tilrey stopped resisting. He could feel the guards’ eyes on him, and he knew they were ready to restrain anyone who got out of hand. “I am eating,” he said fiercely under his breath. “It was just a few meals. I’m not losing weight.”

Vlastor didn’t argue, only kept hold of Tilrey’s arm as if he feared he might turn and run. “We have an appointment,” he told the receptionist.

They waited for five minutes on hard chairs, until a burly young Laborer in clean white scrubs emerged from behind the checkpoint and said, “The counselor’s ready to see you.”

At the checkpoint, the guards scanned both their hand chips and ran another scanner from their heads to their toes. Beyond that, the hallway got narrower and even quieter, if that was possible. The white walls were made of a shiny substance that looked like it would give a little if you touched it. Bashing your head against them would get you nowhere.

It all reminded Tilrey of Int/Sec. The hall was lined with doors, and he found himself straining to hear what was happening behind each of them.

If people were locked up inside, surely they wouldn’t all be silent? Or were the rooms sound-proofed? Occasionally he thought he heard a distant groan or cry, but it was impossible to tell where it was coming from.

Finally the orderly opened a door for them. Vlastor tried to go first, but the orderly blocked the way and said, “You can wait outside.”

“Why?” Vlastor looked so annoyed that Tilrey might have laughed if they’d been anywhere else. “I take care of him. We don’t have secrets.”

The orderly rolled his eyes and beckoned to Tilrey. “Sessions are one-on-one. I don’t make the rules.”

Inside was a small but unthreatening room with two cushioned chairs, soft yellow lights, and a window that showed snow and darkness. In the chair closest to the window sat a young woman wearing a white smock and leggings—a Laborer. She had wispy, dyed-blond hair, a turned-up nose, and an arch smile, as if she had seen hundreds of patients just like him.

“Take a seat,” she said as the door closed, leaving them alone. “My name is Ilskund, Marta. And you’re Bronn, Tilhard Edvard?”

His real name. She must have it in her database. Tilrey nodded but remained standing, looking around. The room wasn’t an office—no desks, filing cabinets, or books. Another kind of interrogation room.

Marta Ilskund had a clipboard on her lap. If she was bothered by what she saw when she looked at him—the earring, the Upstart clothes, the bruises—she gave no sign of it. “I know you’re nervous. Most people are. But I’m here to help.”

Bullshit. Tilrey sat down opposite her. Annoyance replaced fear, sending warm blood rushing through his veins. “I don’t need to be helped. I’m here because of a misunderstanding. My Fir’s driver thinks I’m not eating enough, but he frets over nothing sometimes. I think he’s just trying to impress the Fir.”

Ilskund looked at him. She had dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “You had an accident, too. So your driver told us. Or was it an accident?”

Was she trying to trick him into saying more than he should? “Yeah.” Tilrey allowed himself an eye-roll. “Ski accident.”

The counselor leaned forward. “You may not know this, but nothing you or I say here can be reported to anyone else. For the purposes of your healing, we observe absolute discretion.”

Tilrey understood discretion—kettle boys observed it, too—but he didn’t believe that for a second. “What if somebody confessed to a crime here? Like shirking, or even murder?”

“There are exceptions for crimes that are very serious. Have you committed one of those?”

The tone was deadpan, but a quirk of her mouth told him she was joking. She might even be trying to make him think she was flirting, so he would relax his guard. “Of course not. I don’t get why I’m here,” he said. “I relapsed a little, but now I’m eating again. I’m fine.”

“What did you relapse into?”

“I . . . don’t know.” He couldn’t think of a word for it that wouldn’t make him sound disloyal. “Being a little depressed, I guess. Under the weather.”

“Did an Upstart hit you?”

That made Tilrey’s head jerk upright. So she was trying to trap him! “Of course not.”

“You remember what I told you about confidentiality?”

“Councillors aren’t any danger to me.” She clearly wasn’t fooled, but he didn’t have to lie convincingly. He only had to make sure there was nothing incriminating in the recording of their session—there was always a recording. “How could they hurt me? They’re old men, and I’m young and strong.”

Ilskund scribbled something on the pad in front of her. “You may think your problems are unique,” she said, “but you’re not alone, Tilrey. Twice a ten-day, I go to the Sanctioned Brothel, where I run a group of about twelve young people. It’s a chance for them to talk freely about their work. Some of them show up there with bruises, too.”

“Well, they’re Brothel whores.” That was another fate he had been threatened with, over and over. “I’m not.”

“Whore is an ugly term. An insult.” She frowned at him. “You’re a worker like anyone else, Tilrey, serving a purpose. You should respect yourself.”

I do respect myself. That’s why I don’t want to be here. It wasn’t safe to tell her the truth, but perhaps he could skirt around its edges. “These lads in your group at the Brothel—did they all choose to be where they are?”

Ilskund didn’t look surprised by the question. “Most of them. Some sex workers have second thoughts, though. Some make bad choices that trap them in a posting they don’t like. Is that the case with you?”

Tilrey gazed down at the cold concrete floor. In a detached way, he was aware that his lashes looked fetching when he dropped his eyes, and she was probably noticing. “What if someone tells you they don’t like being that kind of . . . worker? Can you help them?”

“At the Brothel? Sometimes. It depends on how replaceable they are.”

“I’m not replaceable.”

She sighed. “No. You’re what the Brothel lads would call a ‘jewel.’”

Tilrey knew what that was. Tears swelled, and he blinked them angrily away. “Anyway, why would I want to be replaced? You must know I come from ’Skein. I’m the luckiest boy in the world to be here in Redda. I wouldn’t want to be sent back, would I?” I can never go back. Not after everything I’ve done.

“I never said you were lucky. I never suggested you shouldn’t be unhappy, either.” Ilskund seemed to have felt the sarcastic barb he’d aimed at her. “Do you hear that often, Tilrey? That your feelings aren’t valid?”

Oh no, she wasn’t getting him that way, either. “Did I say anything about my feelings?”

“You implied—”

Tilrey raised his head. His knuckles were white on the arms of the chair, and with that same detachment, he realized he was dangerously angry. He should shut up and go blank, right now. It was the only safe way.

Instead, he said, “I don’t have feelings. I don’t need feelings!”

“We both know that’s not true.” Ilskund angled her head, and he could see in her eyes that she pitied him. “You’re allowed to have feelings here, Tilrey, even negative or destructive ones. You’re allowed to express them. It’s the only way I can help you.”

Idiot. Why had he lost control? She’d already confirmed that there was no escape for him. “You say you can help me, but you can’t.”

“I can help you! In all kinds of ways.” The counselor’s pretty dark eyes fixed beseechingly on his. “Upstarts don’t do the kind of work you do, so they assume it can’t be difficult. But it can. One thing that often helps my patients at the Brothel is a breathing strategy.”

He wondered if he’d heard wrong. “I know how to breathe.”

“You’d be surprised how often your body forgets to breathe, actually.” Ilskund’s voice was calm and confident again; this was her area of expertise. “When you let tension or stress disrupt your breathing, you disrupt all the rhythms of your body, including digestion. As a result, you eat less.”

That couldn’t really be why, could it? But Tilrey wasn’t sure of anything anymore. “I can breathe fine.”

“Sap also disrupts our physiological rhythms. If you’re dependent on it, it’s safe to tell me, just for informational purposes. I won’t try to detox you—that would be your Fir’s decision.”

“I’m not addicted!” How could she think he was like Lus, sweet-drowned? “My only problems are ones you can’t help me with.” For instance, figuring out how to bring Magistrate Linden to climax before the man lost his erection. He would have to ask Bror and the others about that. “Have you ever even done this work, Fir’n Ilskund? Do you know what it’s like to be down on your knees?”

“So your work embarrasses you?”

“No!” He shouldn’t have said that. “Nothing honors me more than sucking off Councillors. Believe me. I just don’t understand what it has to do with my breathing.”

The counselor rested her chin on a hand. “Everything has to do with breathing, Tilrey. Would you try taking a deep breath for me? And hold it?”

I don’t want to follow your fucking instructions. But what did he even want?

He wanted to feel safe enough to tell her how much he loathed Councillor Verán, and how much he missed Malsha, and how much he hated himself for missing someone who had chiseled him apart into tiny, jagged pieces. He wanted not to be here. He wanted not to be this person.

She couldn’t give him any of those things. But maybe, just maybe, this breathing thing would help. If he had to let the Magistrate hit him again, just to assuage the old man’s ego, it might be nice to have a distraction.

He took a deep breath and held it while Ilskund counted to seven. Then he let it out for a count of eight, and when she said it was okay, he inhaled again.

After they’d done that several times, the counselor asked, “How does it feel, being fully present in your body?”

“It’s fine. But . . .” Tilrey released one of those deep breaths. It did feel good, like everything was loosening up. “Sometimes I can’t. Sometimes I have to be outside my body.”

Ilskund nodded. She looked a little sad. “Even when you’re dissociating, you can continue to regulate your breathing. That’s what I teach my patients in the Brothel. Whatever’s happening to you, you don’t have to let it compromise your wellbeing.”

She looked straight at him, and there was an edge on her voice—as if she could guess what kinds of things happened to him. As if she actually cared. “You won’t be doing this forever. You need to look after your health, Tilrey.”

I don’t “need” to do anything. But she’d spoken as if he were more than a “jewel” that had to be polished and maintained. As if he were a person. As if he would still have a reason to exist after his looks faded.

She was right. He knew these things, too, but he hadn’t been able to hold the knowledge in his head for a while.

“Yeah,” he said. “I guess I do need to look after myself.”

“Yes. Now, shall we try again?”

***

A few days later, Verán called Tilrey to him in the morning and examined his face carefully, making him move from one light source to another.

“Good as new,” he said at last. “Not a trace.”

Tilrey could have told him that. But he stayed still, with his hands behind his back and his gaze down. Verán liked him quiet, and it was good practice for when he would have to go live with Linden.

He breathed the way the counselor had taught him to. It did help.

Verán patted the sofa, and Tilrey sat down and turned his head and allowed himself to be kissed. Not a tender, cruel, intimate kiss like Malsha’s, but a cold ritual—a tongue slipped briefly into his mouth to remind him who he was and whom he belonged to.

“Mmm. You’re a dull boy, not like Ansha, but you’re lovely.” Verán laughed softly as if it were a private joke. Then he pushed Tilrey away and said, “From now on, I permit you to walk around the city by yourself. Go to the Café. Have fun. Just be back in Vlastor’s sight by five. Where’s my cane?”

Tilrey gave it to him. Verán got up, still smiling as if he were basking in his own magnanimity. “What do you say?” he admonished as he reached the door.

“Thank you, Fir.” The words came automatically, but they were still hard to get out.

***

Tilrey took a few hours to leave the apartment. It was still early, not his usual Gym or Café time, and his room felt safer. But he didn’t want Vlastor to come in and start fretting over him again, so eventually he forced himself to bundle up and plunge out into the cold.

Vlastor couldn’t say a thing about it. The Fir had given Tilrey permission.

The cold—it felt different when he was alone. Waiting for the tram that would bring him the short distance to the Café and Library, he stood outside the heated enclosure, which Vlastor would never have allowed. He enjoyed how the wind stung his cheeks, making his blood pump faster and his senses sharpen. It reminded him of being hit, but without the pain or the humiliation.

Everyone was at work. The tram was empty except for a few Laborer functionaries with afternoon shifts, who took no special notice of Tilrey.

Stepping off it onto the platform, he dreaded crossing the city’s wide open spaces alone. None of that felt comfortable or natural anymore. But he practiced his breathing again, and the short walk wasn’t so bad. Delicate flurries of windblown snow veiled the looming skyscrapers, making him feel camouflaged, too.

The nearly deserted Café was warm, bright, and pleasant after the outdoors. Tilrey had planned to go straight to the Library and bury himself in the stacks. But it was such a novelty to be alone here that he decided to pause and drink a foamy tea.

Lersh, a weathered man with a scowl, was staffing the counter alone. According to kettle boy gossip, Lersh had worked at the Sanctioned Brothel when he was younger—“Just as a Mouth,” Lus had said. “But he was a lot better looking then, I have to assume.”

Tilrey wondered if Ilskund’s group was full of younger versions of Lersh. What did it do to a person to be designated a “Mouth” and forced to suck cock after cock every night? Surely his own life was better than those lads’—physically easier, anyway. He was fussed over and taken care of. He wouldn’t end up looking like that.

“The usual, Rishka?”

“Yes, please.” Lersh wasn’t friendly, but he wasn’t unfriendly either, and he knew Tilrey’s name.

Rishka. Sometimes he almost forgot how, growing up, he had refused to let anyone but his mother use the extra diminutive. Tilrey was already a nickname, he told Dal and Pers whenever they tried to shorten it. But when his mother said Rishka, caressing the sh, all her love for him was in those consonants, along with her love for his dead father—whose name, Edvard, was Tilrey’s middle name.

Varsha, she’d called her husband. Tilrey remembered a day like this, cold and snowy, when he and his mother were shuffling around the outdoor track on cross-country skis. He was about eight, and the distance seemed enormous. His mother matched her pace to his and cheered him on. Varsha could do this track in two hours by the time he was your age—or so he claimed. C’mon, Rishka. Just a little farther and we can go in.

He wasn’t supposed to think about Thurskein or his mother. But the Café was so welcoming, with its golden wood floors and bright track lights and wide windows. Maybe it was safe to remember, just for the time it took Lersh to prep and serve his drink.

If his mother could see him now, would she forgive him? She didn’t think much of this kind of work, but surely she would understand that he was lucky in the grand scheme of things. He lived in Redda, and he was not a Mouth. Everyone agreed that him being here was for the best, even Bror and angry Celinda and Marta Ilskund, who had told him to take care of his health for the future.

The tea had a thick, perfect cap of foam. Tilrey tried to scan his chip, but Lersh waved his hand away—I know you. He thanked Lersh and made his way to his favorite window table, only to find someone already sitting there.

Adelbert Verán.

For a moment, Tilrey couldn’t move. Like a prolonged electric shock, memories of the last few months jolted his body—dread and uncertainty and shame.

Breathe. One, two, three, four. This was his fault. He shouldn’t have allowed himself to loosen his control, even for a minute.

He turned away, hoping Adelbert hadn’t noticed him. But of course the young Verán leapt up and intercepted Tilrey before he could settle somewhere else. “I swear, I didn’t know you’d be here. Could we talk for a second? Please?”

The look on Adelbert’s face was so guilty and anguished that Tilrey’s stomach turned over. “Not sure we have anything to say to each other, Fir.”

“Please. Please.” Tears glistened in Adelbert’s blue eyes. He really would have been a good stream actor, Tilrey thought as he allowed the young man to lead him back to the window table.

A Verán had given him an order, and he didn’t want to make a scene by disobeying. He would slip away soon enough.

Adelbert ushered him into a chair with a view. Such perfect manners, these Veráns, Malsha would have said sarcastically.

“I just wanted you to know one thing. One thing.” Adelbert propped his skinny elbows on the table, black hair in his eyes. His worried gaze probed Tilrey. “Who really hurt you, anyway? I know it wasn’t an accident.”

Tilrey took pleasure in staring past the young Upstart at the city, which was lightening to dusk as solar noon approached. It wasn’t safe for him to tell the truth or even to mention Magistrate Linden—though he wished he could ask Adelbert something.

Linden had spoken regretfully, strangely of Adelbert—had the young man slept with him? Tilrey could imagine an Upstart with a perverse streak being attracted to Malsha, but Linden was a stretch.

He didn’t ask. Instead, he turned Adelbert’s question back on him: “Are you wondering how well I get on with your uncle, Fir? Are you worried I might tell him what we did together?”

“I’m not worried about that! I know you wouldn’t tell him. I was just hoping Uncle didn’t . . . well, I didn’t think he would hurt you. But maybe he would?”

Tilrey felt a prickle of empathy despite himself. It must be hard being a Verán. “It wasn’t your uncle, Fir,” he admitted. “You know I can’t give you a name. What would you do—report that person to the Judiciary? Just like you did with Malsha?”

Adelbert’s lip wobbled, and his eyes glistened. “You’re harsh. But I guess I deserved that.”

You certainly did. “So, what’s this one thing you want to tell me, Fir?”

“I need you to know none of it was my idea.” Adelbert spoke quickly, contemplating his delicate hands on the table. “I was curious about you, and I liked talking to you. But I didn’t want to trap you for revenge or any other reason. I didn’t want to sleep with you. Well, I mean, I didn’t not want to, but I didn’t want to pressure you into it. It was just the only way I could think of to keep you from going back to Malsha’s villa, and I had to do that because . . .” He sighed. “I didn’t want Malsha to see the complaint you wrote against him, either. I really didn’t. I hope he didn’t hurt you too badly.”

Tilrey drew himself up in the chair, his jaw clenching as his whole body went tight. Was Adelbert enjoying his pain? Or didn’t he realize that Tilrey had worked diligently to bury certain episodes in his life?

“I’m fine now, Fir.” The words were almost as difficult to say as thank you to Adelbert’s uncle earlier today. “If it wasn’t your idea to trap me, whose was it?”

“He hasn’t told you? I thought he might want to gloat, now that he doesn’t have to worry about Malsha. But I guess he doesn’t want my uncle to know, either.”

“Know what, Fir?” Tilrey searched his brain for someone who could have plotted Adelbert’s twisted scheme. Someone who wanted something from Malsha enough to abduct his kettle boy as leverage. “Who are you talking about? Do I even know him?”

Adelbert hung his head. “It’s not safe for me to say. This person is close to my uncle. If he told Uncle it was all my idea, Uncle would believe him. And he might use it as an excuse to pack me off to moral rehab until I marry the match of his choice.”

Again Tilrey felt a momentary desire to throttle Adelbert. How could he be so fixated on his own interests? How could he tease Tilrey with this information and refuse to reveal it?

Then he remembered moral rehab, and he understood. Adelbert feared the same things Tilrey did: being restrained, imprisoned, drugged, force-fed. He would never have to endure what Tilrey had endured, but even he could be taught how it felt to have no control over any aspect of your life. He lived in dread of that possibility.

Tilrey leaned toward Adelbert. He softened his voice. “Please tell me whose idea it was, Fir. I swear I won’t say a word to your uncle—he wouldn’t believe me anyway. I’m not stupid enough to try to play different Councillors against each other. I just want to know, for my own sake.”

Adelbert shook his head. “You’re scaring me a little. Again. When you insisted on leaving my father’s villa that night, I thought you might shove me down and make a run for it.”

And I should have. There was a certain pleasure in seeing Adelbert squirm. Had Malsha done this to Adelbert? Had he enjoyed it, too?

But Tilrey wasn’t Malsha, and he couldn’t afford to savor Adelbert’s fear if he wanted an answer. He said, “When Malsha’s driver brought me back to the villa that night, he gave me vexonil—enough to make me sick for days. I couldn’t walk or even sit up. Malsha read me the Judicial complaint that you or someone else had passed to him. He got a chuckle out of it. The whole episode convinced him that I needed to be broken, once and for all. So that’s what he did.”

The blood had drained from Adelbert’s face. His great blue eyes looked haunted. “I’m sorry. I never meant . . . he tried to tell me Malsha wouldn’t really hurt you. I should have known better.”

“Too late for that now, Fir.” Tilrey made his voice a lash. “You did what you did. All I’m asking is for you to tell me who masterminded your scheme so I can watch out for him in the future. Is he an Islander?”

“He won’t try to hurt you again! You were just a pawn. He wanted something from Malsha—I never understood what. He wouldn’t tell me.” Adelbert sighed heavily, as if he were in pain. “Swear to keep it to yourself, for both our sakes. He’s a Councillor now, and he has a lot of power. My uncle favors him.”

That narrowed it down. Only a handful of Islanders had been elected in the last cycle. And, all at once, Tilrey knew: “Besha? Fir Linbeck?”

Besha, who had given Tilrey a glass of water during the Spring Fling. Who hadn’t taken a turn. Who had been kind enough to tell him that Malsha wasn’t dead, but alive in Harbour.

Besha, who leered but was sometimes helpful. Who distracted Verán with his bad jokes and fawning. Who entertained the inner circle with his eager moans while Tilrey sucked his cock.

Besha had trapped Tilrey into writing that complaint. Besha was the reason he had thrown himself at Adelbert. Adelbert was responsible, too, of course, but Tilrey had been blaming the wrong person.

A shudder ran over him. He felt incredibly tired.

“You won’t say anything, will you?” Adelbert pleaded. “Not to my uncle, not to Besha, not anyone. He could hurt both of us.”

“I won’t say anything.” Not now, anyway.

Adelbert was right—Besha could hurt both of them. Verán liked Tilrey enough to call him a “good lad,” but he didn’t like him enough to listen to much he had to say. Accusing his favorite would only get Tilrey in trouble. Anyway, Tilrey couldn’t make a case against Besha without knowing what he’d extorted from Malsha in the first place.

No, there was no point in trying to get Besha in trouble with Verán. But now he knew that Besha had secrets, and he could watch and wait and learn what they were. One of these days, the knowledge might come in handy.

He felt wrung-out and lightheaded, as if he had climbed a mountain. Maybe manipulating Upstarts wasn’t so hard, after all.

“Thank you, Fir,” he told Adelbert. “I appreciate your telling me. Now, will you please leave me alone?”

***

Tilrey didn’t go to the Library or the Gym. He sat where he was, staring out at the lights of the city, watching the feeble dusk give way to darkness again. Then he realized with a start that Bror and the others would arrive soon. He couldn’t face them right now.

At least Bror and Ansha hadn’t seen the bruises. He was grateful for that. Bror would have been really worried, while Ansha might have thought it was Tilrey’s fault somehow.

Was it his fault? As he pulled on his boots in the coldroom, he tried to remember the strange things Linden had said that night, insulting him and Verán and Malsha almost in one breath. None of it made sense.

What he did know was this: He had enjoyed Adelbert’s anguish and the whole process of squeezing the truth out of him. He knew something incriminating about Besha now, even if it wasn’t enough to hurt him, and the knowledge felt warm and good. The thinnest sliver of power was better than nothing.

What had the Magistrate said? I don’t abide gaudy-feathered birds here. If Tilrey wanted to survive the Island Party, he mustn’t speak out of turn, stand out, even look an Upstart too closely in the eye. He needed to be as dense and impervious as a block of wood—or seem that way.

It was a simple, solid plan. So why couldn’t he face Bror and the others? Why couldn’t he go home, either? Why was he leaving the Café and walking outside past the tram platform until he found a little ledge that jutted from the building into the darkness?

The ledge was encrusted in layers of snow and ice. It was tucked out of sight, but standing there, he could look up at the bright windows of the Café.

The tables were starting to fill. Lower Sector functionaries and Uni students chattered over their steaming pots of tea and games of four-square.

Hidden by darkness, Tilrey sat down carefully. The ledge was narrow, and it was eight stories down to the street. But he didn’t plan to jump—he wouldn’t even swing his legs over the edge. He would just sit here a moment and enjoy his freedom.

He knew in an abstract way that it was dangerously cold. But the snow had tapered off, the wind was low, and he had his thick coat, hat, boots, gloves, and a scarf knotted securely over his face.

Through a gap between two tall buildings, he saw a last streak of twilight blue in the west. Watching it fade by degrees made him think of rambling in the woods with Malsha. And before that, of returning from a ski race with his mother and Dal, seeing a crescent moon rise.

A tram pulled up to the platform, twelve or so yards to his right. People got off and packed themselves into the building. Others got on, shivering and rubbing their gloved hands.

Was it that cold? He closed his eyes and focused on the wind against his cheeks—yes, it was stronger now. Stinging, bracing, like Linden’s slaps. His eyes watered. His fingers were numb inside the heavy, padded gloves, so he rubbed them the way the commuters had.

He had no intention of risking frostbite or any kind of injury. He just didn’t feel like getting up.

“It’s nice out here,” he said quietly to Malsha as the sky cleared and the stars shone. “Much better than that room where they hide me so no one can see. I think I want to stay here.”

Malsha was sitting beside Tilrey now. You need to go in, love.

I will, but not yet. I don’t know what to do about the Magistrate. I can’t please him, and he scares me.

Nothing should scare you if you’re clever enough.

I know. But . . .

He had no words to explain, so he let the images flow through his head in vivid color, knowing Malsha could see them, too.

He saw himself bruised again. He saw Bror concerned, raging, powerless. He saw himself enduring Linden’s blows—stoically at first, then beginning to enjoy the pain. He saw himself craving the adrenaline rush of a beating. Provoking it, even begging for it, because anything was better than being a senseless block of wood.

I can’t become that person. CAN’T. But I’m so weak.

You’re stronger than you know, Malsha insisted.

I don’t want Mom to know. She should think I died.

You could still make her proud.

“I can’t! I can’t!”

He shouted the words aloud. Malsha was pulling on his arm, trying to get him to stand up and walk, and he was shoving Malsha away. When had Malsha turned from a memory into a physical presence? “Stop it! Let me be!”

“Get up, you fool kid! You’re gonna lose your fingers and toes!”

A familiar voice—not Malsha’s. Tilrey opened his eyes—when had he closed them? He saw Lersh from the Café, all bulked up in a parka.

The older man was yanking violently on Tilrey’s arm. He bent and tried to lever him upright with a broad shoulder, barking, “Help me!”

Another pair of arms grasped Tilrey in a bear hug, tugging him to his feet. He tried to lash and kick—then stopped, because he didn’t want to send anyone off the ledge.

Anyway, he felt woozy and weightless, as if he were sapped. His perceptions came in flashes sandwiched with darkness. One moment, Lersh and the other man were holding him upright against the wind. The next moment, he was indoors sitting on a hard chair, and Lersh was bending over him and chafing his hands.

“He’s okay, I think. Get a pan of lukewarm water.” The Café manager spat out a couple of oaths, then asked Tilrey, “What the fuck did you think you were doing? Want to end up in moral rehab? Or dead?”

Tilrey shook his head, but it took a while to push words out of his frozen throat. By that time, they had his boots off and his hands in the pan. Lersh held a cup of steaming tea to Tilrey’s lips. The other employee rubbed his toes with a warm cloth, careful not to heat them too quickly.

He didn’t resist. They were just doing their jobs. But he did say, “You won’t tell?”

Lersh began cussing again, quietly and methodically. “You know what would’ve happened if you froze to death down there? Fir Verán would’ve fucking gutted me, that’s what. I’m just lucky Jas spotted you from the window.”

“Damn lucky,” agreed the other employee, a sturdy younger man.

The tea felt good going down. Tilrey was sorry to have made so much trouble for two fellow Laborers who were just trying to do their jobs. He hadn’t meant to, but there was no use in explaining.

“It was the sap,” he lied. “Fir Councillor gives me a lot, and I took a nip too many while I was sitting there. I promise it’ll never happen again.”

Lersh gave him the cup now that he could hold it steady. “It better not. You drink that, and then Jas’ll take you home on the tram. I see now why Fir Councillor had the driver babysitting you.”

Tilrey opened his mouth to say that wasn’t Verán’s reason at all. What came out was “I’m sorry.”

“I hope so,” Lersh said. “Jas, don’t let him out of your sight till he’s safe inside the Fir’s apartment. That’s the party’s jewel. I gotta get back to work.”

Notes:

Happy new year, everyone! Work deadlines are weighing on me these days (as in, no holidays for me!), but I wanted to get this chapter up because it was mostly done. And once I get out from under this stuff, I'll start posting the new story, as well as more chapters of this. Thank you so much for reading, now more than ever. <3

Chapter 35: Bored

Notes:

I just want to thank all the askers on Tumblr for their Bror/Tilrey ideas, and yes, I may have used some of them. ;) Huge thanks for the inspiration and encouragement. There will be more.

July, year 344

Tilrey was bored. Sitting fully clothed in the armchair beside Fir Verán’s bed, he tried to decide whether the sounds of sex were more embarrassing when you were the one being fucked or when you were a third party.

A few feet away, Ansha was down on all fours, naked, with Verán huffing and puffing on top of him. Tilrey couldn’t see the clock, but it seemed to be lasting an eternity.

“Oh, yes! So good! Please, Fir, more!”

Poor Ansha—how was he supposed to keep up his fake enthusiasm for twenty or thirty minutes straight? Tilrey knew from experience that by this stage it really hurt, and that Verán wasn’t touching Ansha’s cock at all.

There was silence except for harsh panting, as Verán took a break from his labors. Then: “Turn over, lad. I need a better angle.”

Ansha rolled onto his back. Tilrey tugged at his stiff collar, wishing he could remove the constricting tunic. He was happy not to be where Ansha was tonight, but he didn’t love being a witness, either.

His hair was back to its natural color, and he hadn’t had to deal with Magistrate Linden since that first time about seven months ago. There had been no more visits to the moral rehab counselor. Tilrey was eating normally and walking around the city and seeing Bror and his other friends. He understood Verán’s and the other Islanders’ quirks well enough now that they couldn’t surprise him. Verán had even allowed him to remove the earring (or, to be more accurate, ordered him: “That looks stupid. Take it out.”).

The days were long, and life was about as easy as it could be. Being bored, he decided, was good. It was good.

“Verdant hells!” Verán was back at it. “No, don’t let your hip fall, lift your leg—yes, yes, that’s it!”

Ansha moaned showily. “You’re so big, Fir!”

“You shameless little slut. Scream for me!”

Ansha moaned again, louder, trying to hasten the majority leader’s climax. Tilrey shuddered. He would never do that, no matter how much Verán wanted it, no matter how pragmatic it was to cater to the man’s desires. Some choices were still his.

“Green, green . . . hills and valleys!” Verán uttered a long, braying cry, back arched and head thrown back. With a gasp, he collapsed on top of poor Ansha.

Tilrey listened to the clock tick. Another eternity seemed to pass before Verán rolled over, releasing Ansha, and reached for the sap vial on the headboard shelf.

“Mmm, thank you, Fir.” That was Ansha, licking sap from the majority leader’s palm. “That was epic, even for you. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to stand up again.”

Low laughter from Verán. “I think Nettsha’s jealous.”

“I bet he is, Fir. Shall I fetch him?”

“Please.”

Still Tilrey didn’t move. He waited for Ansha to leave the bed and come over.

“Time to join the party.” Ansha leaned over Tilrey and unbuttoned his collar. That was better—easier to breathe. Tilrey offered no resistance as Ansha unhooked his tunic at the waist and tugged the bulky garment off him.

They’d been through this undressing ritual many times. Ansha’s hands slid under his stretchy shirt, and Tilrey raised his arms so Ansha could pull it over his head. Next, Ansha went to his knees, slipped off Tilrey’s indoor boots and socks, and stroked the arch of his left foot, kissing it. He reared up again between Tilrey’s legs and undid his fly. Tilrey lifted his hips so Ansha could peel off his trousers, his fingertips brushing Tilrey’s thighs and calves.

Was Verán even watching? From what Tilrey could see, the man was more interested in his sap vial.

That didn’t matter to Ansha. Once he had the trousers off, he planted a soft kiss on Tilrey’s lips and coaxed him to his feet. “Come on now, sweetheart.”

They went to the far side of the bed, where Tilrey lay down and Ansha bent over him and caressed his cock through his briefs, crooning, “Oh, so beautiful. What shall I do with him, Fir?”

No answer from Verán, who had relaxed into his nest of pillows. Ansha gave Tilrey a deeper kiss—soft lips, eager tongue—and began stroking him in earnest. “Oh, he’s hard, Fir. Shall I suck him off? Or I could fuck him. Would you like that?”

Ansha knew what he was doing. Tilrey closed his eyes and arched his back, his pulse racing as the delicious pressure mounted in his groin. At least Ansha would know to tell him to come; he seemed to have figured that out without any mortifying explanations.

“Oh, so beautiful. So hot. So good.” Ansha flicked a nipple with his tongue, then slithered down until his face was between Tilrey’s legs and mouthed his cock through the thin, nubby fabric, sending tendrils of sensation up Tilrey’s spine. “Ohhh,” he moaned, cheek against Tilrey’s thigh. “You spoil me, Fir. He’s so gorgeous. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

Tilrey glanced over at Verán. The old man’s head had fallen back against the pillows, and his eyes were closed.

“Ansha. He’s asleep.”

Ansha’s moans stopped like a faucet being turned off. He rolled off Tilrey, examined Verán, and then sprawled on his side, loose-limbed. “Shit, and I had you going, too. Want me to finish you off?”

Tilrey shook his head. The arousal was already fading, cold boredom replacing it, and he didn’t feel like letting Ansha see him in the throes of ecstasy. “You sleep between us, okay? In case . . .”

“Right, right.” Ansha rose silently and switched off the bedside lamp and the canopy lights, then returned to take the middle spot in the bed. He didn’t need to be told that Tilrey might have a nightmare.

Not that it happened often. But Verán had a zero tolerance policy for anything that disturbed his sleep, and when something did, he blamed both of them.

The bed had plenty of room for three. Tilrey crept under the covers and hugged them around himself, turning his back to his fellow kettle boy.

He’d gotten off easy tonight, and tomorrow he wouldn’t have to see any Councillors at all.

He was dozing when warm arms wrapped themselves around him. A cold nose pressed against his nape, making him wince. Ansha whispered apologetically, “He rolled over so he’s hogging half the bed again. Why does he do that?”

“It’s okay.” Tilrey relaxed. The full-length pressure of Ansha’s body against his felt all right; it might even help him fall asleep. “Thanks.”

“Why?”

Tilrey didn’t know why he’d said that; his mind was drifting again. “Just thanks,” he murmured as the world slipped away.

***

Sleep felt like being underwater—removed, safe from the world. He liked it almost as much as swimming.

The next day at the Gym, he kicked off the side of the pool and soared through turquoise shadows, savoring the coolness on his bare skin. He was on his twenty-seventh lap, aiming for thirty. Vlastor often scolded him for swimming so many laps because the goggles left marks in his sensitive skin that the Fir might notice, but Vlastor was off doing errands today.

Twenty-eight. He liked to do a tight roll, give the pool wall a fierce kick, and use the momentum to glide underwater. He could cross half the pool without breaking the surface, his powerful legs and arms driving him forward. The weight room was where he developed his muscles, because Upstarts liked them, but the pool was where he actually felt strong.

Twenty-nine. Imagine if this were the open ocean. Imagine if he could endure the arctic cold, like a dolphin, and swim forever away from the shore and people, away and away and away.

On the thirtieth lap, he stayed under even longer, lungs straining. As buoyancy lifted him toward the surface, a dark figure appeared at the edge of the pool.

Tilrey popped his head out of the water, gasping. “Hey, Brorsha.”

“Hey, kid!” When Tilrey finished the lap and climbed out, Bror was there with the towel. “Did you grow gills? I’ve never seen anybody do that.”

Tilrey was still out of breath. “We should race tomorrow.”

“Are you kidding? You’d crush me.” Bror toweled Tilrey’s shoulders, his breath warm against the bare skin. “I came to see if you wanna hang at the Vacants. Celinda’s got a bottle of something.”

***

Tilrey sat on a sofa in the Vacants, bright sunlight shining in his eyes, an empty glass beside him. Ansha bent over him, blocking the light, and kissed him slowly, almost clinically, as if he were dissecting Tilrey’s mouth with his tongue.

“Mmph,” Tilrey said into Ansha’s tonsils. How had this happened? Whatever Celinda had in that bottle, it was strong.

Bright, glassy laughter—Celinda. “He is so wasted.”

Lus was laughing, too. “So, what happened next?”

“I undressed him.”

Tilrey shook his head—the undressing had come before the kissing, he was sure. Ansha’s fingers were in his hair, impatiently tugging his head back, making it a little harder to breathe.

If Bror saw—but Bror was in the bathroom. Anyway, what did it matter? Bror should know Tilrey was no innocent.

Celinda said, “Show us how you undressed him, Ansha.”

“Bror would kill me.” The door hissed behind them, and Ansha drew back. “Oh hi, Bror.”

Lus and Celinda dissolved into giggles. Tilrey wiped his mouth and sat up, trying to straighten his tunic. He’d unbelted it to be more comfortable, and now he couldn’t get it right.

“What the fuck, Ansha.” Bror’s deep voice. “We talked about this!”

“I know, I know, but I was just reenacting last night for them!” Ansha grabbed Bror’s hand, pulling him down onto the sofa. He was clearly tipsy, too. “Anyway, Rishka’s not a kid anymore. You don’t have to protect him from me—we know each other inside and out. Right, Rishka? Tell him.”

The room had been swaying pleasantly for a while, reminding Tilrey of the shadows in the pool. Now it was starting to steady, and he didn’t want it to.

Of course they all knew he and Ansha performed for Verán. Things like that didn’t stay secret among kettle boys. Until now, though, they’d been considerate enough not to discuss it in front of him, perhaps instructed by Bror. Even Ansha had held back.

“Ansha’s right—you don’t have to protect me, Brorsha,” he said. “He’s only a year older than me, and I could break him in half if I wanted to.”

“You just try!” Ansha protested while the others howled with laughter.

“Watch out,” Lus said, playing with Ansha’s hair. “He has gotten awfully big.”

“Ansha,” Bror said sternly.

“It’s okay, really.” Tilrey planted his hand on Ansha’s thigh. He didn’t especially want to be touching Ansha right now, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t started it—he was vague on how that had happened—but it was important to show he didn’t care. “He was just showing me . . . what were you showing me, Ansha?”

“How to actively please a man. You’re so damn lazy, but you get away with it because you’re also so damn irresistible.”

“I’m not lazy with my mouth.”

“Oh, we know about your mouth, but that’s not everything.” Ansha turned to Bror. “I mean, when you’re with Verán, you don’t just lie there, right? You act like you like it?”

“I’m not Verán’s type,” Bror said. “I make encouraging noises, just the basics. But whatever Tilrey does or doesn’t do, no one’s complaining.”

Ansha appealed to Lus. “What about you? When you’re with Verán, you do the whole pretending-to-worship-his-cock thing, right?”

Lus blinked, heavy-lidded. Sapped as usual, he hadn’t drunk much from Celinda’s bottle. “I do what I can. Verán goes on so long, though. You’re lucky he doesn’t like girls, Cela.”

“I’ve had my share of men who want their cocks worshipped, believe me,” Celinda said. “I’m with Tilrey on this, though. Why give them the satisfaction?”

“Oh please, you can’t be an ice queen every time!”

“I don’t fake it unless I have to. If someone wants to see me come, or even pretend to come, he can work for it.”

“Oh, well then! Aren’t we special!” Ansha patted Tilrey’s hand. He seemed to want to start trouble; he must be bored, too. “Here’s a question for you, Cela. Do you think Tilrey could make you come?”

“Ansha!” Bror said. “Stop trying to . . . corrupt him.”

“I think he’s already as corrupt as we are, if that word even means anything.” Ansha raised his eyes to Tilrey—large and brown and winsome when he wanted them to be. “Anyway, the question was for Celinda.”

“You want me to be honest? No, I don’t think he could make me come. He’s a pretty boy who’s used to lying there and letting himself be used. And he’s never learned how to please women. Have you?” Celinda asked, turning to Tilrey.

“Don’t answer that,” Bror said. “It’s none of her business.”

Tilrey’s cheeks burned—Celinda could still have that effect on him. He thought of Vera and tried to manage a cocky smile. “I’ve learned a few things. You might be surprised.”

“I’d have to experience that to believe it.”

“Oooh!” Lus rubbed his hands. “I sense a bet coming on.”

“None of your bets, you demented fucks!” Bror rose from the sofa, tugging Tilrey along with him. “C’mon, Rishka. If you stay here, they’ll tear you apart like wolves. This is what boredom does to people.”

“You’re such a prude, Bror,” Celinda said. “We wouldn’t tear him apart. We just want him to have fun.”

Ansha stretched out a long leg and nudged Tilrey’s calf with his toe. “We want you here, Rishka. We promise not to be mean. Don’t go with Bror, he’s boring! Pleeease staaaay.”

Tilrey tried to protest that he wasn’t afraid of his friends, but Bror refastened his tunic and threw his coat over his shoulders and hustled him out the door.

Once they were outside, Tilrey had to admit he was a little relieved. Being with just Bror was always good, and the fresh air and sunlight sobered him.

“Sorry to bring you and then drag you out of there,” Bror said as they reached the tram stop. “Sometimes they get in such nasty moods, I don’t want to be around them.”

“It’s okay.” Tilrey wished Bror wouldn’t treat him like a child, but he couldn’t bring himself to be truly offended. “I don’t mind them, though. Not even Ansha. I understand him better now—you were right. He’s jealous of me.” Though I still can’t fathom why.

A tram arrived, but it wasn’t headed back to the Core. “He’s a weird kid,” Bror said. “Really cares what Strutters think of him. Look, I know a better place to get a drink, if you want to.”

“Where?” It was about seven at night, but the midsummer sun shone brightly from a harsh pewter sky, igniting blazing sparkles on the snow. A little excursion didn’t seem like a bad idea.

“Ring Six. It’s where I’m from.”

“Yes, please, let’s go!” Tilrey followed Bror onto the tram. It glided out of the stop, bound for the edge of the city.

He knew Redda had an administrative Core and nine Rings, the inner three of which were where most Upstarts lived. Beyond his attempted escape to the Outer Ring, though, he had barely explored.

Ring Six turned out to contain massive factories interspersed with drab concrete dormitory and apartment blocks. Here Tilrey saw none of the founding-era buildings that gave character to Ring One, with their whimsically carved sandstone cornices.

Bror didn’t seem to find his old neighborhood depressing, though, walking with a new spring in his stride. From the tram, he and Tilrey took several flights of dingy stairs down to an outdoor walkway that was nearly at street level, tucked against the belly of an enormous factory.

From there, a steel door brought them into a warm, narrow room with a bar, a row of high-backed booths, and a wall of fiberglass windows that were half covered with packed snow.

The place was stuffy, and so dim that Tilrey’s eyes needed time to adjust. Bror fetched a carafe of clear liquid and two glasses from the bar and ushered him into a booth. “Lucky we got here early. It’ll be a mob scene at eight, when the third shift lets out.”

The room smelled of liquor, dust, and sweat. Behind Tilrey, at the end of the bar, a cylinder played one of those trancey sensory activation videos that were supposed to soothe or titillate you, he was never sure which.

“Rice wine,” Bror said, pouring for both of them. “It’s not nasty like the stuff Celinda had, but pace yourself.”

“You take care of me so well, Brorsha.” Tilrey tried to spin the words in an ironic direction, the way Ansha or Celinda would have. But they came out sincere.

“Aw, cut it out.” Bror gave him a playful kick under the table. “You can take care of yourself. But you don’t know anybody in this city except Councillors, drivers, and kettle boys. You need to see normal folks sometimes.”

Tilrey glanced around curiously at the “normal folks” of Ring Six. They all seemed old and tired—slouch-shouldered factory workers in coveralls, silently suckling pints of dark ale. “Does your whole family live here?”

“Pretty much, and there’s lots of us.” Bror guzzled down rice wine. “My dad’s a machinist here at the solar panel factory, same as his parents before him. My ma works at the greenhouse a few blocks away.”

New places normally made Tilrey uncomfortable, but the wine and Bror’s presence put him at ease. In the cave-like atmosphere, he felt safe enough to ask something he had often wondered: “How did you become a kettle boy, anyway?”

Why would anyone choose this? But he couldn’t say that part. Bror might feel judged.

Bror didn’t seem troubled by the question. “I didn’t want to work at that damn factory like my dad. I thought about enlisting so I could travel, but that’s a gamble. Most new recruits get posted to the Wastes, and I’d lose my mind out there.”

Another gulp from his glass. “So, while I was deciding, I hung out with my cousin who works at the Restaurant in the Core. I did some serving there, and I met high Upstarts for the first time. I was just a dumb kid, so I flirted with ’em. Let them flirt with me. It made me feel special. Slept with some of ’em, men and women both. Then Councillor István invited me home, and even though he was old, I was curious to see a Councillor’s apartment.”

Bror’s mouth quirked at the memory of his naivety. “I showed Fir Councillor a good time, and eventually he asked me to be his piece. My ma told me I was too independent to take orders from a Strutter. But István’s pretty laid-back, and I liked his apartment. The sap, the fancy gym and sauna, the rations, the Café—it sure as hell beat spending ten hours a day on my feet at the Restaurant. So I said yes. And,” he concluded, his gaze meeting Tilrey’s, “I’m not sorry. It’s weird work sometimes, but I don’t mind.”

Tilrey wasn’t surprised to hear a story so different from his own, but it gave him a dull sort of ache. “And your parents? They don’t mind you doing it?”

“Nah. They like to hear my stories about the numbskull things Councillors do. You don’t think your ma minds, do you?”

Tilrey winced inwardly. Since Malsha’s exile, no one had been updating his mother—he couldn’t imagine Verán considering such a thing. Was she worried about him?

“It’s not what she wanted for me,” he said, knowing he was understating the case. “I was supposed to work in our sector’s government, like her. But I had to screw up her plans by getting involved with shirkers.”

“You didn’t screw up anything.” Bror reached across the table and patted Tilrey’s shoulder. “You were a kid.”

“I was of age.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Bror trailed off and pivoted away from Tilrey as the door of the bar swung open, admitting five laughing young women. He rose halfway out of his seat and waved: “Hey, Luziane! Mirella! Over here!”

Tilrey tensed as the girls came over. Some looked Bror’s age, some closer to his own, and they were all pretty and flushed from the cold.

“Tilde, Luzi, Rella, and me went to school together. And this is my kid sister’s friend . . . my second cousin . . .” Bror introduced all of them; Tilrey couldn’t keep the names straight. Their bright eyes moved over him—assessing, admiring, judging.

Three of the women went to the bar, while Mirella slid onto the banquette beside Bror and helped herself to his wine. She had a long braid of dark curly hair and a twinkle in her eye. Her body language was easy and intimate, as if she and Bror had already slept together.

The other remaining girl was younger, with a cap of ashy hair and pointy features. She fetched a fresh carafe from the bar, then helped herself to the seat beside Tilrey. “I bet you’re thinking this place is a dump.”

Tilrey shook his head. Bror was right—it had been so long since he’d talked to anyone but Upstarts, drivers, and other kettle boys that he was at a loss for words.

He glanced to Bror for help. But Bror had an arm around Mirella’s waist and was gazing into her eyes, so Tilrey answered, “Uh, I think it’s fine.”

“No, you don’t! You’re used to the Core, where everything’s clean and fancy. I’m Svella, by the way. Where’s Bror been hiding you this whole time?”

Tilrey’s cheeks warmed. She was making eyes at him, even nudging his shoulder as she refilled his glass. “I’m not actually used to the Core. I’m from Thurskein.”

“I would never have guessed! You don’t have the accent.” Svella gave him a long, meaningful look. “You’re the quiet type, aren’t you?”

“Um. It’s just.”

“No, I like that! It’s sweet.”

“That’s nice of you to say.” The blush was making Tilrey’s whole face hot and heavy, and he couldn’t meet Svella’s eyes. She seemed like a perfectly nice girl, but he didn’t want to flirt with strangers—not now, on his day off.

Svella drank from her glass and bumped his knee under the table. “I just pulled a thirteener—thirteen-hour shift, right? I feel like getting wrecked and going back to my room for a little R and R.” A sly glance at him.

“Oh. I know how that is. Well, sort of.” Again Tilrey appealed silently to Bror. But his friend was absorbed in Mirella, who was half on his lap now, telling him a story about a prank someone had pulled on her shift. “Uh. Are you Bror’s cousin, then?”

“No! Me and his kid sister Leda have been besties since we were little. I had such a crush on Bror when I was thirteen, but he let me down gently. He’s so sweet.”

Svella went on talking and drinking, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol, while Tilrey tried to listen and nod in the right places. Her casual touches distracted him, even unnerved him a little. Celinda’s cruelty made her safe; for all her teasing, he wasn’t sure she really desired him, or perhaps anybody. But this girl was making her attraction obvious.

What if they did go back to her room, and he made a fool of himself by not knowing what to do? Vera had claimed to like what he was doing, but Vera wasn’t experienced. And she and Tilrey had gotten to know each other fairly well before they did all that.

Fucking strangers was part of his job. Why would he want to do it on his night off?

Svella’s knee grazed his again. “You have the most amazing eyes. So blue. What are you thinking about?”

“Uh. Thanks.” Please just shut up. I can’t take any more.

Then her hand was on his cock, and he was hardening to the touch without wanting to. Her faint natural musk combined with low-ration soap wasn’t the most arousing scent, but it brought all his trained reflexes online. He inched away.

Svella released him at once. “Oh, bright Spark, I’m sorry! I’m totally out of line.”

“No, you’re fine,” Tilrey mumbled, looking again to Bror—and, at last, catching his friend’s eye.

Bror grinned knowingly. Then he must have registered Tilrey’s discomfort, because the grin vanished. “Rishka? You okay?”

“I’m so sorry, Brorsha!” Svella rose, her own cheeks red now. “I’m trashed and making a fool of myself.”

“It’s my fault.” Tilrey couldn’t look at her.

“Hey, hey. Everybody calm down. We’re supposed to be having fun here.” Bror whispered something in Mirella’s ear.

Mirella slid off his lap. “Svella, honey, you can’t just grab a guy. Not that it doesn’t sometimes work!” With a saucy smile at Bror, she threw an arm over her friend’s shoulder and led her toward the bar, calling back, “See you soon, Brorsha?”

“I’ll be home for dinner on fourth-day!” Bror replied.

His face was sober when he turned to Tilrey again. “That was my fault. I’m sorry. The way you looked at Celinda . . . well, I thought you might like to meet some girls who don’t tease like she does. Thought you might be into that.”

“I am into girls. Some of them.” Tilrey stared at the tabletop. The idea of being “into” anyone, of choosing whom he wanted to fuck, didn’t compute anymore. But Bror still thought he was normal, and that made him want to believe he could be again, too. “I mean, I’m into boys and girls. I guess. Can we . . .” He swallowed hard. “Can we be alone for a little bit, maybe?”

“Of course!” Bror’s tone was all apology as he rose from the booth and offered Tilrey his hand. “Where do you want to go? Home?”

Tilrey had no desire to return to Vlastor and his little room. “Can we go back to the Vacants? But not with the others? Just us?”

***

This time, they were nearly alone on the tram. As usual, Bror kept a considerate distance from Tilrey, not crowding him the way Svella had. When the tram undocked before they were seated, however, and Tilrey nearly lost his balance, Bror reached out lightning-quick to steady him.

And something strange happened. Although Bror withdrew immediately, the imprint of the touch remained on Tilrey’s arm. Sitting across the aisle from his friend, he felt Bror’s presence like a heat signature in a dark room—pulsing, alive, impossible to ignore.

He remembered what he’d said earlier—You take care of me so well, Brorsha—and yet another blush spread over his face. The words sounded so intimate, so suggestive. What must Bror think of him?

Do I want him? he wondered as they reached Ring Four and got off the tram again. He tried to keep the exact right distance from Bror, a distance that would look normal. Is this how wanting someone feels?

Long ago, on a sunny day in the Vacants when Tilrey was woozy from sap, Ansha had tried to take advantage of him, and Bror had rescued him. And then Tilrey had thrown himself at Bror. What had Bror said then about the possibility of their ever being together?

The memory was hazy. It belonged to another lifetime when Tilrey still took insane risks (he thought now), such as having sex with Vera or meeting secretly with Adelbert. Before the cell in Int/Sec, before the spring fling.

Back then, it still made sense to imagine himself wanting someone. Now sex was either a duty, a crime he could be punished for (if it happened with the wrong person), or something meaningless, like the fooling around the others did in the Vacants.

Couldn’t we do that, too?

Bror knew where all the blocks of vacant apartments were. He took Tilrey to a different building this time and used a pilfered chip to unlock a cozy studio on the twentieth floor.

“I fucked up, didn’t I?” he said once the door closed behind them. “Rella’s friends are always on the prowl after their long shifts. I thought they’d give you a nice time, get your mind off the job. But you’re not into hookups, are you?”

Tilrey sank into a deep, cushioned windowseat and pulled his knees to his chest. He wanted Bror to sit with him; he didn’t want Bror to sit with him. “I don’t know what I’m into anymore. Maybe nothing. I’m sorry—I know you were trying to help.”

Maybe you still can.

Bror settled at the other end of the windowseat, his long legs dangling off it. “You’re stressed, kid. The way you hunch your shoulders when you think nobody’s looking, the way you glance around like somebody might be sneaking up on you—it hurts to see it.”

Was it so obvious? “I guess strangers make me nervous. Mirella seems nice, though.”

“Oh, Mirella. I’ve known her since we were in Prime. We’ll get married one of these days, once I’m done with this posting, and have a bunch of kids.”

“Do you love her?” Without thinking, Tilrey used the more dangerous word for love: ináthera, or breathlessness.

“Ha, I dunno if I’d go that far, but she’s cheeky and smart and she always keeps me on my toes. I like that.”

“I knew somebody like that in Thurskein.” But Tilrey couldn’t bear to talk about Dal. He asked what was on his mind: “Does it really not bother you? The way . . . well, the way they use us?”

Bror’s eyebrows shot upward. “Girls?”

“No, Upstarts! The way they talk about us, like we’re not people.”

“I try not to fixate on it. They can do and say what they want—doesn’t affect me.” Bror met Tilrey’s eyes, frowning. “Don’t listen to Ansha. He thinks that if he licks their boots enough, they’ll start seeing him as more than a toy.”

“Is that how István sees you? As a toy?”

“Nah, not all of ’em are like Verán. You’ve been with better ones, right? Saldegren’s okay.”

Tilrey nodded. He hadn’t been with Saldegren since Malsha’s exile, and sometimes he caught himself missing the man. “I don’t hate Gourmanian. Bror . . .” And then, at last, he asked the question he’d been pushing to the back of his mind for months, trying to pretend it didn’t matter: “Have you been with Linden? Do you know how to make him . . . finish?”

“Green hells, it’s been a while, actually. I haven’t seen Linden since I started out. He’d rather fuck Strutters, is what I heard. Before his sister got married, he insisted on bedding the groom.”

“And the groom said yes?” If Tilrey were an Upstart, he would never sleep with anyone he didn’t want to.

“Strutters whore themselves all the time, sometimes literally and sometimes other ways. That pecking order of theirs is built on power games.” Bror shuddered as if to shake off his thoughts. “So, what’s the deal, Rishka? Have you been with Linden yet? Are you worried about him?”

Tilrey was enormously grateful Bror hadn’t seen the bruises. Better to pretend none of it had happened, and with any luck, it never would again. “Once, during the winter recess. I tried to suck him off, but he couldn’t keep it up. In the end, he just went to sleep.”

“That’s on him, not you.” Bror gave Tilrey’s knee a friendly nudge.

Again Tilrey felt the telltale heat flooding his face. “How would you know? It’s not like you’ve ever . . . sampled my mouth.”

“I trust the tales I hear.” Bror swung his knee away again. “Hey. Know what you need?”

Tilrey shook his head, unable to speak. Could Bror mean . . .?

“These.” Bror raised his large hands. “I give the best massages in the city, and you, my lad, desperately need some loosening up. How about we go over there” —he indicated the bed— “and give it a try?”

Tilrey was disappointed, but it was a while since he’d had a good massage. Malsha had administered one sometimes as a prelude or postlude to sex, but the Islanders never bothered. “Okay.”

It was a relief to ditch his tunic again, and he also stripped off his shirt and trousers without being told. He and Bror always undressed casually in the locker room of the Gym, but this felt different, and he was proud of himself for not making a fuss about it.

After all, he was naked with Ansha so often. He didn’t meet Bror’s eyes as he stretched out facedown on the single bed.

“Got no oil, and the mattress is too soft, but I’ll see what I can do.” Bror began with Tilrey’s left leg, stroking it gently from ankle to knee, then from knee to thigh. His hands were warm and careful, but Tilrey shivered at the touch.

“You okay? Does that tickle?” Bror moved to the other leg. “Damn, those weight circuits are working for you. You came here a skinny kid, and now look at the definition.”

Being strong doesn’t help me. But Tilrey tried to relax into the motion. It would be easy to go limp and feel nothing, the way he did with Councillors, but Bror’s breath on his bare skin was good. He didn’t want to drift away.

Bror crawled up Tilrey’s body and stroked to either side of his spine, still applying only light pressure. “I’m going deeper to work out some kinks, okay? You ready for that?”

“Yeah.” But he couldn’t help flinching when Bror kneaded the small of his back. “No, it’s okay! Go on—I need it.”

“You sure, kid?” Bror kept pressing, his hands finding a fluid rhythm. Tilrey closed his eyes tight, trying not to imagine how those big, deft fingers would feel around his cock.

Too late—a delicious shiver ran over him. He swallowed and clenched his fists, willing himself not to get hard. Bror would ask him to turn over soon, and that would be embarrassing.

But those hands were having unexpected effects on him, rousing reflexes he’d forgotten he’d had. His skin came alive with ripples of sensation, sweet and agonizing at once.

“Oh, you got some knots here. Okay if I sit this way?” Bror straddled Tilrey’s hips, keeping the weight on his own knees, and wedged the powerful heels of his hands into Tilrey’s shoulder blades. “You’re gonna feel so much better after this.”

Tilrey tried to focus on how much better he would feel. A friend was doing something kind and therapeutic for him, and his body was responding the wrong way, turning it into something sexual. Was he incapable of being a friend, then?

Breathe. Empty your mind of these selfish thoughts. But Bror was on top of him. Even though Tilrey wasn’t taking his whole weight, he couldn’t help wondering how Bror would feel inside him, opening him and thrusting into him every bit as strongly and yet considerately as he was bearing down on Tilrey’s deltoids right now.

It might happen someday—any day—without either of them choosing it. István would send Bror to Verán. Verán would order Bror to mount Tilrey the same way he did with Ansha. Show him who’s boss. Make him cry.

And Tilrey would have to endure that—something he wanted desperately to happen, only happening in exactly the wrong way.

A groan escaped his lips.

“Yeah, you’re feeling it, huh?” Bror joined his hands and pressed them down on Tilrey’s nape. “You’re gonna be so loose by the end of this, it’ll be like you just swam fifty laps. Okay, time to turn over.”

Tilrey was trembling. He let Bror roll him, but then he reared up to a sitting position, folding his knees to his chest to hide the beginnings of his erection. “Brorsha,” he said, unable to meet his friend’s eyes.

“What’s up?”

Bror tousled Tilrey’s hair—a casual, brotherly gesture, but it was too much. Before Tilrey could stop himself, he was seizing his friend’s hand and pressing his lips to the palm, closing the distance between them.

Bror was still fully dressed, though he’d loosened his tunic. The friction of the thick woolen garment against Tilrey’s bare chest was unbearable. And then—he couldn’t let himself think, thinking was bad—he slipped a hand into Bror’s hair and tugged his friend’s head down and kissed him swiftly on the lips.

Bror didn’t reciprocate. He rocked back on his haunches, staring into space.

Tilrey crumpled into himself again. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His vision blurred—was he fucking crying? “I know you don’t want me. You told me so two years ago.”

“Rishka . . .” Bror’s tone was so miserable, as if Tilrey had disappointed him.

Tilrey wanted to squeeze his eyes shut and play dead, but that would be weak. He forced himself to stare at the wall, willing tears not to spill down his cheeks. “You’re being so nice, and I didn’t mean to ruin it. But, Brorsha—what if Verán makes you fuck me?”

“Why are you thinking about that?” Bror sounded breathless.

“He has Ansha do it. Why not you? It’s bound to happen eventually.”

“He hasn’t asked for that yet, and I hope to hell he won’t.”

Tilrey dug his nails into his palm. Bror leaned toward him, touching his cheek, and Tilrey’s breath hitched in something close to a sob.

“Rishka. Kid!” Bror’s lips brushed his forehead. “Let’s get something straight, okay? I never said I didn’t want you. I don’t want to take advantage of you, and I don’t want to fuck you for Verán’s pleasure or anybody else’s. But not want you? I’d have to be dead.”

His arms enfolded Tilrey, drawing him in. The tight circle of warmth felt so good that Tilrey barely dared to breathe.

“Then why not?” he whispered. “You can’t be taking advantage of me if I want it.”

“Green hells, you’re killing me.” Bror’s left hand stroked Tilrey’s hair, while his right rubbed Tilrey’s back. “I’m just worried about you, okay? You were so passive with Ansha today.”

Tilrey wriggled free just enough to nuzzle Bror’s neck. The fabric of the tunic itched tantalizingly against his bare chest. “I was drunk then. I’m not now.”

“I know, but you’re doing this for the wrong reasons.” Bror’s deep voice vibrated inside Tilrey, they were so close. “Sure, someday Verán might push us together. We’ll deal with it then. Maybe we’ll even laugh about it after.”

“You don’t understand.” Tilrey raised his head to look at Bror. His tears had dried, but his eyes felt sticky. “I can stand it when it’s Ansha—I don’t like it, but I can stand it. But if I had to have my first time with you that way, I couldn’t stand it. Because . . .”

He hid his face in Bror’s neck again, so that his next words were muffled: “Because I want it to be special.”

Bror’s embrace tightened. “Rishka. Damn. Are you sure?”

Tilrey nodded. “Why can’t we just do it, like you and Lus and Ansha do?”

“That wouldn’t be special, would it?” But Bror loosened his hug enough to slide a hand between them. A firm, clever grip closed on Tilrey’s cock. “You’re not Lus or Ansha. I want it to be good for you.”

“I know it will be.” Tilrey gasped as Bror began working him through his briefs. He was rigid with eagerness.

“Then lie back, okay?” Bror kissed his forehead again. “Let me take care of you.”

Tilrey stretched out on the bed, quivering as Bror’s full weight came down on top of him. Bror gave him a real kiss this time, opening Tilrey’s mouth and exploring it with hot, agile flicks of his tongue, his hand moving between their bodies the whole time. Then, after a final, playful peck on Tilrey’s nose, he crept down, his fingertips trailing teasingly over Tilrey’s flanks and thighs, until his face was level with Tilrey’s groin.

Tilrey made a vague sound of protest, but it wasn’t convincing even to himself. He was rock hard, and he moaned when Bror popped him out of the briefs.

Bror’s mouth was hot and tight around Tilrey’s cock, and his tongue was busy. Tilrey knew every technique he was using, but that didn’t stop him from squirming and pumping his hips, trying desperately to get more of the slick, delicious pressure.

He moaned again, this time with frustration, as his reflexes kicked in. Suddenly he was outside himself, gazing down on Bror’s bobbing head and his own writhing body and knowing that he would have no release until the order came.

Ansha seemed to understand Tilrey’s limitations intuitively, but would Bror? Please, please, don’t make me explain.

Tears coursed down his cheeks. With each desperate pulse of his hips, he sank deeper into Bror’s unresisting throat, and Bror devoured him eagerly, his tongue caressing Tilrey’s full length.

Tilrey felt the heaviness in his balls, the pressure mounting toward an explosion. “I can’t,” he whispered. “I . . . please.”

Bror slid the throbbing cock out of his mouth and bent over Tilrey, cupping his balls gently in a large palm. “Oh, sweetheart. Of course you can.”

Tilrey shook his head wildly.

“None of that. You’re so fucking beautiful, and you’re going to come for me. Now, I’m going in again. The third time you feel my tongue, let ’er rip, okay?”

Tilrey couldn’t help grinning through his tears. The next moment, his whole body tensed with an electric thrill of pleasure as Bror’s mouth closed around him. He arched his back and strained into the warmth and wetness, crying out as Bror’s tongue lashed him once, twice—

The third time, the pressure found release at last, and the world rearranged itself. All his sensation was concentrated in one place, and he was on fire with it, blazing, exploding into the hot receptacle that held him—tugging on Bror’s hair and crying out without words.

It took him a while to return to himself. He was vaguely conscious of Bror cleaning him off and tucking him back into his briefs, then moving up his body again to encircle and hold him.

Tilrey poked his nose into Bror’s armpit—he wanted to be closer, closer—and let his heavy eyelids close.

When he opened them again, he knew he’d been asleep. Bror’s body was heavy against his, drawing long, peaceful breaths that wheezed a little on the exhale.

Tilrey’s left arm was numb, caught under Bror’s weight, so he tugged it out as carefully as he could. “Mmm,” Bror said, his lids fluttering. “Should prob’ly get back before that prick Vlastor starts worrying.”

Tilrey knew he was right. Vlastor had relaxed his vigilance in the past few months, but he still kept a watchful eye on the majority leader’s “jewel.”

Instead of getting up, though, he reached for his friend’s cock and gave it an experimental stroke. “Isn’t it your turn?”

Bror was hard in an instant, his breath coming in gratifying gasps. But before Tilrey could do anything else, he tugged himself free and sat up, toppling Tilrey off him. “Goddamn, you know I want that, but not now. I’ve had enough fun already. Believe me, it was my pleasure.”

Tilrey wasn’t ready to go home. He watched sadly as Bror stretched, rose, and collected the clothes Tilrey had folded so neatly from the floor. “I know you don’t like what I said about Verán. But think about it, Brorsha.”

“What should I think about?” Bror held out the trousers for Tilrey to step into as if he were a small child.

Tilrey humored him. He let Bror pull his shirt over his head, too, and fasten the tunic snugly at his waist and neck, remembering how Ansha had performed the reverse procedure last night.

This was different. This was something he wanted—because yes, he could still want things.

When he was fully dressed, standing beside Bror, he leaned on his friend and said into his collar bone, “Next time I want you inside me.”

“Rishka.” Bror’s hands moved over his back—not vigorously, as they had during the massage, but as if Tilrey might break. “We’re not gonna do that just because a Strutter might make us do it someday.”

“That’s not the only reason.” Tilrey circled Bror’s waist loosely with his arms and craned up to kiss him on the lips. It felt strange to be the shorter one for a change.

He wanted Bror moving on top of him, inside him, claiming him in the most intimate way possible. He wanted it to be something they did for themselves, with no Strutters anywhere in sight.

Next time Ansha saw the two of them, he would be able to tell. Everyone would, without being told. They would know Bror had possessed Tilrey in a way none of them ever could.

And then what? Malsha’s voice whispered in his head. What will another cock inside you solve?

Shut up. Tilrey tried to think of a good excuse to want what he wanted so fervently. Would some of Bror’s brash confidence and kindness rub off on him? No, it would take more than that to rebuild him into a normal person, a good person. Even now, in this comparatively leisurely summer, he felt like a collection of sharp-edged fragments waiting to cut someone. That girl in the bar, for instance—instead of flirting and letting her down easy, the way Bror would have, he had panicked and been cruel. Bror’s cock wouldn’t make him whole.

But Verán wouldn’t have the satisfaction of pairing them up for the first time, either. Never. That would be theirs.

Tilrey said into his friend’s ear, “Next time. Okay?”

Chapter 36: Desired

Notes:

Let's find out how Bror feels about the events of the last chapter!

Btw, thank you to everybody leaving me asks and comments on Tumblr. I love talking about these stories! <33

Bror dreamed about Tilrey.

At first he felt only a presence beside him, not touching him except for an occasional waft of warm breath on his shoulder. Though his eyes were closed, he knew instantly who it was.

Tilrey had an unmistakable feel to him, a fine grain like the cedar in the Gym sauna, or the special sap that István had made in artisanal batches, or those funny broken-up clouds that looked so pretty on the spring horizon, or—Bror was no poet, okay? He couldn’t sum someone up in a nice phrase. All he knew was that Tilrey was a mix of soft and hard, rough and smooth, who could never be confused with anyone else.

And now he also knew the length and girth of Tilrey’s cock in his mouth. He knew how he tasted when you swallowed him. He knew how he cried out when he came. These were things Bror couldn’t unknow or unfeel.

In the dream, Tilrey rolled over, or maybe Bror did, and suddenly Bror was holding him, spooning him. Tilrey’s hair tickled Bror’s chin, sending shivers of sensation down his spine.

Bror kissed the top of Tilrey’s head. And then Tilrey’s hips were rocking against his, and Tilrey’s hand was reaching between their intertwined bodies to grasp Bror’s cock.

Bror was hard instantly—throbbingly, painfully hard. He tried to free himself, to push Tilrey away, because this wasn’t supposed to happen.

“You’re a kid,” he protested. “You’re like my kid brother.”

But Tilrey’s hand kept right on doing what it was doing, and he whispered in Bror’s ear, “I want you inside me.”

With that, Bror woke with a jolt to find himself just as hard in reality.

Shit. Fir István, his Councillor, was snoring gustily in the big bed beside him. At least Bror hadn’t spurted in his sleep like a teenager—that would’ve been embarrassing. But his cock seemed to have a mind of its own, and it wouldn’t soften. He ended up creeping into the bathroom to take care of it.

He tried not to think of Rishka while he was doing it. But then he gave up and let himself, because after all, it was only a fantasy, a random night wish that would be gone in the morning. He didn’t believe in censoring his fantasies, even the fucked-up ones. Better to get them out of his system.

And it felt really fucking good.

***

But the next day when Bror faced Tilrey in the Café, sitting with the others in their usual booth, really fucking good turned into really fucking awkward. Somehow he felt even more criminal than he had facing Tilrey in the Gym the morning after he’d sucked Tilrey’s cock in the Vacants, almost three ten-days ago.

Bror had told himself he could do it without feeling a thing, the way he sucked off Upstarts all the time. He was a professional, and Tilrey needed a little oral therapy. But Bror’s pulse had leaped the first time he touched Tilrey there, carefully liberating him from his briefs.

Ansha had told them all in conspiratorial whispers that Tilrey was “very well endowed,” along with a few other intimate things. Now Bror could see for himself. He’d wanted and needed so badly to feel nothing. He hoped Tilrey hadn’t been able to tell how much he enjoyed sheathing that organ in his mouth.

The “next time” Tilrey had promised or threatened hadn’t happened—so far, anyway. Bror had been waiting for his friend to initiate something—dreading it, sometimes, because next time he might lose control. But they seemed to have returned to normal, more or less.

At this point, Tilrey’s cheeks no longer went scarlet when he saw Bror. If he made eye contact less than usual, it wasn’t obvious, except maybe to Ansha.

The redhead noticed everything, and he seemed determined to get a rise out of Tilrey today.

“You can’t be actually reading these things,” he said, flipping open one of the hefty books that Tilrey had brought to return to the Library.

“Ansha, cut it out,” Bror said wearily.

Ignoring him, Ansha read a few lines aloud, stumbling over the long words with comical exaggeration. “In-dis-s-sociable? Seriously, Rishka? You can’t tell me you know what any of this means.”

Tilrey stared down at the tabletop, playing with a loose thread in the cuff of his tunic.

Ansha had once confessed to Bror that he couldn’t read more than a paragraph without getting “itchy.” Bror had heard of kids with similar difficulties receiving special tutoring, but when he mentioned this to Ansha, the other boy just looked confused. Maybe that sort of help wasn’t available in Ring Eight schools.

Ansha had been dealt a fairly shitty hand in life, no doubt about it, but that didn’t excuse him.

“Sure he knows what it means,” Bror said, plucking the book from Ansha’s hand and setting it back in Tilrey’s pile. “Rishka’s smarter than any of us.”

Lus, sitting across from them, laughed as if Bror had meant to be sarcastic. He stopped once he saw the disapproval on Bror’s face.

Lus wasn’t mean, but he took it for granted that Skeinshaka weren’t the brightest bulbs. It was what they’d all been taught, growing up in Redda—that living at the center of the world made them special.

Yet it was so obvious to Bror that Tilrey had been raised to see himself as special, too. No one in his immediate family had ever worked on a factory line; you could see it in the way his eyes glazed over when you talked about shifts and safety measures. He had manners and graces and inhibitions that reminded Bror of the highest-Level Laborers here in Redda. It was part of what made him so different from the rest of them—so attractive.

Ansha saw that, too, Bror suspected, and he didn’t like it.

Celinda said, “Fir Lindahl says Tilrey scored high enough on the E-Squareds to be a Strutter.”

Ansha rolled his eyes. “Malsha could have messed with his score, easy.”

“You’re being an asshole, Ansha,” Bror said, trying to keep his tone light. “Why wouldn’t he have a high score—because of where he’s from? That’s like me assuming you smuggle goods because you’re from Eight.”

“Oooh, real nice, Brorsha. Anyway, I never said he was thick, just that he wasn’t that smart.” Ansha glanced sidelong at Tilrey, clearly hoping for a reaction. Tilrey didn’t even look at him, gazing out at the Hall of Records blazing in the sunlight.

Ansha inched closer until their shoulders touched. “Tell us the truth. Do you borrow those big books to show off?”

“Back off, Ansha,” Bror said, putting an edge on his voice. He was no genius himself, but that hadn’t made him resent people who cared about things like square roots and irregular verbs.

He liked seeing Tilrey with those big books, even encouraged him to talk about them sometimes, though he understood only about a third of what Tilrey was saying. The kid’s excitement was contagious. Listening, Bror could almost see Tilrey’s mind working, hungry as a flickering flame. A brilliant mind, like an Upstart’s, but an anxious mind, too. A mind so quick and eager that it tied itself up in knots.

He wished Tilrey would stand up for himself. Kid or goad Ansha right back. Shove him away. Celinda would have done it, and even Lus had a sharp tongue if you pushed him hard enough. Why did Rishka have to play dead? He was shy, yeah, but surely by now he felt comfortable enough to shit-talk them a little. And Ansha had it coming.

Ansha glowered at Bror. “All I’m saying is, if he got such amazing test scores, he shouldn’t be here with us. And I doubt very much he scored high enough to be a Strutter. I heard Verán say that even Besha—Fir Linbeck—barely made the cut.”

“Maybe Besha’s not that bright,” Celinda suggested.

“He’s good at other stuff, like sucking up to Verán,” Lus said slyly.

“I know, but seriously?” Ansha was still trying to get Tilrey to look at him. “Do you really think you scored that high?”

Tilrey said, “Don’t know. They say it’s hard to cheat.”

“Malsha didn’t mess with his score,” Bror said. “What’s eating you, Anshka?”

“Nothing’s eating me, Brorshka.” Ansha seized Tilrey’s fidgeting hand and held it still.

It was a casually possessive gesture, something Ansha wouldn’t have done during the Malsha era—a reminder to all of them that Verán had set him loose on Tilrey’s body. Bror’s cheeks warmed, and he willed Tilrey to yank his hand away. He has no fucking right!

Tilrey didn’t move. He also didn’t look at Ansha.

“I’m just kidding around,” Ansha said, stroking Tilrey’s hand. “Right? You know me. So, what’s up with you and Besha, anyway? You sucked him off over winter recess, I heard. When’s Verán gonna give him a whole night with you?”

“Dunno,” Tilrey said, his tone implying he also didn’t care.

“Me, I haven’t been with him yet.”

“Same,” Bror said, hoping they could change the subject. “Have you, Lusha?”

Lus groaned. “Once. It was fine, but Besha’s so slimy. He’s not even high-named. I don’t know what Verán sees in him.”

“He needs Besha for his dirty work,” Celinda said. “Too many Islanders got chummy with Malsha while he was in power, and now they have to do penance. My Akeina says Besha gave him step-by-step instructions for groveling himself back into Verán’s good graces. He hates that smirky weasel.”

 Bror couldn’t focus on the dissection of Besha. He stared at the clasped hands on the table.

So many times in the past two and a half years he’d stepped in and stopped Ansha from teasing or touching Tilrey. But Tilrey was twenty years old now and, as he himself often pointed out, full grown and bigger than Ansha. Surely it was time for him to enforce his own boundaries?

Wide blue eyes swimming with tears. What if Verán makes you fuck me?

Memories flooded Bror’s mind—Tilrey weeping like a child, Tilrey apologizing. How could Bror give him what he claimed to want when he was still in such a bad place, in need of protection? If it was possible for a fuck to be therapeutic, then Tilrey needed the gentlest, kindest fuck in the world. And Bror didn’t trust himself to deliver it.

When Bror was sucking Tilrey’s cock, focused on giving his friend pleasure, it had been easy for him to hide his own arousal. But if he were to open Tilrey, to mount him, to penetrate him? He might not be able to hold back. He knew his own body—it would thrust too roughly, too selfishly. Tilrey might claim he wanted exactly that, but he was too damaged to know what he wanted right now.

Verán had fucking better not pair them up. Bror could always quit on the spot. But if he did that, he might not be able to protect Tilrey at all.

“Akeina’s just jealous!” Ansha said with vehemence, still on the subject of Besha Linbeck. “He wishes he had half the gumption Besha’s got.”

“Gumption?” Celinda raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, gumption! These high names, they were born to the good life. But Besha had to fight for every scrap, and that’s what meritocracy’s actually supposed to be. He improved his lot in life,” Ansha said, lifting his chin, “just like I did.”

Lus feigned swooning with boredom. “We all know you came from a shitty tower block in Ring Eight, Ansha. We get it.”

“No, you don’t get it, Lus! You were so sweet-drowned from a tender age that you basically just floated from one man to the next looking for sap until a Councillor found you. You lucked into it. So did you, Bror.”

Bror shrugged. “If you want to say that.”

“You did!” And then, of course, Ansha turned to Tilrey. “And you claim you didn’t even want to come to Redda, though I find that hard to believe. But me? I wanted this. I scrapped for it.”

“Tell us all about it, Ansha,” Celinda said with a groan.

Ansha barged on, though Tilrey had to be the only one of them who hadn’t heard his story. “My dad died in a factory accident. My mom was sweet-drowned. I sucked off teachers so they wouldn’t report me absent. The only way for me to get near an Upstart was to commit petty crimes—shirking my duties, for instance. The first day I was supposed to work on that damned assembly line, I walked right into the Constabulary and held out my hands for the cuffs. I asked to see the Examining Magistrate. She wasn’t interested in what I had to offer. But after I begged, she introduced me to a colleague who was.”

Bror didn’t like Ansha’s story. He could almost see Ansha at eighteen, skinny and spotty and desperate for a better life, down on his knees begging some stupid Judicial official to accept a blow job. It wasn’t his fault, but still—Bror had never begged a Strutter for anything. Never had, never would.

“It took me a few months, but I convinced my new Strutter friend to take me to the Core. I made him so happy he introduced me to his friends, who introduced me to their friends. And the whole time I managed not to let any of them fuck me, because I knew I’d be worth more fresh. I knew my value, and I wouldn’t settle for anything less than a Councillor’s bed. I worked for it.”

“More power to you, kid.” Bror exchanged an uneasy glance with Celinda. She seemed as embarrassed as he was—not by Ansha’s trajectory so much as his pride in it.

When they all met, Ansha had been a slip of a thing with a big, boastful mouth and frightened eyes. He was still struggling to erase his Eighter accent, asking the other three to correct his pronunciation.

One night in the Vacants, he came on to Bror—begging for a fuck, just like Tilrey had, only not like Tilrey at all. Ansha’s eyes were harder by then, and his mouth was determined. Bror gave in.

All the way through that night, Ansha talked shop, milking Bror for tips on what Strutters liked. Is this good? Should I smile more? Like this, tilting my head? Or play harder to get? It would have been fucking annoying if it weren’t so sad.

It didn’t take Bror long to figure out why Ansha was so insecure. His Strutter, Councillor Lindahl, wasn’t into him. He was a useful tool, nothing more. “Don’t take it personally—it’s not about you,” Bror repeated, but Ansha did take Lindahl’s rejection personally. It probably still hurt him, though he’d learned not to admit it.

Lindahl preferred boys who reminded him of young Upstarts. He preferred Tilrey.

“We’re all in awe of your gumption, Ansha,” Celinda said, opening her blue eyes wide. “Clearly you appreciate this life of ours more than we possibly could. But don’t say Tilrey lucked into it. That’s just mean.”

Ansha’s mouth twisted. He was in spoiling-for-a-fight mode; Bror had seen it before. “What’s mean about it? He is lucky.” Squeezing Tilrey’s hand, he said in a low, intimate voice, “I know what Rishka needs, better than any of you do. He likes a strong hand. He likes someone telling him what to do.”

Just like that, Bror finally lost his cool. His cheeks burned, his vision blurred, and his head was a volcano swelling toward explosion.

“E-fucking-nough!” He pried Ansha’s hand free from Tilrey’s, trying hard to keep from shouting. Ansha deserved a little shouting, but Lus and Celinda would never let him live down the public loss of his temper. “We’re all friends here, but you need to give him his space. Stop trying to get a rise out of him!”

Ansha edged away from Tilrey, looking smug. “Maybe I was trying to get a rise out of you, Brorsha. Look at you, coming to his defense. Champion of the innocent. I think we all know what you really want from him.”

Lus snickered. Bror gave Ansha a look that he hoped would scare the shit out of him. “What do I want?”

Ansha glanced around the table. “I gotta say it?”

Celinda said, “Better not.”

Bror shot her a glare, too. Had they all known how he felt about Tilrey this whole time? “Don’t start things you can’t finish, Ansha.”

“Oh, I’m scared,” Ansha began, but he broke off as Tilrey finally moved, rising to collect his books.

He didn’t look at any of them, though surely he felt them staring. “I gotta get to the Library. It’s a free-night, and Vlastor’s expecting me back.”

“Don’t let us keep you from your books,” Ansha said, standing up to let Tilrey past him.

Bror rose, too. He would follow Tilrey, but first he needed to give Ansha a piece of his mind. “See you soon, kid?”

“Yup.” Tilrey left the Café without another word.

Bror sat down heavily. Was the kid still pissed at him for the other night? Was it possible he thought Bror didn’t want him at all?

Surely any idiot could see how he felt—Ansha, for instance. Fucking Ansha.

Bror asked him, “Are you happy now?”

Ansha flashed his most angelic smile, the one that made doddery Upstarts think he worshipped them. “If he can’t take a little teasing, he shouldn’t sit with us.”

“You’re not teasing, you’re torturing,” Celinda said, to Bror’s surprise. “It was bad enough before. But after Verán’s given you the poor kid, it’s not fair to add insult to injury.”

“What injury? I’ve never hurt him. Unless you think just being with me is torture?”

“For Rishka, maybe,” Lus said thoughtfully. “He’s more sensitive than we are.”

“He doesn’t like being put on display.” Clearly, Celinda had been observing Tilrey more closely than she’d let on. Maybe she didn’t dislike him as much as she pretended to.

“But I’m good to him!” Ansha turned to Bror, as if he could sense Bror was the one to convince. “I make it easier every way I can. I keep Verán happy so Rishka doesn’t have to. And afterward, when we’re alone, he sometimes thanks me! He sleeps in my arms. It’s only here with the rest of you that he acts like I don’t exist.”

He sleeps in my arms. For an instant, Bror couldn’t catch his breath, a sharp stab of jealousy closing his throat. He was glad Verán hadn’t made him use Tilrey that way, so very glad, but . . .

“Isn’t that nice?” Celinda said archly. “So, maybe Tilrey doesn’t hate you all the time. But if you keep picking at him, he will. Imagine if Bror were the one fucking him for some Councillor’s pleasure. He wouldn’t gloat about it.”

The heat in Bror’s cheeks was mortifying. “That’s right. Why would I ruin a good thing?”

“Aha!” Ansha jabbed a finger at him. “You do want Rishka.”

“It’s just a hypothetical,” Lus said.

“No, he admitted he’d enjoy it!”

Suddenly Bror had an idea—a daring one that might just work. He met Ansha’s eyes and pasted the slightest lascivious smile on his lips, the way he did when he knew an Upstart wanted a good boning. “Of course I’d enjoy Rishka, with or without a Strutter watching us. Are you kidding? If Verán gave him to me, I’d kiss that old bastard’s feet.”

“You wouldn’t gloat, though,” Celinda reiterated.

“No, no gloating. I’d be the most sensitive, discreet lover the world’s ever seen. I might even pretend I hadn’t wanted to do it—afterward, to make Rishka feel better. But . . .” Bror drew a deep breath, hating himself for what he was about to say. He needed to talk to Tilrey before Ansha had a chance to repeat any of this conversation. “I’d enjoy every second of using him. Fuck, yeah. I’d wank to the memories.”

“I knew it,” Ansha said, looking almost relieved. “The white knight thing is an act.”

“A man has needs, okay?” Bror risked a glance at Celinda. She looked skeptical. He stretched lazily and tugged up his shirt to scratch his belly. “Damn, I wish Verán would give him to me. I don’t suppose you’d put in a word for me, Ansha? You’re Verán’s favorite. He doesn’t like me normally. But me and Rishka, that would be a show.”

He made a series of obscene gestures that painted an elaborate picture, drawing on everything he’d learned growing up in Ring Six, then gave his balls a scratch for good measure. “I could really make the kid squeal.”

The others looked disgusted—even Ansha, though he said, “Anything for a friend, Brorsha.”

With any luck, Ansha would tell Verán that Bror was a sick bastard who shouldn’t be allowed to touch the Island’s precious jewel. And Tilrey’s fears would remain just silly fears.

Bror was proud of his solution to the problem, but he couldn’t say he liked himself or his friends right now. “I’m gonna run off home, kids,” he said, rising with another preening stretch. “My Fir wants me to taste his new batch of artisanal sap before I go to work.”

Their goodbyes weren’t warm today. Lus stared as if he’d just seen a side of Bror he didn’t like, Celinda’s expression was grim, and even Ansha didn’t look smug.

As Bror turned to leave, though, Celinda sprang up and came after him. She stood on tiptoe and whispered in his ear: “You’ll find him either in the ninth-floor carrels or in the basement.”

She knew he’d been bullshitting—and exactly where he was headed.

Bror didn’t answer aloud, letting his eyes express his gratitude that she hadn’t called his bluff. Maybe that strange girl had a heart, after all—and an inkling of how he felt.

He went to find Tilrey.

***

Bror didn’t spend much time in the Library, but apparently Celinda did, or else she liked keeping tabs on Tilrey. He was right where she’d said, in a carrel with a view of the towering black wedges of the Sector on the southern horizon.

It was the first time they’d been properly alone since that night in the Vacants. The Library was so quiet it spooked Bror, and he wondered how Tilrey could stand it.

But Tilrey seemed perfectly at home, cozied up with a stack of books. His tunic was unclasped, draped loosely around him, his hair was parted wrong, and his long legs sprawled. Bror could almost have mistaken him for a young Upstart, a Uni kid studying in the stacks. Someone who didn’t have to worry about how he looked.

Tilrey closed his book when he saw Bror. He didn’t smile. “Hi.”

“Mind if I sit down a sec?” Without waiting for an answer, Bror yanked a chair from the neighboring carrel and drew it beside Tilrey’s.

“Ansha’s an asshole, and I told him so,” he announced when he was seated. Tilrey touched a finger to his lips, and Bror lowered his volume. “No news there, right? But you need to know something. When I told him off, I planted a seed.”

“A seed?”

Tilrey looked so distracted, fresh from his books—so innocent. Bror didn’t want to admit what he’d done. But if things weren’t clear between them, Ansha would take advantage of the communication gap.

He bent close and said, “I know how you feel about Verán pairing us up, so I told Ansha to make it happen. I said I wanted nothing more.”

Tilrey drew back, eyes wide.

“No, see, it was all a mind fuck! If Ansha thinks I want that, he’ll do everything in his power to keep us apart.”

The horror drained out of Tilrey’s face as he absorbed the words. “Makes sense. He wants to be the special one, the only one. But now he thinks . . .”

“That I’m a bigger asshole than he is. Acting like your big brother just to perv on you.” Bror allowed himself a hearty laugh that felt false even to him. Because I would never perv on you, I swear! “Not bad thinking for someone who never took the E-Squareds, huh?”

To his relief, Tilrey flashed one of those heartbreaking smiles. “It’s kinda brilliant. I mean, Verán doesn’t let Ansha tell him what to do. But if Ansha tells him you’re into me, too into me, that’ll trigger the possessiveness. He won’t want to give you something you want.”

“Exactly! Knew you’d get it.” And Tilrey had found better words for the tactic than Bror could have.

But now Tilrey was gazing out the window. The smile was gone. “I feel kind of sorry for Ansha, being so jealous. If he could stop thinking about himself for a second, he’d see you don’t feel that way about me at all.”

Fuck. Suddenly Bror was out of his depth. He knew the right thing to do was to confirm what Tilrey was saying—You’re amazing, but no, I don’t feel that way about you—but words jammed up in his throat. All he managed was “Stop that.”

“Stop what?” Tilrey looked at Bror again, and now Bror was startled by how cold his expression was, how remote. It was hard to believe he was the same lad who’d wept and begged Bror to fuck him. “Am I wrong? You practically just said you only want to be a big brother to me. That’s how you want Ansha and the others to see us.”

“I do want to watch out for you. You’re younger than me.” Only I want more. Bror had a disconcerting sense of the ground beneath him shifting. Tilrey might be sensitive, even still naïve sometimes, but he was no fool. And Malsha had probably taught him a little about mind-fucking himself.

“I’m still kinda surprised, though, when you think about what we did.” Those blue eyes were pure ice now. “Is that something you’d do with one of your kid brothers, Brorsha? Suck his cock?”

“Rishka.” Bror covered Tilrey’s hand with his own, unable to meet that gaze. “I know you’re not my brother.” Though I did once think of you that way. I wish I still could. “You’re my friend, and . . .”

“I’m your friend who wants to be more than your friend.” Tilrey’s voice faltered. “And you don’t want me back.”

Bror was no crier, but an uncomfortable heat was pressing on his nasal passages. He squeezed Tilrey’s hand the way Ansha had earlier, needing to feel its warmth. “I don’t know what I want anymore,” he confessed. “It was simple before, and now it’s fucking complicated.” Because you’re complicated—but no, he wouldn’t blame this on Tilrey.

He raised his eyes until they locked on Tilrey’s. “One thing hasn’t changed. I’m still scared of hurting you.”

Tilrey smiled—a cynical smile, not unlike one of Celinda’s. “Nobody else seems worried about that.”

They should be. Thanks to Ansha’s indiscretion, Bror knew more than he should about how Tilrey had been hurt, more than Tilrey had chosen to share with him. It was Ansha who had confided that Tilrey needed an explicit order to come: He didn’t tell me or anything, but I could see he was struggling. And when I ordered him to come, like in a pornstream, it just worked! Poor kid.

So Bror had Ansha at least partly to thank for his success in satisfying Tilrey. That rankled. “That’s why I care so much,” he said. “About not adding to the hurt.”

“I won’t break, Bror,” Tilrey said in a small voice.

“I know. I know, I know. I just . . . need some time to get used to this, okay?” To you not being my kid brother. Being something else. If Bror stayed another minute, he suddenly knew, he would do something he might regret later.

He shoved his chair back and stood, releasing his dangerous grip on Tilrey’s hand. “I should get home, Rishka. It’s a free-night—we both should.”

Tilrey nodded, his eyes wide with open hurt. And Bror couldn’t stop himself. He took Tilrey’s face in his hands and tilted it up and stooped to bring their lips together.

He gave Tilrey the lightest peck, vowing that would be all. But the first grazing touch was intoxicating. The friction of Tilrey’s faint stubble went straight to his groin. Bror knotted his hand in Tilrey’s hair and tugged him close and opened his mouth into Tilrey’s, tasting his sweetness and feeling the boy gasp as he gasped, too. He caught Tilrey’s generous bottom lip between his teeth and released it, then dived in again—kissing deeper, plunging into Tilrey as if he were a flask of cool water after a hard workout.

Verdant hells, I do want you! And suddenly he wasn’t afraid to show how much.

For the first few seconds, Tilrey kissed back as ardently as Lus or Ansha ever had—darting his tongue into Bror’s mouth, exploring him eagerly. Then, all of a sudden, he stopped moving, turning to dead weight in Bror’s arms.

It took Bror a moment to register the change. Then he slipped his hand out of Tilrey’s hair and straightened up, his cock stiff under the concealing skirt of his tunic and his blood pounding with frustration. “I’m sorry, kid.”

Tilrey stared at Bror. His lips were purple-pink from the kiss and his cheeks flushed. “You don’t just pity me,” he said after a long moment, as if he’d genuinely been wondering. “You want me, too.”

Could Tilrey have been testing Bror? The kid was too bright sometimes, almost fiendishly so. “I’ve tried to just be your brother, Rishka. I’ve been trying, because I think you need someone who will watch out for you and not . . . have other motives. But I don’t think I have it in me.”

It felt surprisingly good to admit he was powerless, the way it did sometimes to surrender in the bedroom. It was such a struggle to be strong all the time.

“I don’t want you as just an older brother,” Tilrey said. “Never did. You think I haven’t been wanting you since I first met you?”

Bror’s vision went liquid; he blinked the stupid tears away. “I . . . that’s good, I guess. Yeah. Good. But you can say no, okay? With me, you can say no any time you want. You can say not now. You can say later—or even never.”

“I know. Later, okay?” Tilrey stretched out his hand to touch Bror’s a last time. “Later, when I’m ready . . . I guess I mean soon.”

***

Tilrey returned from the Library a little late for a free-night. He hurried into the shower, shampooed, rinsed, and toweled off.

Standing naked before the mirror, blow-drying his hair, he examined his mouth. He knew objectively that Bror’s kiss hadn’t broken the skin. If there was any extra redness, it was his imagination.

But he still felt as if he’d had a close call. That deep, hungry kiss had marked him, even if no one else could see the mark.

He wants me. He really wants me! Part of him couldn’t believe it. But he could still hear the growl in Bror’s voice on the words “I’ve tried to just be your brother,” and he knew it was true.

Bror had reminded him that he could say no whenever he wanted and take things at his own pace. But what did that even mean? What was Tilrey’s pace? Who was he when he wasn’t fitting himself to someone else’s pace, someone else’s need?

Dressed again, he answered Vlastor’s knock on his door and braced for the driver to notice something different about him.

Vlastor only had his standard pissy expression. “They’re in the sitting room. I put the kettle on and defrosted the apps. Go serve them.”

Tilrey nodded briskly. Sometimes it was relaxing to follow orders as part of an efficient team.

He brewed the tea and brought it into the sitting room, where he found Verán and Besha, thick as thieves as usual. The majority leader was bending to whisper something into his lieutenant’s ear. They were so close together that Tilrey felt a shiver of vicarious intimacy.

Then Verán straightened and looked straight at Tilrey. “Ah, there’s your reward,” he said, elbowing Besha in the ribs. And then, to Tilrey: “Come here, lad. Tonight you sit on Besha’s lap. He delivered me a majority in a very important vote, and it’s finally his turn.”

Chapter 37: Clued In

Notes:

There's brief discussion of suicide at the beginning of this chapter, followed by some role-play of violent rape. If you're wondering how Tilrey and Besha came to have the weird relationship they have in "A Serviceable Boy," this is how.

Update 11/30/24: Minor edit because I forgot that Besha definitely does know about the charge of shirking against Tilrey. Chapter 10: "I also know about the shirker business that Malsha had expunged from your record."

“The boy can’t sit on my lap! He’ll crush me!” Besha protested.

He inched away from Verán on the sofa, then patted his knee with a waggish smile as if to say C’mon, try it. But when Tilrey approached him, he tensed up visibly.

 “Go on,” Verán said.

Tilrey tried gamely to sit on Besha’s lap. But the smaller man immediately began squirming and struggling, sliding Tilrey’s weight off him. “We’ll do it this way,” he said, arranging Tilrey’s long legs on his lap.

“Give him a nip of sweet,” Verán said, clearly amused by the spectacle.

Besha’s cheeks were pink, Tilrey saw with interest. He knew his own were, too. Watching Besha fumble in his tunic pocket for a vial, he remembered how Ansha had defended Verán’s protégé this afternoon, calling him self-made and full of “gumption.”

Thanks to Adelbert, Tilrey knew that Besha kept secrets from the majority leader. He had entrapped Tilrey and manipulated Malsha for reasons of his own. But it was probably safest to keep that knowledge to himself—for now.

Besha poured sap into his palm and offered Tilrey a hand that was just slightly unsteady. Tilrey lapped up the dark, sticky liquid, wondering, Could he actually be afraid of me?

It didn’t seem possible. But then, he and Besha had never been alone together longer than a few minutes. If he’d understood Verán correctly, soon they would be.

When he finished cleaning Besha’s palm and lifted his head, he felt the man exhale—with relief? With desire? The young Councillor didn’t meet his eyes.

“Oh, you’ll have a good night,” Verán said, leering. “I almost wish I could watch.”

Besha laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, Visha?” He ran his slightly sticky hand through Tilrey’s hair, still without looking directly at him. His voice had the nasal whine that always grated on Tilrey’s ears, nagging at him in a way he didn’t understand. “Not this time. I can’t wait to have him all to myself.”

“You’ve earned it. What did you do to persuade Saldegren, anyway? He was so passionate in the preliminary arguments, practically calling me a murderer of Oslov’s youth.”

“I sucked his cock,” Besha said. He laughed again to signal that he was being sarcastic—a little too loudly, Tilrey thought.

Besha did sometimes remind him of Ansha. The man fawned on Verán to an embarrassing degree, but his resentment and hostility were palpable, just under the surface.

“Saldegren has no concept of honor,” Verán said, leaning back and dipping his little finger into a vial. “He’s a perfectly good technocrat, but he doesn’t grasp that even the most rational state shouldn’t interfere in private matters. A well-ordered family is a miniature state of its own.”

“If it’s the right kind of family,” Besha said, again with what seemed to Tilrey like obvious sarcasm.

Verán didn’t pick up on it—or didn’t care. He only nodded, and they resumed their postmortem analysis of every single yes and no on the contentious vote.

Tilrey hadn’t eaten much, and the sap was going straight to his head. He relaxed into the sofa—as much as he could in this awkward position, with his legs draped over Besha—and let his mind drift.

He still felt the pressure of Bror’s lips, the heat of Bror’s mouth. He glowed inwardly, secretly, with the memory of every word Bror had said to him. He wants me. He couldn’t hold himself back. No matter what Besha did to Tilrey tonight, he couldn’t take that away.

Over and over he reran today’s interactions with Bror in his head. And he began to feel a little ashamed of the part he had played.

First, in the Café, he had frozen them all out. He knew Bror wanted him to stand up for himself with Ansha, because Bror had gently suggested as much at least a half-dozen times. But playing dead came naturally, and Tilrey couldn’t help enjoying how frustrated Ansha got.

After Ansha had said those humiliating things about Tilrey wanting a “strong hand,” wanting to submit—thinking he knew Tilrey so well—Tilrey had stalked off in a snit, like a child. And then, when Bror came after him, he had continued to sulk. You don’t feel that way about me at all. You don’t want me back.

Tilrey hadn’t entirely believed what he was saying, only feared it was true. Deep inside, hadn’t he actually hoped to pressure his friend into admitting he wanted him? Malsha couldn’t have manipulated Bror any better.

But Bror did want him—the heat of the kiss proved that. If only Tilrey had been able to give himself entirely to the moment. It seemed only fair, after the way he’d baited Bror.

If only he hadn’t had the sudden thought that Bror might leave a mark on him, and Verán might see it. If only… because, when Tilrey was honest with himself, he knew it wasn’t just the fear of being marked that had made him freeze in Bror’s arms.

There was something else. As his friend’s tongue explored his mouth, something had yanked Tilrey out of the moment, making him aware that he was reading Bror’s signals and mirroring them, matching his pace and his ardor perfectly. In other words, he was doing exactly what he did with Councillors, with Ansha, with everyone he had ever kissed since Malsha and Artur had taught him his profession. It was automatic.

When he was with Bror, he wanted to be spontaneous, real, himself, the way he’d been in Thurskein with Dal. But how? That awkward teenage Tilrey was long gone.

So he had gone limp, stopped reciprocating. Bror had sensed it immediately and been so kind about it, so understanding. But what if Tilrey kept going hot and cold that way—playing with Bror’s affections, teasing his cock and then withdrawing? Even Bror’s patience must have limits.

Tilrey’s legs were cramping. He slid the left one discreetly off Besha’s lap. Besha patted Tilrey’s right knee absently, absorbed in the impression he was doing of Councillor Saldegren: “And he says to me, ‘Besha, my conscience forbids me to vote for a law that would empower sensitive young Upstarts to kill themselves.”

Kill themselves? Tilrey’s head jerked upright. He had assumed the earlier remark about murdering Oslov’s youth was just hyperbole.

“His poor conscience!” Verán was laughing. “Did he also say something about not wanting to get blood on his hands?”

“Practically. I was dying to ask him if he was worried about any ‘sensitive young Upstarts’ in his own family.”

It took Tilrey a few minutes to piece together what they were discussing. He had heard rumblings of the controversy before: A young man from an Upstart family—not one of the best ones, but not one of the worst—had been Lowered and decided he would rather die than live as a Laborer.

His family supported his resolution to take Soldrid—except for one sister, who prevailed on the Judiciary to send him to moral rehab. The rest of the family, in response, had lobbied for a measure that would make it impossible to commit a self-harm risk to moral rehab involuntarily, and this provision was attached to a larger Judicial reformation bill. Most of the Island Councillors rallied around it, calling it a matter of freedom of self-determination.

Tilrey wondered how they’d managed to word the law so Laborers couldn’t also claim the right to harm themselves. Remembering how Vlastor had threatened him with moral rehab and force-feeding, he had no doubt they’d reserved the right to an “honorable” suicide for Upstarts who had failed to measure up to their own standards.

“Saldegren had the nerve to go on about ‘social utility,’” Besha said, jiggling one leg as if he were nervous. Tilrey could feel the vibration. “He’s afraid we’ll start losing our best and brightest if they jump off a building every time they’re blue-tagged.”

“If they’re blue-tagged, then they’re not the best and brightest,” Verán countered.

“I know, right? Good riddance.” Besha’s smile was cruel. “But Vanya gave me some bleeding-heart line about adolescents not knowing their own minds.”

At Notification, when students of Redda’s elite schools reached the end of their secondary education, each one received either a red or a blue tag. Red meant Upstart; blue meant Laborer. To children of Upstart parents, being blue-tagged might as well be a death sentence, but it was also vanishingly rare, at least as far as Tilrey knew. You really had to fuck up to be demoted.

In his own way, Tilrey had fucked up his life at eighteen, he thought now, by going to that damned shirker meeting. What if he’d been allowed to die rather than face the consequences?

On the one hand, jumping off a building instead of entering Malsha’s house that first time would have saved him a lot of pain. On the other hand, he would never have met Bror.

Bror… and now he was glowing again, drifting back into his fantasies.

Next time they were together, Tilrey vowed to himself, he would make sure things went all the way. If he felt himself going cold, floating away the way he did with Upstarts, then he would just fake it until the heat and excitement returned. It wouldn’t hurt to pretend a little, because his feelings for Bror were real.

His other leg was going numb. When would Verán let them leave? Tilrey wasn’t sure what he thought of the whole Soldrid issue, but he did know he hated how breezily Besha and Verán were discussing the vote, as if it were just another political game. At least Saldegren grasped that people’s lives were at stake.

Finally, finally, Verán noticed the time. “I mustn’t keep you all night, Besha,” he said with an oily smile. “What good is a reward if you can’t enjoy it?”

Besha gave Tilrey’s leg a shove. “Verdant hells, you’re so heavy and I’m so fragile. Would you please get off me?” He reached under Tilrey’s tunic and gave his balls a quick squeeze—for Verán’s benefit, Tilrey supposed. “Not that I mind being crushed by you, believe me.”

“Sorry, Fir.” Tilrey had to shake the pins and needles out of his leg before he could stand up. He wasn’t sorry he’d crushed Besha at all.

***

Besha spent the short car ride tapping on his handheld, not even looking at Tilrey. In the garage, he took Tilrey by a proprietary arm and led him into the coldroom. But he didn’t touch him more than strictly necessary.

By the time they were in the sitting room, Tilrey was beginning to wonder if the young Councillor was even attracted to him. Maybe all those years of leering had been a performance, designed to make Verán think Besha was easily manipulated.

True, Besha had enjoyed a blow job from Tilrey, but who wouldn’t? The little Councillor had encouraged Adelbert to seduce Tilrey—for his own reasons—but he hadn’t done it himself, not even when he had Tilrey at his mercy. Despicable as he might be, he wasn’t as simple as he wanted Verán to think.

But he would have to use Tilrey tonight, or Verán would know there was something wrong. Either that or he would have to rely on Tilrey’s discretion.

“Sit, sit.” Besha waved at the sofa. “It’s fucking cold out there. I need a drink to warm me up. And you’ll want more sap.”

Tilrey sat down. “I’m fine, Fir.”

“No, you’ve barely had any! Or maybe you’d like a drink, too?”

The young Councillor went into the kitchen and returned with two tumblers of urine-colored liquid. Tilrey sipped his and practically choked—it was bitter, alcoholic, and extremely strong. But it made his cheeks and chest warm and his head light and spinny, so he drank more. “What is this, Fir? Rotgut?”

“You kidding? The finest black-market Harbourer brandy. Didn’t Malsha ever serve this to you?” Besha had settled beside Tilrey, at least a foot away. He downed his tumbler in one gulp and poured again from the glass decanter. “Costs a lot of favors, believe me.”

“Malsha didn’t like me drunk, Fir.” Another sip. Tilrey had to be careful to stay in control, but a little numbness couldn’t hurt.

“Malsha was a control freak.” All at once, Besha was closer, his palm ghosting over Tilrey’s knee. “He would lose his shit if he could see us right now. Me with my hands all over you.”

“So you knew Malsha pretty well, Fir?” Tilrey spoke with deliberate casualness. Malsha and Besha were connected in some way he didn’t understand yet, some way Besha wouldn’t want to talk about.

He could hurt both of us, Adelbert had said, making Tilrey promise not to tell.

“He was the General Magistrate. Everybody knew him.”

Besha squeezed his knee. “Are you ready for tonight? I’m going to fuck you so hard.”

Tilrey laughed out loud—the booze had loosened his control, all right. But when he saw Besha’s eyes widen, he lost the smile and said, “I’m actually a little frightened of you, Fir.”

“Oh, like hell you are. But you should be. You will be!” Besha gave Tilrey’s knee a pat that was almost a slap. “Let’s go to the bedroom. Bring that decanter.”

The room was a mess—bedclothes strewn about, discarded clothes and copies of the Council Record on the floor, even a tumbler on the headboard shelf. Tilrey wondered if no one had informed Besha, when he was elected Councillor, that he could have his new driver tidy up after him.

Vlastor kept Verán’s apartment oppressively clean. He had shown Tilrey once how to make a bed “the way we did in the service,” then shooed him away when he failed to pull the sheets bandage-tight. According to Vlastor, Tilrey couldn’t possibly handle his workload, but Tilrey thought it might be nicer to have a checklist of mundane menial tasks than to cater to people’s ever-changing whims.

Besha paused in the center of the room and finished off his second tumbler, cheeks very red. Tilrey stood beside him, waiting for his cue.

Besha tipped his head to look up at Tilrey. “You’re too tall, did you know that? Has anyone ever told you that?”

“I think you’re the first, Fir.”

“Oh, I’m annoying you now. If you dared, you’d say the problem’s actually that I’m too short.”

“I don’t think you’re too short, Fir.”

“I know how you lads think. You laugh behind our backs. Gimme!” Besha took the decanter from Tilrey, then pointed at a chair in the corner that was draped with long underwear and track pants. “Bring that over here. No, throw that stuff on the floor—don’t fold it, what’s wrong with you? Sit down.”

Tilrey placed the flimsy chair in the middle of the room and sat on it with his back to the bed. “Can I take my tunic off, Fir?” he asked, hoping to get things on the right path. “I could suck you off again.”

“Oh, I’m sure you could!” Besha shoved himself in between Tilrey’s knees and bent to unfasten the neck of Tilrey’s tunic. “You’d like that, huh? To be in control again. Make me squirm and squeal.”

Tilrey had sort of liked it, or might have if Verán and the others hadn’t been watching. “I want you to be in control, Fir,” he said soothingly, surprised by how little nervousness he felt. Even now, the first time with a new man tended to put him on edge, but Besha just didn’t feel dangerous.

“Sure, you do. I don’t trust you, you know. Visha, he doesn’t see it, but you’re too clever for your own good.” Besha yanked Tilrey forward by the belt of his tunic, then unclasped it and peeled the heavy garment off his shoulders. “I haven’t forgotten the nosy questions you asked me that night, when I gave you the drink of water.”

He meant the night of the spring fling, when they were alone in the bathroom for that brief respite. Tilrey hadn’t forgotten it either. “I’ve been meaning to thank you for that, Fir,” he said as his tunic tumbled to the floor, trying hard not to sound bitter. “You were kind.”

“And you’re trying to butter me up.” Besha snatched the tumbler that Tilrey was still holding and brought it to Tilrey’s lips. “You’ll never be as good a brownnoser as that little prick Ansha, so I wouldn’t bother trying. Drink—finish it.”

While Tilrey did, Besha circled behind the chair, picking up something on his way. He grabbed the empty tumbler and tossed it aside, then tugged Tilrey’s arms behind his back.

Soft, scratchy fabric was wrapped around Tilrey’s wrists and pulled tight.

Something knitted. He didn’t resist the makeshift bondage, which was less constricting than Gourmanian’s handcuffs, even when Besha knotted it hard.

“There.” Besha stepped back. “You look better tied up. Like you belong in restraints. Arch your back and struggle a little—ooh, yes, like that. Not too hard. Don’t break it. Who was your first Upstart?”

Tilrey stopped writhing. “’Scuse me, Fir?”

Besha came around to face him again. “You’re a Skeinsha—the accent you’re faking doesn’t fool me. You weren’t raised with us. Who was the first Strutter you ever met? How old were you? Did he fuck you?”

Strutter. Strange that Besha would use the same contemptuous term Laborers did. Maybe he was trying clumsily to relate to Tilrey. “I don’t know,” Tilrey said.

“Yes, you do. Tell me.”

The first time Tilrey ever met an Upstart, the man had groped him. He had resisted, and a soldier had stepped forward to restrain him. Those were memories he generally buried, but he had been through so much worse now. If Besha wanted a tearful reminiscence, he would be disappointed.

Tilrey lifted his chin and spoke with no tremble in his voice. “His name was Admin Makari, and no, he didn’t fuck me. He wanted to save me for a Councillor, to earn patronage.”

“But he could’ve fucked you, huh? He could’ve done whatever he wanted with you.” As if to illustrate, Besha placed his hand on Tilrey’s groin, just barely palming his cock through the trousers and briefs. “You were a bad boy, weren’t you? You could’ve flown under the radar, just another schoolboy in Thurskein. But you attracted attention to yourself somehow. And then your Supervisor saw you were too pretty to waste on a factory floor.”

Had Besha forgotten the source of Tilrey's trouble in Thurskein? Years ago, on their very first meeting, he'd taunted Tilrey with the "shirker business" that Malsha had expunged from his record. Maybe he didn't want to admit he knew now that Tilrey was Island property—and that was fine with Tilrey, who wasn’t in the mood to let someone probe his sore spots the way Malsha used to.

So he lied a little: “I was bad, Fir. I was involved with smugglers, transporting the goods. My mom was so angry.”

Besha didn't seem to mind playing along. “Mmm,” he said, stroking the slight bulge in Tilrey’s trousers. “So your Supervisor brought in an Upstart to give you a little talking-to. Did he impress you, this Makari?”

Tilrey shook his head. He would give Besha just enough of the truth to satisfy him. “He was an ordinary man with a different accent and clothes from me. I expected more from an Upstart.”

“But you must’ve known he was the arbiter of your fate.” Besha’s palm rubbed in circles, surprisingly skillful, sending hot tendrils of arousal up Tilrey’s spine. “He could’ve had you thrown in detention, where grown men would have raped you day and night. But instead, he cuffed you to a chair and told you to confess your crimes, didn’t he? He asked if you were ready to redeem yourself.”

Tilrey nodded. It was dawning on him that Besha didn’t want the real story; he wanted a fantasy version they could act out together. And that he could do.

“I confessed, Fir.” Not true: Makari hadn’t been interested in his guilt or innocence, only the pretext the charges provided. “I told him I would do anything to stay out of detention. I was so scared.”

“Oh, I’m sure you were.” Besha reached up to tangle fingers in Tilrey’s hair, pulling his head backward to bare his neck. There was a confident purr in his voice, all the earlier jitters gone. He was getting off on this.

“And then the Fir touched you, didn’t he?” Besha gave Tilrey’s head a little shake and nudged him in the hip with his knee. “He touched you like he owned you. And you changed your mind. You said you’d do anything else, but not that.”

Tilrey tensed, but only a little. “That is what happened, Fir. More or less. How did you know?”

“Oh, I know.” Besha bent and gave Tilrey a greedy kiss that tasted of brandy. “No, no, not like that—resist more, okay? Say it: ‘I’ll do anything but that.’”

“I’ll do anything but that, Fir.”

This time, when Besha kissed him, Tilrey set his jaw so the tongue had to force its way between his lips. His cheeks heated and his eyes teared with the token struggle, but he was still in control. This was a play they were acting together, using their skills in harmony.

Bror would understand what he was doing. Pretending was part of being a kettle boy. Bror might even be proud.

Besha straightened again, his beady eyes bright with desire. “What if I tell you you don’t have a choice, laddie? What’s your problem, anyway? Don’t you realize it’s a honor to have an Upstart want you?”

“I’m sorry, Fir. I just . . . please, please don’t!” Tilrey let his voice quaver.

With a sharp intake of breath, Besha darted in to devour Tilrey’s exposed throat and neck. He found a soft patch and suckled it, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

“Mmm.” The sensations weren’t bad, actually, but Tilrey’s pinioned arms were starting to feel stiff. “Ask me if I’m being so shy because I’m fresh, Fir,” he suggested, remembering all too well how Admin Makari had done that. “Then we can move to the bed.”

“Ooh yes, good idea.” Besha nuzzled him, his voice vibrating against Tilrey’s neck. “What’s your problem, then, lad? Are you fresh? Never been with a man yet?”

“N-n-not with a man. I’ve been with a girl, Fir.” Tilrey exaggerated the distress, pitching upward; he was pleased by how absurdly pathetic he sounded. Never mind that he’d actually said something similar to Makari; that was over. This wasn’t real.

“Ha ha, that doesn’t count. I really lucked out when I found you, didn’t I? An untouched peach, completely at my mercy.” Besha’s hand found Tilrey’s cock again and squeezed. “No worries. I promise I’ll be sweet and gentle. You just relax and let it happen, and the Fir’ll take care of everything.”

Tilrey strained away. “Please don’t, Fir. I’m scared.”

“Oh, c’mon. You know you want it.” Besha reached behind Tilrey and fumbled impatiently at the binding. “Let’s go to bed. I’ll just truss you up again to make sure you don’t get away.”

They continued playing their roles of frightened schoolboy and rapacious Upstart, though it was harder to maintain the illusion once Tilrey stood up and towered over Besha again.

Besha flinched almost imperceptibly, then darted forward and seized Tilrey’s wrists. “No, no more trouble from you! Flail around or something,” he added under his breath as a stage direction. “Put up a fight.” Then, in character again: “Be a good boy, or I’ll call in one of the Constables to hold you down. I’ll have you whether you want it or not!”

Tilrey did his best to flail and fight ineffectually. But he couldn’t even shove Besha away, using a fraction of his strength, without frightening the little Councillor. So, after a few moves that felt like a poorly choreographed dance, he threw himself face down on the bed and pretended to weep.

From there, it was easy for Besha to roll him over, plant a knee on Tilrey’s chest, and tug off his shirt and trousers. Tilrey helped him while pretending fitfully to resist. “Please no, Fir,” he said, too bored now to act with much conviction. “Please don’t.”

His first time hadn’t actually gone like this. Makari had had the sense to save him for Councillor Jena—mostly. On the way to Redda, there’d been that thing at the waystation—but no, he wouldn’t think about that.

Once they arrived, Councillor Jena didn’t want a struggle. A medium dose of sap sufficed to render Tilrey dead to the world. Hours later, he’d woken alone in a strange bed in a strange room with his ass hurting like hell—a shallow, stinging pain and a deep, aching pain at once. It took long, groggy minutes for him to grasp what had happened, and even then, the sense of violation didn’t sink in until Fir Jena’s driver entered the room and grinned down at him. “How we doin’ this morning?”

“Don’t be an idiot!” Besha gave Tilrey a smack on the cheek that was more of a tap, hardly enough to make him blink.

He must be worried about leaving marks; unlike Linden, he didn’t have the clout to get away with it. “Roll over, and let’s see if you’re lying about being untouched goods!”

Tilrey rolled over. “Not lying, Fir.”

Makari had wanted to verify, too, but he’d taken care of that back in the cell in Thurskein. A soldier shoving Tilrey against the wall, a hand pushing his head down, fingers probing inside him while he bit his lip until it bled, too shocked to budge. No tears yet, no emotions, just a buzzing white space in his head and the taste of his own blood.

The relief when they released him, though he was trembling so hard he had to lean on the wall. The drink of sap-laced water he received as a “reward.”

But it was all right. That was all over. He was in Redda now, and he was in control, and he knew the worst and the best that could happen. Besha didn’t scare him, barely even bugged him. He would see Bror at the gym tomorrow.

“You’ll take an Upstart cock and you’ll like it, you little slut!” Besha claimed Tilrey’s wrists and dragged him over the rumpled sheets to spread-eagle him face down. “You’ll thank me after I’m done. Ooh, yes.”

Still fully clothed, he ground his hard cock against Tilrey’s naked ass, collaring his nape and whispering in his ear, “I’ll save you from this nasty place. I’ll make you my pet, and you’ll thank me every single day and beg to suck my cock. But we’ll keep you tied up for now. Just until you get some sense.”

The knitted thing turned out to be long enough to lash Tilrey’s wrists together and then to the headboard. Besha cinched the knots tighter this time, and Tilrey’s winces were genuine. Gourmanian was always more careful with restraints; he probably had more experience with them. Besha, Tilrey suspected, was still learning.

“You can get padded cuffs, you know, Fir,” he said conversationally as Besha mounted him again. “They make them as props for pornstreams. No knots. Easier for us both.”

“It’s not supposed to be easy!” Besha was fumbling around on the headboard shelf over Tilrey’s head, clearly looking for the lube. “You’re not supposed to like this, okay? Show me how much you don’t like it.”

“I thought you said I was supposed to like it.” But Tilrey obliged with some half-hearted squirming and bucking as Besha’s slick fingers poked their way inside him. “Oh no, please don’t, Fir! It hurts! Ow!”

“You’re not convincing me,” Besha muttered. But when he got his own fly open and brought his weight down on top of Tilrey, he was rock hard. “Green hills of my fathers, you’re so tight, you little virgin. I can’t help myself! Cry or something,” he added in a husky whisper.

Since he wasn’t facing Besha, Tilrey didn’t bother to produce tears, only a faint facsimile of a moan. He raised his hips to give Besha better purchase. “Please, Fir! I’m begging you to stop.”

Besha’s own hips were already humping compulsively, though his cockhead hadn’t breached Tilrey yet. “Soon you’ll be begging me for more, you little tramp!”

And so it went on.

Besha had experience, but he was no great cocksman. He got himself inside with one great thrust, then froze in place to catch his breath before trying another one. Tilrey could feel him holding back, working hard to establish a solid rhythm, not wanting to spill too early and look like a schoolboy.

Like Verán, he didn’t touch Tilrey’s cock at all, too busy grunting and pumping and jamming Tilrey’s face into the pillow. His rape fantasy seemed to absorb him completely—as if he somehow didn’t notice that Tilrey was complying now, arching his back to get more of his supposed assailant’s cock.

Maybe Besha couldn’t tell the difference between a consensual encounter and rape. Malsha certainly could, but was he the only one?

Tilrey wondered about this as Besha’s rhythm sped up. He gasped for breath, resisting the urge to throw off the restraining hand that was knotted painfully in his hair.

Gourmanian had apologized for the spring fling. But when Verán and the other Islanders mentioned that night, with winks and nudges, they barely seemed embarrassed. Tilrey suspected they thought it was something he had sneakily enjoyed.

They had no fucking idea. Even Ansha understood the difference between putting up some silly fake resistance—the way Tilrey had done tonight—and being held down and broken open. Even Vlastor probably grasped that. But not these men with their high test scores and their claims to be the smartest people in the world.

By the time he felt the warm gush inside him, Tilrey’s arms were nearly numb. He waited patiently while Besha collapsed on top of him and nuzzled a bit and began drawing long, even breaths.

Finally, when he could take it no more and worried the Councillor was dozing off, he said, “Could you, Fir, please? The fucking rope isn’t long enough. Hurts.”

Besha rolled off Tilrey with a murmured apology. “You’re right,” he said, kneeling to pry open the knots. “I should get some proper restraints. My lovely wife has a whole toy chest, but it feels weird to borrow hers—or maybe I’m just being squeamish. Maybe I have too many inhibitions. She thinks so. What do you think? Would that be weird?”

Tilrey thought it would be, but he couldn’t focus on Besha’s nasal prattle right now. As the knots loosened, releasing his dead-weight arms, he was finally able to raise his head and get a look at the makeshift rope Besha had used on him.

As he’d suspected, it was a scarf. Not a standard machine-made Oslov scarf, with its even weave, but a hand-knitted concoction in garish shades of blue and green, with thin red stripes.

A Harbourer scarf, very like the one Malsha had given him, but not his. No, not his, yet familiar—and cold spread through Tilrey, every hair on his exposed body standing on end, as he understood.

This was the scarf he had seen in Malsha’s coldroom the day he’d heard the nasal voice in the sitting room talking about Q-Codes. He hadn’t been able to identify that voice all through the ten-days he spent in a dark cell, ready to do anything to get out. He’d racked his brains trying to remember where he’d heard it before.

Now he knew the scarf was Besha’s—and yes, the voice matched. Tilrey hadn’t made the connection that day in Malsha’s apartment, since he’d only met Besha properly one time, at the beginning of his time in Redda. But now the scarf had jogged his memory.

He tried to tell himself it was nothing, a coincidence. But already his brain was jumping ahead to the inexorable, chilling conclusion.

Besha was the traitor who had helped Malsha humiliate the Republic. And his doting mentor, Verán, didn’t suspect a damn thing.

Chapter 38: Dating

Besha Linbeck gazed down at Malsha’s boy, dozing beside him. The boy was gloriously nude, turned toward Besha. The bedclothes covered him below the waist while baring a rippling shoulder, impressive pectorals, pert nipples. And then, of course, that beautiful profile and the thick, tousled hair, brownish in shadows and golden in the light. The ugly dye job Verán had done on it had finally grown out.

This was success, Besha decided. This was luxury. You knew you had power when you had a boy like this in your bed, fulfilling your every wish. Tonight was worth all the tedious hours he’d spent in Saldegren’s office, nodding and pretending to care about some privileged brats who wanted to off themselves for honor.

Honor was a lie created by high names to make themselves feel special. Besha had no honor, and sometimes he wasn’t even sure he had self-respect, but he did have this boy in his bed. He had tied the boy up with the scarf Malsha had given him long ago, and the boy had played right along and not objected, as if Besha were a real Councillor and not an imposter. In their little role-play, he’d pretended to chastise the boy for smuggling goods out of Thurskein. But in real life, it was Besha who’d been exposed as a smuggler and forced to whore himself for his freedom.

The first time Besha ever met his wife, she had handcuffed him and declared him under arrest. (Granted, she had ample reason.) Then that lovely, high-named, high-minded woman had offered him a way to “redeem” himself that involved wearing the cuffs to bed.

Besha had spent years “entertaining” and “amusing” Davita Lindblom before she suggested they marry. She introduced him to all her important friends, including Visha Verán. Besha entertained them, too, though not quite in the same way.

He was a nobody from a family of nobodies, but he made himself indispensable. He endured. He gave his wife exactly what she wanted, letting her use her entire toy chest on him. He put on a show of writhing and protesting, but he didn’t lie to himself and pretend he didn’t enjoy it.

Until tonight, though, he had never tied anyone else to a bed. He had never played the aggressor.

He wondered if the boy could tell he’d done it out of fear. Not real fear, because a kettle boy couldn’t hurt a Councillor in any way that mattered. But just looking at the boy, so tall and powerfully built, aroused a deep-down dread that Besha still struggled to control. Part of him wanted to cower the way he’d cowered in school when bigger boys mocked him and tried to steal his lecture notes. Meritocracy be damned—in a state of nature, smaller people were prey to larger ones.

But not in this bed. He stroked the curve of the boy’s hip, the muscular swell of his ass. Squeezed. Mine, finally. Mine.

The boy stirred. Pale brown lashes fluttered, and blue eyes opened—so incredibly blue, so keen that they unsettled Besha.

He flicked a strand of hair off the boy’s forehead. What was he supposed to call him, again? Verán called him Nettsha. Malsha had called him Tilrey, which presumably was his legal name, but Besha couldn’t let on that he knew anything about Malsha’s habits.

He’d made that mistake earlier, when he said Malsha would have been upset to see them together. The boy had picked up on it. Besha shouldn’t have used Malsha’s scarf, either, but he hadn’t been able to resist. Anyway, he had an explanation for that prepared.

“You liked that, didn’t you, Nettsha?” he asked.

The boy lowered his eyes modestly. “It was different, Fir.”

“Yes, and you liked it. You did. Don’t lie.” Besha tweaked a nipple. It felt so nice to be able to touch the boy any way he wanted, the way Verán did.

He knew the boy’s mouth could undo him, because of what had happened last winter in Verán’s villa. It wasn’t a memory he liked to dwell on, though, because he’d been on display that night as much as Nettsha was. Maybe even more. You were amazing, his wife had told him afterward. I’d almost like to see that boy fuck you.

Besha had replied, I’d like that, too, because he knew Davita wanted to hear him say it. But he didn’t want any whore’s cock inside him, not even if it was very beautiful and very large (yes, he’d noticed). Never! He was in charge now. He would stay in charge.

“You’re a natural submissive,” he informed the boy, repeating what his wife had always told him about himself. “You want me to take charge and guide you, just like your Admin Makari did. You love it.”

Nettsha blinked. “I don’t know, Fir. Maybe.”

He was looking at the scarf Besha had used to bind him, now lying on the bed. Malsha’s scarf. “That’s not regulation, is it, Fir? The colors are so bright.”

Why was Nettsha playing dumb? Besha clearly remembered seeing the boy traipsing all over the Core in a similar scarf—everyone had noticed.

“It’s just a piece of nonsense from Harbour.” As you should know, because Malsha got it there, and he gave you its twin. “My wife imports dressing gowns from there, and she got me this as a gift.” The first part was true, at least. “I don’t wear it outside, generally. As you said, not regulation.”

“I guess that wouldn’t matter for you, though, Fir.” The boy propped himself up on an elbow. “Now that you’re a Councillor, you can do whatever you want.”

“Ha ha, well! Within reason!” Besha patted Nettsha’s round ass again, reminding him who was in control. He tried to think of something a normal Councillor might say. Something lewd and arrogant. “I see why everyone makes such a fuss over you now. You’re an amazing fuck. I could ride you all night.”

This kind of talk bored him. He wished it were safe to talk about Malsha, because he could just bet the boy had some choice insights into that twisted old fuck’s psyche. He’d been at Malsha’s mercy for two whole years.

Besha himself had dealt with Malsha only intermittently, first at the godforsaken weapons depot in the Wastes and then in Redda. The man had asked him for little favors and granted favors in return—a mutually satisfying relationship.

Unlike Verán and some of the other high names, Malsha had never made a pass at Besha. But he had a way of asking probing questions that made even Besha uncomfortable. He found Besha’s double and triple dealings delightful, seeming to derive an unwholesome pleasure from making Besha narrate them at length.

They’d spent a few free-nights together in Malsha’s sitting room, Besha regaling the Magistrate with gossip about the Islanders while Malsha sipped his tea and smiled in his enigmatic way. Besha kept these evenings secret from his wife, coming and going in darkness. Couldn’t let anyone think he was in the pocket of the Mainland Party leader, so he pretended barely to know Malsha at all.

 Then Besha got an inkling that the Magistrate was a sociopath with plans that included high treason, and he set out to free himself from Malsha’s clutches.

He had succeeded, with the unwitting help of poor Nettsha—and that pathetic Adelbert. But Malsha had exacted one last favor from Besha, and the consequences remained like a brand burned into his skin. Even if no one else ever knew, he would feel it.

A little, anyway. Fear could make Besha smart, like a belt applied to his ass, but guilt rarely bothered him.

He recalled Malsha’s florid threat when he’d learned Besha had stolen the boy away from him: If you’ve laid one finger on my boy, I will have you abducted by Outers, castrated, disemboweled, and burned alive. Ha! If only the old villain could see this.

Besha stroked the boy from ass to shoulder, appreciating the narrow waist. “Well? Aren’t you going to thank me for the compliment?”

The boy leaned into the touch. He stretched a little—preening, Besha thought. “Most men like my mouth better, Fir.”

“Hmm, well. It is hard to choose.” Besha traced the boy’s flawless jawline with his finger, then the full lips. “Verán’s hopelessly addicted to you.”

He meant this as an empty compliment, but the boy’s expression darkened. “Then why does he keep saying he means to give me away, Fir? To the General Magistrate? Why isn’t Verán the GM, anyway?”

It was a fair question. “You’d rather stay with Verán, huh? I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want to sleep with that half-dead Linden, either.”

Nettsha’s eyes flashed with a violence that surprised Besha. “But why, Fir? Why can’t Verán just keep me? He said it was because Fir Linden had higher test scores. That can’t be the reason.”

Besha had to cackle. It was just like Verán to say something so ridiculous.

“Nah, it’s not that.” He knew he shouldn’t trash-talk his mentor to a kettle boy, but he couldn’t help himself. Anyway, what could Nettsha do about it? “A while ago, before Malsha and the Mainland got control of the Council, Verán made a big mistake. He floated a bill to try to shrink the electorate, so only R-8 and above could vote. That would’ve turned R-7s into Laborers in all but name.” R-7s were the lowest class of Upstarts and the one that Besha’s parents belonged to. “Verán’s idea didn’t go over well.”

Those blue eyes fixed on Besha, as if the boy were really interested in this political babble. “Why not? I mean, most Councillors belong to families of R-10s and R-11s. Why should they care?”

“Everyone has underachievers somewhere in their family line, sweetheart.” Besha laughed as if he weren’t talking about himself. “They wanted to protect the privileges of their weakest links. So the bill was voted down, and Verán’s party lost the next election. He’d made himself look like an elitist, a fan of hereditary privilege. After that, he realized he’d get further if he used Linden as his figurehead—somebody who’s never had a daring or original thought in his life.”

They were all such greening hypocrites. All the high names clung to inherited privilege and the purity of their bloodlines while swearing up and down they believed in social mobility. Look at his wife. She claimed that by marrying Besha she’d proved her indifference to heredity. Yet she’d fretted endlessly over the genetic profile of their firstborn.

The boy was nodding. He seemed to understand every word Besha said. “Thank you for explaining that, Fir. I wondered. But tell me…”

Besha bent to kiss Nettsha’s neck. The slight humidity of his soft skin was irresistible. “What?”

“Does anyone ever worry that Linden might be unfit for office?”

Well, that was hitting the nail on the head. If the boy ever said something like that in front of Verán, he would get a smack for his trouble. “Why would you ask that, love?”

 “I had a little trouble… satisfying him, Fir.”

“Course you did. He’s an old man.” The boy was warm and delicious; Besha sucked on his pulse point. “Don’t worry about it,” he reassured him. “If Linden ever does anything you don’t like, tell Visha. He adores you.”

“No, he doesn’t, Fir.” The boy’s voice shook a little.

“Yes, he does. You’re his jewel. Why are you being contrary?”

Then Besha remembered what he and Verán had been talking about before Nettsha arrived. “Did he tell you what he’s planning for Election Night? Is that why you’re fretting?”

He bit his tongue an instant later, because Nettsha clearly did not know. Those blue eyes widened. “What do you mean, Fir?”

“Nothing!” But since Besha had been careless enough to mention it, he supposed it might not hurt to give the boy fair warning. “If I tell you, will you promise not to tell Verán I did?”

The boy nodded. “I can keep secrets.”

I bet you can. It might be useful to have Nettsha owe him a favor, Besha decided. He liked gossiping with the boy, and this could be a test of his discretion.

“Well, every Election Night, we throw a party to celebrate the Island’s newly elected Councillors. And of course they deserve special rewards, right?” Besha knew of no way to sugarcoat this, though he imagined Verán would have managed it. “So anyway, you’re their reward this year. Their prize. They’ll have you.”

Blood had drained from the boy’s face. “Like the Spring Fling,” he said in a low voice.

“No, it’ll be just the newly electeds, not all of the inner circle. And he’ll let them use all of you, not just your mouth.”

Clearly none of this was helping. The boy looked horrified. “It won’t be as public as the Spring Fling, either,” Besha added hastily. “Not every man wants to … exert himself in front of his colleagues. Visha proposed putting you in a room and sending them in one by one, like we used to do at school. You know, for club initiations and the like?” he continued, seeing no recognition on the boy’s face. “Stick a lad in a room and send each of the initiates in to him, so they can have a bonding experience.”

Nettsha looked sick. “We didn’t do that at my school.”

Or you didn’t know about it.

A few times when Besha was fifteen and sixteen, he’d been the boy who waited in that room, entertaining Klars István’s friends. He was the smallest member of their circle and the lowest-named and the most desperate for them all to like him. The memories weren’t good ones, but he’d survived, hadn’t he? And today some of those schoolmates took orders from him.

“It’s not that bad,” he assured the boy. “They’ll be drunk or sapped by that point, and embarrassed about the whole thing. And it’s harder for the mean ones to be rough with you when it’s one-on-one. Without a whole group to encourage them, they lose their spirit.”

Nettsha just stared at him—expressionless now, an ice sculpture.

“You know what I’m talking about,” Besha said conspiratorially. “I mean, you’ve done a real crowd scene, haven’t you? Or did Malsha protect you from that kind of stuff?” He couldn’t believe it—Malsha was a sadist.

Sure enough, the boy dropped his gaze. He’d pulled a train before, even if he didn’t want to admit it. He inched away from Besha to sit up against the headboard, eyes focused across the room.

“No reason to get upset. It’s not so bad!” Besha patted him on the shoulder. “It’s not a punishment for you. Common experiences help people bond, that’s all, and someone needs to be the glue. Anyway,” he added, drawing again on his own experience, “it’ll give you a chance to take their measure. The bedroom is the best place to gauge somebody’s character.”

He stopped short, realizing he was quoting a maxim of Malsha’s. But if Nettsha recognized it, he didn’t say so.

“Will it be just the newly electeds?” he asked, still in that low, expressionless voice. “And just in private? A ‘crowd scene’ … that’s public, I thought.”

He didn’t want to be put on display again. Besha could understand that. “Verán did say something about pairing you with Ansha, maybe,” he admitted. “For us to watch.”

The boy tensed, but he didn’t flinch. “With Ansha? You’re sure?”

“Of course! He knows how to handle you. And he’s Visha’s favorite—well, after you, anyway.” Privately, Besha was looking forward to it; Ansha was such a cocky little bastard.

“You’ll get plenty of sap, and it’ll be over before you know it,” he said, coaxing the boy to lie down again beside him. “Big, strong lad like you. You’re the party’s jewel. Nothing in the world to worry about.”

***

Tilrey propped himself up on an elbow and watched Besha sleep. The little man was restless, tossing and turning and sometimes muttering insults at an unseen enemy.

You’re the traitor. You.

Could it really be? Even if it were true, the only evidence Tilrey had was a scarf—which was in Besha’s possession—and the memory of a voice. In the Funnel of Int/Sec, under questioning, he’d claimed he didn’t recognize that voice, which had been true at the time.

He imagined going to Verán and accusing Besha of being Malsha’s accomplice. He would be laughed at. (It was his voice and you just remembered now? You expect me to believe that?) Probably slapped. Almost certainly sent to moral rehab again, for longer than last time.

And even if Verán and Int/Sec took his claim seriously, even if Tilrey told them to ask Adelbert about Besha’s connection to Malsha and Adelbert revealed everything—even then, he might still be in trouble. They might think he’d been in on Malsha’s plot, too. They would bring him back to that dark cell for round after round of questioning.

No. It wasn’t worth the risk. If Besha was a traitor responsible for something terrible—people had died in Harbour, he himself had said the night of the Spring Fling—then that was Besha’s business.

Tilrey couldn’t afford to care about the safety of the whole Republic, especially when the Republic didn’t seem to care about his own. If Besha ever got his comeuppance, he wouldn’t shed a tear. But no one needed to know he had known first.

I’ll watch out for myself, he decided, lying back down beside Besha. Someday, what he knew about the little Councillor might become useful. But for now he would say nothing. He had nearly two months to prepare himself for Election Night, and he would survive it.

And in the meantime, he would see Bror again. He would not give anyone a reason to separate them.

***

The next day in the Gym, Tilrey broke out in a sweat when Bror entered the weight room.

He could see Ansha watching from several yards away, and he didn’t want to seem too eager. Ansha shouldn’t know how he felt about Bror, how they felt about each other.

Deep down, he was bashful for his own sake, too. He was actually a little stunned by what he’d dared to admit to Bror yesterday afternoon.

I’m your friend who wants to be more than your friend. And then, You think I haven’t been wanting you since I first met you?

Bror made things easier by being his normal self. “Hey, Rishka,” he said, clapping Tilrey on the back. “Spot you?”

They kept up the pretense that nothing had happened through the whole workout, followed by an awkward conversation with Ansha at the juice bar in the foyer. Ansha kept darting odd glances at Bror, which mystified Tilrey until he remembered what Bror had said yesterday: that he’d tricked Ansha into thinking he had a predatory interest in Tilrey, hoping Verán would hear about it and avoid pairing them up.

It was a clever idea, Tilrey thought. But it might backfire. He didn’t want Ansha telling Verán that Bror was an actual threat to him. They shouldn’t appear to be spending too much time together, either.

While Ansha was distracted, calling out a greeting to Lus, he scrawled a message on a napkin and slid it over to Bror. We should both leave alone. Meet on Bldg 56 platform?

Heat spread over Tilrey’s face, even as Bror shot him a grin and a subtle nod. He’d assumed that Bror would want to see him. Practically demanded time alone with him.

Lus was busy ordering, so Ansha turned back to them. “I hear Besha finally got into the inner circle. How was he?” he asked, eyes narrowing on Tilrey. “You don’t look any worse for wear.”

Tilrey couldn’t look at Bror. “Why would I?” he asked breezily, though inside he was mortified. “Besha’s a small man with simple needs. Not much more to say.”

“Really?” As usual, Ansha was desperate for gossip. “You don’t have to be discreet with us, Rishka. Is he as ‘slimy’ as Lus said? What does that mean, exactly?”

Tilrey smiled enigmatically. If Bror could pull the wool over Ansha’s eyes, so could he. “Besha’s insecure. I think that’s what Lus meant. He kept harping on my height, like it bothered him.”

Bror gave a great guffaw. To Tilrey’s relief, Ansha laughed, too. “Short men are pathetic.”

“Oh really?” Bror rumbled. “Height is relative. To me, you’re short.”

“Fuck off. You’re just a giant, is all.”

So they passed a half-hour in their usual lazy banter—with Lus contributing his impression of Besha’s nasal voice—until Tilrey announced he was headed home. Bror declared his intention of visiting his family in Ring Six and went off in a different direction.

Glad that Vlastor was no longer tailing him, Tilrey snuck over to the tram platform of the neighboring building, which involved navigating several stairways and dingy passages. It felt exciting, like being a spy.

Bror was waiting for him there, having taken the faster route. After a glance around, he tugged Tilrey toward a waiting tram.

“Let’s really go to Ring Six,” he said. “Ansha won’t be there. And I want to show you something.”

“Not more girls?” Tilrey asked, trying and failing to keep his tone light. Now that they were alone, he didn’t know how close to stand to Bror or how often to look at him. Eye contact felt way too meaningful.

It was maddening. He hadn’t been this way since Dal. Since then, he’d learned how to flirt, and he’d done it with Councillors and even with Vera, her obvious infatuation giving him a measure of confidence. He’d almost forgotten how it felt to be desperately insecure about whether someone liked him.

Bror laughed too heartily at the attempted joke, dispelling some of the tension. “No, no more girls for you. Can’t have you leaving broken hearts all over my old neighborhood.”

He does like me. He said so just yesterday! Tilrey reminded himself as the tram glided through the inner Rings. He tried to summon Bror’s exact words, but mainly he remembered the kiss. Not a friendly kiss or a kiss of pity, but one of passion.

Ring Six was quiet during the daytime, except for the constant pulse and rumble from the giant factories. It was cold, the first tinge of autumn in the air. They left the tram and walked companionably close for several blocks, though Bror didn’t reach for Tilrey’s hand again.

Had Tilrey disappointed him by withdrawing from their kiss? He wanted another kiss like that so badly.

Why had he gone cold that way? Stupid, he berated himself, remembering how being with Bror had suddenly reminded him of being with an Upstart. Not because Bror had done anything wrong, but because of how Tilrey’s body had responded to his—smooth, trained, obedient. As if he couldn’t remember how to be anyone but a kettle boy.

Maybe it was better to be nervous and unsure than that—but he hated being nervous! He was too old to act like a schoolboy, he thought, clenching a fist, as they stopped at a wrought-iron gate two stories high, protecting a vacant lot between two factory complexes.

Beside the gate was a stall where an old man sold what looked like greasy golden pancakes—cod fritters, Bror explained, giving Tilrey a friendly nudge in the ribs that sent shivers of sensation up his spine. “Best food ever. Terrible for you.”

Bror exchanged a few words with the old man and got them two packets of fritters wrapped in scrap paper, with a paper cone of sauce on the side. “But before we feast,” he said, gesturing at the gate, “we’re gonna climb the Trash Pyramid.”

Through the bars of the gate, Tilrey saw a gargantuan pile of junk, towering nearly to the fourth floor of the surrounding buildings. “How’s that allowed?” he asked. In Thurskein, trash was painstakingly recycled, and anything that couldn’t be was pressed into tiny cubes and buried on the tundra.

“We keep organic waste out of it, so it doesn’t attract rats.” Bror led him into the building beside the gate and down a long, windowless corridor. “The government doesn’t need this courtyard for anything, so they pretend not to notice and let us have our fun.”

Bypassing the gate involved a circuitous route through basement tunnels. As they walked, Bror told Tilrey that Ring Sixers had been building the tower of salvage for nearly thirty years, using furnishings, factory discards, and other materials earmarked for disposal. Friendly local building inspectors made sure the thing was structurally sound and could be climbed like a giant piece of playground equipment, if you were careful.

When they emerged into the courtyard, Tilrey saw what Bror meant. The Trash Pyramid loomed above them, its mostly metal components glinting in the sunlight—a jumble of wheels and gearshafts and bedsprings and refrigerators and portable heaters and car and tram bodies and a thousand other things that he couldn’t identify. He had to crane his neck to see the apex of the “pyramid”— two benches arranged diagonally to each other with a small door welded on top as a perch.

“Don’t look, climb! Follow my lead.” Now, at last, Bror grabbed Tilrey’s hand to lead him to the base of the structure.

He held fast as he instructed Tilrey on where to haul himself up. If he noticed Tilrey’s blush, he didn’t show it. He gave Tilrey’s hand a little squeeze before releasing it—and then, without pausing, he launched himself at the tower.

Following him was easy. Tilrey had plenty of experience clambering in the rafters of Thurskein’s factory floors with Dal and Pers; he was nimble and not afraid of heights. Once he started climbing, another part of his brain took over. The world below fell away, and he was aware only of handholds and footholds, the pleasant exertion of pulling himself up, and the crisp wind whistling around his ears. Though he was hungry, he was almost disappointed when they reached the top.

They settled themselves on the narrow door at the apex, their legs swinging in midair. While Bror unpacked the food, Tilrey gazed dizzily down at the glittering tower they’d just scaled. The surrounding courtyard and buildings were drab and gray. But the sky was blue, and he felt like he’d discovered the majestic relic of a more exciting era.

By the time Bror passed him a packet of fritters, he was confident holding on with just one hand. He put the portion in his lap, dipped the crispy fritters in the tangy sauce, and savored the grease of it all.

“I see what you mean,” he said, careful not to elbow Bror accidentally in their precarious position. “These are amazing.”

“Right?” Bror used his free hand to flick something off Tilrey’s chin. “Got sauce on you.”

The touch ran through Tilrey’s body like an electric shock, and he wished he dared inch closer. “Thanks.”

“It was kinda cute, actually.” Bror grinned at him in the easy way that made it so hard to be awkward with him. Then his face sobered as he asked, “Was it really okay with Besha? He gives me the creeps.”

“It was okay,” Tilrey said automatically.

Then he realized he didn’t have to lie. He’d already decided not to tell Bror what he’d discovered about Besha’s connection to Malsha; that was too dangerous, and Bror could get hurt if he tried to do anything about it. But Tilrey didn’t have to clam up entirely. With fellow kettle boys, ones he trusted, it was his choice whether to be discreet.

“It was funny, actually,” he said, trying to find the right words.

“Funny ha-ha or funny weird?”

“Both. He tied me up and made me do a role-play, but he wasn’t very good at it. And I think he secretly hates Fir Verán.”

“Wouldn’t surprise me. Besha spends all his time licking that man’s boots.” Bror snorted. “He didn’t hurt you when he tied you up?” Concerned eyes probed Tilrey’s face.

Tilrey shook his head. “I think he was a little scared of me, actually. Bondage makes him feel more secure.”

“Ansha was right for once. Besha’s pathetic.” Bror swiveled and spat contemptuously off the tower, the saliva glinting in midair. “I don’t envy him his life of scheming and sucking up. It sounds like hell on earth—well, except for that wife of his. She’s a smoke show.”

“You like her looks?” Tilrey asked, tentatively teasing him.

“Enough to know Besha doesn’t deserve her.” Bror stuffed a whole fritter into his mouth and caught Tilrey’s eye again. “But he deserves you even less. When I think about it, I want to hurt him.”

Despite the cold wind, Tilrey felt warmth flooding his cheeks. He had to break the gaze. “I told you, you don’t need to protect me.”

“I know I don’t need to protect you. I want to protect you. Wish I could keep away anybody that’d ever hurt you.” Bror crumpled his empty packet, then caught a strand of Tilrey’s forelock, which was whipping in the wind, and tucked it back inside his hood. “And when I feel like that, y’know, it’s hard to act normal. Did I go too fast yesterday?”

So they were going to talk about the kiss. Tilrey ducked his head. “No. I liked it. A lot. I was, I was … just worried Verán would see if there was any mark on me.”

“I’m sorry! Need a lighter touch sometimes. I didn’t actually leave a mark, did I?”

“No!” The fear in Bror’s voice made Tilrey’s cheeks burn hotter. “It was just a thought I had, a worry, and it … I … well, it wasn’t just that. It was me,” he admitted, struggling to form words. “I was liking it, and it was good, and then suddenly … I wasn’t me anymore. Or I was the wrong me. I was thinking about you, what you’d like, and I wasn’t inside myself anymore.”

The pulse of hot blood made his eyes tear. He shouldn’t even be talking about this. If he had to pretend a little with Bror, with everyone, was that really a problem? The priority was Bror’s happiness, not his. “I was just overthinking. I do that.”

“You think a lot.” Bror gave him the slightest nudge. “I like that.”

Now that he’d confessed, and Bror didn’t seem put off, Tilrey wanted to understand what had happened. “Do you ever feel that way?” he asked timidly. “With Upstarts? Like you’re floating out of your body?”

“Sometimes,” Bror said after a moment. “Not often. Mainly when it’s bad.” A sharp exhale, and then his hand rested very gently on Tilrey’s knee. “I don’t want you to float away from me, Rishka. If you’re not feeling it, I want you to pull away. Or tell me. Whatever works. Don’t force yourself to do anything, not to spare my feelings or for any reason. Okay?”

“Okay.” But that was so much easier said than done. “I want to be more inside myself,” Tilrey said helplessly. “I just want to be now, here, with you.”

But his brain was already working against him again. Wanting to be fully inside his body reminded him of times when he’d needed to escape his body—the Spring Fling, the officers’ club. And remembering those times made him remember what Besha had said about Election Night.

Two months. I have two months to prepare. When it happened, he would need to be as far from his body as possible. He would need to float above it—as high as he was above the ground right now. And afterward, he knew, it would be hard to find his way back.

For a moment, he yearned to tell Bror. He wanted to blurt out everything Besha had said, including the weirdness about initiations and bonding, which made Tilrey wonder if Besha had experienced something like an Election Night himself. They could laugh and cringe together. They could bond.

But if he told Bror, Bror would begin dreading Election Night, too. Bror might even go to Verán and try to stop it. He’d managed to help Tilrey that one time by using Lindahl as a go-between, but Verán had no tolerance for meddling kettle boys. This might be the time that got Bror in trouble.

And Tilrey couldn’t let that happen.

If he did nothing, and Bror didn’t happen to be there on Election Night, then Bror might not even know until Ansha blabbed it everywhere, as Ansha inevitably would. By that time, though, it would be too late for Bror to do anything rash. He would accept it, and he would comfort Tilrey the way he’d done in the past, and everything would return to normal.

So Tilrey kept the knowledge to himself. It didn’t have to ruin their day, or all the other days they could have in the next two months.

“I want you to stay inside your body, too,” Bror was saying. He stroked Tilrey’s knee, placing the lightest pressure on it. “Want to help you with that, if I can. Guess that’s why I brought you here, though I wasn’t thinking about it. You can’t be safe a hundred feet up if your head is somewhere else.”

“I know.” Tilrey felt a surge of daring. “Do you dare kiss me out here?”

Bror’s laugh was a rumble that Tilrey could practically feel moving down his spine. “Why not? Nobody’s watching.”

Then do it. Please. Tilrey didn’t dare say the words, but he put the message in his eyes.

Bror understood. He leaned close, his blue eyes fixed on Tilrey’s, until their cheeks touched. Nuzzled Tilrey, not quite making contact with his lips. “Hold on with one hand,” he whispered. “You don’t wanna fall.”

“Not so easy to knock me off balance.”

Bror kissed Tilrey’s temple, then his cheek, each breath sending out tiny tendrils of sensation. “No?”

Here on top of the Trash Pyramid, with wind buffeting them and death just one careless movement away, Tilrey didn’t have to struggle to stay inside his own skin. When he finally turned to Bror, offering his mouth, he was lightheaded with fearful and joyful anticipation.

Again the kiss began with deceptive gentleness. But this time, when Bror changed the angle, sighing into Tilrey’s mouth and sliding his tongue inside, Tilrey didn’t freeze up. An eager little murmur burst from his lungs and bubbled up his throat. Bror released his knee and caught him around the waist to tug him closer. Tilrey leaned into the kiss, savoring the pressure of Bror’s arm and torso against him, even as he fought a brief shiver of vertigo.

Was it so good because they couldn’t take things any further up here? Because it wasn’t safe to do anything but kiss, even though his cock was already straining against his trousers?

When they came apart, both breathless, Bror’s mouth spread in a grin. He was still so close that his face was a blur. “Damn. I’d take a tumble for you any day, metaphorically speaking, but the ground’s a long way away.”

“It’s a little risky up here,” Tilrey agreed. But the excitement of the kiss still thrilled through him. He nestled closer to Bror, resting his head on his friend’s breast, and closed his eyes. After a few moments, Bror reached up carefully to stroke his hair.

Ten minutes later, the wind picked up. Without needing to exchange a word, they separated, stowed their trash, and climbed back to ground level. Tilrey slipped once, and Bror steadied him, big hands tight around his waist again.

They still didn’t speak on the way to the tram. Tilrey expected Bror to choose the route to the Vacants. He longed for it and he feared it, because in a bed there would be no boundaries on what they could do. When Bror opted for the tram to the Core instead, he wasn’t sure whether he was more disappointed or relieved.

Back on their home platform, Bror pulled Tilrey into a concealing angle of the building. He gave him another kiss, claiming his mouth with easy confidence, as if to assure him there would be more.

“Tomorrow let’s go to the Café like usual, okay?” he said when their mouths parted. “Don’t want the others to think we’re doing anything new.”

Tilrey nodded, breathless. Hating himself for his insecurity, he asked, “But after the Café? Or … another day? Could we?”

Bror tapped Tilrey’s chest familiarly. “You like to plan things, don’t you? Not a spur-of-the-moment type.”

In the cold, Tilrey was grateful for the warmth of his hundredth or so blush of the day. “I guess. But you’re right. We don’t have to—”

“I’m just teasing you. Soon, okay?” Bror bent to give him a playful head butt, touching foreheads. “Let’s plan to go to the Vacants on seventh-day. But once we get there, no schedules. No requirements.”

Tilrey nodded. “Sounds good.”

He was thinking: Two months. Should he take things all the way before then? Was this his last chance to sleep with Bror and enjoy it, like a normal person? Or was he already too broken to do anything but pretend?

I love you, please save me, he wanted to say. But instead he said, “See you tomorrow.”

Notes:

This chapter contains the original scene that Tilrey dreams about when he's in a bad place in Oslov Unraveled, hence a bit of repetition!

Chapter 39: Caring

September, year 344

Election Night was still twenty-five days away when Ansha cornered Tilrey at the tram station on his way home from the Café.

“No Bror today?” he asked, seizing Tilrey’s arm to pull him aside from the crowd.

Dread froze Tilrey’s insides, but he managed to keep it off his face. “Bror takes a different route.”

Ansha arched a brow. “I saw you with him, though. At the Vengangen Street interchange, two days ago.”

Tilrey resisted the urge to tug himself out of Ansha’s grip. It would have been so easy, but any resistance would raise the redhead’s suspicion. “I ran into him on my way back from Wardrobe in Ring Three,” he lied, widening his eyes innocently. “I needed new tunics, and Bror was coming from seeing his folks in Six.”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you,” Ansha said, leaning in and lowering his voice. “Brorsha’s a charmer, but he might not always have the best intentions. That day at the Café when you stormed out, he told Lus, Celinda, and me that he wanted a piece of you—you know, that way.” He scowled as if he couldn’t bear to repeat Bror’s crude words. “So I’d watch yourself alone with him, if I were you.”

Bror’s little ruse was still working its magic. Tilrey tried to respond as if this were hitting him out of the blue. “That doesn’t sound like Bror. Unless he was kidding around.”

“I was surprised, too! But he said it.”

Now, at last, Tilrey wrenched his arm from Ansha’s with one firm pull. “He’s had plenty of chances to take his shot in the Vacants when I was drunk or sapped. But I seem to remember that you were the one who did that, and Bror was the one who stopped you.”

Ansha reddened—was he ashamed? “I was just playing. I wouldn’t have taken it further. None of us would do that in the Vacants, with everybody else around. But alone with him—that’s where I worry about you. The way he was talking creeped me out, Rishka.”

How concerned he looked! Tilrey wondered suddenly if Ansha knew about the plan for Election Night. If he cared. Maybe he was looking forward to it.

“It’s kind of you to worry about me,” he said dryly, drawing himself up to show off his height advantage, “but you don’t need to. You’re not my big brother, and you’re not anything else to me, either. I hope you’re not taking what we do in Fir Verán’s bedroom seriously. Because I know that’s playacting.”

Ansha winced—that barb had hit home. “I’m not the one who’s trying to pull a fast one on you, Rishka. I’ve always been honest with you.”

Honest about envying and baiting me? But Tilrey knew he couldn’t take the frankness too far. “I’m not the naïve kid you think I am,” he said. “I know Bror’s not always what he pretends to be.”

Forgive me—but Bror would, he already knew. Bror would laugh when Tilrey recapped this whole conversation in the Vacants.

“So you don’t think he just wants to be your sweet older brother?” Ansha persisted. “You do know he might be buttering you up for other reasons?”

This time, Tilrey could respond with complete honesty. “Of course he doesn’t just want to be my brother! I can tell when a man wants me. How old do you think I am?”

***

“Mmm,” Tilrey said, his head pillowed on Bror’s lap. “I should go soon.”

“Me too.” But Bror didn’t move, except for his fingers stroking back and forth, back and forth on Tilrey’s scalp, ruffling the hair and then smoothing it into place.

They were on the window seat in their usual apartment in the Vacants, where they met every seventh-day now. Sometimes they moved from the window seat or sofa to the bed, other times not. Today they’d removed only their tunics, but there were times when they undressed.

No schedules. No requirements, Bror had decreed. So they did whatever felt right on a particular day, with Tilrey always taking the lead and setting the tone. Sometimes, like today, they just kissed and held each other. Other days, they used their hands or mouths. But they hadn’t actually fucked yet, despite Tilrey dropping several hints that it might be time.

Election Night was getting closer.

Tilrey needed to be home in an hour and a half for his usual free-night duties, but he didn’t move, either. “I used to put my head on Malsha’s lap this way. He liked to stroke my hair.”

Bror laughed softly. “Your hair’s very strokeable. Hope I don’t remind you of him for any other reason.”

“You don’t! But…” How could he put this to make it sound enticing? “Malsha taught me to like being fucked. Sometimes. Sort of. Before him, it just hurt. He was gentle when he wanted to be.”

Bror’s hand stopped moving. “That’s the least that asshole could have done for you. You deserve so much better than just ‘sort of’ liking it, Rishka.”

“I want better than that.” Tilrey sat up so he could look Bror in the eye, though his cheeks pinked. “But it’s not gonna happen with any of them.”

“I thought you said it’s pretty good with Gourmanian.”

Tonight was Gourmanian’s night, Tilrey already knew. “He knows how to touch me,” he conceded. “But I don’t like touching him, so I’m always still pretending. Wishing he were … somebody else.”

Bror sighed, then dropped a kiss on Tilrey’s forehead. “You’re so cute and so stubborn. But we’re still working on keeping you inside your body, remember?” He cupped Tilrey’s face with one enormous hand, looking intently into his eyes. “We’ve got plenty of time. Fucking isn’t the be-all and end-all—unless you want to try doing it to me? I know I’d like that.”

“I don’t know. I’m not very good at that.” Tilrey broke the eye contact, plagued by an absurd conviction that Bror could see all the way inside to his awful secret, his dread of the approaching date. To change the subject, and because it had to be mentioned, he said, “Ansha saw us at the tram interchange. He warned me to watch out for you and your dangerous intentions.”

Bror chuckled at the phrase. “That boy doesn’t let things lie, does he? What did you say?”

“That I’m not naïve. That I don’t need him to watch out for me.” Tilrey swallowed; his throat was dry. “I said we met by chance, and I made it sound like I, I … like I didn’t care about you one way or the other.”

He hung his head, embarrassed even to mention emotions. I care about you, I love you—he and Bror had never exchanged those words. When he was sucking Bror’s cock, Bror would gasp and tug at his hair and say, “Kid, you’re wrecking me! Verdant green hells, your sweet mouth. Don’t stop” and things like that. But Tilrey knew none of that meant much.

“Good,” Bror said. “We want Ansha to think you think I’m a pest. An oaf, a layabout.” He chucked Tilrey tentatively under the chin, trying to make him laugh. “Not somebody you’d give the time of day.”

Tilrey caught Bror’s hand, spread it between his, and planted a soft kiss on the palm. “Ansha’s not stupid. He won’t be fooled forever. And what if he tells Verán, and Verán decides to use you to … punish me?” He didn’t like to think about it, but he knew Verán too well. “To humble me? He seems to have this idea that Malsha gave me a swollen head by telling me I was special.”

“You are special.” Bror’s free hand crept over Tilrey’s knee, up his thigh, to settle on his groin. “I don’t think Verán would do that. He thinks I’m a brute—can’t fathom what István sees in me. He sure doesn’t want me in his bed, pawing his kettle boy.”

But I want you pawing me. Bror’s hand was moving, and Tilrey was already rock hard.

“Let me this time,” he said, bringing his hand down on top of Bror’s to still the motion. “I want to make you squirm a little.” I want to hear you say you care about me.

“You sure?” Bror caught Tilrey’s face between his hands again and gave him a gentle kiss. “You know I love making you come.”

“I know. Let me.” Tilrey reached for the already-sizable bulge in Bror’s trousers and caressed it with the heel of his hand, palming it into life. “Mmm,” he hummed in his throat. “I really like your cock. I like how it feels in my mouth, in my throat.”

Mentally, he ran through the list of all the endearments Malsha had used on him and other men still did—sweetheart, darling, my love. He didn’t especially want to use any of those words on Bror, or for Bror to use them on him. Yet he wanted … something like that. He wanted meaningful words to pass between them.

“I like you so much,” he whispered, unbuttoning Bror’s fly to release that burly, impressive organ. “I even want to swallow your cum. I don’t want that with anyone else.”

Bror’s hips pumped spasmodically, his cock straining up into Tilrey’s hand as a grunt burst from his throat. “Keep the dirty talk coming, love. It’s working.”

He said love. Tilrey knew the word was meaningless in this context. But his cheeks warmed as he bent to lick around Bror’s cockhead, teasing him. Withdrawing, he said, “I’m gonna make you come better than anybody else. You’ll go home and jerk off for the next ten-day remembering.”

“Hm! Yeah, I can see that being a daily occurrence.” Bror’s hand rested lightly in Tilrey’s hair, not trying to push him back to his task. “You’re spoiling me, Rishka. Do you know how fucking good that feels?”

Tilrey had an idea. He explored Bror’s scrotum with his tongue, catching one ripe sac in his mouth and then another, rolling them against his tongue. When he did this to Upstarts, he cringed inwardly at the smells and textures, but the rich musk of Bror’s body was intoxicating.

He tried hard to avoid the usual sequence of actions he would have performed on an Upstart—to vary his technique without ruining it. It was a struggle. His body was programmed with foolproof ways to please a man. Why resist that?

Still, as he laved a long, wet stripe from the base of his friend’s cock to the tip, he tried to imagine they were a normal couple and he was a normal boy—learning by trial and error, the way he had with Dal. He gave himself permission to be awkward and imperfect, to fail.

It was so hard.

“Rishka! Fuck!” Bror lost control, squirming and gasping just as Tilrey had hoped, as Tilrey slid the entire cock into his flexible, unresisting throat. He kept it there, giving the base little lashes with his tongue and savoring the almost suffocating sense of fullness, as Bror writhed under him.

“Green hells!” Bror moaned—and now his hand was moving in Tilrey’s hair, jerking his captive head up and down, desperate for the friction of the hot mouth. “Rishka, I can’t take any more!”

But he didn’t resist when Tilrey withdrew again to hold his cock fast at the base. Straddling Bror, gazing down into his friend’s red face, feeling his own cock hard and heavy between his legs, he asked, “Are you sure you’re ready?”

Bror laughed wildly. “So fucking ready. Damn, I love you.”

Just words uttered in the heat of passion. Not meaningful. Tilrey knew that. But as he dipped to swallow Bror’s cock and bring his friend to an epic climax, he couldn’t suppress a tiny, private smile.

I love you, too.

***

Barely more than an hour later, Tilrey was in Councillor Gourmanian’s apartment—a regular occurrence. What wasn’t regular or normal was to find Councillor Saldegren sitting with Gourmanian on the sofa, looking excited and a little sheepish.

When he saw Tilrey, Saldegren sprang up and gave him a smothering hug. His shape and even his smell were intimately familiar. But Tilrey stood frozen, not reciprocating.

That embrace, those subtle scents of aftershave and natural musk, belonged to his time with Malsha. Saldegren himself belonged to that time, not to this one.

The rotund, jovial Councillor had lost the favor of Verán and his other Island colleagues by making too many deals with Malsha, in which Tilrey had been the main incentive on offer. These days, Saldegren held little sway in the Council and was barred from the inner circle’s gatherings. Tilrey had heard Verán say he was “doing penance” and “winning his way back in.”

To give this man any favors now, to do more than endure the hug, would mean betraying the Island. Tilrey knew that without an explicit order.

He was relieved when Saldegren released him. “Green hells, I’ve missed you so much! My beautiful boy. How’ve you been?”

The man’s dark eyes gleamed with genuine emotion. Tilrey shifted his gaze, intensely uncomfortable, and glanced at Gourmanian, who was watching from the sofa.

Was he being tested? Gourmanian’s expression was neutral, perhaps a little amused, but Tilrey didn’t trust that. Verán might want to see how he would react to the touch of an old patron who was no longer entitled to him. It wasn’t Verán’s type of scheme, but you could never be sure.

“I’ve been well, Fir,” he said, still not looking Saldegren in the eye.

“Oh, don’t be like that! We’re not strangers!” Saldegren took Tilrey’s arm and tugged him over to the sofa, then sat down beside him. “You’re thinner,” he lamented. “Isn’t Visha feeding you?”

“He lost weight in the Funnel,” Gourmanian said, his tone betraying nothing.

“But that was a whole year ago!” Saldegren’s big hand stroked Tilrey’s knee, his whole body leaning too far into Tilrey’s space.

The touch brought unwanted memories—Vanya’s weight on top of him, that hand working diligently to arouse him, that voice whispering endearments in his ear. All his training forbade Tilrey to pull away, so he sought Gourmanian’s gaze again, desperate. He can’t do this! Make him stop!

“What’s wrong, Rishka?” Saldegren’s eyes were probing him.

Tilrey hung his head. “I shouldn’t. You’re not…”

“We call him Nettsha now,” Gourmanian said casually, as if Saldegren’s hand on Tilrey didn’t bother him. Was this part of the test? Was he going to wait to object until Tilrey shoved Saldegren away?

But what if it wasn’t a test? He couldn’t do violence to a Councillor.

“Oh, I know, but I can’t call him Nettsha. It’s ugly.” Saldegren caught Tilrey’s chin and lifted it, sending shivers of dread down his back. “Why won’t you look at me, Rishka? It’s been forever. Garsha and I go way back—school chums—so I convinced him to let me come over and check on you.”

Could that be true? Tilrey couldn’t stop himself from shooting a glare at Gourmanian, even as his brain absorbed all the possible meanings of check on you.

Surely Vanya couldn’t be expecting to share him with Gourmanian. Surely Gourmanian couldn’t have suggested that was a possibility. Unless Verán wanted to know if Tilrey had actual feelings for Malsha’s old ally? If he missed Vanya Saldegren, if he craved his touch?

No, Tilrey couldn’t believe it. Malsha might have set a devilish trap like that. But Verán didn’t care about Tilrey’s feelings, barely even credited him with having them. So what was this?

He inched back, out of Saldegren’s reach. It was hard to find words to remind Vanya of his own duty. “Fir Verán… wouldn’t want us together, Fir. You know that.”

“Verán isn’t here.” Saldegren smiled reassuringly. “And Garsha won’t say a word—will you, Garsha?”

“The principle of discretion applies to everything that happens in my home,” Gourmanian said smoothly. “You look so worried, poor lad. Have a nip to calm your nerves.”

He brought out a vial and poured the sap into his hand. Eager to widen his distance from Saldegren, Tilrey got up and knelt to drink it, trying not to hear the drumbeat of warnings in his head. What’s happening is dangerous. Wrong. They’ll hurt you.

The fear made his cheeks hot and his eyes tear. It was abject and servile, the fear of an obedient kettle boy, and he didn’t want to feel it at all.

On the window seat with Bror, he had given himself wary permission to follow his feelings—desire, excitement, and the tender beginnings of something more. Here, there was nothing but disgust and dread for both men. Expressing those emotions would land him back in moral rehab or worse.

What should he pretend to feel in this delicate situation, then? That was the question. How could he express loyalty to the Island without showing disrespect?

With the warming rhythm of sap thrumming in his stomach, he finished licking Gourmanian’s palm clean and sat up, still on the carpet. “Fir, is this really all right?” he asked Gourmanian with a show of timidity. “You’re asking me to keep tonight a secret from Fir Verán?”

“A trivial secret,” Saldegren declared. “Sweetheart, why on earth are you reacting this way?”

“He’s just being overly conscientious.” Gourmanian flicked a lock of hair off Tilrey’s brow, then took his hands and tugged him up to sit between them. “Visha doesn’t need to know whom I entertain in the privacy of my home. It’s not as if you inform him what we do in bed—or do you?”

“Of course not. Rishka’s discreet,” Saldegren said.

“But Verán sent me to you, Fir,” Tilrey said between gritted teeth. “Not to him. And if he knew…”

“Knew what?” Gourmanian threw his arm around Tilrey. “My love, I appreciate your sense of duty, but you’re being childish. Let me think for you. If something happens in my home during my time with you, and I say it’s all right, then it’s all right.”

“He was never like this before.” Saldegren sounded worried. “How much sap is Visha giving him?”

“No, no, he’s not sweet-drowned. I think I understand.” Gourmanian’s voice took on a crooning tone. He snuggled Tilrey closer, although Tilrey’s body refused to mold to his as usual. “My poor boy, my sweet child, did you think I was going to give you to Vanya? In the bedroom?”

Tilrey couldn’t look at either of them. “I don’t know. I mean, no, Fir.” I don’t trust either of you. “I only know the party has rules and we’re breaking them right now, so … I didn’t know. I wasn’t sure.”

“Rishka, I would never!” Saldegren made a show of retreating to the far end of the sofa. His tone was so aggrieved and pitying that it was almost unbearable to hear. “I would never ask that of you—or not until I work my way back into the good graces of our friend Visha, anyway.” He spoke Verán’s name with undisguised disdain. “I know my boundaries.”

“Why would you even imagine that?” Gourmanian asked Tilrey, the possessive arm tightening around his shoulders. “That I’d hand you over to my friend like a bale of goods? Is that really what you think of me?”

“Of course not, Fir.” Tilrey concealed his irritation as best he could. “I was just surprised to see Fir Saldegren here. That’s all.”

Should he say he’d suspected Verán of setting up the situation to test him? No, that would make him seem even more childish—or unhinged.

Saldegren rose from the sofa, his face a study in reproach. “I didn’t mean to make anyone uncomfortable. I should leave you two alone.”

“No, stay!” Gourmanian loosed Tilrey and pushed him lightly toward Saldegren. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you, Nettsha, but the three of us should be able to converse like civilized people. I’ll fetch the tea now, and while I’m gone, you will update Vanya, who has missed you and worried about you. Is that understood?”

Tilrey nodded.

When Gourmanian went into the kitchen, and Saldegren returned to his place on the sofa, he struggled to meet the man’s eyes. He knew he looked sulky and chastened, and he knew Saldegren would find those emotions attractive on him, and he despised both men for putting him in a position where there was no rule to follow, no right thing to do.

It wasn’t fair; it was never fair. He took his revenge by speaking to Saldegren in a cold, mechanical way. “I’ve missed you, too, Fir. Thank you for coming to check on me.”

“You never used to take that tone with me! You sound almost as uptight as Visha.” Saldegren dashed a tear ostentatiously from his eye. He reached out as if to touch Tilrey, then stopped with his hand in midair.

“Sweetheart,” he asked in a lower voice, “what did they do to you? What have they done?”

Tilrey opened his mouth to say Nothing. But his throat closed in protest. He settled for shaking his head.

“I see you at the Lounge, so skinny, and your eyes look dead. I’ve worried about you. You have no idea how much.”

Pictures and remembered sensations filled Tilrey’s head: the Councillors standing over him in his cell. Gourmanian holding him down at the Spring Fling. The room with its locked door, and Vlastor glaring at him until he finished eating. Linden’s anger and the sting of his blows.

Finally, he thought of the Election Night still to come, but he managed to say, “I’m all right, Vanya. I’m still me.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.” Tilrey willed himself to think about Bror—basking in the after-glow of passion, wrapping his arms around Tilrey, drawing him close. As long as Tilrey followed the rules, as long as he didn’t blurt out his true feelings to Vanya or anyone else, they would not take Bror away from him.

“But you seem so cold and distant.” Saldegren complained again. “You haven’t really forgotten our time together, have you?”

So that was what the man cared about—a cardboard facsimile of a relationship. It was a good thing Tilrey hadn’t been honest with him. A shudder ran through him as he realized just how little any of them knew him, how little they cared to.

It was better that way, though. Safer.

“I haven’t forgotten, Fir.” He forced himself to meet Vanya’s eyes at last. “And I’ll be very happy to spend time with you again. When Fir Verán allows it.”

***

Saldegren stayed for another hour. By the time he took his leave, Tilrey had done so much fake smiling and attentive head tilting that he ached with it. As Saldegren stood up, he finally allowed his smile to lapse and his jaw to clench.

But when he rose in turn to bid the man farewell, Saldegren seized his hand and yanked him closer. Before Tilrey knew what was happening, the man was mashing their lips together, as if feverishly trying to replicate the long, wet goodbye kisses that Tilrey had endured in the Malsha era.

He did not struggle or move at first—except by reflex, to let his mouth fall open. But when Saldegren’s hand raked through his hair, alarm bells shrilled in his head. He stepped backward, shaking off the arm and the kiss, his heart rocketing with the effort of this small but definite act of resistance.

Mercifully, Gourmanian intervened, taking his friend’s arm. “That’s enough now, Vanya,” he said with an apologetic glance at Tilrey as he led Saldegren to the door.

Tilrey wiped his mouth with a napkin, but he still tasted Vanya. By the time Gourmanian returned alone to the sofa, he was more or less composed.

“My sweet boy.” Gourmanian gave him a long, level look. “I’m sorry about that. He told me he wouldn’t be … over-exuberant. But, after all, it’s not like he hasn’t kissed you before.”

Tilrey nodded. He wasn’t sure he trusted himself to speak, much less explain that it wasn’t the kiss that had offended him but his own response to it.

Pushing Saldegren away had been his duty. But it had also felt good to draw a boundary—too good, scarily good. He couldn’t let himself do that again.

“You need to trust me more. When have I ever gone against Visha’s wishes? Besides,” Gourmanian added pragmatically, unfastening Tilrey’s tunic at the collar, “this is how I got Vanya to give up his opposition to the right to Soldrid at last month’s vote. One meeting with you was enough of an incentive.”

“But I thought Besha made him change his mind,” Tilrey said, surprised. “That’s what Verán thinks, anyway.”

“Let Visha think his favorite did all the work.” Gourmanian rolled his eyes. “Let’s not speak of Besha. He nauseates me. Bedroom?”

Because it was late, they dispensed with the usual games that Gourmanian favored. Tilrey was first relieved and then sorry. He would have welcomed a sound spanking right now—a punishment for the guilty pleasure he had taken in saying no to Saldegren. A reminder of the all-important boundaries on his life.

He sucked the Councillor’s cock to hardness, then rocked back with his knees splayed wide and stared up at the canopy while Gourmanian fucked him. It hurt a bit, and it took a while. But it was reassuring to be used in the way he was supposed to be, by the right person. This was what he had needed: to be put back in his place.

With Bror, it would be different—it had to be! But he couldn’t think about that right now.

When they were done, Gourmanian rested his head on Tilrey’s chest, eyelids drooping with satisfaction. “Stroke my hair, love. Yes, yes, good lad. Poor Vanya,” he added in a murmur. “I can’t blame him, considering what he’s missing.”

“Too bad for Vanya he’s not one of the new Councillors-elect.” The words popped out of Tilrey before he could stop them. They sounded far too sharp, so sharp he wanted to bite his tongue.

“Oh, you know about the party?” Gourmanian spoke sleepily, seeming neither surprised nor concerned. “I know it’s hard for you, my sweet boy, getting passed around. Verán doesn’t see what a sensitive instrument you are, how strongly you respond to the slightest pleasant or unpleasant change. That’s exactly what makes you so precious.”

Tilrey blinked hard, still stroking Gourmanian’s hair as if the motion might wipe out the anger roiling inside him. “If he doesn’t think I’m valuable, why bother with any of this?”

“Oh, Visha knows how valuable you are,” the Councillor said. “He just doesn’t understand why. Most kettle boys are either pathetic little toadies like Ansha, dead-eyed addicts like Lus, or bruisers like Bror—basically just drivers who know how to suck cock.”

Tilrey winced inwardly at this description. “Bror is kind,” he said—then went silent, realizing Bror might have his own reasons for wanting Upstarts to think he didn’t have much going on upstairs.

“He’s a good lad, and he’s good at what he does. It’s just not to my taste.” Gourmanian nuzzled his way to Tilrey’s right nipple and flicked it with his tongue. “But no matter what anyone does to Bror, he’s always himself. You’re different—vibrating and transforming with every change in the weather. Stiff and cold one second, gorgeously submissive the next.” An appreciative purr. “Malsha understood your potential, I think.”

He did. All too well. “And that’s why you want to see me hurt?” Tilrey asked, keeping his voice soft and unthreatening. “To make me ‘vibrate’?”

The Councillor pressed tighter to Tilrey, wrapping his arms around him. “Oh, you’re making us sound terrible! You do have a talent for reproach. I promise you nothing so bad will happen on Election Night. And when I see you afterward, I’ll get on my knees and suck that beautiful cock myself, to make it up to you. How’s that?”

Tilrey didn’t want apologies or make-up gifts. He wanted what Lus had: insensibility. To be so numb, so seemingly inhuman, that they would find no more pleasure in hurting him.

But he didn’t want to be numb with Bror—he wanted to feel every single second of their stolen time together. Was it possible to have it both ways? To turn his feelings off and then on again?

“That sounds nice, Fir. Thank you,” he said politely, and fell asleep wondering.

Chapter 40: Preparing

October, year 344

And then Election Day was tomorrow.

Tilrey didn’t want to go anywhere, didn’t want to face anyone. He wanted to spend the day under the covers so he could practice being nothing—a senseless lump of flesh, dead to the world.

But when he didn’t get up for breakfast or the gym, Vlastor came in and lectured him about laziness and ingratitude. So Tilrey forced himself through his usual routine. He smiled at Bror as if nothing was wrong, even though Bror’s sneaky little touches in the weight room and locker room—always careful, so the others wouldn’t notice—weren’t what he needed today.

His body had to be a shell he could vacate and return to at will. And he had to start the self-emptying now; tomorrow was too late. I am nothing. For the next few days, I am not here.

He was grateful when Bror didn’t take him aside after their workout and suggest going off together. Instead, they all headed to the Café, where a surprise was waiting—a new kettle boy.

He had dark curly hair, brown skin, a toothy smile and sparkling brown eyes, and he looked young—younger than Tilrey. Lus introduced him: “Everyone, this is Ulli, Councillor Svallgren’s new lad. He’s fresh from Sector Two of Thurskein, so you two—” he nodded at Tilrey— “should get along. Ulli, this is Tilrey, Bror, Ansha, Celinda.”

Ulli clasped everyone’s hand in turn. He looked so genuinely pleased to be sitting with them that Tilrey felt a little queasy.

The boy took his hand last. In a Skeinsha accent strong enough to send shivers of homesickness down Tilrey’s spine, he said, “Our Admin told me about you. She said you came from Sector Six just three years ago, and you’ve already been with two Magistrates!”

Ulli’s tone was admiring; his eyes glowed. Tilrey could only stare, his hand going limp in the boy’s grasp. “How old are you?” he blurted.

“Nineteen in three months!” Ulli gave Tilrey a dimply smile and tugged his hand free. “You talk just like a Reddan! I want to learn that, too. When my Admin told me about you, I said, That would be my dream!”

Tilrey’s jaw was clenched. He was grateful when Bror’s hand settled discreetly on his back, steadying him.

Ulli continued to chatter happily as they sat down and ordered. He had only been in Redda for a ten-day and was thrilled with everything he’d seen so far—the tall buildings, the saunas, his Councillor’s apartment. He even exclaimed over the whipped, buttered tea and dumplings that Lus ordered, making Tilrey wonder if he’d gone hungry in Thurskein.

Redda had impressed Tilrey, too, when he first arrived. But his mind had been too full of roiling shame and terror to focus on creature comforts.

Not for the first time, he wondered if there was something wrong with him. Admin Makari, who brought him to Redda, had insisted he was lucky. So had Fir Jena, the first Upstart to have him. His resistance had shocked and distressed them both. They must have expected him to have Ulli’s attitude.

But was Ulli really as eager as he appeared? Or was he putting up a front? Either way, he charmed everyone. Even Bror smiled and joked with the new boy, though he stuck close to Tilrey.

Ansha insisted on sitting beside Ulli. “You’re adorable,” he said, brushing Ulli’s hand flirtatiously. “It’s a shame a Mainland Councillor got you. They’re out of power right now, and they won’t be winning any new seats tomorrow.”

“I like Fir Svallgren, though! He’s very nice! He gave me my own room.” Ulli looked around with wide, guileless eyes. “Though he is old,” he confided. “Like, so old.”

Tilrey saw Celinda and Lus exchange amused glances. If they found Ulli sweetly naïve to the point of stupidity, they didn’t seem to mind him that way.

While Ansha and Celinda picked up another round of tea, and Bror and Lus discussed last night’s streamed ski races, Tilrey tried to make conversation with the new boy.

“How did your Admin come to … notice you?” he asked. What he wanted to know was Are you really here of your own free will? There was no easy way to ask that.

The question didn’t seem to bother Ulli. “My Supervisor introduced us. I’d been working in her office—entertaining important people, that kind of thing.” He waggled his eyebrows to make it clear what he meant by “entertaining.” “As soon as the Upstart Admin saw me, he said I was perfect for Redda and a Councillor. So here I am!”

“Your parents didn’t mind?” Even to himself, Tilrey sounded uptight. Prudish. He wished he could just say what he meant: Did you choose to “entertain important people” in the first place? Were you underage?

“Nah. My dad’s in Detention for smuggling, and my mom’s sweet-drowned. I never lived with ’em, just in the dorm.” A shadow flitted over Ulli’s face, despite his jaunty tone. “I was always in trouble. Didn’t like school, except for when we went outside.” And then he was beaming again. “Here we can go outside all the time!”

As Ansha and Celinda returned, Bror laughed gently at Ulli’s exuberance. “Better be careful, kid. Redda’s colder than Thurskein.”

Ulli laughed back, fluttering his long eyelashes at Bror. “You have to show me where it’s safe to explore. I don’t want to end up an ice cube!”

“Oh, Bror’ll show you,” Ansha said. “He knows every inch of this city, don’t you, Brorsha? He’ll take you up the Trash Pyramid.”

“Trash Pyramid?”

Ansha couldn’t have known that Bror had shown Tilrey the Trash Pyramid. Now Tilrey found himself wondering if Bror had brought Ansha there, too—if they had eaten cod fritters at the top, the way he and Bror had. If Bror had called Ansha “kid,” too. If he had kissed him. After all, Bror had never denied sleeping with Ansha. He’d made it sound trivial, called it “playing around,” but it might not have always seemed that way to Ansha.

What if Bror romanced every new kettle boy? What if Ulli was next?

For the first time he could remember, jealousy seized Tilrey like a fever. He knew he was being ridiculous, knew Bror hadn’t “romanced” him and had even tried to resist their mutual attraction, yet his pulse pounded and his vision blurred. He sat very still, hoping it wouldn’t show on his face.

Then he felt the pressure of a gaze, and he looked up to see Lus watching him with unusual intentness. “Hard not to be the shiny new one anymore, isn’t it?” the older boy asked quietly, winding one of his white-blond curls around a finger.

Warmth flooded Tilrey’s face. The others had started an animated game of Five-Square. “I never wanted to be…” Emotions choked him, and he bit his lip.

Lus nodded. “Come with me,” he said in that low voice. And then, louder, for the others’ benefit, “If you’re going to pull the new boy into your mind-numbing games, I’m going home. I’d rather watch a sobstream. And Tilrey has Library books to return, don’t you, Rishka?”

Tilrey nodded, resisting the urge to glance at Bror. It was better for them to be apart today.

“Him and his books!” Ansha cried. “I always thought Skeinshaka were supposed to be fun, but all he does is read. You’re not like that, are you, Ulli?”

Ulli stared at Tilrey as if he had sprouted wings. “I haven’t read a book since I was in school. You must be a brain, Rishka.”

“Oh, he’s a genius. With his tongue,” Ansha added in a stage whisper. He shot a naughty glance at Tilrey, but Tilrey had learned to ignore these provocations.

As he and Lus rose to go, Bror finally caught his eye, sending a silent promise of alone time soon. And Tilrey hated himself. Had he really doubted everything Bror had said to him, every way Bror had touched him, just because Bror was kind to the newcomer? Wasn’t kindness part of Bror’s character? And didn’t Ulli deserve kindness, even if he was annoying? Could Ulli help that?

He trailed Lus into the coldroom, wondering what the older kettle boy wanted him for. A sap addict of many years, Lus always seemed to float in a cloud where no one could touch him.

Maybe that was the answer. If Tilrey drank enough sap tomorrow night, the party would be easier to endure. But then he might barely remember the whole thing, and Ansha would remember and tease him about it in front of the others—in front of Ulli. Would Ulli be at Election Night? No, his Councillor wasn’t an Islander. Thank everything green.

Lus cut through the spiraling thoughts by handing Tilrey his boots. “You know, Bror’s just being nice to Ulli,” he said in his neutral way. “That poor kid needs all the support he can get right now.”

Did Lus know? Tilrey felt a blush stain his cheek again. “Well, yeah. Bror’s the welcome wagon.” He tried to make the words sound indifferent. “But Ulli seems just fine to me. Happy, actually.”

Lus tugged on his own boots. “Ulli’s high on his new life right now. He’ll come down eventually. Seen it before, over and over. Some think they can handle it and they can’t. Some think they can’t and they can. You never know how it’ll change you till you’ve been doing it six months or more.”

“Being a kettle boy, you mean?” Tilrey wound his scarf around his neck. He still tasted the bitterness of his fit of jealousy. “It doesn’t seem to change most people, from what I’ve seen. Bror’s still Bror. Ansha knew he’d like doing it, and he does. Celinda—well, it just gives her new reasons to be mad at the world. And you don’t seem to mind it. Why should Ulli?” Why should I? Why do I?

Lus hit the door button. They stepped out into the clammy passage that led to the tram stop, deserted at this hour. Snow filtered lazily down from a clotted purple sky.

“It’s not that simple,” Lus said, as if he were thinking aloud. “Bror’s a champ at compartmentalizing—that’s how he stays so damn stable. Ansha’s a mess. He’s lovesick for his Fir and sick with jealousy every time he looks at you. Celinda?  She has secrets. And Ulli—well, you can tell the kid never had parents who loved him. He’d suck off anybody for a hug or a square meal. Do people not get enough to eat in ’Skein?”

“Everyone I knew did.” But Tilrey’s mother had occupied the upper echelon. Guiltily he wondered whether kids like Ulli, raised in dormitories, had to subsist on protein cubes. “His Admin and his Supervisor exploited him,” he said, feeling his gorge rise. “They used him, they sold him for next to nothing, and he doesn’t even realize it.”

“Oh, I think Ulli knows what he is. And what’s been done to him.” Lus slumped onto a bench facing the plate-glass wall. “He’s making the best of it. Maybe he’s just happy to be something besides a burden on society—to be worth something to someone. You don’t get it because you were raised like me, to think you were special. To be proud of your value, even. Right?”

“I guess.” Tilrey remembered Bror saying that Lus’s folks had expected better for him than sucking Upstarts’ cocks. “I never wanted this,” he admitted, seating himself beside Lus. “And Ansha won’t forgive me for it. He thinks I need to be brought down to his level.”

Lus cocked a sleepy brow. “So you think Ansha’s on a lower level than you are?”

“No!” But deep down, Tilrey knew he did consider himself superior to Ansha. He couldn’t seem to help it. “I’m saying that’s what he thinks. He thinks I’m … oversensitive. That I should be more grateful.”

“You’re sensitive, all right. You might as well own that.” Lus popped a vial out of his coat and downed half of it in a flash. He didn’t offer Tilrey any. “I used to be like that, too, but this stuff helps. I started drinking it back in school, to cope with the stress from exams. Soon I was bombing my exams and not giving a fuck.” A jagged grin. “And the easiest way to get my daily sweet is from a high-named Upstart. So here I am.”

Tilrey stared at Lus, realizing he had always consigned him to a “lower level” in his head, too. A pathetic, hopeless addict. He had never wondered why someone started drowning himself in sap.

“There are treatments for it, aren’t there?” he asked uncertainly, remembering how he’d managed to cut down on his own consumption. “You could maybe…”

“Go to moral rehab? No thanks, I like my freedom.” But Lus didn’t seem offended by Tilrey’s clumsy suggestion. “You, though—be careful with sap, okay? And don’t be ashamed of the sensitivity thing. I mean, yeah, sometimes you are a little precious about it. Poor Rishka. Be careful of his feelings. But it’s part of what makes you you.”

Tilrey’s mortification must have shown on his face, because Lus slid over and gave him a companionable nudge. “Sorry. That came out wrong. Look, we know you’ve been through the wringer, more than we have. Even Ansha knows that. He wants to be special, like you are, but being special has a price.”

A shudder ran over Tilrey. Do you know about tomorrow night?

If Lus did, he didn’t say so. He only added, “What I meant to say is that Bror likes your sensitivity. He likes you exactly the way you are.”

So Lus knew about them. Outside, a tram glided up to the platform, sending subtle vibrations through the air. Tilrey shook his head, trying to pretend he had no idea what Lus was talking about, but he knew it was too late. His earlier reaction had betrayed him.

Lus mimed sealing his lips. “People always think I don’t notice things,” he said, rising from the bench. “But I’m not drowned, just pleasantly floating. I like Bror a lot, and you’re good for him, Rishka. You should keep being you—precious, sensitive, complicated. He’s not gonna throw you over for some love-starved kid from your hometown.”

Tilrey got up, too, opening his mouth to say he hadn’t been thinking anything of the kind. But Lus silenced him by saying, “Just don’t break Bror’s heart. Okay?”

***

Tilrey scarcely slept that night. He cocooned himself in bed, reading and dozing and remembering what Lus had said, the words ringing in his head.

Don’t break Bror’s heart. How could anyone imagine he would do such a thing?

In the morning he didn’t get up, and Vlastor didn’t bother him. Around four in the afternoon, still in bed, he heard a tap on the door. Vlastor rarely knocked, so he threw off the blankets and opened up.

There stood Bror. He closed the door behind him, then crossed the space between them, tipped Tilrey’s head back, and gave him a long, deep, passionate kiss.

It startled Tilrey. They hadn’t met in his room since … well, since everything. At first, he yielded unthinkingly to the pleasure of Bror’s lips and tongue. Bror’s hands rested lightly on his waist, a touch that felt claiming and protective at the same time, as if he meant to shield Tilrey from anyone who might hurt him.

But he couldn’t! Tilrey tensed with the realization, edging away. “Why are you here? It’s a free-night. I should shower and dress soon.”

Bror tweaked a lock of greasy hair out of Tilrey’s eyes. “Not for a couple hours yet. They’re still counting the returns. I’m here because you weren’t in the Gym today, and I was worried. Vlastor thinks you haven’t budged from bed.”

Tilrey didn’t like that they’d been talking about him. More than that, though, he just couldn’t see Bror right now—not when he needed to empty himself of all feelings and steel himself for what came next. “I’m fine,” he said—then realized his tone had been rough and softened it. “Are you, uh… coming to the party tonight?”

“I think István’s gonna beg off. He hates those rah-rah Island gatherings. He might send me as a spy, though, to report the gossip back to him.” Bror grinned, but Tilrey knew he could sense something wrong. “You sure you’re okay? It’s not like you to spend the day in bed.”

Tilrey knew what Bror was thinking. You only do it when you’re locked in. Or depressed.

And suddenly he couldn’t lie. Bror would find out soon enough, anyway.

He sat down heavily on the bed, where he’d made a nest of blankets, and turned to the wall. “I stayed home because I need to be alone right now, Brorsha. To get myself in the right frame of mind.”

Bror’s weight shifted the mattress. “Frame of mind for what, love?”

“For… Election Night.”

Bror’s arm snaked around Tilrey’s waist. It stayed loose, not yanking him any closer than he wanted to be. “Oh shit,” Bror said in a low voice, almost a growl. “Is that prick Verán planning something? Like last time?”

“Not exactly like that. Not as bad.” Or so Besha claimed. “He wants to see me with Ansha, and then I have to oblige the newly electeds. According to Besha, it’s supposed to be a … a …” Tilrey’s voice thickened as he heard Bror’s breath catch. “A surprise. For the guests,” he added quickly, as if it mattered. “Not for me. Verán doesn’t care what I think, as long as I don’t object.”

“Fuck.” Now Bror’s strong arm did tug Tilrey closer, as if trying to shield him from what was coming. “I should’ve known. Visha Verán and his disgusting fucking pageantry. You’re not a common brothel boy, and he shouldn’t treat you like one.”

“Maybe that is exactly what I am, though.” Tilrey’s voice broke, but at least his eyes remained dry. “I mean, what difference does it make? If they treat Brothel whores that way, they might as well treat us that way, too.”

“They’re not supposed to!” Bror eased Tilrey into the shelter of his broad chest, one hand coming up to smooth his hair. “István would never… but I guess it doesn’t matter to Verán what István does. Verán would never pull that shit with me, though, because I have a huge family in Ring Six with Core connections. You don’t want to piss off a chef who might spit in your Restaurant meal.”

Tilrey tried to smile. Bror’s arms around him felt dangerously distracting. “I wish I had a big family like yours.”

“I wish you did, too. Y’know, meeting that poor kid Ulli got me thinking.” Bror stroked Tilrey’s hair meditatively. “I’m so thick sometimes that I’d almost forgotten you can’t even visit your family. I mean, you should be able to. But they haven’t let you, have they? Not in the three years you’ve been here.”

“I don’t want to visit my mother.” The words came automatically, true or not. “I wouldn’t know what to say to her. She didn’t want me to end up like this.”

“If she disowns you for being a kettle boy, that’s fucking cold. And ignorant.”

“No, my mom’s a good person,” Tilrey assured Bror. “She’d pretend to be okay with it. But she wouldn’t be, and I’d know.”

“She should be okay with anything you do! Because it’s you, and she loves you!” Bror sounded really upset, as if he’d never heard of parents whose high standards made them pass judgment on their children. “Don’t you have other relatives?”

“A few cousins, but I hardly know them. It’s always been just her and me.” Misery choked Tilrey. He didn’t want Bror to think ill of his mother. He thought of the carefully muted concerns she’d expressed in her letters to him, then remembered with a start that he hadn’t written her in at least a year. Had her letters been sent on to Verán, if she was still writing them? What did she know about his present situation? What did she fear?

Maybe it was better for her not to know.

“She wanted a different life for me, that’s all,” he said, pressing his forehead to Bror’s scratchy tunic and feeling the distant thud of Bror’s heart. “I wanted a different life, too. She doesn’t know what to say to me now. She knows this isn’t what I would have …”

He gulped the last word, chosen, still keeping the tears at bay. He didn’t need to dwell on how he hadn’t chosen this life; that only made it less bearable.

Maybe Ansha’s attitude was the best one. Or look at Ulli! That was what Reddans expected from a Skeinsha. Smiling and happy and grateful.

“Rishka! Sweetheart.” Bror raised Tilrey’s head to kiss him between the brows. “It’s not fucking fair. I’d like to punch Visha Verán right in his smug, prissy, high-named face.”

“But you won’t.” Tilrey tried not to enjoy the mental image of Bror delivering a righteous beatdown to the Island majority leader. What mattered now was to keep Bror from getting hurt. “You can’t, and that’s why I don’t want you there tonight, Brorsha. Can you tell István you don’t want to go?”

“Sure, no problem.” But Bror sounded wretched, nothing like his usual easygoing self. “Then I’ll be at home, though, fretting. I wish you’d told me earlier, Rishka. I wish there was something I could fucking do.”

He extricated himself from Tilrey and raked his hands through his own close-cropped, sandy hair, eyes wide with misery. “I leaned on Lindahl to get you out of this room, but Lindahl can’t stop the party from happening. He’ll probably just bow out early.”

“Don’t worry!” Tilrey insisted, alarmed by Bror’s alarm. Why had he been honest? He’d known this would happen. “Seriously, I’m fine. I’ve been preparing. As long as I know you aren’t there, watching…”

“No, you’re not fine! I can see that. Could you say you’re sick? No, Vlastor would never fall for that. He’s a hard-ass.”

“He likes to threaten me with moral rehab.”

“Right, right.” Bror grimaced, thinking, and then his eyes brightened. “I mean, maybe we could make it look like you disappeared? Hide you in Ring Six? There are nooks and crannies there that Upstarts don’t know about. Is that what you want?”

Tilrey did want it. Badly. But he remembered what had happened when he tried to flee from Malsha into the Outer Ring, and he shook his head. “They’d figure out you were involved.” Lus knew about them, and Ansha probably suspected. He wondered if Bror even realized what a dangerous thing he’d just proposed. “Have you ever broken the law, Bror?”

“Broken curfew, sure. Trespassed on government property.”

“This would be different,” Tilrey said gently. “It would be treason.”

Bror frowned, and Tilrey could see the dread starting to sink in. Stealing the party’s jewel would bring the full force of Verán’s government down on him. “I’d find a story to explain it,” he protested. “Say you were sick and I was worried about you. Something.”

“Then it would be moral rehab for me.” Tilrey didn’t want to frighten Bror, but it was for his own good. “And you? Maybe somewhere worse.”

Bror raised his chin. “I’m not afraid. Is that what you want, Rishka? For me to spirit you away somewhere? Say the word.”

Tilrey felt so much tenderness for Bror in that moment that he dipped toward him and kissed him on the lips, his hair grazing Bror’s cheek.

“You’ve never been in an Int/Sec cell, my love,” he said softly. Bror thought he knew everything about how to survive in Redda, but in some ways, he was the innocent one. “They keep the lights out most of the time, so you don’t know if it’s day or night. And you’re alone. You’d hate it. Even I hated it, and I can spend days alone and not mind. But this …”

“I’m not afraid,” Bror said stubbornly.

You should be. He needed to scare Bror off without insulting him. “When I was there, they didn’t even hurt me, Brorsha. They just asked me questions. If they thought you’d hidden me away, though, they would hurt you. Torture you. That’s what they do to shirkers.”

“I’m no shirker!” Bror cried.

“They would see you as one. And that’s all that matters.”

Bror released a long sigh. He hung his head, defeated. “I don’t want to rebel! I just wish we had somebody better in charge. Malsha was a shit, but at least he didn’t do this kind of fucking nonsense.”

Tilrey thought of how Malsha had used Krisha to torment him. But no, Bror didn’t need to know that, ever. It was ancient history.

He threaded his fingers through Bror’s hair. “It’s all right, sweetheart.”

Before Bror, he had never used terms of endearment, only had them used on him. It felt strange to turn the tables. It felt good. “I’ll be all right. It’s just, I need to be alone right now. To prepare for tonight.”

Don’t leave me! But now was the time to be strong, and Tilrey couldn’t let that inner voice out. He gazed into Bror’s flinty eyes and said, stressing each word, “I will be absolutely all right. It’s not like I’m scared of Ansha. I know him inside out. And the newly elected Councillors? I’m guessing they’re just like the Councillors I already know.” He snapped his fingers. “A few more conceited old guys, a few more cocks. Nothing to it.”

Bror’s eyes were swimming. His lashes flickered, blinking tears away. “I hate this. I fucking hate it.”

I should never have told you. But then Bror might have come tonight. “I need to go through with this, Brorsha. Maybe it’ll be good for me. Toughen me up.”

Bror shook his head. He didn’t seem to trust himself to speak.

“I have an idea.” Tilrey kissed Bror’s forehead, willing him to take heart and smile and be Bror again. “You go home to István for the night, and in the morning, after everyone’s left for the Sector, you come back here.”

He nuzzled Bror’s cheek, wondering what kind of shape he would be in tomorrow. But it would be all right—Bror had seen him in bad shape before. Bror would understand. “You come back to me, and you just sit with me. Okay?”

“Okay.” But Bror gulped audibly. “I don’t want to leave you to this, Rishka. Maybe I could help—”

“You couldn’t.” Tilrey knew he was being harsh; he had to be. “Sap will make it easier, Bror. And I’m strong,” he insisted, rubbing his forehead against Bror’s and feeling the other boy’s hot, anguished breath on his cheek. “I’m so much stronger than you can imagine.”

“Of course you are,” Bror said almost meekly. “But…”

“I am. Forget tonight. Think about tomorrow.” Tilrey gave Bror the most lingering kiss he dared. “Now, please leave.”

Chapter 41: Offered

Notes:

Well, this chapter got a little long! And it's Election Night, so please be warned that it's intense.

Most of the stuff referenced here between Tilrey and Makari is in the deleted scene. The rest is in a flashback in The Trip to Thurskein. The business about what Tilrey was told after his first Int/Sec interrogation is here. Of course, the one who assured him his offense was trivial was Ranek Egil, and if you've read the other stories, you know Egil had ulterior motives for keeping Tilrey's history to himself.

Bror had been gone for an hour or so when Vlastor entered the room—no knock, as usual—and rifled through Tilrey’s closet. “He wants you to wear the white with red at the edges.”

The same colors that Malsha liked. Freshly showered, Tilrey finished toweling his damp hair and waved Vlastor away. “I know which one. I’ll dress myself.”

Vlastor’s jaw was tight. “You should prep yourself, too. For … you know.”

Funny to see the driver suddenly squeamish. “Oh, I know,” Tilrey said, drawing out the word to make Vlastor squirm. “I always do.”

“I need to see you before you go out there. It’s a special night, you know. They just won four seats and replaced a retiring Councillor.”

Five. Bad, but it could be worse. In the officers’ club, there’d been seven.

Tilrey found the tunic. He nudged a second towel off his hips and let it tumble to the floor, smiling as he caught Vlastor getting a quick eyeful. Was the driver actually blushing as he glanced away?

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll be perfect.”

***

When he stepped out into the sitting room, everyone stopped talking to stare. Even Verán gaped as he beckoned, crooking a claw-like finger.

The majority leader was ensconced on the sofa between his two favorite sycophants: Ansha and Besha, kettle boy and Councillor. On a silent command, Ansha made room for Tilrey beside Verán, smiling in the smooth, professional way he only used when Upstarts were present. “Oh, Nettsha. Look at you.”

“Our jewel,” Besha said in the same admiring tone.

Tilrey sat. He didn’t flinch when Verán swept back his hair with an appreciative murmur and gave him a brisk, possessive kiss on the lips. He bowed his head to lick a puddle of sap from Verán’s palm.

It was at least half a vial; the dip would last him a while. It came on quickly, too, because he’d barely eaten all day, one of his standard preparatory measures.

When Verán tugged his head down to rest on a shoulder, he offered no resistance. He slumped against the majority leader’s scrawny form and let sap empty him of everything except a pleasant thrumming of nerves. Yes. I can do this. I can.

People talked above him, around him, their voices blending like drops of water in a river. He felt Verán stroking his knee and heard assessing murmurs. Ignored them.

Some time later, he opened his eyes to find his head in Verán’s lap. Ansha and Besha were gone, though he heard Besha’s braying laughter in the crowd. Tilrey’s cheek was damp. Had he been drooling?

He sat up, wiped his face, and found himself looking into the amused gaze of a new Councillor who was both strange and disturbingly familiar. He was stout and bald, with a pasty complexion and beady eyes.

“Ah, Councillor Makari. Congratulations.” Verán extended his hand with royal disdain. Clearly Makari wasn’t high-named.

But oh, yes, he was familiar. Tilrey remembered now.

Three years ago, that man’s bulk had pressed against him in a restroom on his first journey to Redda, dry-humping relentlessly. Those fat, short fingers had prodded inside him.

“It’s the little Skeinsha!” Makari exclaimed, recognizing him in turn. “Not so little anymore, or so scared. Do you know, I’m the one who scouted him and brought him here?”

Tilrey remembered what Makari had said the first time they laid eyes on each other. He’s terrified—in a smug tone, addressed to Supervisor Fernei, who was offering up a frightened schoolboy like a prize.

Verán looked more repelled than impressed. “I didn’t realize you were ever in Malsha’s pocket.”

“Oh no, I didn’t do business with the exile! This was a favor for his son-in-law.”

Makari’s face expressed such exaggerated horror at the thought of serving Verán’s enemy that Tilrey had to suppress a laugh. All this time, Makari had lived in his memory as an ogre, mocking him and pawing at him. But now, seen with his older eyes, the former Admin was just another reptile like Besha, slithering his way into the chambers of power.

“Well, you have a good eye.” Verán gave Tilrey another admiring look. “I wouldn’t normally take my predecessor’s leavings, but this one’s even better-looking now than he was at eighteen. Was he really scared back then, though? He seems like a block of wood to me.”

Tilrey’s breath caught as he realized Makari might know something about him that Verán didn’t.

Malsha claimed to have obliterated the evidence of Tilrey’s arrest for shirking. But according to the faceless man who had interrogated Tilrey in Int/Sec, this wasn’t actually true. The truth was still somewhere in the government files. Verán had never mentioned it, so Int/Sec might not have seen it as important enough to brief him on. Could Tilrey be sure, though, that Verán wouldn’t care?

“Oh, yes.” Makari’s glance at Tilrey had a wolfish edge to it. “He was a scared, scrawny boy when I found him. His Supervisor had him in custody for petty theft or some such. But I saw the potential, Fir Majority Leader.”

“You’d have made an excellent Brothel procurer.” Verán was practically rolling his eyes at Makari’s attempts to cozy up to him. “What’s your first name again?”

“Beltrandt. Call me Ransha. Believe me, Visha,” Makari added with sycophantic swiftness, “procuring pretty boys isn’t all I’m good at.”

“I hope not.” With a frosty look to show he didn’t appreciate the use of his nickname, Verán dismissed his new colleague. “So nice to meet you, Gransha—Ransha.”

“Honored to meet you, Fir Majority Leader.” And Makari slipped obediently away, without even getting an invitation to sit down.

Tilrey exhaled, relieved that Makari hadn’t spilled. There was no telling what Verán might do if he thought Tilrey had an ounce of shirker in him.

“Disgusting man,” Verán muttered. “I hate climbers, but Besha thinks he’s necessary to keep our bureaucrats in line.” He dipped his pinkie in a vial and poured the rest into his cupped hand, then fixed Tilrey with an unusually hard stare. “Did he ever touch you?”

“No, Fir.” Not in any way Verán needed to know about.

“He seems like the type to try.” Verán offered the sap, and Tilrey bent to lap it up without hesitation. “You’ll need all that when he gets his turn with you. I’ll make sure he goes last.”

So that’s how you warn me what to expect tonight. But Tilrey wasn’t surprised by the casualness. Unlike Malsha, Verán had never taken more than a passing interest in his mental or physical discomfort. The man could be a bully, but his cruelty was unfocused. To him, a fuck-piece’s state of mind was no more interesting than a beetle’s.

Tilrey swallowed the sticky sweetness and waited to float again. It was so easy to know these men intimately when they hid nothing from him, thinking he was too dense to pick up on their weaknesses and vanities. So much knowledge and nothing to use it for.

The second dose didn’t lift him as high as the first. He extricated his cramping leg from Verán’s and sat like the prop he was, watching Verán go through mind-numbing pleasantries with new colleagues and favored old ones.

One of the new Councillors was female. She didn’t even glance at Tilrey, clearly knowing Verán wouldn’t offer him to her. A traditionalist, the majority leader expected women to take their pleasures with other women.

So there would be only four. A new young István, a young Lindblom, a Gádden, and finally Makari.

And Gádden was skipping the party. Tilrey learned this when Tollsha Linden, the Magistrate’s handsome nephew, sat down for a gossip session with Verán.

“Gersha should be here!” Verán complained to the younger man, stroking Tilrey’s thigh. “Message him, Tollsha. Why would he miss this?”

 “I invited him, but to be honest, he’s a little … stiff. Said he had some coding to do.”

Verán barked with laughter. “Poor Gersha. He’s even worse than Lindahl—beautiful and brilliant and fucking uptight. His uncle had to persuade him to stand for election.”

Gersha Gádden. Tilrey remembered the young man he’d met with Malsha at the Restaurant—dark curls, furtive green eyes. Having refused Malsha’s offer of a threesome, now Gádden was passing up a second chance to fuck him.

Three, then. The evening was improving!

Verán asked after the Magistrate’s health, which apparently was still fragile. Tollsha left his perch on the sofa, and Besha returned. Finally Verán got up—leaning on Tilrey—and ordered everyone into the bedroom.

Tilrey caught Ansha’s eye across the room. It was time to perform.

The big bed was impeccably made, as always—courtesy of Vlastor, who had surrounded it with several chairs dragged in from elsewhere. The canopy lights were bright, the rest of the room dim. As if the bed were a stage.

Verán settled in the most comfortable armchair and waved Tilrey toward the bed. “Ansha,” he said in a sticky voice, “come and undress our jewel. We want to see it shine.”

The audience was still filing into the room and finding seats—mostly men, though Davita Lindblom and the newly elected female Councillor had stayed for the show. Ansha sped over to the bed, where Tilrey was sitting on the edge, and tugged him into the middle.

“Just do like always,” he said in Tilrey’s ear, reaching to unfasten the collar of his tunic. “Pretend they aren’t here.”

Knowing Verán’s view was blocked by Ansha’s body, Tilrey rolled his eyes. “I don’t need a tutorial.”

“That’s ’cause you have the easy part,” Ansha shot back.

“Wait! Stop.” Now that everyone was settled, Verán raised an imperious hand. “Are you all familiar with the Island’s jewel? The ripe, hard-won fruits of its victory?”

Makari snickered at that. A glance showed Tilrey that the new Councillor was sitting beside Gourmanian, whose eyes were wide and eager.

But he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted by them. He narrowed his focus to Ansha, who dipped to give him a quick kiss on the forehead, then asked Verán, “Should I go on, Fir?”

“Mm, yes. Before our guests of honor sample the fruit, we’ll have a little demonstration.” Verán cleared his throat, as if he’d forgotten what he meant to say.

“No one should get too comfortable,” Besha reminded his master in a stage whisper.

“Oh, yes.”

As Ansha unbuttoned Tilrey’s tunic at the waist and peeled it off, Verán gave a droning speech that seemed more suited to the Council chamber. Tilrey caught bits of high-flown rhetoric about how the Mainlanders might seem defeated but the Island must remain vigilant. After that, the majority leader reviewed the major pieces of legislation awaiting them when they returned from the fall recess, detailing the importance of each.

Meanwhile, Ansha tugged the shirt over Tilrey’s head, kissing and caressing his clavicle on the way. “Where’s Brorsha?” he hissed. “Thought he’d be here.”

Tilrey shrugged with his eyes, wishing he were more sapped.

He could feel the tension of the Councillors around him: breathing slowing down, gazes fixed. They weren’t listening to Verán’s diatribe. They were waiting to see what Ansha did to him.

“Superior work receives superior rewards, but no one is entitled to rewards, even here on the Island’s summit. Everyone must earn them.” Verán’s voice was thinning as he wound to the end of his speech. “Rewards such as our sparkling jewel come to those who exhibit superior service, superior team work, superior preparation, superior initiative. Ansha, have him go down on you first.”

Ansha had taken his time removing Tilrey’s trousers, trying to put on a good show. Now he tossed them away and slumped back against the pillows. “Unzip me," he ordered, sounding like a Councillor.

Tilrey rolled deftly over and rose onto all fours, wearing only his briefs. He heard someone gasp, but he stayed focused. So far, nothing had happened in the bedroom to upset his delicate internal balance, his all-important sense that he was in control.

As he palmed Ansha’s cock through the briefs, he told himself it wasn’t so bad performing for a crowd, hearing their small involuntary noises of excitement. Maybe it was even flattering. He wasn’t the frightened boy who had tussled foolishly with seven soldiers in the officers’ club. He wasn’t even the bleary-eyed prisoner who had been shoved into this room a year ago and taken a procession of cocks down his throat and then knelt on the floor and let Verán’s inner circle paint him with their cum.

Don’t think about that. It was over. Tonight he was an actor with a role. Doing, not done to.

He bent to mouth Ansha’s cock teasingly before yielding to the other kettle boy’s silent pleas and yanking it out. The familiar actions roused memories of Bror. He pushed those away.

Ansha’s cock was smaller than Bror’s. And Bror would never respond with gusty moans and whimpers like something out of a porn stream. Bror was always real with him.

“Those two really like each other,” a man said, making several other Councillors titter. Tilrey ignored them, bending to take Ansha’s cock in his mouth.

The newly elected István was the one who’d made the comment. He was still in his thirties, with a schoolboy’s naughty grin and a wide-eyed quality that he used to ingratiate himself to Verán.

The laughing stopped as Tilrey went through his standard steps. The coy licks, the in and out, the swirling tongue, the deep throating. He was grateful every day for the lessons of Matthias in the Sanctioned Brothel, who had shown him that sucking a man’s cock could be an act of power.

But not when you’re on your back. He tried not to remember Gourmanian’s hands holding him down while a cock he couldn’t identify breached his lips and choked him. That would never happen again.

Ansha’s stiff organ tasted salty with pre-cum, and his writhing was no longer just for show. Eager murmurs rose from the audience. Some might be touching themselves. Would they dare, Tilrey wondered, or was Verán mean enough to draw attention to their shamelessness?

Ansha’s fingers were knotting in Tilrey’s hair, pushing his head down, when Besha spoke. “Make him stop, Ansha. You can’t hold out much longer.”

“No, I’m good!” Ansha gasped.

But Verán snapped his fingers. “Nettsha. Off him. Ansha, I want you on top.”

Tilrey straightened up just in time to see a bottle of lube fly from Verán to Ansha, who fumbled it. “Time to work,” Ansha said under his breath, clearly disgruntled. He beckoned to Tilrey, doing his commanding Upstart act again, and said louder, “Kiss me.”

They drew out the kiss for show, with gasping and grunting and flicking of tongues. Tilrey let Ansha’s tongue slide down his throat until he felt smothered. Then he tugged away and nipped Ansha’s lip, hard.

“Ow! Just for that, I’m going to make you squirm and beg for mercy,” Ansha announced in his crowd voice. “Hands and knees!”

Tilrey complied, facing the headboard so he didn’t have to see any of them. He arched his back as Ansha’s lubed finger opened him, pretending that it was sending him into paroxysms of ecstasy. He was hard, of course, thanks to Malsha’s training. But he was aware of the rush of blood to his groin in a distant, clinical way.

He didn’t expect or want to come tonight. In Tilrey’s experience, every man seemed less powerful after he came. Except maybe Bror, but that was different, because Bror didn’t use his power to dominate—and anyway, thoughts of Bror were off-limits right now. He was with Ansha, pretending to want Ansha’s cock.

“Oooh. Open wider for me, you slut.” Ansha worked two fingers in and out, impaling him. “I’m gonna go down so easy. Just slide right down like a sub through water. You ready?”

 Tilrey nodded. Get on with it.

But Verán said, “Put him on his back. His ass is nice, but we want to see his face.”

So Tilrey had to roll over again and let Ansha hike up his knees, exposing his twice-prepared hole. He was getting better at ignoring the audience. Their reactions were white noise. He closed his eyes and exerted careful control over his breathing, exhaling for an eight-count as Ansha’s cock slid into him.

Just for an instant, his breath hitched. He tensed, fighting an impulse to shove the other boy off him. To be open like this, to be exposed—

“Shh,” Ansha whispered, pushing past his resistance. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Exhale. Hold. Tilrey reminded himself he was safe. This wasn’t the officers’ club.

Even if Verán decided to turn this into a gang-bang, declaring Tilrey common property for the night, it wouldn’t be remotely like that. He exhaled again and concentrated on relaxing to take Ansha’s full length. It would never be like that again, because he was in control. He could spread his legs or get on his knees for every single one of these fools without flinching or grimacing or giving them the slightest sign that he was unhappy inside his attractive shell.

I can do crowd scenes! He wanted to laugh as he remembered how frightened he’d been of this moment. He was still glad Bror wasn’t here.

“Ohh!” Ansha showed an admirable commitment to his role, crooning as he plunged balls-deep into Tilrey. His skinny fingers found Tilrey’s wrists and clamped them tight, bracing him for each thrust. “Sooo tiiiight!”

He was withdrawing for a fresh assault when Besha’s nasal voice piped up again. “Make Nettsha open his eyes. We want to see his pretty blue eyes, don’t we, Visha?”

“Of course.” Verán sounded bored. “Eyes open, boy.”

Why did Besha have to be so observant? He knew Tilrey had been dreading this.

But if he wanted to see Tilrey whinge, he’d be disappointed. Tilrey fluttered his lids and looked up at the canopy. He focused on it grimly, counting the length of each inhale and exhale as Ansha’s motion sped up.

With his eyes open, none of this seemed so easy. He caught glimpses of the watchers in his peripheral vision, remembering that three of them would claim him before the night was over. Three more cocks invading him, three more times he had to keep his face blank, even when it hurt.

And it would hurt by the second or third man, no matter how hard he concentrated. He wouldn’t lose control, of course, he wouldn’t cry. But he might fray, thread by thread. He might grow surly and impatient. If the new Councillors had any sense, they would notice his discomfort.

Most of them were so unobservant, though, so dense. Malsha had always been scornful of his colleagues, and now Tilrey understood why.

No one even reprimanded him when he squeezed his eyes shut again as Ansha finished, shuddering and gasping and spilling warm seed into him. Darkness was a relief. Tilrey was cramped in several places by the time Ansha dismounted, allowing him to roll on his side and hide his face.

After a few minutes, fingers tugged at his hair and grazed his lips, sticky and sweet. Tilrey sucked sap off a finger. He relaxed as Ansha’s clothed form cozied up and nuzzled him, nose in his hair.

“You like that?” Ansha asked lazily, for their ears alone.

“You did.” But Tilrey didn’t tug away from him. They made a good team, he decided. For nonsense like this, he didn’t want someone he cared about.

He needed to go limp now. Gather his strength for the rest. Drowsy, he allowed himself to imagine that it was Bror spooning him, Bror’s enormous hands stroking his back. Oh yes. That was good.

He even grunted softly in protest when Ansha left him. The room felt quieter now. He hugged himself tight, knees to chest, wanting it to be over.

A hand on his hair. “Are you awake?”

Tilrey bolted upright, shaking off the hand. It belonged to Councillor István, who scrambled backward across the bed as if he thought Tilrey might hit him.

“Oh! I’m sorry, Fir.” Tilrey’s body had snapped awake before his mind. A quick glance told him they were alone in the room. That must be why the new Councillor looked nervous.

“I did drift off,” he said, trying to look and sound less threatening. He felt sticky with Ansha’s cum, and he could still taste it. A shower would have been nice.

The young Councillor was looking at him with wide, worried brown eyes. “I think we’re supposed to, uh…”

“I’m supposed to oblige you, Fir. Right.” Now that he was awake, Tilrey felt no dread, only fatigue. “Face up or face down?”

Young István cleared his throat. His cheeks were lightly flushed, his tongue darting out to lick his lips. “I’d like you to do to me what you did to that kettle boy. Suck my cock.”

“Okay, then, Fir.” Tilrey swallowed down bile. “Sit back and get comfortable.”

István lounged against the pillows, but he still looked wary. “Can I touch you first?”

“Of course, Fir.”

Tilrey slid over and sat next to the young Councillor, their thighs touching. Knowing Verán wouldn’t want them to take too long, he picked up István’s hand and placed it on his now-soft cock.

“Aren’t you forward!” István laughed, then began rubbing Tilrey to hardness again, eager and efficient. He seemed to have regained his confidence. With his other hand, he gave Tilrey’s cheek a quick stroke, cupped his face, ran fingers through his hair. “It’s nicer this way, right? If we get comfortable with each other first?”

“Right, Fir.” István knew what he was doing with his hand. Tilrey writhed in the firm grip, trying not to be distracted by the itch of reawakened desire. “I’ll suck you now?” he asked, reaching for the man’s cock.

“I have a better idea.” Twitching himself out of Tilrey’s grip, István seized Tilrey’s cock at the base.

Then Tilrey was looking down at tousled brown hair. István had bent deep and was circling his cockhead with his tongue, flicking it with a professional’s skill.

Tilrey’s hips bucked helplessly. You’re not supposed to do that, Fir. But if István wanted to give him head, he wouldn’t say no.

“You’re good at this,” he whispered as István swallowed him deeper, the warm mouth laving him while holding him tight.

“Mmm.” The young Councillor’s chin nudged the sensitive scrotum. Then he pulled out all at once, expelling Tilrey’s cock with a wet pop. “Jealous?” he asked, glancing up with that boyish grin.

“No, Fir. Just surprised.”

“Get ready to be more surprised.” István looked pleased with himself. “You’re fucking beautiful,” he added, stroking Tilrey’s cock from root to tip to show him which part of him he meant. “I hear you can’t even come without an order. Like you’re a machine built for sex.”

Shame rose into Tilrey’s throat and brought tears to his eyes. But even as he recoiled inside, a seductive smile curved his lips. “Where’d you hear that, Fir?”

“I asked Ansha about you. I like to do research before I get close to someone.” István smiled again, attractive and disarming. “Lie back and close your eyes, sweet thing. When I’m ready to get a good taste of you, I’ll let you know.”

The young Councillor was as good as his word. He sucked cock even better than Malsha had. Tilrey abandoned himself to the flood of sensations, retaining only the ingrained, involuntary control that kept him from coming before he was told.

“Oh, you’re good.” Still holding him tight, István knelt up to kiss Tilrey’s forehead. “I’ve never had a man who could last long after I deep-throated him. Who taught you that?”

Tilrey shook his head. Gazed at the wall, refusing eye contact and trying not to think of Bror’s mouth on him, Bror giving him the command.

“Fine, be that way.” István kissed him on the lips. “Give me a little lick… yes. That’s how you taste. Okay, now you’re gonna come for me. Ready?”

He bent to his task again. And Tilrey’s body exploded with sensation, pleasure turning every drab perception of the world to astounding color.

After that, he expected István to roll him over and finish things the way Verán would approve of. But the young man only grabbed Tilrey’s hand and used it to bring himself off in a few rough strokes, panting eagerly.

“Yum,” he said as he left the bed, after planting a final kiss on Tilrey’s shoulder. “I’m glad I got you before Lindblom did. Just lie still for him. He’s a bore.”

“More boring than Gersha Gádden?” Tilrey asked idly, watching the Upstart twitch his tunic straight. He didn’t want to let himself doze off again and be taken unawares.

István snorted. “Gádden’s a worse bore. He’d probably be afraid to even touch you.”

Alone in the room again, Tilrey pulled up the covers, leveled his breathing, and took a moment to reconnect with himself. Still here. Still me.

He hoped he wouldn’t think of young István next time Bror’s mouth was on him. But no, he was thinking about Bror again! The trick was never to think of Bror until the night was over. And then, once it was safe, to think only of Bror and forget the rest of them.

When the door hissed open, he deliberately didn’t react. He waited until footsteps approached the bed to sit up and face the newcomer.

The young Lindblom was attractive in a well-fed way, with glossy black hair and expressive brows. “Lindblom, Aleksandr. Or Sacha,” he said, extending a well-manicured hand.

Amused by the formal introduction, Tilrey gave the new Councillor his hand to clasp. “They call me Nettsha, Fir.”

Lindblom loosened his tunic at the waist, dropped his trousers to the floor and tossed them away. “Besha wouldn’t shut up about you at our last Communal Meal.” He made a face that showed he disliked Besha. “He’s married to my cousin Davita, you know. He says you’re quite the little actor.”

Tilrey lowered his eyes, wondering if Besha had told everyone about their playlet of domination and submission. “I can do whatever you want, Fir.”

“Right.” Lindblom sat down beside him with a bounce. “I don’t like all that whore’s fakery. Praising me and calling me pet names and so forth. So keep quiet, will you?”

Tilrey nodded; he much preferred keeping quiet. Before he could even respond in words, Lindblom grabbed his wrists and flipped him over onto all fours, thrusting the duvet aside. “Let’s get this over with.”

Tilrey closed his eyes and arched his back. He knew it would hurt, so he timed his breathing.

Lindblom was already mounting him, a short, fat cock jabbing at his crack. “You don’t need more lube, do you? Ha, no,” he answered himself, forcing his way past the token resistance. “The redhead wasn’t exaggerating—you’re ready to go. Though I can’t say sloppy thirds was what I had in mind.”

Tilrey left his body for a while. He was dimly conscious of Lindblom rutting inside him, one hand in his hair to shove his face down into the mattress. He must be breathing through his nose.

He gazed down at himself, a naked boy with his ass in the air and carefully styled golden locks and too many gym-toned muscles. He wondered how it would feel to be hurting the pretty boy in the bed. Slut. Sloppy thirds. Besha had bragged about fucking him, and now in Lindblom’s mind he was Besha’s, just as in Besha’s mind he was Malsha’s. A piece of currency, Verán’s thing to give as a reward for his followers. Would anyone ever look at him now and see anything else?

Bror claimed he was more than a piece. Bror insisted on it. But would even Bror want him if he weren’t pretty and willing?

Stop. The thought sent him back into his body with a thud. He bit his lower lip against the pain as Lindblom’s thrusts deepened and hardened, building toward the climax. No, I will not think that way. Bror is good. He says I’m special. He likes me for who I really am.

But was he anybody? Right now, it felt like an enormous effort just to keep himself in one piece. The Councillor’s cock was trying to hollow him out, split him in two. All these men were tearing off bits of him for souvenirs. The Island’s jewel.

At last, warmth gushed and Lindblom’s heavy form went still on top of Tilrey, half-hard cock still inserted. “Hmhmm,” he groaned.

Tilrey waited for what felt like an eternity, though it was surely no more than ten minutes. His back was cramping, his lungs compressed by Lindblom’s weight, but he didn’t stir. He tried to leave his body and look down on himself again, without success. He visualized snow falling in darkness, wind whirling the flakes around the ledge outside. He visualized Bror at home in bed, sleepless with worry about him.

No, he didn’t want Bror to worry! Bror should be sound asleep. Or watching a porn stream. Or in that bar in Ring Six, flirting with the girl he liked—Mirella. Or even in bed with Mirella in her dorm room. Did they fuck? Of course they did. Bror hadn’t denied it.

Tilrey didn’t mind, he told himself fiercely, teeth clenched against the growing discomfort of his position. Bror could be desperately in love with Mirella—he should be desperately in love with her. Bror should marry her someday and have tons of kids, the way Tilrey had once assumed he’d marry Dal. Someone needed to have a nice, normal life. A happy ending.

When Lindblom finally dismounted, Tilrey stretched out gingerly, flexing aching joints. The Upstart didn’t say a word, just yanked on his trousers and left.

This time, Tilrey was alone only for a minute or so, long enough to roll over carefully. He winced when his ass made contact with the bed, wondered if he were bleeding.

Then the door opened, and Makari strolled into the room—but not alone. Gourmanian came with him.

Makari was chuckling at something the senior Councillor had said. “You slay me, Garsha!” he declared, sucking up to Gourmanian as he had to Verán.

Gourmanian ignored him, making a beeline for Tilrey. “My poor lad! How are you holding up?” he cried, plopping himself on the bed.

Tilrey hadn’t forgotten the incident with Saldegren. Gourmanian had pushed past his boundaries, and the more he thought about it, the more he suspected the breach had been intentional.

Before that evening, he had sometimes let down his defenses with Gourmanian. But now all his shields were raised, and they were sturdy. “Fine, Fir,” he said in a tone that revealed nothing. “What are you doing here?”

He already knew the answer. Gourmanian was doing the same thing he’d done on the night he invited Saldegren over: enjoying Tilrey’s discomfort. The man had a little Malsha in him.

“Oh, Ransha and I were just talking about you,” Gourmanian said in his pleasant, courteous way. “He thinks you don’t remember him, love, because you were so sapped when he brought you here from Thurskein. But you do, don’t you? I see it in the way you look at him.”

Tilrey turned and gave Makari the blankest stare he could. “I remember him. Probably better than he remembers me.”

He would never forget the things Makari had said on their first meeting. After Fernei had suggested finding another boy—briefly trying to save Tilrey—the Upstart had assured him that A bit of feistiness isn’t a problem if he’s young enough to be taught. And then, once Fernei left them alone, he’d said with a leer, You’re very shy. Fresh, I’m guessing?

How the man laughed when Tilrey said he’d been with a girl. Fir Magistrate’s going to like this one.

For an instant, Makari looked almost guilty. Then he smiled, his eyes narrowing to gleaming slits. “Do you remember the waystation, lad?”

“Ransha told me all about it.” Gourmanian’s own eyes were shining. He slid himself to the head of the bed, behind Tilrey, and stretched out at his ease. “He told me that when he first tried to touch you, in Thurskein, you fought him. He had to drug you. Is that true?”

You’re telling on yourself, Fir. A glance at Makari told Tilrey he was taking careful note of Gourmanian’s kink, too. Perhaps someday he would use it to call in a favor, or to serve up the perfect kettle boy for Gourmanian’s predilections.

Tilrey wouldn’t give either of them the satisfaction of seeing him cower. “I was a different person in ’Skein, Fir. It was a while ago. He was the first Upstart I ever met.”

Makari sat on the bed. “Skeinshaka aren’t raised to respect us, see,” he explained to Gourmanian. “They only interact with their own kind. And this one was the son of someone important, friend of the Supervisor. One glance, and I knew he was the one I had to have.”

He looked Tilrey up and down—the long, appraising look that Tilrey remembered. “I looked at him, and I said, That’s a Councillor’s piece. But the boy had other ideas. Didn’t understand what I could do for him.” Makari’s lip curled. “I sneak a hand up his thigh to get a feel for what he’s got in those trousers, and he practically kicks me!”

“Mmmm.” Gourmanian was touching himself; Tilrey didn’t have to see him to know. “Is that true, Nettsha, love?”

Tilrey could feel Makari’s eager eyes on his nakedness, but he made no attempt to cover himself. “Yes. Does that get you hot, Fir?”

“Forgive me. It’s just … I wish I could have seen you then. So young. So shy and resistant.” Gourmanian’s hand was moving rhymically. “Go on, Ransha,” he said, as if Makari were merely another prop, less important than Tilrey. “He’s yours tonight. Verán gave you a gift. Take it.”

Makari slid closer to Tilrey. “You’re not going to fight me now, boy?”

Tilrey gazed straight into the man’s eyes, firming his jaw. “I didn’t fight you at the waystation, Fir.”

“The waystation?” Gourmanian asked excitedly.

“That’s right,” Tilrey said without expression. “Fir Jena must have told Fir Makari he wanted a boy who was fresh as the day he was born. But Fir Makari couldn’t resist trying me out.”

Makari’s pupils were swelling; the memories must be turning him on, too. “I barely touched you.” His eyes rose to Gourmanian, his real audience. “The lad was cuffed and he needed to piss, so I took out his cock for him and tucked it back in when he was done. That’s all I remember.”

“Oh, I think you both remember more than that.” Gourmanian was breathless. “You’ve been regretting it ever since it happened, haven’t you, Makari? Because you could have taken him that day, right up against the wall of a public restroom. The boy was cuffed and drugged. No one would have stopped you. But you didn’t dare.”

Makari laughed gruffly. “He was too good for me. He was fit for a Councillor—I could see that. So I used him to satisfy myself without damaging him.”

“Yesss. You did.” Gourmanian sighed, his hand still working. “Go on now, then. Use the boy the way you wanted to that day.”

Makari’s gaze returned to Tilrey. “He’s not cuffed now,” he complained. “And he’s bigger. And he doesn’t look willing.”

“Oh, he’s willing, believe me. He loves this.” Gourmanian’s tone hardened the way it did before a spanking. “Lie down, Nettsha! On your back.”

Tilrey obeyed. He had spent enough time with Gourmanian to know instinctively what the man wanted. He raised his arms so Gourmanian could pin his wrists, just as he’d done on the night of the Spring Fling.

He didn’t like this, but he understood it. And it would be over soon. He even spread his legs and rolled up to offer his ass to Makari. “Do you still want me, Fir?” He contemplated the canopy, wondering with a certain detachment if he could find a way to satisfy Gourmanian and humiliate Makari at the same time. “Did you like how I was trembling when you dry-humped me? Is that what you like? A boy who’s afraid of you? One you have to force?”

Gourmanian gasped sharply. “Force him,” he hissed at Makari. “Just the way you wanted to back then. Start with a kiss.”

Makari bent and gave Tilrey a long kiss, sloppy and invasive enough to make Tilrey cringe. But he could tell now that Makari’s excitement was partly feigned. Maybe the man didn’t like putting on a show any more than he did. “Don’t you want me, Fir?”

“Of course I want you, you little slut!” Makari lowered his clothed bulk on top of Tilrey and rutted, his cock prodding Tilrey’s hip. “What happened to all the kicking and trembling? Did you find out you love having a cock inside you?”

“Yeah. That’s exactly it.” Tilrey didn’t bother to act. The panting told him Gourmanian was enjoying this just fine, regardless of what he did. He arched and gyrated against Makari’s hardening bulge, trying to ignore the pain the movement caused. “Go on, Fir. You can have me now. Inside and out.”

A harsh thrust and a grunt told him Makari liked the invitation. “Damn,” the new Councillor said, reaching down to undo his fly. “I wish I weren’t the fourth tonight.”

Gourmanian laughed wildly. “Go on, Ransha. He hasn’t been a virgin for a while now, but I guarantee you he’s tighter than you expect.”

There weren’t many words after that. Tilrey closed his eyes as Makari penetrated him, sending pain arcing up his spine. But it didn’t hurt much once Makari overcame the initial ring of muscle, and he knew what to expect: shallow strokes, followed by deeper ones. The panting, the moaning, the crushing weight.

He sent himself over to a corner of the room, where he sat in an armchair and watched from a distance.

He saw two men getting off as they yanked a rangy boy between them, like dogs with a piece of meat. The boy’s body was limp, neither resisting nor eager. The dark-haired man clamped both the boy’s wrists in one hand while jerking himself off with the other. The bald man fucked the boy, moving faster and faster. The boy’s expression was blank, as if he’d never had a coherent thought in his life. A mental incompetent, a toy for their use.

Tilrey hated the boy. Couldn’t help it. He’d been a pathetic thing three years ago when Makari pushed him against that wall and dry-humped him, and he was a pathetic thing now.

Is that all you are? he wanted to yell. Is there nothing more to you? Why don’t you say no for a change? Why don’t you fight?

The boy just lay there, mouth agape, eyes closed. Tilrey was relieved when Gourmanian climaxed, followed shortly by his new protégé, and it was over.

Except it wasn’t.

He was back inside the limp body on the bed. The body was full of aches, some sharp and some dull. Nothing he hadn’t dealt with before, he reminded himself.

Makari leapt up and tidied his clothes, tucking everything back in. He didn’t seem to want to linger—unlike Gourmanian, who wrapped Tilrey in a humid embrace. “You were so beautiful just now,” he said into Tilrey’s shoulder. “You have no idea.”

Tilrey didn’t respond to the touch, didn’t mold himself to Gourmanian’s body. He could say no to that, at least. “Verán didn’t send you in here, did he, Fir? Maybe you should leave before someone finds out.”

“Mmm, must I?” But Gourmanian knew Tilrey was right. Reluctantly, with kisses and caresses, he got up. “What’d you think, Ransha? Everything you hoped for?”

Makari was already halfway out the door. “To be honest, Garsha, I like a boy with a little more spirit, like that Ansha. This one just lies there.”

“No taste! I can see you’re a philistine.” Gourmanian looked himself over, dabbing a spot of cum off his tunic. “When Nettsha ‘just lies there,’ every inch of him is tremblingly alive.” He gave Tilrey a final kiss. “See you soon, love?”

Once he was alone, Tilrey pushed himself to the edge of the bed and stood up, shaking a little. The urge to disappear into the bedclothes was strong, but he needed to show himself he was still all right.

He fetched his discarded clothes and folded them painstakingly, as Malsha had taught him. That way, if Vlastor came to shepherd him to his own room, he could dress at a moment’s notice. He didn’t dare do it now, in case Verán arrived instead, but he would be ready to leave as soon as he was allowed.

Neither Vlastor nor Verán appeared, though. When the door opened, it was Makari, with an odd, sheepish look on his smug face. “Fir Verán told me to clear you out so he can enjoy his bed in peace. The driver’s busy putting the food away.”

Lucky you. Tilrey had often seen Verán treat junior Councillors like servants, reminding them of their place.

He stood up again, trying hard not to wince, and slid on his briefs.

“You’ve got more brains than I thought,” Makari said, watching him. “The way you were taunting me before—you knew just how to rev him up.”

Tilrey shook out his trousers and put them on. “Fir Gourmanian likes me, Fir. I know how to satisfy him.”

“Hmm, yes. But does he know you were arrested for shirking in ’Skein?” When Tilrey looked up sharply, the man added, “Do any of them know? Or was that a little secret between you and Malsha?”

“It’s no secret, Fir.” Annoyed at himself for reacting, Tilrey thrust his arms into the tunic. “It was a trivial offense—that’s what Malsha told me. I’m no shirker, and attending one meeting is nothing. Normally they would have let me go with restricted privileges for a year, at most.”

“You seem awfully sure.” Makari made a clucking sound with his tongue. “I wonder if Verán would see it as trivial.”

“Fir Verán knows—why wouldn’t he?” Leaving his tunic unclasped, Tilrey shoved his feet into his indoor boots. “I’m ready.”

Makari opened the door and followed Tilrey up the corridor. Running water indicated Verán was having his nightly bath.

They crossed the now-desolate sitting room, where Vlastor was vacuuming the sofa cushions. Only when they were inside Tilrey’s room, with the door shut, did Makari speak again.

“You’re bluffing,” he said in a low voice. Then, without warning, he used his whole body to shove Tilrey up against the door. “Lying little slut. You’ve learned a lot in a few years in Redda.”

Tilrey fought an impulse to push back. Makari’s bulk was pressed tight against him. The man’s breath was warm on his cheek, bringing a whiff of sourness. “I’m not a shirker,” he said, standing firm.

“No?” Makari’s cock was hard again, prodding Tilrey’s thigh. He stepped back just far enough to catch Tilrey’s chin and pull it down until their eyes met. “We have shirkers in Redda, too, you know. Enough to keep Int/Sec busy.” His eyes narrowed, knowing and cruel. “And if someone told Verán you were one, you’d be in a cell like that.” A finger-snap.

“Well, I’m not one, Fir.” Tilrey forced himself to hold Makari’s gaze. “Int/Sec has my record. They told me it was nothing, a ‘teenage indiscretion.’ They said if they’d thought I was a real Dissident, they wouldn’t have let me out again.”

Makari made a skeptical noise, but he released Tilrey’s chin. “So Int/Sec didn’t tell Verán your whole history. Interesting—I guess they have their reasons. I won’t tell him, either—not if you’re nice to me from now on.” An unpleasant smile. “Give me a kiss, love. A real one.”

After the night he’d had, Tilrey had to struggle not to shudder with visible repulsion. “I can’t do that for you, Fir. I’m Verán’s to command.”

“Oh, I think you can do it.” And Makari seized hold of Tilrey’s head and tugged it down, tangling fingers painfully in his hair.

The kiss was as sloppy and aggressive as the one they’d shared on the bed, but this time Tilrey felt hunger behind it. Makari was devouring him, claiming him, nipping his bottom lip hard enough to bleed.

He resisted, but only for an instant, because he could tell Makari was enjoying the friction. Then he went limp. He let Makari turn him this way and that, stroking his hair and trying new angles and reaching down to squeeze his crotch.

When the man finally released him, Tilrey’s mouth tasted wrong. Tears blurred his vision, but he managed not to let them fall. “I’m not afraid of you, Fir.”

“No?” Makari winked at him. “I’d like to have you sometime—just the two of us, no one watching or stage-managing. Then we’ll see how long you take that tone with me. But you seem a little … worn out. So I’ll bid you good night.” He hit the door button. “For now.”

The door hissed and clicked shut behind the new Councillor.

Tilrey had meant to go straight into the shower, but now he stood staring into space, tasting Makari’s mouth. When his body refused to stand anymore, he stretched out on the bed where he and Bror had been less than twenty-four hours earlier. He lay stiffly, every muscle locked, waiting for the wave of terror to ebb and give him back control of his limbs.

His room no longer felt safe. Nor did the bathroom or the shower stall, when he finally managed to make his way there and strip off his clothes and let scalding water wash over him. Wherever he was, the memory of Makari’s threat was, too.

Under the hot water, the tears flowed at last. They were soft, almost merciful, trickling down his cheeks. He let the water run over his scalp and down the ends of his hair, taking the tears with it. Washing away thoughts, plans, memories. Wiping the slate clean.

Then he dressed in freshly laundered sweats and turned out the light and lay down and drew the covers tight over him.

He did not sleep. Makari’s words ran round in his head.

His “secret” was so trivial compared with Besha’s. If Makari became really difficult, maybe Tilrey could give up Besha to save himself.

But Besha was the one who’d persuaded Verán to support Makari’s election. So they were allies, perhaps friends—if vipers like that had friends. If they chose to join forces, Besha and Makari could crush him easily.

No, Tilrey couldn’t take measures against Makari. If the most the man wanted was sex, he could have it. With any luck, though, the threat had been only a show of force. Tilrey had been a little too cheeky, and Makari had reminded him of his place. Nothing would come of it.

When the window turned blue, and daylight came at last, Tilrey dozed a little.

A rap on the door startled him awake. He sat up, feeling every ache and pain and stiffness. He’d almost forgotten asking Bror to come to him in the morning.

Maybe he should have suggested waiting a day, until he was in better shape. But Bror was here now, and all Tilrey needed to do was laugh last night off, the way Bror himself had taught him to. “Come in, Brorsha.”

Bror arrived carrying the breakfast tray, fresh from Vlastor’s kitchen. When he saw Tilrey, he stood stock still, blue eyes pinched with distress.

“Rishka,” he said.

“That bad, huh?” Trying to smile (laugh it off), Tilrey patted the bed. “Sit down before you drop that food. I’m hungry.”

Chapter 42: Loved

Bror caught himself quickly. He wiped the dismay off his face and replaced it with a reassuring smile as he set the breakfast tray down on the bed beside Tilrey. Act normal. Don’t show him how you feel.

He had handled things all wrong yesterday. By showing Tilrey he was upset about Election Night, he had only made things worse. He’d known it almost the instant he left Tilrey, wanting to go back and beg forgiveness. But how?

Now he sat down on the bed, keeping the tray between them, giving Tilrey his space. “You were sleeping, weren’t you? I should’ve come in the afternoon.”

“No. It’s okay.” Tilrey didn’t glance at the food, only reached across it for Bror’s hand. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Tilrey looked fine, Bror told himself. His lips were a little bee-stung, and the neck of his tee revealed red and purple blotches, but he didn’t look injured. It was the feverish light of his eyes that disturbed Bror. It was the careful way he held himself, as if any sudden movement might shatter him.

His grip was strong, though. Bror squeezed Tilrey’s hand back, swallowing down the lump in his throat. Should he come closer? Fold Tilrey in his arms? No, he had a sense it wasn’t time yet.

He felt helpless, useless, and most of all baffled by a kind of situation he’d never encountered before. After making his excuses to István, he had spent Election Night tossing and turning, imagining Tilrey being forced to service the new Councillors. Why couldn’t that prick Verán have made Ansha do it? The kid was certainly capable, and more resilient than Tilrey. Bror would have worried about Ansha, too, but not like this.

Bror liked to solve problems for the people he loved. He didn’t like seeing them in pain. But when he’d suggested the only solution he could think of—hiding Tilrey—Tilrey had warned him against committing treason. How could it be treason to protect someone you loved?

And then Tilrey had pretended not to care after all. I need to go through with this, Brorsha. Maybe it’ll be good for me. Toughen me up. That was the worst memory, the one that kept Bror alert through the wee hours. Tilrey had pretended for him, to keep him from being upset, when Bror wasn’t the one who was being treated like some sort of party favor.

Bror had done threesomes and a few foursomes, and he had been the entertainment, fucking Lus while a bunch of Councillors watched. Sometimes it was okay; sometimes it was uncomfortable or embarrassing. But he had never been put in a room and made to service a succession of men. Those were Brothel conditions.

“You should eat, love.” He picked up the tea tumbler with his free hand, surprised by the weak rasp of his own voice, and thrust it toward Tilrey. “Just a little tea and porridge, so Vlastor doesn’t get on your ass.”

Tilrey took the tumbler. “I don’t want any more sap.”

“None in there. Vlastor promised.”

Tilrey took a sip but didn’t release Bror, inching closer so their clasped hands could rest on the rumpled bedspread. “It was fine, you know,” he said. “I was right about that. I’m fine.”

Bror nodded. He didn’t trust himself to speak or meet Tilrey’s eyes. A rebellious warmth pressed against his sinuses, but if he permitted tears to fall, Tilrey would feel obliged to forget his own needs and care for Bror again.

Tilrey set down the tumbler and spooned up some porridge. “There were only three,” he said in a clinical way. “One of them didn’t show. And young István just wanted to suck me off! He was good at it, too—can you imagine?”

Bror forced a laugh. Tilrey was trying to talk in the breezy way they did in the Café, gossiping about different Councillors’ kinks and physiques. Bror played along, because sometimes it helped. “I always thought that guy looked like a good cocksucker. What about young Lindblom?”

Tilrey made a face, chewing. “Bad. Boring. But harmless. They’re all harmless in the end.”

“Who was the third?” The elder Councillor István had listed all the victorious candidates, but one had slipped Bror’s mind. “Was it that uptight Gádden?”

“Nah, he’s the one who didn’t show.” Tilrey gave Bror’s hand a last squeeze and released it, taking another spoonful. “The third was … Makari.”

“Who?” It was a common name, a nobody. “Wait a second—that clown from Ring Four who hangs around the Restaurant, sucking up to Councillors? The one who pimped out Ansha and found him his post with Lindahl? They elected him?”

Tilrey smiled, no joy in it. “Ransha Makari, his name is.”

“That one’s a piece of work.” Bror remembered Makari all too well from his time working at the Restaurant. “Always loitering around, making eyes at us and asking for gossip he could use to impress the high names. When he heard I was from Six, he asked if I had any connections to a smuggling family there. I shut him down—I wasn’t gonna help him source contraband. But I haven’t seen him since he got himself named Admin in one of the Laborer cities.”

“Thurskein,” Tilrey said, eating without looking at Bror. “Sector Six.”

“He told you that?” Bror was still thrown by the image of Ransha Makari as a Councillor. It seemed like the exact opposite of meritocracy in action.

“Didn’t have to. Makari was the one who brought me to Redda, Bror. He … found me.”

“Oh!” Then, as the implications sank in, Bror repeated the exclamation in a darker tone. “Oh. Shit. First time you’ve seen him since then?”

Tilrey had told Bror just enough about his flight from Thurskein for Bror to know he shouldn’t probe. Still, he’d put a few things together. Tilrey had been in trouble for some silly nonsense involving shirkers. His mother hadn’t wanted him to leave home. Bror had seen how edgy and disoriented Tilrey was in the early days; he had heard Malsha brag about the boy’s lack of “preparation” for his new life.

Maybe it hadn’t been a flight at all, but more like an abduction. In Ring Six, you sometimes heard about lads who were virtually forced into the Sanctioned Brothel as an alternative to moral rehab or detention. Sad cases, spoken of in whispers. Bror had never wanted to think of Tilrey that way—because, after all, a kettle boy was nothing like a Brothel boy. You had freedom. Dignity. No demeaning inspections. You didn’t have to be desperate to choose this as a way of life.

But, looking at Tilrey now, he had a hard time believing his friend had chosen it, even under duress.

Tilrey took a long swallow of tea before raising his eyes to Bror. “I didn’t know Makari was the one who bought and sold Ansha. He did the same to me.”

Bought. It was a degrading word to describe human beings, so un-Oslov. But Bror knew Makari was the type to use it. To make it mean something. “That fucking asshole. Rishka, did he…”

Bror couldn’t finish the question, but Tilrey clearly understood. “No. Well, not really. He bought me from my Supervisor in exchange for a lightened crackdown on the Sector, and he drugged and handcuffed me and pawed me, but he had the sense not to do anything worse. He was saving me for Malsha.”

Drugged. Handcuffed. Bror had always thought seeing red when you were angry was a myth, but now there was a dark, roiling cloud over his eyes, a buzzing in his ears. “That fuck. I’d like to find him right now and … and…”

“Brorsha.” Tilrey touched Bror’s knee. “I’m not telling you so you can go do something stupid. I’m telling you because it was a long time ago, and I survived, and you might as well know. I mean, you could always tell I didn’t want to be here, right?”

Bror nodded, still beyond words.

That was the worst part: He had always known. But high Upstarts and the General Magistrate were involved, so Bror hadn’t done a thing. When he’d even allowed himself to think about Tilrey’s origins, he’d told himself it couldn’t be that bad.

Now that he could put Makari’s smarmy face into the story, everything changed. His mind filled with images of Makari taking Tilrey by the arm, steering him into a car, fondling him. Makari treating Tilrey like a bale of goods and grinning the whole time, pleased with his “find.”

“I’ll kill him,” he said, not because he thought he could but because it felt good to let the rage out.

Tilrey lifted the half-finished breakfast tray and set it on the floor. Then he kissed Bror on the forehead, smoothing back his hair.

Bror was so on edge that he tensed before relaxing into the touch. “I can’t believe that fuck is a fucking Councillor now. What’s Verán thinking? Shit. Shit.”

“Shh.” Tilrey kissed him again, on the cheek. “Just now, when you said that, your eyes blazed like gas flames. I needed to touch you.”

“It’s okay to touch?” A tendril of relief poked through the hard soil of Bror’s anger. If Tilrey was taking the initiative, then it must be all right. Moving slowly and deliberately, he slung an arm around Tilrey to pull him close. “Too much?”

Tilrey shook his head, then rested it on Bror’s shoulder. “I’m so glad you’re here. I didn’t mean to upset you. I was only telling you because … well, Makari might be a problem.”

Bror tried to tamp his anger down, knowing Tilrey would feel it ripple through every muscle. “So you had to oblige that fuck last night?”

“Yeah. Gourmanian got involved.”

Bror listened as Tilrey recounted the threesome with Makari and Gourmanian, trying not to picture it all happening. He told himself he was proud of Tilrey for playing to Gourmanian’s kink and steering the encounter. But pride felt like the wrong emotion.

Tilrey should never have had to learn any of that. He should have been a University student, sitting and reading in the Library all day. He should have been back in Thurskein with his mother.

But then Bror would never have known him. And he hated imagining that, too.

When Tilrey described how Makari had accompanied him back to his room and threatened to expose his history to Verán, Bror’s whole body went rigid. “What the fuck? That asshole was the one who sold you to a Councillor. If you actually were a shirker, bringing you to Redda would be on him. It’s not like you tricked him into it.”

“He could lie and say I did.” Tilrey stroked Bror’s back, soothing him. “But would Verán even care? Malsha seemed to think the charge was trivial, and so did the interrogator in Int/Sec. Besha knows about it, too. Makari must have told him. Does it even matter?”

Bror wanted to reassure Tilrey, but he had to be honest. “Verán’s a control freak. He hates anyone springing a surprise on him, especially an inferior, so he’d be pissed at Makari, that’s for sure.”

Tilrey slid down until his head rested in Bror’s lap. “And he’d be pissed at me. As the reason for the surprise.”

“Yeah, he would. If I were Makari, though, I wouldn’t risk it—there’s nothing for him to gain.”

“It did feel like he was bluffing. He gets off on intimidating me.” But Tilrey didn’t look reassured. “I’ll just have to steer clear of him and hope he forgets about it. If I were with anybody but Verán, I would go to my Fir and confess everything right now. Malsha would’ve squashed Makari like a bug.”

Bror had to grin at the mental image. “Makari would’ve been a smear on the ground when Malsha got done with him. Certainly not a fucking Councillor.”

“Right. But he is a Councillor, and Verán doesn’t want to hear a word out of me that isn’t Yes, Fir. I can’t get anything without going through Vlastor. I can’t even ask about my mother’s letters!”

“Letters?” Bror wove his fingers through Tilrey’s hair, marveling at how some strands shone gold in the light.

Now that his anger was receding, he was annoyed at himself for losing control. He had one job right now: calming Tilrey. Distracting him from thoughts of last night. Making him okay. “Does your mom write a lot of letters to you?”

“She was writing about once a month, when I was with Malsha. He made me write back.” Tilrey’s cheek pressed against Bror’s tunic, his expression unreadable.

“That’s sweet.” Now that he knew more of Tilrey’s story, Bror hoped to everything green that Tilrey’s mother didn’t dare blame her son for what had happened to him.

“It was hard, though, because I never knew what to tell her—I couldn’t be honest. I kept wanting to just make a clean break. But since I’ve been with the Island, I haven’t gotten any more letters. And now I wonder: Is my mom still sending them? Where are they going?”

Tilrey spoke so casually that Bror was a little shocked. This seemed like an urgent matter, not something to “wonder” about. “She wouldn’t stop writing you, Rishka! What if she’s freaking out because there’s no word back?”

“Might be for the best.”

“No. Hell, no!” Here, at last, was a problem Bror might be able to solve. He lifted Tilrey’s head gently from his lap and swung his legs off the bed. “She has to know you’re okay. Verán can’t keep her letters from you. You have rights!”

Even as the words popped out, he realized how absurd they sounded after the events of last night. What rights did Tilrey have if he couldn’t say no to that?

Tilrey smiled sleepily at him. “Do I? I doubt Verán’s keeping her letters from me on purpose, but I’m not going to ask him for them.”

Bror knew it was impossible for a kettle boy to have a real conversation with Verán—not if he wanted to hold on to some shred of pride, which Tilrey clearly did.

He snagged the breakfast tray from the floor and went to the door, his heart thudding with the determination to right at least one injustice in Tilrey’s life. “Got an idea. Vlastor can talk to Verán’s secretary. Be right back.”

***

Tilrey didn’t have to wait long. A few minutes later, the door slid open and Vlastor stormed in. He had a stack of standard gray envelopes in one hand and Bror on his heels.

Tilrey flinched as Vlastor tossed the envelopes on his bed, scattering them. “Take them!” he told Tilrey, his handsome face livid. “You don’t deserve a mother like that. You never once asked me if she was still writing.”

“Whoa!” Bror grabbed Vlastor by the arm and yanked him away from the bed so effortlessly that Tilrey was awed. “Why are you blaming him? He didn’t even know!”

“Read them, and you’ll find out!” Vlastor looked truly upset, something Tilrey wasn’t sure he’d ever seen before. Over letters? He would have laughed if the thought of Vlastor reading his mother’s letters weren’t so tragic as well as absurd.

“I’m not going to read them, and you shouldn’t have, either.” Bror loomed over the driver, arms crossed. “In case you haven’t noticed, they’re addressed to Tilrey. When the secretary handed them over, I’m guessing she didn’t ask you to inspect them.”

“Int/Sec already inspects all correspondence sent from Thurskein,” Tilrey pointed out. He supposed he didn’t care that much about Vlastor reading the letters—nothing would change Vlastor’s attitude toward him—but he did enjoy seeing Bror dress the man down.

Petty. Mean. That’s what these emotions were. But they felt better than sinking back into the self-hatred of last night.

Vlastor was practically cowering. “When I got the first few letters, he wasn’t eating,” he explained, indicating Tilrey. “I wasn’t sure it was safe to give them to him, so I read just one. His mother can really write.” He spoke faster, words tripping over one another. “She’s a Skeinsha, but she uses words so beautifully, just like an Upstart, and she misses him so much. It was like watching a sobstream.”

Bror glowered at him. “And this excuses you how?”

“She said so many pretty things! About how much she loves him. She described all her memories of him. And then...” Vlastor’s mouth twisted. “Why don’t you tell your friend what you told your own mother, Nettsha?”

Tilrey was caught halfway between alarm and amusement. Apparently Vlastor had a sentimental side. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You said you never wanted to see her again!” Vlastor jabbed an accusing finger at Tilrey. “In your letters back, when you still even wrote letters, you talked about putting her in the past! She said so! What kind of son does that to his mother?”

Without giving Tilrey time to answer, he turned to Bror. “That’s why I kept the letters. I was waiting for Nettsha to ask, to show the slightest shred of interest in the woman who devoted her entire life to him. But no! Not a word!”

“I think this is all a misunderstanding.” Vlastor’s rant had shaken Tilrey, yet for the first time in a while, he felt oddly empty of fear and pain. Vlastor was angry at him as a person, someone who had failed to do his duty toward his mother. Not a toy for Upstarts to use, but a man with responsibilities.

“My mother thought Malsha was still reading her letters,” he explained. “If she said I rejected her, she was trying to make him feel guilty. But just in case, I’ll write back and set her mind at rest.”

“Which he would have done a year ago, if you hadn’t stolen and hoarded these!” Bror seized Vlastor’s elbow and steered him toward the door. “You do realize you’re in the wrong here? If your Fir wasn’t such an impervious ass, I’d tell him and get you fired.”

Vlastor didn’t protest. At the door, though, he turned and said to Tilrey, “You better write the sweetest letters I’ve ever read, or I won’t send them for you. Don’t act like you’re too good for your mom just because she’s a Skeinsha and you lost your accent.”

“They’ll be sweet,” Tilrey promised.

But Bror was already manhandling Vlastor out of the room. “You won’t be sending shit!” he declared, closing it. “I’ll bring Tilrey’s letters straight to the secretary.”

“Bror.” The whole argument, absurd as it was, had loosened the iron bands that had constricted Tilrey’s throat and chest all night. “It’s okay. No harm done.”

Bror returned to the bed, wiping his hands as if Vlastor had left a residue. “The nerve of that prick! He’s not a fucking Int/Sec censor. What right does he have?”

“He has to keep me alive and presentable and compliant. Not always easy.” Tilrey peeled back the coverlet and ushered Bror into his nest, scattering the letters further. “Then there’s the cognitive dissonance. Vlastor thinks he’s a good person. He has to lie to himself in this posting to keep believing that, and it’s stressful.”

“Oh, boo hoo! He doesn’t deserve your sympathy.” Bror crawled in beside Tilrey and hugged him so fiercely it hurt. “Was I wrong to blow up at him? I couldn’t help it.”

“I liked it,” Tilrey admitted as Bror released him. “Like I said before, your eyes flash when you’re angry. I like seeing you that way. You’re … entertaining.” And beautiful—but he’d feel self-conscious saying that.

For the past three years, Tilrey had worried that Bror might be embarrassed or repelled if Tilrey didn’t gloss over the worst parts of his past. Now he’d told some of the truth, and nothing terrible had happened. Seeing Bror react with anger had even been strangely satisfying.

Bror knew Tilrey was more than the helpless boy in Verán’s bed last night. He wanted Bror to keep on having complicated feelings about him. Affection, frustration, even confusion—anything but pity.

“Oh, I’m entertainment, huh?” Shaking his head with mock outrage, Bror gathered up the fallen letters into a neat bundle. “Listen, you will write back to her, right? I meant it about taking your letters straight to Verán’s secretary. I know her. She’ll send them.”

“I’ll write.” A familiar dread settled on Tilrey as he looked at the envelopes, with their bland official seals. Reading his mother’s words hurt him, and the love and reassurance in every letter actually made it worse. If she’d been cruel to him, he could have turned his back on her with fewer regrets.

When Bror tried to give him the bundle, he shook his head. Then, on impulse, he said, “Read me one.”

“Seriously?” Bror stared at him. “You want your privacy violated again?”

Tilrey wasn’t sure why he’d said it. Perhaps he was afraid to read the letters by himself. Perhaps he hoped it would be easier to absorb his mother’s news through the medium of Bror, strong and solid and ready to cushion others’ pain. “Please. Just pick one. It would help me start.”

“Okay, then.” Still looking dubious, Bror opened the top envelope. “Wow, she has nice penmanship. Vlastor was right about that. Dear Tilrey. It’s beginning to trouble me that I haven’t heard from you. Fernei says there was a governmental shake-up, but his sources tell him you are safe and well in a new situation. I pray his information is good.”

Bror looked up guiltily. “Sure you don’t want to read the rest yourself?”

Tilrey felt a flood of tenderness toward him. “No, this is good. Please go on.”

“Okay! It bothers me that I can’t imagine your daily life. In the last letter I received from you—three months ago now—you hinted that you preferred not to discuss details. But maybe there are a few things you could tell me? Do you still swim and ski? Do you walk outdoors? Do you have access to books? If you have friends, I’d love to hear about them. Any friend to you is a friend to me.”

Bror’s voice throbbed on the word friend. He glanced at Tilrey before continuing, “Now, let me tell you a little about your friend Dal. In my last letter, I wrote that I meant to invite her over for tea and a chat. It turned out better than either of us expected. She even complimented my chard fritters! I had memories of Dal as a rebellious child, someone I didn’t see as a fit companion for you. But she’s a grown woman now, as you’re a grown man. She no longer views me as an enemy, or vice versa. We talked about her sister’s marriage and her new job at the cargo port...”

It went on like that—ordinary, everyday details. By the time the letter ended, Tilrey could almost see Dal and his mother sitting at the tea table, laughing as they remembered how he and Dal had tried to make chard fritters when they were sixteen and produced a featureless green mush.

Tears were running down his cheeks, fueled by regret, affection, even laughter? He didn’t know. He didn’t wipe them away. “Can you read another?”

Bror reached toward Tilrey, but his hand stopped in midair. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah. If you just leave them here, I won’t … I won’t be able to.”

There were fourteen letters, one for each month, none longer than a page or two. Bror put them quickly in order, then read them all.

Bror’s voice faltered reading the passage Vlastor had mentioned, where Tilrey’s mother spoke of her son wanting to put her in the past. He looked worried whenever he paused to glance at Tilrey. But he didn’t stop until he was done.

Then he flicked something from his eye before stuffing the last letter back into its envelope. “I hate to say it, but Vlastor’s right about something else.”

Tilrey’s own tears had dried. “What?”

“Your mom isn’t judging you, Rishka. She’s holding herself back for the censors, because she can’t speak ill of an Upstart. But she’d burn the world down for you.”

Tilrey shook his head, wanting to believe it but not quite daring. “Mom’s always been on the straight and narrow. That’s why she wanted me to stay away from Dal.”

“And now she and rebellious Dal are buddies. What does that say? Trust me, if you’d told your mom everything you told me, she’d want to hurt everyone who hurt you just as much as I do.”  

That started the tears flowing again. Tilrey let them go. “Now do you see why I couldn’t read these letters by myself?”

Bror nodded, his face a rictus of pain. “If I disappeared, it would be a tragedy for my parents. But they still have my brothers, my sisters, my cousins. Grief is easier with company. Angelica—your mom—she doesn’t have anyone left, does she?”

“She has Dal.” Bror’s image was blurring.

Then Tilrey was in Bror’s arms, sobbing against the broad chest, his shoulders heaving. Bror’s hands were on his back, in his hair, stroking and patting him the way his mother used to do when he was very small and upset or frightened, just to remind him he wasn’t alone.

“Sweetheart. Rishka.” Bror rested his chin on the crown of Tilrey’s head. “I’m here. It’s okay.”

They stayed that way for a while. Then they crawled back under the comforter, with Bror’s arms still tight around Tilrey. Turning so they faced each other, Tilrey said, “I’m not sure how to write back, Brorsha. Malsha used to do it. I mean, he would dictate to me.”

Bror’s eyes widened. “That fucker.”

“It wasn’t that bad. He would make it sound like me. That part about how I needed to put Mom in the past? I did really say that, but not to her. To Malsha. He picked up on it and used it.”

“That’s fucked up—Malsha twisting your words, I mean. Not you.” Bror tweaked hair out of Tilrey’s eyes. “You were just trying to protect yourself from all the … feelings.”

Tilrey wasn’t afraid of feelings today. Here in bed with Bror, his body belonged to him again, and that was all that mattered.

“I think you should dictate my letter to me,” he said. “I’m used to that now.”

“You know I can’t do that!”

Bror looked so shocked that Tilrey was amused. Smiling to show he was teasing—sort of—he said, “Seriously, Brorsha. Mom wants to hear all about my friends. Tell me what I should write her about you.”

“Okay. Um. But you don’t have a pen or paper.”

“Doesn’t matter. Dictate for me right now.”

Bror finally smiled back, catching on. “You should write: ‘My best friend here is a lazy layabout named Bror Birun.’”

“You’re not lazy!”

“Shh, I’m writing this letter. ‘He’s six years older than me, and when I first met him, I thought he was a little thick, honestly. He sure isn’t a brain like you or me.’”

“I did not think that!”

Bror persisted: “‘And sometimes he can be an insensitive clod, like when he took me on what I thought was our first date and then tried to fix me up with a girl.’”

Tilrey’s face warmed as he remembered that awkward moment. “I knew it wasn’t a date.”

“I’m getting to the good part, okay?” Bror looked straight into Tilrey’s eyes. “‘But here’s the thing, Mom—I think my friend really cares about me. More than he’s ever cared for anybody else. So much it scares him, because he’s used to moving through life lightly, you know? Having fun, following his instincts, not hurting anybody but not making big sacrifices for anybody, either.’”

Tilrey wished he could hide his burning cheeks, but he couldn’t break the gaze.

“‘But with me it’s different. Last night I told my friend something that scared the shit out of him. Something that made him want to protect me. For the first time in his life, he considered risking his life for another person.’”

Tilrey blinked fresh tears away, remembering how Bror had proposed what amounted to treason. “I don’t need you to risk your life for me. Last night wasn’t that bad.”

Bror continued relentlessly: “‘But my friend showed me he was afraid for me, making it all about him, and he shouldn’t have done that. He was being selfish. He knows that now.’”

“Stop.”

“‘So, anyway, I forgive him.’” Bror kissed Tilrey playfully on the nose to lighten the moment. “‘He’s smoking hot, this friend of mine, and he says he loves every part of me. My smart, devious, dangerous mind and my ability to beat him in a swimming race and my loyalty and my sense of humor and my pretty blue eyes and even my fretting and worrying. He loves me, Mom.’”

Tilrey closed his eyes. His chest was so tight suddenly that he wanted to sob. But instead he cupped Bror’s face and kissed him, wet and passionate and deep.

His lips and throat were still tender from Makari’s hideous kiss, and from sucking off Ansha before that. But he shoved both men from his mind and focused on the sensations of Bror: the pulse in a temple, the flicker of an eyelid, the clean taste of toothpaste, the rich musk that belonged to Bror alone.

When they parted and held each other again, he said very softly, “I love you, too.”

***

They stayed in bed late into the day, just resting together. At one point, Bror got up to fetch some leftovers from the party, and Tilrey ate a good portion without being coaxed. Vlastor didn’t bug them—he’d learned his lesson, Bror hoped.

Sometimes they dozed in each other’s arms, and sometimes they talked. Bror made Tilrey learn the name of every member of his enormous family. Tilrey told Bror more about Dal and his other friend, Pers, and how they used to ski the mountains outside the city.

Bror left in the early evening, after Tilrey had dropped into a sound sleep. The next day, they would head south for the fall recess, and Bror wanted to make some preparations for that, too.

He stood over the bed, watching Tilrey’s chest rise and fall. Tilrey lay with one arm caught under him, one hand spread out on the pillow, lashes dark against the paler cheek.

You’ll be okay. You are okay, Bror thought firmly, trying to make it true. Then he switched off the light and went to find Vlastor.

The driver was out in the chilly garage, cleaning a set of drill bits. When he saw Bror, he dropped his work and backed away.

“Don’t lay into me again. You saw him—he didn’t even want the letters! I was just trying to spare the kid some pain.”

“You’re a fucking philanthropist.” The anger still smoldered inside Bror. He wished he could give Vlastor a knock or two, just to teach him not to mess with Tilrey. But his rational mind knew that the uptight prick thought he’d been doing the right thing. Hitting Vlastor would give the driver the moral high ground and get Bror into trouble. “Sometimes people need to face the things that hurt,” he said.

“Nettsha’s emotionally unstable,” Vlastor countered.

“Hmm, I wonder why?” Bror picked up a large screwdriver and smacked his palm with it, just to give his hands something to do. “It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with your Fir handing him around like he’s a tray of hors d’oeuvres, could it? How would you like that?”

“It’s his job.” But Vlastor looked unhappy. “And it’s just one night a year.”

“So far. Anyway, whatever, I know that wasn’t your idea. You just do what you’re told—mostly. Here’s the thing. We both know Fir Verán doesn’t like to have any trouble, especially from Drudges. He sure would be steamed if one of his trusted colleagues—like, say, Fir Lindahl—told him you weren’t treating the party’s jewel correctly.”

Vlastor looked incredulous. “Fir Lindahl wouldn’t give a shit about some letters.”

“Nope, he wouldn’t.” Bror didn’t have much experience delivering threats, but he’d seen his cousins do it as part of their trade in contraband. He smiled in a way he hoped was sinister. “But Lindahl would care if someone told him you were touching the boy in ways you weren’t supposed to. Copping a feel here and there. Verán would care, too.”

“I would never!” The driver’s eyes blazed. “If you told Lindahl that, he’d never believe you.”

“Maybe not, but my István would. And he’s sneaking back into Verán’s good graces.” Bror dropped the screwdriver and leaned casually on the hood of the car. “You’re just a tool to them. Easier to replace than I am, and a lot easier to replace than Tilrey.”

Something shifted in Vlastor’s face. “Fine. What do you want, asshole? It better be something I can give you without disobeying any orders from my actual Fir.”

“Oh, I think so.” Bror had to maneuver carefully, given what a suck-up Vlastor was. “First, I don’t want you telling anybody I’ve been spending private time with the party’s jewel. Not your Fir, not other Councillors, not even kettle boys like Ansha. Got it?”

“Have I ever said a word to anybody? You two can do what you want as long as you don’t upset the boy.”

“Don’t worry about that. Now, here’s the second thing. When we’re in the Southern Range, I want to spend a whole day with Tilrey.” Bror hadn’t thought this plan out much, but now he found himself pushing a little further. “A day and a night.”

Vlastor’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll have to check the schedule. The Fir has plans for him.”

“I’m sure.” Bror didn’t want to think about that. “But Verán will have family time, when he sticks his piece in a room and forgets about him. They always do that during the recess. Just get us twenty-four hours without your eagle eye. We can spend the night in Verán’s villa or wherever you want, but I don’t want you tattling.”

“I guess I can swing that. Not the villa, though—find somewhere outside. Come back well before morning. Don’t disrespect Fir Verán’s home, and bring his jewel back in one piece.”

Bror smiled jauntily. “Sounds like a plan.”

Vlastor didn’t return the smile. “You sure you know what you’re doing with that kid, Birun? He could hurt you.”

This was so unexpected that Bror couldn’t even laugh. “Him hurt me? I thought he was the one you were worried about.”

“I am—because it’s my job to keep him on an even keel. But the boy’s kind of fucked in the head, you know? What kind of person tells his own mother to get lost?”

Again Bror had to tamp down his rage. “There are reasons for that. Things you wouldn’t understand. If you had any idea what that shit Malsha did to him…”

But he had to stop there, not just because he couldn’t tell Tilrey’s secrets but because he himself still knew so little about what had gone on.

“I’m sure,” Vlastor said. “But however he got this way, he’s fucked in the head now. I’ve seen him lie in bed an entire day staring at the wall. Normal people don’t do that.”

“They do when they’ve been…” But again Bror couldn’t find the right words without committing betrayal.

“I’m just saying, watch yourself. You get attached to that kid, you could be playing with fire.”

“Glad to hear you’re so concerned.” Bror resisted the urge to ask Vlastor whether he was also concerned about every way Tilrey had been hurt last night, or whether he thought that was simply Tilrey’s lot in life. “We got a deal, then?”

Vlastor nodded. “It’s a deal.”

Chapter 43: Worried

Notes:

A short chapter to set up a longer chapter, I hope! Takes place the day after the previous one.

It's a busy month and I have some other deadlines, so I'm slowing down, but I will not abandon this story!!

The private plane reserved for the General Magistrate was packed with Veráns—the majority leader, his brother, his sons and their wives and small children. The adults knocked back tumblers of currant wine and sap-spiked tea, celebrating a rare vacation by getting tipsy or numb. The kids chased each other up and down the aisles.

Young Tollsha Linden and his mother and siblings were there, but to Tilrey’s relief, the GM himself was missing. He wasn’t feeling well enough to fly south for the recess, Tilrey gathered from stray talk.

In a second stroke of luck, Adelbert wasn’t on board, either. And Verán preferred to sit in the bosom of his family, so he sent his kettle boy to the back of the plane, away from Upstart eyes.

Tilrey was happy to have Vlastor as his only seatmate. After takeoff, he even dared to crack open a book. He and the driver had barely talked since the incident yesterday with Bror and the letters. Feeling Vlastor’s watchful eyes on him, he wondered idly if the man had decided he was a sociopath. He didn’t really give a fuck, but the memory of how Bror had defended him made pleasant heat rise to his cheeks.

He acted like I’m the man he loves. Like I’m… real.

The memory of yesterday would get Tilrey through the five days of the recess. It would blot out the memories of Election Night. It had to be enough.

About halfway through the flight, Vlastor left to use the restroom. A pocket of turbulence destabilized a middle-aged Upstart who was coming the opposite way. As she grabbed the back of the driver’s seat for support, laughing at her own clumsiness or drunkenness, her gaze caught Tilrey’s.

He lowered his eyes instantly. But the woman plopped down in Vlastor’s place, across from him. “Are you my husband’s new friend?”

Tilrey winced inwardly at the wording, but his impassive mask was in place. “I’m Fir Verán’s private secretary, Fir’n.”

“Right.” The woman laughed. She was considerably younger than Verán, with a densely freckled face, jaggedly cut short hair, and friendly eyes. Not what Tilrey had expected from Verán’s spouse—he’d pictured someone forbidding, like Malsha’s wife.

“Lindahl, Myrtilla,” she said, extending a hand. “I work in the Central Server Farm, so you wouldn’t know me.”

Tilrey returned the gesture, remembering how disdainfully Malsha’s wife had examined him. “They call me Nettsha.”

Myrtilla gave his hand a tiny squeeze before releasing it. “How old are you? You look like a Uni student.”

“Twenty-one, Fir’n.” Tilrey glanced warily at the group in the center of the aircraft, hoping Verán wouldn’t notice them talking. He was bound to disapprove. But Tilrey had to be polite, and what was the harm in a few words?

“Visha likes youth.” Myrtilla’s eyes kept running over him—was she lustful? Jealous? Regretful? He couldn’t tell. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.”

I’m not his boyfriend. I’m his currency. But Tilrey nodded. From what he’d seen, Programmers understood little about the cultish little world of Councillors and their hangers-on, even when they were married to it.

“You look so sad. A kid your age should be with his peers. Getting drunk for the recess, having fun, sleeping with the wrong people.” She reached over to flick a strand of hair out of Tilrey’s eyes, making him go still.

But she didn’t try to caress him, just withdrew. “I was twenty-five when he started courting me, Nettsha. Just a girl, barely out of school, and here was a Councillor of forty-three wanting to spend time with me. I thought his stiffness was attractive. Interesting. Funny.”

She meant Verán. Against his will, Tilrey tried to imagine ever having been attracted to the majority leader. He managed a nod.

“Bizarre, isn’t it?” Myrtilla’s laugh was throaty, ironic. “I thought I could loosen him up. Maybe I did, for a year or so. I was young and hopeful and intensely stupid.”

“I’m sure you weren’t, Fir’n.” His autopilot response.

“That’s kind of you to say. But no—I let my family badger me into a lifelong commitment when all my instincts were already making me cringe. I told myself we could lead separate lives. We do, mostly. But once you have children, the knot tightens.”

Why was she airing her marital discontents to him? What if someone overheard? Tilrey was reasonably sure the nearest passengers were out of earshot, but he stared at the seat back, trying to telegraph his indifference.

Myrtilla continued in a neutral tone, as if she were telling him the weather forecast: “For our sons’ sake, I tolerate their father’s company. But for the past thirty-odd years, even his most casual touches have made my stomach curdle. That is stupid, isn’t it?”

Tilrey couldn’t help glancing at her. He thought of Verán’s touch, of Verán’s violent, monotonous thrusting, and cringed inwardly, feeling an empathy he didn’t welcome.

Now he understood why she was telling him. She thought they had something in common, though they didn’t. Marrying Verán might be a choice she regretted, but it was a choice; Lindahls always had choices. When Verán asked her to come to bed—if he even bothered anymore—surely she could say no.

He couldn’t say that, but he did say softly, “Fir Councillor didn’t court me, Fir’n. He… inherited me. From the previous General Magistrate.”

“Oh, I see. I’m always confused about how those things work. These networks of favors, these exchanges—we don’t do that in the Server Farm.” An embarrassed laugh. “So it wasn’t what you wanted?”

The gentleness of the question caught Tilrey off guard. Myrtilla’s straightforwardness reminded him of his mother.

But he knew better than to answer honestly. This woman couldn’t help him any more than Vera or Adelbert could.

“I’m sure I’ll be better off in the end,” he said. It was a relief to look up and see Vlastor politely waiting in the aisle to reclaim his seat.

Myrtilla stood up. “I’ll stop bothering you.” Then she leaned down to his ear and whispered, “He doesn’t always treat boys well after he’s done with them. If he tries to post you to the Brothel, come to me. I have full access to the Employment servers.”

With that, she straightened, smiled at Vlastor, and left them, weaving a little, as if she wanted the driver to think she was tipsier than she was.

“What was that?” Vlastor asked, sitting down.

Tilrey gazed out his window into the darkness. “Fir’n Lindahl had a little too much currant wine.”

A few hours later, alone in the spare room of the villa, Tilrey listened to the laughter of the Veráns downstairs. For the first time in a long while, he thought about his future.

For the first two years in Redda, his path in life had been Malsha’s to decide, and the old man was clear about his plans. Since Malsha’s exile, Tilrey’s future had been an echoing void, an abyss he didn’t dare peer into. He kept his mind on tomorrow and the day after, the reassuring routine of every new ten-day. That was safest.

Sometimes a tendril of hope did break through the frozen soil of his expectations. Maybe Verán would get tired of him and simply let him go. Maybe he could still ask to return to Thurskein. Or for a menial posting, like Bror’s in the Restaurant—he could stand that. He might even enjoy it.

Tilrey understood Redda well enough now to know that a desk job in line with his E-Squared scores required the sponsorship of a high Upstart. That would probably mean belonging to another Upstart—which, even if he’d wanted it, would never happen without Verán’s approval.

But the Sanctioned Brothel? Even in his worst moments, he had never seriously imagined that fate for himself.

Imagine being confined to a room in that claustrophobic complex, like Matthias, and made to serve man after man, day after day, year after year, until he lost his looks. No—even after that, they would be able to use him. What did Upstarts call the Brothel whores who were only good for sucking cock? Mouths.

At forty or fifty, he might still be on his knees. And the Upstarts who fucked his mouth would tell each other stories about how once he’d been the Island Party’s jewel, the favorite of two General Magistrates, though you’d never know it to look at him now.

He wrapped himself tightly in the blankets, trying to shut out the mental images. It was all Myrtilla Lindahl’s fault. She had poisoned his mind. Surely, surely Verán wouldn’t simply dump the Island’s jewel in the Brothel when he was done.

Yet the more Tilrey thought about it, the more sense it made. Unlike Malsha, Verán valued him only for his looks. What did you do with a worn-out possession? You recycled it. In the Brothel, men who were less picky than Verán could still get some use out of a discarded fuck-piece.

On some level, he’d known it all along. It was why his future had become untouchable.

But now he had touched it, and maybe he could begin to make plans to change it.

I’ll die before I go to the Brothel. They can do anything else to me, but not that. With this idea fixed in his head, he rolled over and drifted into a dreamless sleep.

***

“Do you even feel anything?” Gourmanian complained. “You’re just lying there.”

Naked, slung over the Councillor’s knee, Tilrey waited for the next stinging blow. His ass throbbed from the spanking. He enjoyed the surge of adrenaline that came with the pain, but his cock was still soft, despite the pleasant friction of Gourmanian’s trousers.

“’M fine, Fir. Feels good,” he said in his most blasé tone.

After what had happened on Election Night, and the episode with Saldegren before it, he couldn’t help wanting to punish Garsha Gourmanian, just a little. The man had Tilrey’s body at his disposal. He didn’t get to dictate his mood, too.

“Don’t play with me!” Gourmanian yanked Tilrey upright by his hair, then shoved him off his lap. “I’m not interested in fucking inanimate objects. I need you present. Are you angry at me?” he added after a moment, eyes narrowing.

Of course I am. Tilrey stretched out on the bed. “No, Fir. Why would I be?”

“You are! You can’t hide things from me.” Gourmanian’s eyes widened. “It’s because I broke a promise to you, right? I confess, I just remembered. I said that when I saw you after Election Night, I’d get on my knees and suck your cock.”

Tilrey had forgotten, too. “You don’t need to do that, Fir.”

“Stop playing dumb. I hate that. Lie back, sweetheart.” Gourmanian tugged Tilrey into place, propping his head up with pillows. “Just close your eyes and enjoy.”

Sap-scented breath wafted in Tilrey’s face as a firm hand gripped his cock. “I know I said I’d kneel for you, but the floor is hard on my old knees. Will this do?”

“I forgot you even promised, Fir.”

Gourmanian’s hand was already pumping, sending blood flooding to Tilrey’s groin and waves of sensation breaking over him, so Tilrey stopped protesting. His body responded as it had been trained, without his consent or control. He closed his eyes.

When the man’s tongue licked down his length, he arched his back and writhed, but he didn’t make a sound. He remained quiet when the Councillor’s mouth closed around him, too. He hadn’t forgotten what Gourmanian had told Makari about his trembling sensitivity, and he didn’t feel like catering to the man’s kink just now.

It went on for a while. Gourmanian seemed eager to demonstrate his prowess at playing Tilrey’s role, though he never took Tilrey’s cock as deep as any decent whore would have done. Tilrey lay as still as he could manage, considering the heat and the desperate pressure in his groin.

Finally, Gourmanian’s mouth expelled him and came up to whisper in his ear, “Come for me, love.”

On the next stroke of the man’s hand, Tilrey’s body obeyed. But the climax was only a brief spasm that left him cold and sticky. The puddle of cum on his stomach made him itch with disgust.

If Gourmanian noticed, he didn’t seem to care, rolling over to snuggle into Tilrey’s armpit. “You’re delicious, in every sense. Do you know how rarely I suck cock? Only for you.”

The words sent a wave of repulsion over Tilrey, and it took all his effort not to stiffen in the Councillor’s arms. He must have given some sign, though, because Gourmanian jerked upright to stare down at him. “You are angry. What is it, my love? That awful Makari—did he upset you so badly? Were your memories of him that painful?”

It took an effort for Tilrey not to roll his eyes. You barged into that room with Makari just so you could watch me squirm under him. Fuck you.

Did Gourmanian think he would fall into the trap of wallowing in his own painful memories so the Councillor could get off on it? Again? Tilrey had known exactly what he was doing on Election Night. When he told Gourmanian what Makari had done to him, he’d been making the best of a bad situation: playing to the Councillor’s kink on purpose, while hoping to make Makari uncomfortable at the same time.

But if he admitted the whole thing had pissed him off, then he would be falling into Gourmanian’s trap again, putting himself in a position of weakness.

No. If a Councillor was actually willing to listen to him, he would make better use of the opening.

“I don’t care about Makari, Fir,” he said, allowing his face to fall into a pout. “I think you’re overdoing it a little, that’s all. You fawn over me now. But when Verán’s done with me, he’ll toss me in the Brothel like a used cum rag, and you won’t even blink.”

Gourmanian’s breath caught. “I would do no such thing. Why would you think that?”

Tilrey had to proceed carefully. Betraying the confidence of Verán’s wife could get him in real trouble, since Verán had no tolerance for Laborers who stirred up drama. “The other day in the Café, my friends were talking about what would happen after our patrons got tired of us. Bror and Lus said they’d get desk jobs in the Sector. And I realized… I don’t know.”

“Well, you don’t belong in the Brothel! Is that what they told you? Ansha’s jealous of you, you know.” The Councillor frowned, nudging a lock of hair off Tilrey’s brow. “Or did the driver say that? Or Bror?”

“No!” Tilrey sat up, batting the man’s hand away. “No one needed to spell it out for me, Fir. I’ve heard things about the other lads Fir Verán’s favored, and what happened to them when they got too old to amuse him. Why would I be different?”

Gourmanian looked pained, as if he’d heard things, too. “You’re a bright boy. I’m sure we can find a better place for you. Although, for the record,” he added in a patronizing tone, “the Brothel isn’t the hellhole you imagine. The staffers have a camaraderie that’s really touching. You’d make friends.”

Tilrey set his jaw. “So you do think I belong there?”

“I didn’t say that! Just that it wouldn’t be the end of the world.” Gourmanian sighed. “That’s not the life you want, though. I understand.”

“I don’t mind now, Fir.” Tilrey spoke through gritted teeth, knowing he had to pretend he didn’t hate being a kettle boy. “But to do this for years and years, until I’m used up? With all kinds of men? Is that really what you’d want for me?”

“No, I guess not.” The Councillor hunched his shoulders, acting the penitent. “Sweet love, I can’t control Verán. But I can request a favor. When he and the GM are done with you, I can ask him to give you to me—as a kettle boy or as my secretary or research assistant, if he prefers to take you out of circulation. Would that make you happy? To live with me, in the comfort you’re used to?”

Upstarts all seemed to assume Laborers’ priority was comfort—canopied beds and spacious sitting rooms and salmon dumplings and free-flowing sap. As if freedom never entered their heads.

I want to go home. But Tilrey knew from bitter experience that it wasn’t time to ask for that. Gourmanian would laugh and tousle his hair and say that beauty like his would be wasted in Thurskein.

No, he needed to bide his time. He would put in a few years living with Gourmanian—assuming Verán allowed it—and let the man grow tired of him. Finally, when Gourmanian’s eye started to wander, Tilrey would innocently suggest that his mother missed him and ask to return to his birthplace.

Did she miss him? Would she want him back? He couldn’t let himself think about that now.

“Would you really do that for me, Fir?” The question came out sounding more skeptical than he intended. “Would you really take me in?”

“Of course! Didn’t I just show you how much you mean to me?” Gourmanian threw his arms around Tilrey and gave him a long, humid kiss. When they parted, he rolled Tilrey over, whispering in his ear, “And now it’s my turn.”

***

“You need to try these. They’re so good.” Ansha pressed a freshly heated seaweed-and-rice ball to Tilrey’s lips. “Open up.”

Tilrey rolled his eyes but obeyed, chewing and swallowing. It was very salty. “Is that crab?”

“Yup! They brought all these apps frozen from the Restaurant.”

On the second full day of the recess, they were in the kitchen of Verán’s villa preparing for a soirée, filling trays with dumplings and rice balls and chard fritters and venison jerky and tiny pickled shrimp with green sauce. Tilrey didn’t like how close Ansha was standing to him, as if they were lovers making a meal together, but he didn’t move away. It wasn’t worth the trouble.

The soirée would be only Verán’s family and inner circle, at least. No crowd scenes or shows this time.

“Now this.” Ansha tried to feed him a tiny rusk adorned with pickled ginger.

Tilrey grabbed it from him. “I can feed myself, thanks.”

“I’m just playing!” Ansha dabbed Tilrey’s lips with a napkin. “You’ve got something right there.”

“Would you cut it out?”

Ansha’s expression darkened. “I bet you’d let Bror feed you.”

Be careful. Tilrey returned his attention to arranging the apps, keeping his expression blank. “Nope.”

“You sure?

Ansha couldn’t be allowed to know. He couldn’t be trusted. “I told you, I’m not naïve about Bror,” Tilrey said, pretending to focus on the task. “I flirt with him because it’s fun, the way you mess around with him in the Vacants. Means nothing.”

“I’ve seen how you look at him when you think nobody sees you.”

Shit. Was Tilrey being so obvious? But Ansha might just be trying to bait him. “I guess you’re the expert, then,” Tilrey said, affecting lightness. “Jealousy doesn’t look good on you. And,” he added as Ansha opened his mouth, “don’t say you’re just looking out for me.”

“Who do you think I’m jealous of, exactly?”

Me. Him. Us. But Tilrey knew Ansha would die before admitting he was jealous of anyone. “How’s Fir Lindahl?” he asked pointedly, eager to change the subject. He was done with pulling punches, being polite and submissive. Surely with his peers, at least, he could speak up for himself.

Ansha didn’t miss a beat. “Bored with me, like always. How’s Fir Makari?”

“Boring. Like all of them.”

Ansha placed rusks in a neat spiral. “I see somebody’s in a mood because of what happened a few nights ago. You know, sometimes life is what you make of it.”

“Meaning?”

“You’re not going to like my advice. You never do.”

Tilrey laughed harshly. “Let me guess. You’re going to say that if only I were nicer to Councillors, if only I buttered them up, they’d be nicer to me.”

“Am I wrong?”

Tilrey remembered what Myrtilla had said about Verán’s likely plans for him and Gourmanian had confirmed. Bile rose to his lips. But if he cited his future worries as the reason for his present mood, Ansha would tell him he was being ridiculous. Or worse, Ansha would try to convince him the Brothel wasn’t so bad.

Again he dodged the question and attacked from another direction. “Are you going to pretend if you were in my place, you would have turned that situation into an opportunity?”

“Election Night, you mean?” Ansha fiddled with a piece of pickled ginger. “Well, I would’ve tried. I wouldn’t have just lain there.”

For an instant, Tilrey twitched with the desire to pick up a tray and crack Ansha over the head.

The violent impulse evaporated quickly, leaving him queasy. But he could still use his words. “For fuck’s sake,” he said, “that’s bullshit, Ansha. I know you’re better at managing the Fira than I am. But don’t tell me you would’ve been happy to be in my place the other night.”

Ansha didn’t meet his eyes. “Did I ever say I wanted to be in your place? You’re the one who keeps calling me jealous.”

“That’s how you act.”

“Why’re you being such an asshole about that night?” Now Ansha turned to Tilrey, a plea on his face. “Putting us together wasn’t my idea. I tried to make it easier for you.”

He stroked Tilrey’s arm, gazing up at him with earnest brown eyes—an easy, familiar approach full of the intimacy they’d shared in Verán’s bed. “Have I ever made it hard for you?”

Tilrey stepped back, yanking his arm free. “You’re a saint, Ansha.”

The trays were full. It was time for them to set the table in the sitting room, and then to take their places on either side of Verán. “Who do you think he’s gonna have first tonight?” Tilrey asked, irritation making him callous. “You or me? Or will he put us together and make us entertain him again?”

His tone was hard, cynical, but Ansha didn’t respond in kind. Still looking at Tilrey, he said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t make everything so difficult. That’s all I’m saying. But…”

From the other room came the hiss of the outside door opening, followed by a burst of laughter and Upstart voices. “But what?” Tilrey asked.

Ansha sighed. Quietly, he said, “I don’t want to be you. You’re right about that.”

To Tilrey, the admission sounded strangely like a victory.

He drank too much sap that evening. He smiled and laughed uninhibitedly at Upstarts’ remarks without hearing a word. He allowed himself to be touched and admired. Before long, the party was a watery blur of faces and voices, and Tilrey rested his head on Verán’s shoulder and drifted into dimness.

When he opened his eyes, the room was quiet and empty of Upstarts. He was lying full-length on the sofa, his tunic loosened but still on. Vlastor was playing the servant again, piling plates and tumblers on a tray.

Tilrey forced himself upright with a grunt. “Time?”

“Late enough for the Fir and Ansha to be in bed. You can go to your own room, the Fir said to tell you. He’s done with you for the night.”

“Mmm.” Tilrey didn’t try to fake disappointment. “Hope they have fun.”

“They’re probably asleep. It’s after three.” Vlastor fixed him with a cold stare. “You let the Fir feed you almost two vials. Should’ve said no.”

Tilrey rose and stretched. His head was swimming, and he’d broken his promise to Bror to moderate his sap consumption, but the prospect of sleeping alone was worth it. “Why bother? He likes me passed out.”

He made his way to the stairwell, each step jolting him into dizziness. Behind him, Vlastor asked, “Do you even listen?”

Tilrey leaned on the wall for support. “Wha’d’you mean? Listen to who?”

“Them!” The driver had lowered his voice, his eyes darting around the room. “Tonight I heard two separate Councillors say it’s selfish and improper for Fir Verán to keep you to himself when you should be with the GM. And it’s not the first time. Even his closest allies think he’s overstepping.”

Tilrey sorted through his confused memories. He hadn’t heard anyone speak ill of Verán tonight. But months ago, when he’d asked Besha why Verán hadn’t made himself General Magistrate, Besha had said Verán’s elitism made him unpopular, even with his high-named allies.

It added up. “Verán doesn’t give a fuck about any of that, though,” Tilrey said. “Anyway, look at Fir Linden. He’s not fit to lead.”

“Doesn’t matter—he’s still the GM. Verán can hand you over to Linden any time he wants to shut up his critics and unify his party. You want that?”

A chill ran over Tilrey as the driver’s meaning penetrated his hangover. No, he didn’t want that. “If Verán cared about those naysayers, he’d have given me to Linden already.”

“He kept you for himself all this time because he wanted you.”

“Wanted me?” Tilrey laughed, even as the words sank in. “My mouth, maybe. You’ve heard the things he calls me. Overrated. Boring. He’s always liked Ansha best.”

Vlastor began gathering dirty dishes again. “I’m just giving you a heads-up, Nettsha, for your own sake. The Fir wanted you close to him ’cause you were new, ’cause you were Malsha’s, ’cause he wanted to show you off. But it’s been a year, and you’re not so new anymore. If you keep drowning yourself in sap, you might just wake up in Linden’s bed. And that didn’t go so well last time.”

***

Tilrey didn’t sleep so well after that. He finally dozed off an hour or so before dawn, only to wake to daylight and Vlastor standing over him and practically yelling, “Up!”

“Mmph.” Tilrey rubbed his eyes. “Thought the Fir was with his family today.”

“He is. Won’t be home till late, or not at all.” Vlastor was impeccably dressed as usual, looking so well rested that Tilrey wanted to hit him. A frown tugged at the corner of his mouth as he said, “Your friend Bror’s the one waiting for you, downstairs. Been there fifteen minutes already.”

That did the trick. Tilrey was out of bed instantly. “You’re letting him visit?” he asked, pushing past Vlastor on his way to the bathroom. Though he’d slept alone last night, he wanted to be extra clean for Bror.

“Not ‘visit’ this time. He’s taking you out somewhere—a surprise, he said.”

A surprise? “You’re letting him take me outside? Did you ask the Fir first?”

“No way, and this wasn’t my idea. Your friend plays hardball.” Vlastor crossed his arms, resentment narrowing his eyes. “He twisted my arm. I don’t like him, but maybe he’s right that I owe you one. Wasn’t fair for me to keep those letters from you.”

No, it wasn’t. But Tilrey wasn’t going to rub it in—not now, with the prospect of a day with Bror in front of him. “Tell him I’ll be there in a sec,” he said.

Soaping himself briskly in the shower, he pondered how on earth Bror had made Vlastor budge from his usual uptightness. Had he actually threatened Vlastor over the letters? The idea was both frightening and thrilling.

Following a hunch, he dressed in loose, athletic clothes, the way he had in the old days when he took walks outdoors with Malsha. In a flash, he was downstairs.

Bror sat on the sofa, scarfing up rice balls leftover from last night. Seeing Tilrey, he leapt to his feet.

Tilrey wanted to throw himself into Bror’s arms, but he froze, because Vlastor had followed him downstairs and was watching them.

Bror halted, too, and dropped the arms he’d stretched out. “Well, hello there, sleepy-head.”

“Nettsha over-indulged last night,” Vlastor said primly.

Tilrey edged toward the door, ashamed. “If I’d known you were coming, I would’ve been up long ago.”

“No worries!” Bror patted his shoulder, and Tilrey could feel him being careful to make the touch seem brotherly in front of Vlastor. “We’ve still got hours of daylight, and I got stuff planned. Let’s get outta here.”

 “Please.”

Vlastor watched them, his mouth set in a firm line. As Bror opened the door to the coldroom, he said, “The Fir might stay overnight at his wife’s place, or he might not. He didn’t ask for you tonight. But be here tomorrow when he wakes up, Nettsha, or it’ll be both our heads.”

“I’ll be here!” Tilrey was itching with eagerness to get outside into the autumn sunlight, feeble as it was.

“You better.” Vlastor grabbed Tilrey’s sleeve before he could follow Bror. He trawled him in and whispered in his ear, “And don’t forget what we talked about last night. If Verán stops wanting you, you’re gone.”

Chapter 44: Treated

Notes:

I've been struggling to find time to finish a monster chapter, so I decided to split it in two and just post what I have. Fair warning, it ends on a cliffhanger. The sexy kind, which does give me that all-important motivation to finish it.

“Where are we going?” Tilrey asked excitedly. They were climbing a long hill on the packed edge of one of the cross-country ski trails that looped through the resort. The snow sparkled below, and the sky was pure blue between two dark wings of great pines, the sun already slanting low at midday. Their brisk pace kept him from feeling the cold.

“You’ll see.” Bror handed him a thermos. “Drink some more tea. You feeling any better? We can rest if you want.”

“No, I’m good!” The tea was just barely spiked with brandy, and warmth spread through Tilrey’s limbs. The sunlight and exercise were already cutting into his sap grogginess.

A mile or so up, they paused to rest and take in the view. Rounded peaks on the horizon gleamed silver in the western light, so bright that Tilrey had to look away. Off to their right, lifts crisscrossed the sky, bearing skiers high above the trees to the rocky twin summits behind them.

Bror was breathing hard, his cheeks pink and his eyes reflecting the sky’s blue. “I’m not used to walking so far in the snow,” he admitted gruffly. “It’s slippery!”

Tilrey laughed and handed the flask back. “If you fall, I’ll catch you, city boy.”

“Bet you will.” Bror gave him a gentle punch on the arm. “You’re a ski demon, huh?”

“I’m okay.” Suddenly Tilrey wished Bror hadn’t read all those letters where his mother reminisced about his skiiing prowess. “But I can’t do that stuff anymore. Malsha only let me go on the easy slopes, and Verán won’t even let me near the resort.”

It was Vlastor who’d asked Verán about skiing, thinking Tilrey could use some exercise. The majority leader had shut that down decisively. “I might ‘damage’ myself, he says.” Like a fragile ornament, not to be broken.

Bror snorted. “Yeah, Vlastor warned me. Don’t worry, we’re not going on the downhill slopes. If I tried that, I’d break my neck.” His gaze followed the distant lifts with a touch of longing. “But I have a friend who grooms the trails, and he gave me another idea. More our speed. C’mon.”

As they followed the trail farther uphill, Bror slipped on a patch of ice and nearly went flying. Tilrey steadied him with an arm around his waist that brought them suddenly close.

He felt oddly shy, as if that day of just resting together in his bed had turned them into merely brotherly friends again. But he kept hold of Bror’s hand, their gloved fingers knitting together. “What did you say to Vlastor to make him let me come with you? He said you ‘played hardball’.”

Bror laughed. “I gave him a little lecture about his shenanigans with the letters. Said if I had to, I’d tell István he’d been touching you the wrong way, and then Verán would hear his driver was trying to take advantage of his kettle boy. Bet it’d work, too.”

“Vlastor doesn’t grope me, ever. He’s a professional.” Tilrey could imagine how Bror’s threat must have offended the driver.

“Good thing, too.” Bror squeezed his hand. “If he tried anything like that, I’d have him out of his posting in a hot second. He’s replaceable, you’re not.”

That’s not what Vlastor told me. But Tilrey didn’t want to discuss his fears about the future. He preferred to focus on the edge on Bror’s voice just now—the suggestion that Bror would hurt anyone who tried to hurt him. True or not, it set something aglow in his belly. “Tell me where we’re going!” he coaxed.

“And ruin the surprise?”

At the top of the hill, they passed a warming shed and headed down again. The trail narrowed and looped around stands of pine and the occasional craggy silver birch, the forest closing over their heads.

“It’s a glade,” Tilrey said, noting the wide tracks of alpine skis in the deep, powdery snow. “Stay on the trail, or you might end up sinking to your thighs. I wish we had snowshoes.”

“We’ll have something better—if I can find it!” Bror took a perilous step toward a clump of trees. “He said to look for three blue spruce with a hemlock thicket around them. Whatever that means.”

Tilrey had to smile at Bror’s lack of outdoor savvy. “Like that one?” he asked, pointing.

Sure enough, three tall spruce rose from a dark mess of shorter conifers. Bror stepped off-trail and instantly floundered with a cry of alarm.

“Let me.” Tilrey hauled Bror back onto the trail, again enjoying the excuse to touch him. Then he set off for the trees alone, walking lightly as he’d learned to do when he, Dal, and Pers had snuck away from their school group to hike the woods around Thurskein.

He thrashed into the thicket, needles slipping down his collar, and found a neat cache of cross-country ski gear: skis, boots, and poles for two and two hardy backpacks, each with a sleeping bag clipped on. One pack held two pairs of down-padded ski pants; the other, sealed containers of what looked like food and drink.

It was all packed so cunningly that Tilrey had to admire it. “Coming!” he called, yanking off his own boots to put on the new ones. The smaller pair fit him perfectly.

Back out of the thicket, he clipped on the skis and glided across the snow to Bror. “Are we going somewhere on these?”

“If you teach me to use them without falling on my ass, yeah.” Bror grimaced as they both remembered his earlier mishaps. “So, this trail goes to a very secluded cabin. My friend reserved it for us. We can spend the night there—if we can get there in the first place.”

“Of course we can get there.” Tilrey had missed skis more than he realized. He felt as if his feet had grown wings. “How far?”

“About eight miles.” Bror peered into the shadowy woods. “I’m used to snow being packed down and salted, y’know? Like in the city. Or just not walking on it at all.”

He looked so worried that Tilrey wanted to laugh or kiss him or both. Funny to think of someone as strong and resilient as Bror being intimidated by snow. “Eight miles is nothing!” He laid out Bror’s skis on the trail. “Once you get the hang of these, it’ll be easy. Promise.”

Bror was a good sport. After a bit of instruction, he trudged along the trail with a look of intense concentration, jabbing his poles into the deep snow on either side. Tilrey had given him the lighter backpack, but it still threatened to unbalance him.

When they reached a gentle downslope, Bror snowplowed to an awkward stop and clutched Tilrey for support. “I’ll break my neck!”

“No, you won’t!” Tilrey kissed him on the cheek, remembering how Bror’s unshakable calm and strength had gotten him through that first impossible day after Election Night. It felt strange to be the stronger one, even for a moment.

“Watch me,” he instructed. “Bend your knees, get your center of gravity low and glide. If you do fall, snow’s soft.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring!” But Bror watched intently as Tilrey soared down the slope. Then he pushed off and followed, flailing with his poles and crying, “I’m dyyying!”

He nearly did collapse at the bottom, but Tilrey caught him and held him upright, laughing. “That’s it! You did it! Just keep snowplowing and don’t try to show off.”

“I did do it, didn’t I?” Bror looked surprised.

After that, Bror gained confidence, his natural athleticism kicking in. The first time he hurtled down a real hill with his poles tucked behind him, imitating Tilrey, Tilrey was so proud he wanted to cheer. He refrained, because he could tell Bror was still embarrassed by his wobbling.

It was a good thing Bror made progress, because the trail twisted and turned devilishly across the mountainside. As the afternoon shadows lengthened, cloud cover blew in.

Snow stung Tilrey’s cheeks. He wasn’t bothered, because it was clearly just a squall, but foreboding grew in Bror’s eyes as a layer of ice crystals covered the trail.

“It’s okay! We should be close now.” Tilrey paused to give Bror time to catch his breath. “We’ll get there before dark. But you heard Vlastor—I need to be home by the time Verán’s awake tomorrow morning. Did your friend pack headlamps?”

“Hope so.” Bror leaned on his poles, looking spent. “We can walk back before sunrise. He said to leave the skis in the cabin and follow the trail downhill. It’ll be shorter than the way here.”

Tilrey couldn’t resist a little teasing. “I’ve never seen you sweat so much.”

“It works muscles I didn’t even know I had!” Bror protested, then caught sight of Tilrey’s grin. “Okay, so maybe I was expecting to catch on quicker. I’m usually good at this stuff.”

You’re human, too. That was no surprise, but Tilrey still found the situation oddly endearing. “Don’t you like it? The downhills, at least?”

“The downhills feel like flying,” Bror conceded. He dug his poles into the snow. “Race you on this one?”

Tilrey won that race and the next one, and Bror clearly didn’t mind. The competition made their adrenaline flow and time melt away. Before they knew it, they were bombing down a steep slope toward a black blotch on the snowy twilight.

The cabin. Tilrey got there first, carving out a long, graceful curve and coming to a neat stop. Bror followed, more chaotically. “We survived!” he proclaimed, as if he’d had doubts.

“We did.” The cabin’s windows were dark, but firewood was neatly stacked under the roof’s overhang. “Lucky we didn’t see anyone on the trails,” Tilrey said, unclipping his skis.

Removing the wings on his feet instantly dampened his mood. For the hour or so they’d been skiing, he’d been back in his childhood. It was easy to forget his conversations yesterday with Ansha and Vlastor, and with Gourmanian and Myrtilla Lindahl before that.

Now, clomping to the door in heavy ski boots, he wondered what would happen if an Islander spotted them out here. István didn’t seem to care what Bror did, but Verán had been so clear about not wanting Tilrey on the slopes. It was all well and fine for Linden to beat him black and blue, apparently, but he couldn’t be allowed to fall down.

He didn’t want to feel the queasy flush of anger right now, on his day off from all those worries, but he couldn’t seem to help himself.

“There’s a door code,” Bror said, struggling to extract himself from his own skis. “Five-four-one.”

Tilrey found the keypad and stepped closer to make out the digits. And then, wouldn’t you know it, there was ice on the stoop.

He was on his ass before he even felt himself slipping. Not a hard fall, he thought—until he hauled himself to his feet and clutched at the doorframe, rigid with pain. His right ankle could barely take his weight.

Bror had laughed at the pratfall, but he sobered up when he saw Tilrey tottering. “You okay?”

Tilrey hit the code, his jaw clenched. Shit. Shit. Shit. “Do I look okay? It’s a fucking sprain, maybe even a break.”

His own tone surprised him. Who was this person? He had been sullen and sulky with Bror before, but never like this.

Bror swooped in to open the door and walked Tilrey through it, strong arm around his waist to hold him upright. “Probably not a break, or you wouldn’t be standing.”

“Yeah, I hope you’re right.” Rage roiled inside Tilrey, hot and dizzying, as Bror guided him through the dim interior to a bed.

The last thing he wanted was to have a fit of temper on their special outing. But he was already imagining Verán’s reaction if he came limping back to the villa—or worse, had to be rescued by the ski patrol in a snow skimmer.

The old man’s eyebrows arching in horror. His mouth frozen in disgust. What in seven green hells was the party’s jewel doing outside? Verán would demand, spearing a cowering Vlastor with his gaze. Who’s responsible?

And then Tilrey would be locked up again when they weren’t using him, who knew for how long. They might send him to live with Linden. They might stop him from seeing Bror ever again.

This was what happened when you tested the boundaries. He should’ve known today was a mistake.

He lay back on the soft bedding and tried not to stiffen as Bror unlatched his ski boots and carefully probed his injured foot, testing the joints. “Ouch! I told you, it’s sprained!”

“Not sure about that, but it’s not broken.” Bror fumbled along the wall until he found a switch, which flooded the cabin with light. “We got power! How about heat? No, stay where you are!” he added as Tilrey tried to stand up again. “Elevate that ankle. I hope to everything green it’s just twisted, but we don’t want it swelling.”

Bror was taking charge again, as usual. Normally, Tilrey didn’t mind—liked it, even—but this time he couldn’t help noticing that it was Bror who had gotten them both into this risky situation in the first place.

“You think I can actually walk back on this?” He humped up a couple of pillows to support his injured foot.

“Absolutely.”

But there was a hair-line crack in Bror’s confidence. Tilrey could hear it, just as he could hear mounting frustration in his own voice. He didn’t want to spoil things, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. “I’m in the shit now, Brorsha, don’t you see? We should never have come out here. You didn’t even ask whether I wanted to, you just made a plan and sprung it on me!”

“It was a surprise, okay?” Bror had knelt to examine the iron stove against the opposite wall. “I wanted to surprise you.”

The tenderness in the words made Tilrey’s heart swell. But the rage wouldn’t subside, fueled by an icy fear at his core. If I test the boundaries, if I’m difficult, they’ll get tired of me. They’ll send me to the Brothel.

“Well, that’s sweet,” he said in a tone he’d never used on Bror before—the coldly mocking tone he’d used on Ansha yesterday. “I appreciate the thought. But maybe next time you could choose a surprise that isn’t going to leave us stranded miles from civilization in an emergency.”

Even as he spoke the words, he recoiled. “I’m sorry. It’s just … I’m scared.”

Bror came over and sat on the bed. He reached for Tilrey’s trembling hand and clasped it in his warmer, steadier ones. “I’m the one who should be sorry. You’re right—I didn’t think this out too well. But I wouldn’t call it an emergency yet. If your ankle was that bad, you’d be in too much pain to yell at me.”

“I wasn’t yelling!” Okay, so maybe he was yelling now, the tide of dread and irritation rising again. Didn’t Bror understand that Tilrey wasn’t free, not like Bror was? That he had to watch himself at all times?

Bror patted his hand and released it. “I’m gonna get firewood and ice for your ankle, and then I’ll make a fire, and we’ll eat. Okay?”

Part of Tilrey was grateful for Bror’s calm and patience, and part of him wasn’t sure he could stand it a second longer. He’d been so cruel, and Bror didn’t seem to feel it. Did he have no power to wound other people? Was he the only one who was going to be hurt, over and over?

He reached for a fresh grievance and found it, struggling not to sound like a petulant child. “You had no right to make a deal with Vlastor behind my back. Those letters were mine, not yours. When you make arrangements without consulting me, you’re treating me like they do. Like I’m a child or a thing, not a grown person.”

This attack, at last, found its mark. Bror stopped what he was doing.

“Would you cut it out?” His voice had an edge; Tilrey’s barb had hit home. “I get what you’re saying, but I was trying to do something nice for you. Okay, so maybe I fucked it up. But I’ll make things right—I promise, Rishka. If you can’t walk out of here tomorrow, I’ll say whatever I gotta to take the full blame.”

Stop it now, right now. Don’t hurt him! But the ice at Tilrey’s core refused to melt. It wasn’t Bror he wanted to lash with his anger, it was everyone else, but Bror was here.

“There’s nothing you could say to Verán,” he snapped. “He doesn’t care who’s to blame, he just doesn’t want trouble. And if I give him trouble, for any reason, he’ll lock me up. Or worse.” He remembered Vlastor’s warning. “He’ll unload me on Linden.”

“Maybe you’d be better off. Verán’s an asshole!”

Blood rushed to Tilrey’s face, making him feverish, and he had an absurd impulse to hit his friend. He can’t really think—

Then he remembered. Bror didn’t know about Linden. He hadn’t seen the bruises.

The realization was a cold gale sweeping over him, freezing his rage in its tracks. If he told Bror about Linden, it would be Election Night all over again. Bror would rage, Bror would vow to protect Tilrey, and then Tilrey would have to persuade Bror not to do something rash that could land him in an Int/Sec cell.

He couldn’t risk that. He had to learn to keep his darkest fears to himself—and his darkest experiences, if need be.

“It wouldn’t be better with Linden,” he said simply.

And then, flooded with contrition, he tried to apologize again: “I’m sorry, Brorsha. I wanted this, too. I was having so much fun until…”

“Let’s not jump to worst-case scenarios, okay?” Bror rose and stood silhouetted against the blue twilight in the doorway. “Back in a sec. You’ll feel better when you’re warm and fed, and we’ll work things out.”

If only I could believe you. But, as Tilrey stared up at the rough ceiling beams, he had to admit the throbbing in his ankle wasn’t as bad as before. Maybe Bror was right, and it was only twisted. One little thing had gone wrong on their special day, and he had overreacted like a spoiled child.

I’m not spoiled, though. I’m just … scared. Stressed. Or are those only excuses?

He didn’t like being alone with his thoughts. He was grateful when Bror returned, bearing an armful of wood and a handful of icicles from the eaves.

Bror fractured the icicles in a trice with his big hands, then wrapped the fragments in a pillowcase and swaddled Tilrey’s ankle with it. He propped Tilrey’s head up with pillows. “You just lie still, sweetheart. I’m gonna make us a fire.”

“That’s a woodstove, you know. Not gas.” Tilrey sounded sulky, even to himself. Verán was right: He was uncooperative. A brat.

“We used a wood-fired oven at the Restaurant to make flatbreads.” Bror was arranging the logs in the stove. “I got this, Tilrey. I’m not totally incompetent.”

“I never said you were.” But he’d insulted Bror several times today, intentionally. What the fuck was wrong with him? “I’m sorry,” he repeated as if the word might have the power to reverse time. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Everything was fine until now. I was getting my mind off … things. Everything was fine, and then I just ... I ruin things.”

Bror had set up a lean-to of kindling in the center of the stove, and now he bent and blew on it. Feeble yellow flames rose, licking at the twigs and curls of paper.

“People get pissed off, Tilrey,” he said. “Sometimes for no good reason. Even you.”

I shouldn’t be pissed off! Not at you, of all people! “Vlastor scared me,” Tilrey admitted. “He and Ansha, they said some things.”

“Vlastor and Ansha are idiots.” Bror blew on the flame again. As it surged higher, he straightened up and nudged the nearest log into position. “Don’t pay them any mind.”

“I have to, though.” I don’t want to go to Linden. I don’t want to go to the Brothel.

But no, he wasn’t going to put Bror in danger. That meant he had to have boundaries with Bror, too, subjects that were off-limits. “You’re right. Fuck them. You know, I think the ice is helping. My ankle barely hurts.”

“That’s the spirit!” Bror tugged the stove door closed and got up. “Let’s get you out of those ski pants and under the blankets.”

Tilrey was quite capable of undressing himself. But he didn’t mind letting Bror peel off the damp garment and tuck him in, careful to keep his foot elevated. The fire was raging now, flames dancing on the rough-hewn walls and filling the cabin with warmth.

Bror tugged off his own ski pants and outer layers, then unpacked the food. His friend had given them a more than respectable spread of cold rice balls, salmon dumplings, chard fritters, and caribou sausages, plus flasks of brandy and cider. After heating the latter in the coals, Bror combined the beverages into a steamy cordial that went straight to Tilrey’s head.

The outdoor exercise had left him hungrier than he could remember being in years. Bror clearly felt the same, and they gobbled everything in near silence, facing each other across the bed.

When they finished, Tilrey’s eyelids were heavy, his tipsiness shading into drowsiness. Bror cleaned up, then settled on the bed beside him.

Tilrey leaned into his friend’s body. Bror stiffened for an instant, as if still wary of Tilrey’s moods. Then he relaxed again, his arms winding around Tilrey as if to say, Forgiven and forgotten.

A little brandy made everything easier, Tilrey thought dreamily. Soon he was in Bror’s lap, nestling into him as if he were a well-stuffed armchair. “Mmm. You feel nice.”

“So do you.” Bror kissed him over his ear.

“You smell like the outdoors. Like … pine boughs and cold stone and woodsmoke.”

Bror laughed. “And flop sweat and brandy breath. I’ll set the alarm for early. If I have to, I’ll carry you all the way back to the villa.”

Tilrey doubted even Bror could manage that. But it was better to pretend he could. “Big strong man, picking me up like I weigh nothing.”

“Right?” Bror nuzzled him, cheek on Tilrey’s hair. He shifted his hips, and suddenly Tilrey was aware of a hard cock against his ass.

He pressed against it, rocking gently. Bror protested, “You need your sleep!”

“Who says?” Responsive blood was rushing to Tilrey’s own groin, jolting him wide awake. “What’s the point of being far away from everybody else if we just conk out and don’t do anything special?”

“We’ll spend the entire night together. That’s special.” But Bror’s hand was already creeping under the blankets, stroking Tilrey in a way that felt incredibly good.

Tilrey strained upward into the touch, twisting to kiss his friend on the lips. It started as a lazy, relaxed kiss, but then Bror’s arms tightened around him, his free hand coming up to knot itself in Tilrey’s hair.

He devoured Tilrey’s mouth, his tongue flicking and his whole body vibrating with a need that seized Tilrey at the same time: to be close, closer, closer.

Still pumping his hips, Tilrey squirmed until Bror’s rigid cock was right against his ass crack, and damn, that felt good. For the first time since Malsha had trained him, he experienced a flicker of actual desire to be penetrated there, to be spread open gently and then forcefully.

When Bror came up for air, his harsh breaths hot against Tilrey’s face, Tilrey whispered, “I want you to fuck me tonight. First time. Here.”

Bror gasped. His hips lurched, his cock straining against Tilrey’s thin leggings. “Shit.” He caught Tilrey’s bottom lip between his teeth and nipped it, hard. “Don’t tempt me.”

“I’m not tempting. I’m asking.” Tilrey nipped Bror right back, then bent to suck on the flesh of his friend’s throat, soft under the bristles of a day’s worth of growth. “Are you still angry at me? I did say I was sorry.”

“Stop saying you’re fucking sorry.” Bror spoke in a deep, commanding voice that went straight to Tilrey’s cock.

A second later, his embrace loosened, and his hand on Tilrey’s groin stilled. “What you said before about my deal with Vlastor? You’re right. I should’ve told you.”

Deal? Vlastor? Tilrey was too desperate for fulfillment to remember what they’d been talking about, let alone care.

Tonight was for something else. He yanked himself free of Bror’s grip and caught his friend firmly by the shoulders. Then he shoved him down on his back and straddled him.

Bror’s grunt of surprise only made Tilrey harder. Now he had complete freedom to crush Bror’s girth against his crack.

“Don’t try to change the subject.” He heard the growl of desire in his own voice. “I want it, and so do you.”

Bror’s laugh was strangled, his cock pulsing against Tilrey’s ass. “You’re supposed to keep your ankle elevated!”

If the ankle still hurt, Tilrey was beyond feeling it. He slipped his hands under the hems of Bror’s two heavy undershirts and rucked them up to expose his friend’s broad, nearly hairless chest. “Don’t just lie there, help me! I hope you brought lube.”

Chapter 45: Fulfilled

Notes:

I wanted to resolve the cliffhanger before I went on a trip, so I rushed this chapter a bit. Hopefully it doesn't read too badly! Thank you so much for reading. <33

“Tilrey.” Bror eased the leggings over Tilrey’s hips, down his thighs. “I think you’re trying to distract me from what we were talking about.”

“I’m not.” Tilrey had rolled face down on the bed, the heat of the glowing stove washing across his bare skin.

He had stripped to the waist a moment ago, while Bror fetched the lube. Now, with another tug or two from Bror, his briefs came off along with the leggings.

It felt good to let Bror unveil his nakedness. Propped on his elbows, Tilrey arched his back and offered his ass in a single leisurely motion, trusting Bror to know exactly what to do.

I want to feel it, though. It was easy to offer himself; he did that all the time. He was rewarded for doing it and for pretending to like it. At this point, it was an effort not to let his body run on autopilot while his mind went elsewhere. Sex was a way to end arguments, to defuse tension, to keep himself safe. A tool. Could he ever go back to the time when it had been something else—terrifying, dizzying joy?

He tried to remember how it had felt with Dal. They’d spent half their time just finding places to kiss and grope where they wouldn’t be discovered. He’d only been inside her twice, and it had been over so quickly. He was embarrassed because he knew it was supposed to last longer. Had he ever even thought of asking her to penetrate him with a finger? He didn’t think so.

Bror stroked the swell of Tilrey’s ass, gave it a light squeeze, and then continued up his back, tracing his contours. The touch was gentle and agonizingly slow, and it made Tilrey shiver.

“Let’s pretend it’s my first time,” he whispered.

Bror caressed Tilrey’s right shoulder blade, then his left, and kneaded them with the heels of his hands as if he were giving Tilrey a massage. He raked fingers through Tilrey’s hair, kissed the nape of his neck, and then stroked methodically down his back again. His fingertips felt broad and slightly calloused—rougher than Tilrey’s. “I don’t want a virgin, Rishka. I want you now, exactly the way you are.”

“But what if I could be fresh for you? All over again?” The slang term tasted bitter in Tilrey’s mouth. Makari had asked him if he was fresh when they met in the cell in Thurskein.

“Why would you want that?”

“I didn’t have a good first time,” Tilrey admitted, leaning into Bror’s touch. “Fir Jena gave me too much sap. I woke up and it was over.”

“You weren’t even awake?” Bror’s hand spread out on Tilrey’s ass, cupping it protectively. “That fucking prick.”

Tilrey didn’t miss the note of pain in his friend’s voice. Maybe he shouldn’t confess these things. It put pressure on Bror to produce an appropriate response—to show he cared, even if he couldn’t undo any of it.

“It was fine. I was fine,” he said hastily, keeping to himself that he hadn’t felt fine at the time, and things had gotten worse the second time, when he was awake. “That’s why I want to be fresh for you, though. To have a second first time, a better one. Are you gonna use that lube?”

Again Bror gave Tilrey’s ass-cheek the gentlest of squeezes. “We’ve got plenty of time, but yeah, okay.”

The lube was still cold from the outdoors. The first poke of Bror’s slick finger made Tilrey’s whole body stiffen.

Don’t think about Verán. Don’t think about Gourmanian. Don’t float away. He rested his cheek on his crossed arms and willed himself to breathe regularly, in, hold, out. “Keep going. I’ll warm it up. What was your first time like?”

“My first time having sex at all? Or a cock inside me?” Bror was rubbing around the sensitive rim of Tilrey’s passage, not trying to penetrate him yet.

“Either. Both.”

“That could fill a history book. I did things with a lot of boys and girls at school. Was a big ol’ slut.” Bror’s free hand groped under Tilrey’s body to pump his half-hard cock. “Are you shocked?”

“No!” Tilrey eased weight onto his knees, making room for Bror’s hand. He rocked his hips, thrusting into the firm grip, as he imagined his friend entangled with all sorts of schoolmates. Bror was generous with his body and his talents—so different from Tilrey, who had always been mindful of boundaries. But different in a way that made Tilrey harder.

Bror continued rubbing with one hand and pumping with the other. “The first guy who fucked me was the under-chef at the Restaurant. He was older, hot in a scruffy way. He’d insult me every time I set foot in his kitchen, and I’d insult him right back. One day the shit-talking got us hot and bothered. We fucked in the storeroom, me on a bag of flour. He made it good for me. But once he’d had me, he wouldn’t even look at me.”

Tilrey couldn’t imagine anyone treating Bror that way. “What an asshole!”

“Oh, he was. But he made the best fish broth in the city.”

“Mmmm.” Tilrey forgot what he’d been about to say as a blunt-tipped finger pressed inside him. He lay absolutely still, relaxing the muscles to make it easier.

He could feel his body’s well-oiled reflexes coming online: Lie still. Breathe. Open. Breathe. Push out. Breathe. You don’t have to feel anything—

No! This couldn’t be like every other time. With Bror, he wanted to feel it. Each moment should mean something.

Bror’s free hand was playing with Tilrey’s balls, palming them as if to weigh them. Tilrey’s breath caught, and he squirmed helplessly even as he forced himself to say in an almost-normal tone, “Was your first time your best time?”

Bror laughed. “Green hells, no.”

Had Bror been fucked that many times? By different men? Tilrey wouldn’t normally have allowed himself to feel jealous. But right now the zing of irritation only intensified the arousal pulsing from his ass to his groin and back. “I thought you were usually on top. With Upstarts, I mean.”

Bror’s index finger probed deeper. “I am. My best times being fucked weren’t with Strutters.”

“Who, then?” Tilrey wouldn’t normally have pried this way. But talking about Bror being fucked, about Bror enjoying being fucked, made it easier for him to stay here with Bror, focusing on the sweet ache as Bror’s finger ventured deeper inside him.

The warmth, the sense of fullness, like a glowing light getting closer and brighter. If Bror liked this, then surely Tilrey could, too. Why not?

So many men described fucking as a punishment, though. Beg me not to do it to you. Ask me to be gentle. Was it any wonder that Tilrey usually preferred to let his mind float elsewhere? Why should he give them the satisfaction of thinking they’d possessed him, body and soul?

He could think of only three Councillors who had ever really cared about giving him pleasure. Saldegren, who seemed to think an orgasm could solve everything; and Malsha and Gourmanian, who yearned to see him squirm with pain as well as ecstasy.

He was doing it again—letting his mind wander. He needed to anchor himself to this bed and these sensations, to stay in the moment and feel.

He instinctively reached for the most irritating subject he knew. “Has Ansha ever fucked you? Is he good?”

Bror was moving his finger in small circles, pushing deeper each time. “Ansha? Nah, I’m not into that with him. My best fuck is Franck—István’s driver. I ask him to do me sometimes when the Fir isn’t around.”

“You do?” The thought of Bror asking to be fucked, offering himself to some rough driver the way Tilrey was offering himself to Bror now, made Tilrey’s cock surge. Bror’s hand had withdrawn, and he fought an urge to rub himself wildly against the bedclothes. “So it’s good with this Franck? Good how?”

“You’re not gonna be jealous, are you?” The tip of Bror’s middle finger pressed inside Tilrey now, too. “Franck’s okay looking. Clean-cut, nothing special. What I like is how he talks when he’s inside me. He never shuts up, which normally would be a pain in the ass, but his voice is nice. Soothing. And he doesn’t try to talk dirty. He goes through a blow-by-blow of the repairs he’s planning to do on the Fir’s car.”

Tilrey had to laugh. “That turns you on?”

“Hell, yeah.” Bror patted his ass. “Don’t judge, okay? Something about the combination of a lecture on changing a magnetic belt and his cock plowing me. It’s damn good.”

Tilrey pondered this. Would he forget all about floating away if Bror delivered a monologue on car maintenance or something equally mind-numbing?

He didn’t think so. He knew suddenly that he needed a more intense form of stimulation: the goad of mental or physical pain.

You’re so beautifully responsive, he could almost hear Malsha saying. There’s nothing better than balancing on the razor’s edge between pain and pleasure. Nothing simpler than that could ever satisfy you, Rishka.

Normally Tilrey would have pushed these feelings away angrily. He didn’t want Malsha to be right. But Bror’s confession had made him less self-judgmental. Maybe his taste for pain and humiliation had started as just something Malsha and Gourmanian wanted to believe, or maybe they’d woken something latent in him. But either way, he knew he wanted those wilder sensations. They were what anchored him.

He didn’t want to enjoy them as himself, though—he wasn’t ready for that. He wanted to experience them as someone else, someone it was safe to hurt.

He shifted, trying to take more of the two fingers that were impaling and widening him. Bror had found the right spot, and Tilrey closed his eyes to savor the tingling wave of arousal.

When he opened them again, he said, “Pretend I’m Ansha.”

Bror stopped moving. “What? Why?”

“Fuck me like you’d fuck him,” Tilrey insisted.

Bror looked downright shocked. “I only did that twice. Because he asked me to.”

“Please don’t stop! Just tell me how it felt with him. I want to know.” Tilrey reared up, still trying to take more of Bror’s fingers. “It’s not a jealousy thing, promise. It turns me on.”

Bror began moving again, his fingers circling and probing and then carefully thrusting, preparing Tilrey to receive him. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, because you already don’t like Ansha. But it wasn’t great. The whole time, he was asking me to critique him. What did I like? What should he do different? It wasn’t white noise, either, like with Franck. He expected answers, which was distracting.”

“I can be distracting.”

“You’re distracting in a whole nother way.” Bror gave some attention to Tilrey’s cock again. “Not to say Ansha’s a bad lay. He’s got this way of slithering up and down me, poking and teasing—it gets me going.”

“He slithers on me, too,” Tilrey said, “when he wants to put on a show for Verán.”

“It works. But the insecurity? Not hot at all. Not to me, anyway.” Bror released Tilrey’s cock, popped his fingers out of the slick passage, and rocked back on his haunches to give some attention to his own jutting, engorged organ. “Why does it turn you on to talk about Ansha? You don’t wish he was here, do you?”

“No! I want you, no one else.” How could Tilrey explain? “But I’m insecure, Bror. I’m more like Ansha than you think.” I’m bad. I like bad things, when I like anything at all.

“Oh, sweetie. You’re not.” Bror’s breath caught, and he paused to ruffle Tilrey’s hair. “Ansha was thinking about Strutters the whole time he was with me. What would Lindahl think? What would Verán think? Was he sexy enough for them? Fucking maddening.”

That’s my problem, too. Malsha, Verán, Gourmanian—they’re inside my head. But Tilrey couldn’t admit it. If Bror thought that not being able to stop being a kettle boy was a weakness, then he would pretend he could stop any time he wanted.

“Pretend I’m Ansha,” he said stubbornly, as Bror eased him upright and wedged their spare bedroll under his hips. “I’m being annoying right now—so annoying you have to fuck me quiet. You have to fuck me so hard my brain stops working and I shut up.”

“Mmm-kay.” There was a slight growl in Bror’s voice as he stroked Tilrey from ass to nape again. “That I can do. But you’re not Ansha. You’re you.”

“I’d rather be him. You’ll be too careful with me.” Tilrey spread his thighs of his own accord—ass in the air, ready to be ravaged. He was so used to feeling nothing in this position that the sharp edge of arousal came as a surprise.

“I guess you and Ansha do have something in common.” Bror bent and mouthed Tilrey’s nape, sucking hard at the loose skin. “Obsession. With each other.”

“It’s not like that! I just mean … don’t be careful. Please.” Heat was spreading over Tilrey’s skin, radiating outward from his throbbing cock.

He humped the bedroll shamelessly, until Bror chuckled and took his cock in hand again. “Nah. After all this build-up? I’m not gonna be careful.”

His voice was rough, breathless. A shiver of pleasure ran over Tilrey as he rocked his hips faster, secure in Bror’s grip. “Oh yeah? Show me.”

After that, there were fewer words.

Tilrey held his breath as Bror mounted him, his weight pinning Tilrey to the bed. When he felt the first jab of a heavy cock against his crack, he came alive again, writhing with desperate eagerness.

Bror planted himself on his knees, straddling Tilrey, and lined himself up. “You better be ready for this.”

“Oh, I’m ready.”

Tilrey already knew that Bror was larger than Verán, larger than Ansha, larger than anyone he had taken except possibly Krisha and one of the soldiers. (Don’t think about them now.) He knew it would hurt.

But he hadn’t quite been prepared. When Bror’s cockhead breached him, he closed his eyes tight on stinging tears. He breathed through the discomfort, though, determined to stay here and not float away.

The first sharp pang dulled to an ache as Bror thrust deeper into the passage he had so carefully prepared. And the ache dispersed into a warm cloud of need. Tilrey desperately wanted more of that pressure—even as Bror pulled out again, making him wince from the friction.

“More,” he whispered hoarsely, arching his back.

Bror’s early thrusts were shallow and punishing at once, his grunting breaths loud in Tilrey’s ears. Each one filled Tilrey deeper, and he felt it all so intensely that he almost could have sworn this was his first time. With Malsha, Saldegren, Gourmanian, he had felt something—but never this.

When Bror slid home at last, Tilrey felt the spongy weight and tickle of his friend’s scrotum against his crack. A wild spasm seized him. His whole body throbbed, from the soles of his feet to the roots of his hair.

“Take me. Have me. Make me yours,” he begged softly. All things he had said before without meaning them.

Bror groaned as he reached down to tend to Tilrey’s cock. “Better believe it. Don’ know how long I can hold out, Rishka.”

Then he was moving again—furiously, with one hand still pinned under Tilrey. The other hand buried itself in Tilrey’s hair, jamming his face into the sleeping bag, as Bror’s hips rocked and his cock thrust home and emerged, over and over.

Tilrey was used to this, too—being shoved down, half suffocated by a man rutting on top of him. With Upstarts, it was his least favorite part.

For an instant, he almost couldn’t stand it. Almost floated free. But then Bror’s grip on his head loosened a little, allowing Tilrey to turn sideways and breathe through his nose. Now he could push back a little, rocking upward to meet each thrust.

They were like two parts of a perfect machine, moving in concert with a strength and grace they could never have apart. The hot glow of pleasure spread between them, coating their limbs with a thin film of sweat, defying the frozen taiga outside.

A log cracked in the stove. Flames danced on the rough-hewn walls. Tilrey was teetering on the edge, and he knew Bror was close, too, by his ragged breathing as he pulled out again.

“Tell me I’m yours,” Tilrey ordered.

He wanted to feel Bror inside him forever—hours, days, ten-days, months, years after this moment. No matter what happened now, no matter how many other men had him, it was Bror he belonged to, Bror whose cock had shaped him into who he was.

Bror gasped and mouthed Tilrey’s shoulder, grazing it with his teeth. “Mine. Always. And I’m yours. This next one, you come for me, okay?”

Tilrey didn’t want it ever to end. But even his well-trained body had limits. “Yeah,” he breathed. “Please.”

As Bror’s cock plowed him again, the powerful body bearing down on him, his own seed spilled over Bror’s hand. Fulfillment flooded Tilrey’s senses with all the colors of a dream—blue sky, green grass, sunlight sparking gold and amethyst on the snow. As he felt the hot flood of Bror’s own climax inside him, he knew nothing would ever be the same after this.

He was Bror’s, and Bror was his. And he would keep Bror safe, whatever it took.

***

They dozed in the firelight, on top of the sleeping bag, body heat keeping them warm. Bror lay with his nose buried in Tilrey’s hair. He knew he should rise and find something to clean them both up with, but he couldn’t move.

He’d had plenty of good fucks, but he didn’t think he’d ever come like that before. All those months of holding back had made him desperate to spend himself inside Tilrey. His nerves had been raw, his usual self-control MIA. Considering the circumstances, he was proud of himself for lasting as long as he had.

Tilrey stirred against him, turning to kiss his cheek. “Hold me.”

Bror’s arms were already wrapped around the slighter form, but he tightened his grip. “Why’d we wait so long to do this?”

“Dunno.”

Bror nipped Tilrey’s shoulder. “Next time, I want you inside me.”

A soft laugh. “Don’t you want to do this again?”

“Hells, yeah. That, too.”

Bror barely remembered his mood of an hour or so ago. Already it was like a distant dream. He could admit to himself now that he’d been really pissed at Tilrey earlier, probably because Tilrey was right. Bror shouldn’t have planned this outing on his own. The deal he had struck with Vlastor might rebound on Tilrey, who had to deal with the driver every day.

Bror had been acting like an older brother again. He should know he couldn’t protect Tilrey—Election Night had made that painfully clear.

And he shouldn’t be springing surprises on Tilrey, even if they were good surprises. Even if he wanted nothing more right now than to take Tilrey away from the Island Party and shack up with him somewhere safe and warm and give him the life he deserved.

I want to. I can’t.

Most of his life, Bror had barely felt the limitations of being a Laborer. He had no interest in sitting at a desk like Upstarts. His life suited him fine.

But Tilrey’s life didn’t suit Tilrey. And when Bror tried to make him happy, he bumped up against invisible prison walls that he’d never been aware of before.

As the fire burned slowly to embers, chills moved over Bror’s skin. He hadn’t even undressed properly; his undershirts were still on, his trousers around his ankles. He should get up, fix that, and pull the sleeping bag over them both. But he couldn’t seem to release Tilrey from his grip.

Funny how Tilrey kept harping on Ansha. Upstarts had fucked that kid in the head, too, and Bror had been too self-centered to see it. Or maybe he’d been so busy protecting Tilrey from Ansha that he hadn’t noticed until now what they had in common.

One night about five months after Tilrey arrived in Redda, Ansha and Bror had gotten it on in the Vacants. Resting in Bror’s arms afterward, Ansha had said, “You fuck me, but you want him. I know it.”

“What? Who are you talking about?” Bror really didn’t know who Ansha meant—or thought he didn’t, anyway.

Ansha said, “Him. Our precious little golden-haired boy. You know what Fir Verán said to me, yesterday in the Lounge? He was bitching because he’d never have a crack at Malsha’s new boy. When I told him I’d make up for it, he just stared at me like I was an insect. He said, ‘That boy is objectively superior to you.’”

Objectively superior. To Bror, it was just one of the dumb things Strutters said. But the words must have burned themselves into Ansha’s brain, because every now and then, he repeated them—sarcastically, with an eye roll to hide the obvious hurt. Even now, years later, when Verán treated Tilrey like a broken toy he barely valued, Ansha couldn’t seem to forget the insult.

Until tonight, Bror had thought Ansha was just a brownnoser. Now, clutching Tilrey in his arms and feeling an urgent and futile need to protect this boy, he understood them both a little better.

Whether they called you inferior or superior, Strutters found ways to fuck you up. They had convinced Ansha that Tilrey was his enemy, when his enemy was actually the shitty, dead-end life in Ring Eight that had driven him to embrace the somewhat less shitty life of a kettle boy. His enemy was the world Strutters had made.

Nuzzling Tilrey’s throat, Bror found himself thinking strange, subversive thoughts—things he didn’t dare voice aloud. You’re not like Ansha because they’ll never break you. I won’t let them.

Tilrey stirred against him. “Um. My arm’s falling asleep, and I have to piss.”

Bror kissed his forehead and sat up, releasing him to do the same. “How does your ankle feel?”

“Better!” Tilrey planted his feet on the floor and stood up, wincing. “Ow. Except now I hurt in other places.”

“No kidding.” Unrepentant, Bror kicked off his trousers and went to cradle Tilrey from behind, just in case he stumbled. “I love you,” he whispered in Tilrey’s ear. “Think you can step outside in the snow by yourself?”

Tilrey tested his ankle, putting his full weight on it. “You were right before. It’s only twisted. I shouldn’t have made such a damn fuss.”

“I forgive you.” There was a lump in Bror’s throat, because Election Night wasn’t even a ten-day behind them. Of course Tilrey wanted to stay on Verán’s good side. Of course he worried about taking risks.

Bror wanted to promise him there was no reason to worry. Couldn’t.

To cover up his feelings, he gave Tilrey a playful swat on the ass. “So go on out and piss. Then I’ll warm you up again, and we’ll sneak back to the villas before dawn. Not just yet, though. I said I wanted to sleep a whole night with you in my arms, and that’s what I plan to do.”

***

The end of the night came far too soon. The October sky was still dark, the stars blazing, as they tugged on their warm clothes, scraped the stove ashes into a bin, and piled the ski equipment neatly in the cabin for Bror’s friend to retrieve later.

Tilrey had barely slept. His nerves still tingled with the giddiness of Bror’s closeness. As he trudged through the necessary tasks, he yearned to run to his friend and touch him, kiss him, hold him, never let him go.

Strange that the same act he’d performed with so many other men—endured it, really—had never transformed him until now.

As they walked away from the cabin, snow crunching under their boots, Tilrey paused and turned around for one last look. “This was our place,” he said.

Bror looped an arm through his and tugged him close. “Maybe we can come back here sometime. And we’ll still have the Vacants.”

“Yeah.” Tilrey melted against Bror, relishing his woodsmoke musk, the vibration of his voice, the solidity of his arms. He wanted to believe they had many more nights like this ahead of them, but it didn’t feel safe to count on anything.

We had tonight. That was what mattered—and making sure Bror had a long, happy life ahead of him.

“This was fun and all, but I can’t wait to get under a hot shower,” Bror admitted as they headed down the trail. Tilrey could feel his eagerness, the simple pleasure he would take in being warm and clean. That was part of Bror, too: his beautiful straightforwardness. His brain would never be like Tilrey’s, gnarled and self-hating.

As they walked, Tilrey found himself imagining the life Bror would probably have someday if nothing interfered. He would make a home with his Ring Six sweetheart, Mirella, and raise a passel of kids, all clamoring for his generous attention.

The daydream gave Tilrey no jealousy, only a bittersweet relief. It was as if he and Bror were now so close that any happiness Bror experienced, Tilrey would experience, too.

Whatever happens to me, he’ll be safe. I swear it.

***

Ansha couldn’t sleep. Naked, he sat in the windowseat with his knees drawn up, holding back the edge of the blind to watch the stars dim and the sky slowly lighten.

His ass and his throat both felt raw, he tasted cum, and he was sick of Upstarts. He was happy to give them whatever they wanted, of course he was, but sometimes they were just so fucking demanding.

Verán was easy as long as you praised his cocksmanship. But Besha wanted something Ansha couldn’t give him. He’d spent half the night talking about Ansha’s least favorite subject, while Ansha nodded and smiled and pretended not to mind.

Someone was taking a predawn stroll on the trail that connected the villas to the resort. Two tall men dressed in athletic gear, arm in arm like lovers. How sweet, Ansha thought acidly, watching them. He couldn’t tell from the clothes if they were Upstarts or Laborers.

Do you like fucking the Party’s Jewel? Besha had asked him. How often does Verán give him to you? Does he ever struggle, or does he always just lie there?

Who the fuck cares? Ansha had wanted to snap. Why are you all so obsessed with Tilrey?

But he knew the answer. Verán had made it clear to him: Tilrey was “objectively superior.” No matter how hard Ansha tried to please, no matter how little effort Tilrey put in, Tilrey would always be the Jewel. And Ansha would always be second or third best. If a high name said it, it had to be true.

Ansha wasn’t jealous! Never mind what Tilrey thought. He didn’t want to be treated the way the Island Party treated Tilrey. But he did think Tilrey had brought that on himself. When someone was standoffish, full of himself, people were bound to try to take him down a peg.

Why was even Besha obsessed, though? Was it just that Tilrey had that hair, those eyes, that mouth, those shoulders, that cock? Or was there some special kind of allure that Ansha was too stupid to grasp?

The two men were closer. A light snowfall had obscured their shapes—but now, with a jolt, Ansha recognized them.

Tilrey—and Bror! Yes, he was sure of it.

As they walked, Bror bent his thick neck to address Tilrey in a companionable way. Ansha remembered evenings when he and Bror had walked to the tram stop in the Vacants, and Bror had inclined his head to Ansha just like that.

I knew it. I fucking knew it! Tilrey had insisted way too hard that he didn’t even like Bror. And Bror insisted equally hard that he was only interested in Tilrey as a fuck. But Ansha could read body language, and he knew Bror cared about Tilrey as more than a nice mouth and ass.

He wasn’t a total dunce, even if they both thought so.

He watched as his two fellow kettle boys veered off the trail and out of sight, heading for Verán’s villa. Where had they been together, and for how long? What would Verán do if he knew someone else had been polishing his Jewel?

Ansha wasn’t going to snitch, of course. The No. 1 rule you learned growing up in Ring Eight was never to fink on one of your own. And Bror and Tilrey were his own, even if Tilrey liked to pretend he was something better.

No, Ansha wouldn’t tell Verán or any other Upstart. But that didn’t mean he’d pretend he hadn’t seen them.

Behind him, footsteps padded across the thick carpet. Besha—Fir Linbeck—slung an arm around Ansha’s waist. “What’re you doing here?” he demanded sleepily. “Come back to me.”

Ansha let himself be led back to the warm bed and tucked in. He snuggled into the weaselly little Councillor’s embrace as if he were perfectly happy there.

Objectively superior, my ass, he was thinking. Someday they’ll all realize there’s nothing special about Tilrey at all.

Chapter 46: Resolving

Majority Leader Verán looked up from his handheld at the two kettle boys who sat on his bed waiting for orders—one of them bright-eyed and eager, the other staring dully into space.

“I’m tired,” he said peevishly. “And Nettsha looks about as inviting as a slab of ice. Ansha, you warm him up for me.”

Tilrey swallowed hard. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ansha smile—a toothy, innocent grin for the Fir’s benefit.

“Course, Fir! Happy to.”

The fall recess was ending; tomorrow they would fly home. But Tilrey wasn’t sure how to return to normal.

He had hiked back to the villas with Bror at daybreak, grabbed a few hours’ sleep, and spent the rest of the day playing the role of Verán’s servant, making and pouring tea and carrying plates back and forth from kitchen to sitting room. Meanwhile, the old man had held court with his sons, his colleagues, and other sycophants. Tilrey had endured hours of stilted, formal talk: high Upstarts asking for favors and complaining about each other.

He could still feel Bror inside him—the sweet ache, the girth of his cock. Whenever his thoughts drifted, there was Bror, powerful arms wrapped around him and warm breath in his ear.

No! He had to focus right now, as the dull day reached its all-too-predictable conclusion.

Ansha crawled toward him across the bed, a naughty grin on his face. “Mmmm. You do look cold, pretty thing.”

Tilrey was sitting up against the headboard, both of them still fully dressed. When Ansha straddled him and climbed into his lap, he looked away.

“Trying to ignore me, hmm?” The redhead flicked a lock of hair off Tilrey’s forehead, smoothed it behind his ear. “I’ll warm you up whether you like it or not.”

Fuck you. But Tilrey didn’t flinch when Ansha bent to plant a kiss on his lips. Teasing pecks on his cheek and nose were followed by a kiss that was deeper, warm and skilled. He offered no resistance to the assertive probing of Ansha’s tongue, nor did he reciprocate.

The closeness reminded him of too many things. Bror sleeping beside him. Bror taking his arm to lead him down the snowy path. Bror saying, I don’t want a virgin, Rishka. I want you now, exactly the way you are.

Exactly the way I am. Could Bror really love Tilrey for something besides his body (overused) or his innocence (gone) or his sensitivity to pain? He didn’t know. But he did know that Bror had coaxed his dormant body awake and taught him to be aroused in ways he’d almost forgotten.

And Tilrey couldn’t afford to be awake tonight. He needed to send his unruly feelings (Stop fucking touching me, Ansha!) back underground.

One of the sycophants who’d dropped by this afternoon was Tollsha Linden, nephew of the General Magistrate. The young man’s conversation with Verán had nothing to do with Tilrey, only with the Magistrate’s health and Tollsha’s sister’s recent marriage, but Tilrey couldn’t relax until he was gone. Part of him wanted to fall to his knees and beg Verán: Please don’t send me to live with Magistrate Linden! I’ll please you from now on. I’ll be good!

Well, now was the time to start pleasing Verán, and that meant enduring Ansha’s touch. Liking it, even.

“Come on,” the other kettle boy whispered in Tilrey’s ear. “He wants a show.” He unclasped Tilrey’s tunic at the neck—pausing to nuzzle there—and at the waist. “Let’s get you out of these pesky clothes.”

Tilrey tried to finish removing the tunic, but Ansha batted his hand away, then peeled it off him and tugged the shirt over his head.

Soft hair rubbed against Tilrey’s bare chest. He was looking down on tousled auburn locks. A hot tongue circled his nipple, sending ripples of sensation straight to his cock.

“Oooh. Yes,” Ansha purred. He grabbed the front of Tilrey’s trousers, closing on his cock like a vise.

“What a perfect, perfect boy,” the redhead continued under his breath, each pump of his hand making Tilrey shudder. “The Party’s Jewel. So much prettier than me. So much cleverer and taller and better endowed and blue-eyed and superior in every way. So special he doesn’t even have to do the work. But that’s okay—I’ll do it for you.” He undid Tilrey’s fly. “You just relax. When I’m done with you, you’ll be ready to come the minute the Fir touches you.”

Tilrey doubted that. But when Ansha started kissing him again, hand still working his cock through the briefs, a groan pushed its way out of his throat.

He was embarrassed by the things he’d said to Bror last night. Pretend I’m Ansha. You have to fuck me so hard my brain stops working and I shut up. But the pretending had worked—not for Bror, but for Tilrey. Imagining himself as Ansha had made it easier to stay in his body and enjoy every second of their union.

Even now, visualizing Bror with Ansha turned him on. He squirmed, straining toward the ruthless hand, wondering why. He didn’t want them to be together!

Ansha made an appreciative sound. “Now we’re cookin’. You want it bad, don’t you?”

A hot flush spread over Tilrey’s face, down his chest. And then he knew. When I think about Bror and Ansha, I can forget about myself.

He wasn’t ready to embrace everything his body had experienced last night—how good it had felt, how vulnerable he had been. His body had endured so much over the past three years that he sometimes wanted to lock it in a room where no one could ever touch it again. A comfortable little room with a view and no doors to the outside. He would sit on the bed and wrap his arms tight around his knees and gaze out the window and just be.

After a year or so of just belonging to himself, he might be ready to have sex with Bror without imagining himself as Ansha or someone else. Right now … well, he’d tried. And it had been good. But it was still only a beginning.

Ansha was easing Tilrey down on his back, levering a knee between his legs. “Check it out, Fir. Did I warm him up, or what?”

They both froze, waiting for the Fir’s verdict. After all, this was all for him. But Verán only yawned and said, “His mouth looks swollen, like he’s about to cry. Even when he’s hard, he can’t manage a smile.”

“That’s just the kind of boy he is, Fir.” Ansha nipped Tilrey’s bottom lip. “I bet you can fuck the sulk out of him.”

Tilrey couldn’t see the Fir’s face from his position, but he heard the lack of interest in his voice. “I’ve tried, believe me. Now I’m tired. Give him your mouth and finish him off.”

“You’re a genius, Fir.” Ansha ripped off Tilrey’s briefs as if he actually were eager to swallow his cock. “Ahhh, look at this! My lucky day. Yum.”

Ansha knew how to use that bee-stung mouth of his, as Tilrey already knew well. He closed his eyes and went limp, his breath hitching as the warm wetness sheathed his length.

Ansha took his time, putting on a show for the Fir, just as Tilrey had done to him several days ago on Election Night. Tilrey let his body buck and moan when it was appropriate. But his mind was far away now, in the imaginary little room where all of him was safe.

He wanted to come, but he held it off without much effort. He was too numb to be disappointed when Ansha suddenly stopped, the heat of his mouth withdrawing.

The other boy bent to speak in Tilrey’s ear. “He’s snoring.”

Tilrey opened his eyes and saw Verán fast asleep, slumped over with his handheld and a copy of the Council Record on his chest.

Locking eyes with Ansha, he couldn’t help chuckling. Ansha grinned back. “So that gets a smile from you.”

“Shut up.” Tilrey sat up, grimacing at a crick in his back. His cock was still uncomfortably engorged.

Half on top of him, Ansha elbowed Tilrey back against the pillows and grabbed his cock again. “Not gonna leave you that way. Would be cruel. Time to come now, sweetheart—it’s an order.”

Three more brisk pumps, and Tilrey came with a spasm that jolted Ansha off him. “Thanks,” he said when he could speak again.

“Always my pleasure.” Ansha sat up with an eye roll. “Guess we tired him out, and it’s so early. I was counting on another nip of sap.”

Tilrey thought again of Vlastor’s warning. If he didn’t want to be sent to Linden, he had to keep Verán interested, which was harder and harder these days. But even if he did please Verán, according to Myrtilla, the most he could look forward to was being tossed into the Brothel one day.

It made his head hurt. “Might as well turn out the lights.” Sleep would feel good right now, even beside the two of them.

Ansha rose, shed his clothes in a flash, and flicked the light switch before returning to Tilrey’s side of the bed. “Shove over. I want to be on the outside.”

Tilrey preferred to have Ansha as a buffer between him and Verán, in case he had a nightmare. But the villa’s bed was spacious, so he complied.

“Give me your hand.”

“Why?”

“He left a V on the dresser,” Ansha said quietly. Like Tilrey, he knew exactly what volume would risk waking Verán. “Want some?”

Sap might be nice right now. Sap would help Tilrey sleep. But he knew Bror would disapprove, so he said, “No thanks. I’m wiped out.”

Ansha hopped off the bed and returned the sap to wherever he’d found it. When he crawled under the covers again, his breath smelled of the drug’s piney sweetness. “I wonder why,” he said. “I mean, you had last night off, right? Unless you snuck out with Bror and had a little party somewhere and popped back in at dawn.”

Acid rose into Tilrey’s throat, choking him. But he managed to respond coolly, “I’m allowed to do as I like on my night off. Though if I snuck out, it wouldn’t be with Bror.”

“No? As it happens, sweetness, I was doing my job last night. In Besha’s bedroom, which faces the path you two used to come back to the villas. I saw you. So stop pretending you and Bror aren’t a thing.”

He knows. Tilrey inched away from Ansha. His mind was racing, desperate for leverage. “Why are you telling me this? Why not just tell the Fir?”

“I dunno.” Ansha was clearly enjoying the power he wielded right now. “Should I?”

If Verán found out, he might be angry enough to send Tilrey away—or he might just shrug and scold Ansha for bothering him with kettle boy gossip. Even after a year with Verán, Tilrey was still learning what the man did and didn’t take seriously. That was why Councillor Makari’s threat to mention his brief shirker history to Verán had shaken him, absurd as it probably was.

But the stakes were higher this time, because if Verán did get angry, he could hurt Bror, too.

When he was in a bad place, Tilrey liked to imagine Bror’s future in Ring Six with his childhood sweetheart, Mirella. A cushy job, a comfortable apartment, lots of kids and adoring grandparents. Even if Tilrey ended up in the Brothel, maybe he’d be allowed to visit. He’d sit amid the happy chaos and know Bror had turned out fine.

Just don’t break Bror’s heart, Lus had cautioned Tilrey. But Bror could survive heartbreak easier than he could survive Int/Sec.

Tilrey swallowed his pride. “Please don’t tell the Fir what you saw, Ansha. I’ll do whatever you want.”

“I was kidding! You think I’m a snitch?” Ansha sounded offended now, as if he hadn’t meant to frighten Tilrey all along. “Anyway, we’re allowed to fool around with other Drudges on our nights off—long as we don’t break any rules.”

Tilrey suspected that using the ski cabin had broken more a few rules. “If you’re not going to threaten to tell, what do you want?” he asked, frustrated. “Yeah, we were out together. But you and Bror are always hooking up in the Vacants, so what’s the big deal?”

Ansha crept close to Tilrey again—hot breath and a knowing snicker in his ear. “Bror and I don’t lie about hooking up. We don’t hide it from you or the others.”

“We’re not hiding anything.” Tilrey fought a sinking sensation, because yes, they had been. “We just didn’t feel like being the latest gossip at the Café.”

“Speaking of the Café, I’ve heard Bror say some nasty things about you there, Rishka. Ogling you like a piece of meat.”

Tilrey had almost forgotten Bror’s little deception. Before he could respond, though, Ansha added, “That was just to throw us off the track, wasn’t it? Bet Brorsha thought he was being pretty smart. A dumb Eighter like Ansha will never catch on.”

Tilrey knew how it felt to be underestimated because of where you came from. “No one ever thought you were dumb, Ansha. You’re just very … observant.” Meddling. Jealous.

“Apparently not observant enough.” Ansha reached under the bedclothes and squeezed Tilrey’s thigh the way Verán often did. “Yeah, I get it now. You’re the Jewel, and Bror wants you all to himself for a while. Question is, what do you get out of it? Did he tell you he was in love with you?”

Tilrey could see what Ansha was trying to do—drive a wedge of doubt between him and Bror. After last night, though, he would have trusted Bror with his life.

“That’s between me and Bror,” he said, refusing the bait.

“Y’know, Bror was real nice to me before you came.” Ansha spoke loftily, as if he were Tilrey’s elder brother. “We used to sneak off without the others, too. He made me feel special. But when he got bored, he dropped me cold.”

Tilrey remembered everything Bror had told him about Ansha—how he’d revealed his insecurity when they had sex, begging for feedback on his performance. He felt almost embarrassed for the other boy.

“I’m not worried about that,” he said.

“No? Maybe you should be.”

I’m insecure, too. I even told Bror so. But, for whatever reason, Bror and Tilrey connected in a way Bror and Ansha didn’t. And Ansha knew it, which was why he seemed determined to ruin it, like a schoolboy who can’t bear to see a rival enjoying a classroom romance.

Kettle boy romances don’t last forever, any more than classroom romances do.

Tilrey felt older than Ansha right now—old and tired. “I’m not worried,” he repeated, “because I’m enjoying what Bror and I have now. I don’t need it to have a future.”

Ansha stroked his thigh. “You tell yourself that, but you want more, don’t you?”

Tilrey knew Bror would never “drop him cold,” never stop caring about him on some level. But sooner or later, they would go their separate ways. And he wanted Bror to have the happy ending and the apartment full of children. He wanted it so badly he could taste it.

He would just have to watch Ansha carefully from now on and do whatever he could to keep the other boy’s spite in check. Did Ansha want to tease him and keep him on edge? Well, Tilrey could do that, too.

Gently but firmly, he removed the hand from his thigh. Then he turned to Ansha and drew him in for a long, intimate kiss.

Ansha tensed with surprise before melting against Tilrey, making eager little sounds into his mouth. “Damn,” he said when they parted. “You know how to be sweet when you want to be.”

Tilrey sucked on the soft part of Ansha’s throat. “I’m not giving Brorsha anything I haven’t given you,” he lied. “What you were saying before, about me being perfect and better than you—that was just for the Fir, right? We both know it’s not true.”

A moan made Ansha’s throat vibrate. “You act like you think you’re better than the rest of us. Special.”

“Maybe I used to think that, but not anymore.” Tilrey combed fingers through Ansha’s lank hair. “Thanks for making tonight good for me,” he whispered. “You’re really good at this stuff. Better than I am.”

Ansha’s breath hitched. “I am, right?”

“Mmm.” A last kiss, and then Tilrey shoved Ansha away and rolled over, pulling the bedclothes up to his chin. “So if you’re not going to snitch, back off for now, sweetheart. I need my sleep.”

Chapter 47: Handling

Notes:

I have big deadlines in January, so I might not be able to post again until then, but for now, please enjoy a chapter of contrasts! Wishing holiday cheer and less stress to all. <3

January, year 345

Autumn passed into winter, with a forty-eight-hour blizzard to herald the new year. Snowdrifts covered the second and third floors of most buildings in the Core. The false sun of yellow and violet halogen lamps replaced daylight entirely.

Tilrey often found himself spending the mornings cocooned in his room with a book and a flask of sap-laced tea. During the day, only his standing appointments with Bror—at the Gym, the Café, the Vacants—got him out of bed.

They limited their alone time to about one day in ten, for safety’s sake. But it was worth the wait, even worth venturing outdoors to brave the icy wind at the tram stop.

They spent hours lazing in bed together, with nothing expected or required. Sometimes they had sex; sometimes they massaged each other or bathed or just talked. Sometimes they sat entwined in the window seat and drank tea and gazed out at the hypnotic whirling of the snow, and no words were needed.

Only this moment exists, Tilrey told himself over and over. Only now matters. In winter’s dreamlike twilight, it wasn’t hard to push thoughts of the future aside.

Then, one morning when Tilrey was alone in the Gym sauna, looking forward to seeing Bror in an hour or so, he heard a man clear his throat. He opened his eyes and found Councillor Makari peering down at him.

Like him, the bald man wore only a towel. “May I?” he asked with a leer, plopping himself on the cedar bench beside Tilrey.

Tilrey had known for months this was coming. Makari had made his intentions plain on Election Night. But he’d been hoping Besha or someone else would warn the newly elected Councillor that trying to get special favors from the Party’s Jewel was a bad idea.

“What do you want, Fir?” he asked wearily.

Makari laughed and covered Tilrey’s knee with a large-knuckled hand. “Where are your manners, lad?”

“Where are yours?” Makari wasn’t like Verán or the other high names; blunt talk wouldn’t shock him. “You know you need the majority leader’s permission to touch me, Fir.”

“I don’t notice you pushing me away.” The man nudged Tilrey with his shoulder. “You haven’t forgotten I know a secret about you, eh, my little shirker friend? Something Verán doesn’t know?”

“I’m not a shirker. And it’s not a secret.” But Tilrey couldn’t be sure. If Verán had ever known about the charge of shirking against Tilrey, he’d probably forgotten it in the excitement surrounding Malsha’s exile. There was no telling how he’d react if someone reminded him now.

“Where did your accent go? I liked you better as a Skeinsha and not a tarted-up piece.” Makari pouted grotesquely, his hand slipping up Tilrey’s thigh. “I’ve been trying to get you alone for a while. You owe me, you know? What did you do to piss off Councillor Jena? He told me I’d given him a ‘depraved delinquent’ and he’d thrown you out of his house. He stopped doing business with me after that.”

Malsha’s son-in-law had done worse to Tilrey—beating him, dropping him in Malsha’s lap. But that was ancient history now, and it was none of Makari’s business that Jena had flown into a rage because Vera Linnett had kissed Tilrey and he’d kissed back. She deserved her privacy.

“Fir Jena is a strange one, Fir,” Tilrey said, shrugging. “Anyway, you don’t seem any worse off. His party’s out of power now, and you’re a Councillor.”

“I made better friends.” Makari gave his knee a squeeze. “But you caused me a hassle, and I deserve restitution. Let’s go to the steam room—more private.”

Well, he didn’t mince words. That was refreshing in a way. Tilrey got up and followed Makari down a short corridor into the dimness of the steam room, because the longer they argued, the less time he’d have with Bror.

“Shouldn’t you be in the Sector, Fir?” he asked as Makari spun him around and pushed him up against the moisture-slick tiles, forehead first. “The Education Committee is meeting.”

“Called in sick. What do I care how we educate our brats? Anyway, I have a secretary to take notes for me.” Makari gave a twitch to the towel around Tilrey’s hips, sending it to the floor. “I didn’t get elected to wear out my eyes reading about testing parameters. I’m more of a people person.”

An enforcer, you mean. Tilrey had to smile as he remembered Verán calling Makari “disgusting.” Councillors who were willing to get their hands dirty were a necessary evil to maintain the Party’s supremacy.

He didn’t resist as Makari fondled him, pressing tight against his back. This would be unpleasant, but it would soon be over. Makari wasn’t going to risk getting caught in public.

They were in the same position as at the waystation three years ago, when Makari had dry-humped him against the wall. But Tilrey wasn’t a gangly boy anymore, and the older man’s bulk no longer intimidated him. If he wanted to, he could shove Makari off without breaking a sweat.

He wouldn’t, because he couldn’t risk upsetting the subtle equilibrium on which his moments of happiness depended. But it was nice to imagine.

“Let’s pretend we’re at the waystation again, Fir,” he suggested, bracing himself against the wall and resting his head on his folded arms. “Only this time you can do whatever you want with me. Bet you like that idea.”

“Mmm.” Makari’s hard cock jabbed his ass. “You like playacting, don’t you?” A slick finger speared Tilrey, working its way inside him. “But I’m writing the script now. If you’re a cooperative little slut, maybe I’ll be gentle.”

Tilrey kept still while the Councillor lubed him up and then fucked him against the wall, panting gustily into his ear. He let the man use his body like a toy, but he didn’t give Makari the satisfaction of hearing him whimper.

It was over quickly, just as he’d expected. Makari slumped against him, gasping. “Mine,” he whispered, then bit Tilrey’s nape and slapped his rump and pushed him away. “Mine whenever I want you. Got it?”

Tilrey stretched painful cricks out of his back and knees before he bent to retrieve the towel. “Don’t get greedy, Fir. You’re taking a risk here.”

“I don’t need a lecture from a fuck-piece.” But then Makari’s tone softened. “Turn around and kiss me goodbye.”

Tilrey gritted his teeth before turning around, as instructed, and planting a kiss on the loathsome man’s lips.

Something had to be done about Makari. Could he ask Lindahl for help again? No, Lindahl would be shocked by the whole shirker thing. Gourmanian? Maybe. The one Islander who definitely wouldn’t be scandalized was Besha, the very person who had gotten Makari elected. The two of them were clearly tight. But would Besha be on board with this behavior?

To Tilrey’s relief, Makari didn’t turn the kiss into something sloppy. He just smiled with reptilian satisfaction, blinking heavy lids, and said, “Linden’s right. You look sort of like Malsha when he was younger. Maybe it’s why the exile liked you so much.”

“Magistrate Linden said what? Why were you even talking about me?”

Makari smirked, clearly enjoying Tilrey’s confusion. “Wouldn’t you like to know? Linden and me, we get along fine. See you soon, boy—and don’t spend too long in that sauna. Wouldn’t want to boil yourself.”

A clap on Tilrey’s shoulder, and he was gone.

***

“Rishka, you awake?” Bror switched from slowly kneading Tilrey’s back to pummeling it with the edges of his hands. He was happy to massage his friend for hours, if that was what Tilrey wanted, but the silence was spooking him.

“Ow! I was dozing off.”

“Shit, sorry.” Bror had been straddling Tilrey because they were crammed into the window seat, but now he got off him and went to sit at the other end. “Tonight’s a free-night. You need your rest.”

“No, it’s okay.” Tilrey rolled over and sat up to face Bror. He was fully dressed from the waist down, and there were dark circles under his eyes. “I want to be awake when I’m with you. I don’t want to waste a minute. Before I got sleepy, I was just thinking about … Besha. I’m going to him tonight.”

Bror made a gagging sound. “Don’t think about that pissant. He doesn’t deserve any more of you than you have to give him.”

He tried not to show how much Tilrey’s words bothered him. Jealousy and possessiveness made no sense in their situation. Before their night in the cabin, Bror had managed to maintain a degree of professional detachment, but now every inch of Tilrey was beautiful and intimately familiar to him. Imagining his friend with Besha was like stabbing red-hot forks into his own eyes.

More and more these days, Bror caught himself fantasizing about going to bed with Tilrey and waking up with Tilrey. At the Gym, he fought urges to caress Tilrey’s neck or shoulders between reps. In the sauna and steam room, he yearned to share long, leisurely kisses. At the Café, he would stare at Tilrey’s hand resting on the table and imagine casually clasping it to tell all the others he's mine.

He knew it was wise to avoid public displays, even though their friends knew what was up. Ansha needled and teased the two of them whenever no Upstarts were around. Lus smiled knowingly and shook his head. Even little Ulli was clearly in on the joke. And Celinda had actually taken Bror aside yesterday to ask if he was “in love.”

The word sounded foreign to Bror, like something out of a saga. He understood the love that bound families together, and he understood infatuation. The first one lasted; the second didn’t. After sleeping with the same person for a month or so, he usually got restless.

Usually. But everything was a little different now. He had a distinct memory of telling Tilrey he loved him, in a roundabout way. In the moment it had felt right.

“Love, seriously?” he’d answered Celinda, laughing.

She didn’t laugh back, just looked at him hard. “Until now, I had you pegged for a classic fuck-boy. You’re a great lay, kind and considerate, and nothing sticks to you. But the way you look at him, it’s like you can’t get him out of your head.”

Bror tried again to make it into a joke. “What am I supposed to do—marry him?”

She shrugged. “People find ways to live together.”

“I want kids, though. I mean, obviously.” An unconventional living situation had never occurred to Bror. He’d always wanted a home like his parents’.

But Celinda had planted a seed in his head. Was there a way to have both family love and … whatever he and Tilrey had? Maybe he, Tilrey, and Mirella could reach an understanding. First, though, Tilrey would have to be free of the Island Party, which seemed unlikely to happen soon.

“I wonder about Besha, though,” Tilrey said, pulling Bror back to the present. “He helped get Makari elected, but how much loyalty do those two have to each other? If I told Besha Makari threatened me, would he care?”

A scowl had appeared between Tilrey’s brows. Bror longed to kiss it away. “I figure they’re about as loyal to each other as ferrets in a bag. They teamed up ’cause it was convenient, and now they’re just waiting for an excuse to bite each other to death.” He reached to touch Tilrey’s cheek. “Makari’s not still making trouble for you, is he? A scumbag like that should know better.”

He watched closely for the usual tells that his friend wasn’t being entirely honest—downcast eyes, bitten lip. But Tilrey’s gaze was steady as he said, “Nah, I think it was an empty threat. I don’t like the way he stares at me, though.”

“Tell Besha! He should slap Makari down for disrespect.”

Bror longed to be the one who slapped Makari down for leering at his boyfriend—and that was no figure of speech! He knew of a few alleys in the Core where you could deliver a beatdown without being caught on surveillance.

Makari was a fucking Councillor, though. He hated himself for telling Tilrey to seek Besha’s help, but what else could he do?

“Brorsha!” Tilrey crept to Bror’s end of the window seat and climbed into his lap, slinging an arm around him. “You look like you’re plotting murder. It’s nothing, okay? I’ll talk to Besha. You’re right—let’s not waste our time thinking about Strutters.”

Bror threw both arms around Tilrey and hugged him fiercely. “I just wish you never had to think about them.”

“Don’t worry, love.” Smiling now, as if everything were just fine, Tilrey squirmed free enough of Bror’s grip to give him a kiss.

Then he whispered, “Could you just hold me right now?”

Bror could do that—all afternoon, if Tilrey wanted. These days, he was so sensitive to Tilrey’s moods that he could tell immediately whether his friend wanted to get off or just be together in gentler ways. Either option felt good.

After all, Bror could and did get off with almost anyone. With Tilrey, he felt things he’d never felt before.

He snuggled Tilrey to his chest, chin brushing the crown of his friend’s head. His own tunic was unfastened, and he folded the loose tweed panels of the garment around Tilrey’s bare torso, tucking him in so he wouldn’t get chilly. “If Makari bothers you again, though, tell me. Promise?”

“Mmm.” Tilrey relaxed against Bror, eyes closing. “I will.”

***

“Oh, my poor, poor lad.” Besha sounded fake even to himself as he helped Nettsha sit up in bed.

He chafed the boy’s wrists, where red welts were forming. For their second night together, Besha had scored a pair of real handcuffs from an Int/Sec interrogator. He was very proud of them, but he wasn’t skilled at locking and unlocking them yet. And clearly they’d cut into the poor boy’s wrists while Besha was riding him.

Once again, they’d played out a little fantasy of coercion, with Besha threatening Nettsha and shackling him to the headboard before having his way with him. Besha was proud of how long he’d lasted and how little restraint he’d shown, shoving the blond head ruthlessly into the mattress.

He’d found the boy surprisingly good at playacting. Verán always complained that Nettsha was a “block of wood.” But with Besha he was alive, sometimes even borderline cheeky.

“I’m fine, Fir.” Nettsha jerked his hands out of Besha’s grip. He was humoring Besha, not using his full strength—Besha could tell. And he wasn’t sure he liked it.

He needed to know that the boy had felt something—that he hadn’t just lain there and allowed Besha’s cock to hammer into him without even a twinge of discomfort. Okay, so neither Besha nor his equipment was enormous, but surely they were at least average?

Puny! Weasel dick! Maybe someday he’d stop hearing the insults of his schooldays in his head.

“Are you sure I didn’t hurt you?” he taunted.

He wanted the boy to snap at him so he could snap back. But Nettsha only dropped his gaze and said, “You did a bit. You’re very forceful when you choose to be, Fir.”

“And you’re sucking up again.” Verán loved that brownnosing bullshit, but Besha was getting really fucking tired of it. “Are you taking lessons from Ansha?”

The boy snuck a glance up at Besha with those blue, blue eyes. “I thought you liked Ansha.”

“He’s fine. But you’re more interesting—or you were.”

Ansha had been a nice bed-partner, but his attentiveness made Besha antsy. It reminded him too much of his own studied deference when he was with Verán. He liked Nettsha precisely because he could tell the boy disliked him.

Besha tolerated politeness. But dislike, disgust, disdain—these were his element. When people despised you on some level, you knew where you stood with them. After that, you either flashed them a shit-eating grin and played nice—the way Besha did with Verán or his own wife—or you crushed them.

He didn’t dare hurt Nettsha. Probably (he had to admit) he wasn’t physically capable of it. But he wanted to. Oh, he wanted so much to tussle with Nettsha right now. To overcome him, and not just in play.

He launched himself at the tall, slender, well-muscled young man and tackled him down into the bedclothes. “Fight me,” he gritted out, pinning Nettsha’s hands. “Turn the tables. Don’t hold back for my sake!”

Nettsha just smiled infuriatingly, not struggling at all.

“No, I’m serious.” Besha dug his nails into the boy’s wrists. “I gave you an order,” he added, trying to imitate Verán’s cold stare. “Flip me over and tackle me, now.”

“Sure?”

Besha nodded.

The boy shrugged. And then Besha was on his back with Nettsha’s weight crushing him into the mattress.

If there’d been even a chance to resist, it was gone in an instant. By the time Besha was aware of anything, his wrists were already numbing, pinned by strong fingers. The boy’s knee was lodged against his gut—not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to squash any thoughts of escape.

Heat flooded Besha’s face. He could hear his own panting and feel the prey-animal gallop of his heart. And Nettsha? He gazed down at Besha with those calm blue eyes, breathing easily. He hadn’t even broken a sweat.

Besha squirmed, which only jogged his captor’s knee closer to his groin. He was hard instantly.

As if this were a signal, Nettsha released Besha’s wrists and rolled off him, leaving him bathed in relief and flop sweat. Besha couldn’t stop a moan of shameful protest from rising in his throat: Please stay. Please keep going. I liked that.

He backed up against the headboard, trembling all over. He hoped Nettsha hadn’t noticed his erection, which wasn’t subsiding.

When he could trust his voice, he said, “You’re very strong.”

Nettsha had curled up on his side, as if to make himself unthreatening. He was naked, so Besha could see he didn’t share the arousal. “I’m sorry, Fir.”

“What are you sorry for?” The meek words annoyed Besha. “I told you to do it. I’m glad you did it. You should be … gloating.”

Just to show Nettsha he wasn’t afraid, even after that, he lay down in the protective lee of the larger body. He leaned back and rubbed his tumescent cock against Nettsha’s thigh.

“Why would I gloat?” the boy asked. “It’s just luck that I’m stronger than you are.”

Take me. Fuck me. Those were the words bubbling up inside Besha. He jammed them back down. It was fine for him to submit to his wife, or even sort of to Verán. But kettle boys were for Councillors to use, enjoy, and despoil. Besha was a Councillor now, and that was what he would do.

Luckily, Nettsha understood this. He pressed closer to Besha, spooning him, then began skillfully stroking Besha’s cock. “Or do you want my mouth?” he asked in Besha’s ear.

“No, this is good. Oooh.” Besha writhed, hips pumping into the powerful hand that sheathed his length.

He liked when Nettsha took control and manipulated him—yes, he could admit that, at least. Anyway, he’d already proved his dominance by fucking the boy. This was all for his own pleasure.

He groaned, letting Nettsha set the pace even though it was agonizing to wait. It felt so good, and he was already so close, so close—

When the boy’s hand abruptly stopped moving, Besha grunted in surprise and grabbed for him, trying to force him through the next stroke. “Keep going!”

Nettsha had turned to iron again, impossible to budge. “Just a sec, Fir,” he said, his breath tickling Besha’s ear with intoxicating gentleness. “I’m going to make you come so hard”—brief pressure on his cock made Besha gasp—“but first I need to talk to you about Councillor Makari.”

Besha writhed in the boy’s arms. The mental image of Ransha Makari was almost enough to make him lose his erection. The man was a decent drinking buddy and enforcer, but a turn-on he was not.

“Are you still fretting about Election Night?” Besha pleaded. “I know you don’t like Makari. He told me all about bringing you from Thurskein like a bale of goods. But giving you to him wasn’t my idea!”

“I didn’t mind obliging Makari for the Party, Fir.” Nettsha was still whispering, the intimacy maddeningly arousing. “That’s my job. But he wants me to do it on my own time now. He’s threatening to tell Fir Verán I’m a shirker if I don’t comply.”

Besha went still. He’d almost forgotten that Malsha had expunged a charge of shirking against the boy, but that didn’t matter. What did was the sheer audacity of Makari—the balls on that bastard!

Like Besha himself, Makari came from an R-7 family. He was a bottom feeder with criminal connections, raised to the status of Councillor by Besha’s grace alone. If the man hadn’t made himself useful by gathering dirt on the Island Party’s opponents, he would still be festering in his Admin position, lording it over powerless Skeinsha boys.

And now Makari was threatening the Island’s Jewel? Extorting sexual favors from him, upsetting the balance of power? Besha almost admired the man’s sheer stupid daring.

But no, this wouldn’t do. When you took on someone as a henchman, you had to know he wouldn’t try to give you orders—or fuck your kettle boy.

“Is that all?” he snapped. His cock was softening, and now he had an unpleasant new item for his long to-do list. He’d have to plant evidence of Makari’s election fraud and arrange for a trusted underling to find it, so that the blow wouldn’t come directly from him. “I’ll get rid of him.”

“Really, Fir?” The boy released Besha. “I was thinking you could just talk to Fir Makari. Ask him to stop.”

Besha savored the look of shock on Nettsha’s face, the eyes wide and wondering. “I had him elected. You think I don’t have the clout to get him unelected?”

“I just … well, if you dismissed him from office, wouldn’t he go after revenge?”

“By telling Verán you attended a shirker meeting when you were a lad of eighteen?” Besha had to laugh. Verán would be so befuddled by Nettsha’s sordid history.

Then his smile faded, because Verán was volatile. If he tossed the boy into Int/Sec or the Sanctioned, Besha might never get another night like this again.

And that definitely wouldn’t do.

Gears turned in Besha’s head. “Don’t you worry for a second, my love,” he said, folding Nettsha in his arms again. “You’re right—we won’t reach for the nuclear option yet. I’ll have a chat with Makari and make sure he keeps his distance from now on. If he winks or smiles at you or even steps into your line of vision, I want you to run and tell me, okay?”

The words made Besha feel amazingly powerful. Imagining the look of fear on Makari’s face, he placed Nettsha’s hand on his cock again. The boy obediently began to jerk him off.

“I’ll make sure that prick knows who he takes orders from,” Besha crooned, hips moving.

He cringed at the thought of that washed-up, middle-aged clown groping his beautiful boy. No, never again. Besha would wait a conservative interval—ten months, say—and then get Makari expelled from the Council by exposing his smuggling side business. He would pretend to be shocked, shocked that anyone would try to exploit the office of Councillor of the Republic for personal gain. If he was clever, he might even manage to get Makari exiled. Imagine watching the poor fool trudge into the Wastes to his death!

Meanwhile, back at home, Nettsha would show his gratitude to Besha in a million creative ways.

Besha was rock hard again, rutting into Nettsha’s hand as the boy led him toward climax. He was too drunk on power and lust to distinguish between the two. Yes, this was how being a Councillor was supposed to feel.

A drinking buddy could be replaced. But a fuck like this one? Never!

***

Tilrey propped himself on an elbow and gazed coolly down at the man sleeping beside him. Besha was still young as Councillors went, his pale cheeks hollow but unlined. In his sleep, he looked almost innocent.

My little traitor friend. I know your secret.

Physically overpowering Besha had been stunningly easy—and interesting. Tilrey hadn’t expected it to make Besha hard. He wondered if Besha would ever let him do it again.

Not that it mattered. The important thing was that he’d won. Makari wouldn’t bother him again.

Besha could so easily have sided with his friend. After all, it was Makari who’d told him the mortifying details of Tilrey’s history—the basis for their sex play. Without that information, Besha probably would have enjoyed their nights together a lot less.

But when he heard what Makari had done, Besha had jumped to Tilrey’s defense.

Tilrey rolled away from Besha in the dark and tugged the bedclothes over his nakedness. Two men in one day … he ached in all kinds of places. And he had no illusions that Besha felt anything for him beyond the possessive lust of a child who wants to keep a shiny bauble for himself. The man was neither ally nor friend.

But Tilrey had handled the situation himself, without asking for help. Without putting Bror in danger. And that was a good day's work.

He closed his eyes, imagined Bror’s arms wrapped tight around him, and enjoyed his rest.

Chapter 48: Wondering

February, year 345

“Besha said he’d unelect one of his best friends in the Council?” Bror whooped with laughter. “And you had to tell him to cool it and be careful? Damn, Rishka. What kind of sorcery did you use on him?”

Tilrey was a little embarrassed to see Bror so impressed, but he had to admit he enjoyed it, too. It felt good to be reminded that Bror liked him for more than his looks. “Just a hand job,” he said modestly.

They’d taken advantage of a slightly warmer-than-normal winter day to stroll around Ring Six, fighting off cabin fever. Snow fell thickly in purple twilight, but at least there was no stinging wind, only cold flakes dripping down their cheeks. With their thick coats, padded mittens, and scarves over their faces, it was almost tolerable. The western sky had a pearly glow that promised more daylight someday.

“Oh, c’mon!” Bror said as they skirted a factory, a gray hulk in the gloom. “Was that really all you did to Besha?”

“Well, no.” Tilrey still felt weird discussing the details of what he did with Councillors; Malsha had hammered the gospel of “discretion” into his head. But this was Bror. “He, um, he asked me to ‘turn the tables’ on him. So I pushed him down and held him until … well, until he got hard. Then I let him go.”

 “So Besha likes being on the bottom? I wondered about that. He certainly spends enough of his time licking Verán’s boots.”

“I don’t think he’s admitted to himself just how much he likes it.” Tilrey let himself smile slyly, remembering how excited and red-faced Besha had been.

For a few moments, with the squirming Councillor underneath him, he’d felt almost powerful. Not because he was on top—he’d experienced that with Malsha, but he had never actually been in control. No, it was exciting because Besha both did and didn’t want it. Because Besha hadn’t been in control. Remembering all the ways Malsha had tormented him, Tilrey had an unsettling feeling that Malsha would have enjoyed Besha’s squirming, too.

I’m not like him. I’ll never be like him.

“And then you seized your chance to turn Besha against that shit Makari!” Bror hooked his arm through Tilrey’s to steer them clear of a dozen or so workers in gray parkas who were pouring from the factory’s entrance. “You’re a clever one, Rishka! Ansha’s not the only one who can wind Councillors around his little finger.”

“He can handle Verán. I can’t.” But Tilrey didn’t like talking about Verán. “It’s not the end of a shift yet, is it?” he asked, changing the subject, as more people milled around them in the snowy street.

“No.” Bror’s smile faded as he guided Tilrey through the crowd. “Look at them.”

Instead of walking to keep warm, as any normal person would do, the young workers had joined ranks and now stood facing the street, tightly packed enough to block the door. Their expressions ranged from blank to disgruntled. “I don’t get it,” Tilrey told Bror under his breath.

Someone must have given a signal. Suddenly all the workers raised their hands to chest height and held them palm-up, as if to emphasize their idleness. Two of them carried a banner on which names had been roughly hand-lettered in red.

“They do this when they’re steamed,” Bror said, heading for the opposite side of the street. “I heard some poor lineworkers got mangled in an accident—the third in three years.”

Tilrey couldn’t help being fascinated by the sober-faced young people. “Are they refusing to work?” Sometimes you heard rumblings of a strike in Thurskein, but nothing ever came of it. Everyone was too afraid of lockdown, of rations being cut off.

“Only for a few minutes,” Bror said dismissively. “It’s a tradition here—‘silent actions.’ They make their point about wanting safer conditions, and then back to work they go.”

As he spoke, he collided with a young woman who’d drifted across the street. “Sorry!”

“Traitor!” she snapped back.

Tilrey pretended he hadn’t heard. But Bror stopped in his tracks, giving the girl a good stare. “ ’Scuse me? I know you—one of the Artunei kids, right? I doubt your grandma Bronja raised you to be rude to your own kind.”

“Our kind?” The girl gave them both a scathing once-over, speaking loudly enough to draw the attention of other workers nearby. “Like you’ve ever worked an hour on a line? You look like a fucking Strutter.”

“They’re Strutters’ whores,” a young man explained.

“Lighten the fuck up, okay?” Bror was moving again, shielding Tilrey with his body. Over his shoulder, he called, “No one’s getting in the way of your statement.”

“A whore is a whore,” another boy taunted. “Look at ’em, dressed up like dolls in those fancy wool coats.”

“Fake Strutters! Fuck-pieces!”

They were nearly past the factory, but the far edge of the protest had drifted toward them. Something struck Tilrey’s back with a soft ploomph.

It was only a snowball, shattering on impact. But it gave him a jolt. He forced himself to keep an even pace, knowing the crowd would want to see them run.

“Traitors!” someone howled.

“Strutter pets!”

“How many dicks did you suck today?”

Bror kept tight hold of Tilrey’s arm. “Kids,” he muttered. “Let ’em have their fun—no, don’t look back. Pretend you don’t notice. They’ll learn manners sooner or later.”

Behind them, the catcalls continued. Was Tilrey trembling? He supposed he was. Shame was nothing new, but he wasn’t used to being mocked publicly by other Laborers.

In the distance, a siren shrilled, followed by another. A raw yell sounded: “Constables!”

That was enough to dissolve the protest into chaos. The crowd rushed and shoved, some workers trying to retreat into the factory while others shouted at them to stand their ground. The two kettle boys were forgotten.

Bror yanked Tilrey up a side street, then down concrete stairs into the echoing warmth of the Underground City. At a soup kiosk, he stopped and stripped off first his own mittens, then Tilrey’s. “You’re freezing!” he said, rubbing Tilrey’s hands between his. “We shouldn’t have walked so far. Let’s get tea before we hop on the tram.”

Tilrey allowed Bror to sit him down at a table and bring him a steaming cup of fragrant green tea. He did feel shell-shocked, his fingers and cheeks numb from the cold.

When they were both seated, he asked, “Will the Constables arrest those workers?” Put them in a dark cell like me? Ask them questions?

“Doubt it.” Bror slurped his tea. “They only do that if shirkers stand their ground, and those kids weren’t real shirkers. They scurried back inside like rats, I’ll bet, and got back to work.”

If that was supposed to make Tilrey feel better, it didn’t. “Will the Bureau of Labor do anything?” he asked, feeling an unfamiliar mixture of anger, shame, and helplessness. “Will they inspect the factory to make sure it’s safe?”

“They do semiannual inspections. Accidents happen, though. One more reason I didn’t want to end up on a line like my dad.” Bror smoothed a lock of hair behind Tilrey’s ear. “Hey. You okay? I’m used to it, but I’m sorry you had to hear that stuff. Especially here in my Ring.”

Tilrey nodded, but he couldn’t meet Bror’s eyes. If he’d met those workers by himself, he thought, he could have borne the taunts more easily. Gone numb inside, the way he did with Upstarts. But seeing Bror take the abuse was different.

Bror wasn’t a coward. Bror usually fought for things he believed in. This time he hadn’t fought, because he knew the young workers weren’t entirely wrong.

“They hate us.” Tilrey thought of his mother and Dal. When they saw him again, would he look to them like a whore, a traitor, a pathetic dressed-up imitation of an Upstart?

“They’re bored and angry.” Bror’s knee nudged his under the table. “Their lives are a treadmill—eat, sleep, work, drink, fuck, pop out some kids, work some more. They’re jealous of anyone who managed to jump off the track.”

“You said your family doesn’t mind that you’re a kettle boy.”

“They don’t! But my family’s not malcontents. Don’t let those losers get under your skin.”

Tilrey squeezed Bror’s hand as if agreeing. He couldn’t say what he was thinking: To everyone in Redda, I’m just a fuck-piece. I accept that. But you—no one should ever call you those things. Not in your own home!

And Bror had said, I’m used to it. This wasn’t the first time.

Tilrey almost wished he could have the old Bror back, the one who had ripped him out of Ansha’s arms and forced him to walk off the sap and lectured him on self-respect. For so long, Bror had always been stronger in Tilrey’s eyes. He had always known best.

Now Tilrey knew there were problems Bror had to laugh off because he didn’t even know where to start solving them.

“Have you ever wondered if they have a point?” he asked as they took a lift up to the tram. “When they call us traitors?”

“Those are just names. No one can tell you who you are except—”

“Yourself. I know.” Tilrey wanted to believe in Bror’s familiar lessons of self-reliance, even now. “But we have abandoned our own kind, haven’t we?”

“No,” Bror looked him in the eye. “When we better ourselves, Rishka, we’re able to help the people we love. That’s the most anyone can ever do in this world.”

Tilrey nodded, but he wondered if that was the most anyone could do. Were all the factory protesters really just “malcontents,” rebelling for the sake of rebelling? Or were some of them holding secret meetings like the one he’d attended in Thurskein? Trying to change things?

It was a free-night. Evening was only a few hours away, leaving them no time for the Vacants. Tilrey stayed quiet on the tram, gazing out the window. He didn’t want Bror to see what he was thinking.

When they got off, he suddenly couldn’t bear to say goodbye. As they entered the warm enclosure, he pressed Bror up against the wall and kissed him passionately, fingers knotting in the close-cropped hair.

Normally they avoided public displays, but the tram had been almost empty. Aside from a few embarrassed titters that vanished as people passed, they might as well have been alone.

Bror returned the kiss with fervor. His big hands ran over Tilrey’s back and lower, to squeeze Tilrey’s ass and draw him closer, till there was no space between their bodies. “Damn, I want you.”

Tilrey rubbed his groin against Bror’s thigh, shuddering with need. He released Bror’s head so he could untie his friend’s scarf and nuzzle and nip the soft skin underneath. Bror gasped with an abandon that only made Tilrey harder.

He’d just opened his lips to receive Bror’s burning tongue when a voice behind them said sharply, “What the fuck are you doing, Nettsha?”

Vlastor.

Tilrey twisted to face the driver, without loosening his grip on Bror. “Not working yet,” he said, feeling and probably sounding a little drunk, “so I’m doing whatever I feel like doing. Why are you up my ass?”

“Remember the talk we had, Vlastor?” Bror’s hands cupped Tilrey’s hips protectively. “You leave us alone, and we leave you alone.”

“Not in public.” Vlastor spoke firmly, though his cheeks were splashed with red. “What if one of the Fir’s colleagues saw you two like this? Or the secretary for a Councillor from the opposing party? It would be all over the Sector like that.” A finger-snap. “Nettsha, you better come with me.”

But Tilrey could see the clock above the sliding door, and he knew they still had a few hours before work. “Not yet,” he said, disentangling himself from Bror. Luckily the coat was bulky enough to hide his hard-on. “We’ll be discreet from now on.”

Vlastor looked doubtful, so Tilrey added, “I’m nearly twenty-two, not twelve. You don’t need to tell me my responsibilities.”

“You heard him,” Bror rumbled. “Anyway, I’ll make sure he gets home in time.”

Vlastor glanced around, as if gauging the risk of making a scene. Then he snapped, “You better, Birun. I don’t like the way you were just … all over him. It was unseemly.”

And he turned on his heel and marched away.

Bror and Tilrey waited until the driver was out of sight before they dissolved into laughter so hard they had to hold each other upright.

“Unseemly!” Bror wiped his eyes. “I’ve been called a lot of things, but never that.”

Remembering what the Ring Six workers had called them, Tilrey yielded to another bout of helpless laughter. Vlastor’s injured dignity was almost absurd enough to help him forget the rest of the afternoon.

“I guess that’s it, then,” he said, leading the way down the passage toward the lift where they usually parted. “Better be more seemly from now on.”

“No, fuck that!” Still breathless from their shared mirth, Bror tugged Tilrey around a corner and into a maintenance alcove. “First we have unfinished business,” he said, shoving him up against the grooved concrete.

Then they were kissing and necking as if Vlastor had never interrupted, ripping coat buttons open to get hands on each other properly, pausing only long enough for more wild laughter at their own daring. The alcove hid them from passersby, but only just.

When they were both frustratingly hard, Bror tore himself from Tilrey’s clinging hands and knelt on the granite tiles. Tilrey tried to object. But Bror said, “Shush” and reached up to unhook Tilrey’s fly.

Tilrey closed his eyes. He heard the nearby murmurs of people waiting for the lift. Meanwhile, Bror teased his cock with a clever tongue and drew it deep into the velvet of his throat. Every sensation was familiar and yet newly exciting. He clenched his fists to keep from whimpering as Bror sucked him off with ruthless, exquisite efficiency.

Finally Bror rose to his feet and told Tilrey to come, fingers clamping his cock like iron. Tilrey obeyed instantly, gasping into Bror’s mouth. A whore is a whore, he thought, feeling trashy and wanton but very happy.

He tried to reciprocate. But Bror said they might be pushing their luck. So they tidied their clothes, took the lift up dozens of floors, and snuck back into Verán’s apartment, tiptoeing through the coldroom as if Vlastor were waiting to pounce on them.

Vlastor made no appearance, however. In Tilrey’s room, they threw themselves on the bed, not bothering to switch on the lights because they were too busy laughing hysterically, this time at their own precautions.

The laughter made Tilrey ache, delicious and painful at once. He worried about what would happen when it ended.

He tried again to jerk Bror off, but Bror said it was okay, the moment had passed. He wrapped Tilrey in his arms. They lay there in the dark for a while, on top of the covers, Bror’s heartbeat under Tilrey’s cheek.

“You know how to treat me, Brorsha,” Tilrey said. He was fairly sure he’d said the words before, yet each time they took on new meaning.

“In an unseemly way, you mean?” But this time neither of them laughed. After a moment, Bror kissed the top of Tilrey’s head and said, “You know I love you.”

I love you, too. It had been so much easier to say the words in an isolated cabin far from Redda. In a very low voice, Tilrey asked, “So you’re not ashamed? Of … us?”

Bror kissed him again. “No, I’m not ashamed of what we are, and you’re not allowed to be, either. Promise me you’ll forget what happened with those idiot kids? Rishka, you’re better than that. Nobody as smart and sweet and … as wonderful and perfect as you should ever be ashamed.”

Bror sounded truly worried, so Tilrey promised.

He wondered how long Bror had been lying to himself. They were both getting good at it.

***

It barely even gave him a jolt when Vlastor showed up, hours later after Bror had left, and said, “We’re off to the General Magistrate’s apartment tonight.”

So. At last. The threat of Fir Linden had been hanging over Tilrey for more than a year now. This was almost a relief.

He didn’t pause in blow-drying his hair, only met Vlastor’s eyes in the mirror. “Just for the night?” He hadn’t forgotten Vlastor’s warnings about how Verán might send him to live with Linden if he didn’t behave. “Or should I pack my things?”

“Just for the night. I didn’t tell the Fir, you know.” Vlastor looked a little unsettled by Tilrey’s calm. “About your public display. Don’t do it again.”

“I won’t.” Unless I feel like it. Next time, though, Tilrey would be more careful.

In a strange way, he felt ready for the night, as if everything that had happened today had prepared him.

He dressed in a plain blue tunic with white piping rather than one of the more interesting color combinations Malsha had favored. Clearly the GM was conservative in his tastes. After a final glance in the mirror at his own impassive face, he followed Vlastor out to the car. The journey to Linden’s apartment would have been quicker through the innards of the two connected buildings, but a Councillor’s piece couldn’t travel on foot.

He hadn’t forgotten what Linden had told him on their first night, in between blows. He speaks when he’s spoken to from now on. He looks where he’s told to look. It had been Tilrey’s first time being addressed in the third person, in the archaic form that spared a lord from speaking directly to his inferior.

Everyone had fussed over Tilrey’s bruises, but they’d faded quickly. No permanent damage. And he didn’t feel afraid now, only a little frustrated by his lack of control over what was coming.

Every man had a key, likes and dislikes that dictated best practices for handling him. Tilrey already knew Linden didn’t want him looking or speaking out of turn. He would decode the rest of the Magistrate’s wants and needs sooner or later.

“You’ll be okay,” Vlastor said as they trudged from the car into the dim coldroom. “Just no backtalk this time, right?”

Tilrey opened his mouth to say he never talked back—or only to Vlastor himself, which didn’t count.

But before he could speak, the inner door hissed open. Linden’s driver strode out. “Hey there,” he greeted Vlastor. “You can go—I’ll take it from here.” And to Tilrey, “How’ve you been, Nettsha?”

“Not bad … Jorning, right?” It was the big, brown-haired Skeinsha who had allowed Tilrey to share his bed after Linden kicked him out. Tilrey was relieved to see him. The man was rough but seemingly good-natured, and his strong accent was a little piece of home.

Jorning ushered Tilrey into the apartment. To the hovering Vlastor, he said, “No worries. Not a mark on him this time, I promise.”

The door closed behind them before Vlastor could reply.

“That guy bugs me. He acts like your nursemaid,” Jorning said, leading Tilrey into the brightness of the sitting room

“He does!” But words caught in Tilrey’s throat as Jorning turned, revealing a purple bruise streaking his cheek. He’d almost forgotten Jorning saying the Magistrate hit him sometimes, too.

Their eyes met. “’S nothing,” Jorning said a little too heartily. “A word out of turn—you know how it is. Strutters can be so damn sensitive.”

He led Tilrey briskly toward the bedroom, as if he were afraid Tilrey might try to get away. “I got a plan. You just follow my lead, everything’ll be fine.”

Notes:

The next chapter is drafted, so it won't be a long wait. Thanks for reading!!

Chapter 49: Face Down

Notes:

Warning: This is a dark chapter featuring whipping and dehumanization, plus I added the "pegging" tag. We're now getting the details of the stuff that happened to Tilrey to turn him into the person we met in "A Serviceable Boy," and it's not pleasant.

Entering the General Magistrate’s bedroom, Tilrey experienced an unsettling déjà vu. Their previous encounter had happened in Linden’s villa in the Southern Range. But this room felt identical in its stuffiness, its sharp smells of antiseptic and herbal cough remedies, and its dimness broken only by a single light on the bedside table.

A sickroom. Possibly even the room of a dying man—but how long would Linden take to die?

The Magistrate occupied an armchair beside the bed, just out of the lamplight, swaddled in a blanket and padded robe. He didn’t acknowledge Tilrey, only said hoarsely, “Go on, then, Jorning.”

Normally Tilrey would have said something to show his respect while waiting for instructions. But, remembering He speaks when he’s spoken to, he turned to Jorning instead.

The driver nodded approvingly. “Togs off,” he said.

They would put on a show for the Magistrate, then. Tilrey was used to it, thanks to all those sessions with Verán and Ansha. He stripped without hesitation, swallowing down the old discomfort.

Last time, he’d asked Jorning about Linden’s preferences, and Jorning had said, He had whores in sometimes. I helped him with them. He hadn’t specified how. But whatever Linden liked couldn’t be worse than the unchained rage Tilrey had faced when he couldn’t get the man off. Perhaps now Jorning could teach him how the Magistrate needed to be pleased.

“Sap,” Linden said, holding out a vial in a quivering hand.

Jorning took the vial, dribbled some into his own hand, and sat down on the bed. “Here,” he said, patting the place beside him.

The lamplight blinded Tilrey as he obeyed. But Jorning’s hand was there, guiding his head to the outstretched palm, where he lapped up the dark liquid. Jorning had given him just enough to smooth down his tension.

The next moment, the driver was kissing him hungrily. Tilrey froze, taken by surprise, unused to the man’s stubble and his tastes of pipe smoke and fried food.

Then he opened his mouth as he would have done with Ansha, forcing himself to relax in the driver’s embrace. Just a show. All for the Fir’s eyes.

Jorning’s erection was certainly real, though. He tugged Tilrey onto his lap, the roughness of his trousers rutting against the bare skin of Tilrey’s ass. “Ahh, nice,” he whispered. “Trust me for the next part, okay?”

Things were happening a little fast for Tilrey’s taste, or else the sap was slowing down his reflexes. Next thing he knew, he was being tossed off Jorning’s lap and rolled onto his front with his legs hanging over the edge of the bed, exposing his ass. “Stay!” Jorning barked when he started to sit up.

Tilrey went still, hands up by his head so he wouldn’t feel tempted to use them. This wasn’t unlike being turned over Gourmanian’s knee. But he was acutely conscious of his vulnerability as Jorning spread his thighs farther apart.

“Stay still and take your medicine like a good boy,” Jorning repeated, this time in a stagy tone that made Tilrey cringe. He was still wondering where Jorning had learned his script when something whistled sharply through the air behind him.

Pain exploded on his rump, tearing a gasp from him. Only a belt, he told himself hastily. But the impact stung like Gourmanian’s hand never had. It was hard to keep still.

He had to, though, because an instant later the belt cleaved the air again.

This time, he yelped when it made contact—less from the pain itself, he told himself, than from the shock of something so new to him.

Wouldn’t this leave marks? Had Jorning lied to Vlastor for the hell of it? But if Linden wanted Tilrey flogged, he couldn’t object. The man might hit him even for speaking out of turn, as Jorning had put it. Better to have marks where not everyone could see them.

So Tilrey gritted his teeth and clasped his hands. This time, he visualized Jorning’s arm drawing back and lashing forward. He braced for the moment when the thick leather strap would make contact, removing a layer of skin and leaving rawness in its place.

The blow arrived an instant later than he expected. But he managed not to cry out.

After that, he braced harder, fingernails digging into his own hands. He tried to relax into the rhythm of the punishment, the way he did when he was being spanked and a sweet swell of shame dovetailed with the pain. But this was more in every way. This was on the verge of too much.

Dal and her siblings used to get beltings when they did something especially bad. Tilrey remembered how this had shocked him, and how Dal would laugh and threaten to show him the marks: Sheesh, stop whingeing! I won’t be sitting down today, that’s all.

Now he wondered if Dal’s bravado had been all for show. Or would he get used to this? Fingernails weren’t doing the job. He sank his teeth into the flesh of one hand—not breaking the skin, just absorbing the impact.

Each new blow hurt more than the last—a stinging pain that made him writhe, like an itch he couldn’t reach. It felt as if his skin were being flayed clean off, but surely that wasn’t possible? He was just “soft,” as Dal used to say. No wonder his face was wet with tears.

He tried to count the blows, but he’d already lost track. His world had narrowed to his tormentor’s faint grunts of effort, the belt singing through the air, the struggle not to cry out, and the pain, the pain, the pain.

Then, just like that, it stopped. Footsteps moved away from him. Tilrey’s teeth loosened their grip on his tear-damp hand. He was suddenly aware of his breathing, hoarse and too loud in the silence.

Was Linden getting off on this? Could the man get off?

The footsteps returned. Someone bent over him. “Stay still a bit longer, that’s a good lad,” Jorning crooned, as if he had just delivered a massage and not a beating.

Tilrey braced himself anew. This time, though, Jorning’s hand was slick with warm lotion, smoothing it over his rawness. He cringed at first, but then the pain eased by degrees.

Tilrey returned to himself by degrees, too. Where had he been? For a few moments there, he was fairly sure he’d lost control.

It’s not so bad after all, he told himself as Jorning’s slippery fingers probed into his crack, surprisingly gentle after what had just happened. It’s almost over.

Later, perhaps, he would ask Jorning how many blows there’d been. He suspected the whole thing had taken no more than a few minutes. It seemed longer, that was all. Next time he would stay in command of himself.

He spread his thighs and let Jorning haul him up on all fours, knowing what was coming. Not afraid.

He couldn’t help cowering as the driver mounted him. The friction of skin and clothing against open welts hurt. He focused on deep, healing breaths, ushering Jorning’s cock into himself rather than resisting it.

Jorning must have been rock hard. A few good thrusts and he was already in the home stretch, breathing in eager gasps, yanking on Tilrey’s hair, and jamming Tilrey’s face into the bedclothes.

Using that belt turned him on. For a moment Tilrey didn’t want to believe it, because Jorning had been so kind last time. The big, strong body thrusting into him even brought confusing memories of Bror.

Then he shrugged inwardly. Jorning couldn’t help being turned on by hurting him, any more than he could help being turned on by the humiliation and token pain of a spanking.

Anyway, blame had no place in a show that was all for the Fir’s benefit.

Jorning collapsed heavily on top of Tilrey when he came. But almost immediately he was up again, urging Tilrey into a new position facing the headboard. He yanked Tilrey’s hips high and wedged pillows beneath them.

Tilrey couldn’t resist a groan as he realized his ass was being raised again, presented for display or penetration. “Not done?” he whispered.

Jorning stroked his hair tenderly—then patted an ass-cheek, sending faint shock waves of pain radiating through him.

“Almost. Promise. You’ve been so good.” He parted Tilrey’s thighs. Bending, he added directly in his ear, “You ever take a toy before?”

Tilrey shook his head. He’d been so ready to rest. “You mean…?”

“No worries.” Jorning stroked Tilrey’s hair again. “You’re good and slick, I made sure of that. It’ll slide right in.”

What will? But Jorning had moved away.

How long was Tilrey supposed to wait in this humiliating position? He inched his thighs together. His palms were planted on the mattress, reading to propel him upright, when a heavy weight settled beside him.

It was Linden, still wrapped in the voluminous robe. Remembering he couldn’t ask questions, Tilrey went limp and eased his thighs apart again.

You can’t fight back. Better to get it over with.

Linden’s hand settled on the scruff of his neck. Even after more than a year, the plump palm felt strangely familiar, as if Tilrey’s body had recorded everything about the hand that had hurt him that night.

He shuddered as Linden stroked down his spine to the small of his back, then rubbed the aching swell beneath.

“He looks better face down,” Linden said conversationally, as if speaking to Jorning or to some invisible colleague. He squeezed one of Tilrey’s ass cheeks carelessly.

Tilrey stuffed a knuckle back in his mouth to stop himself from crying out. Unlike Malsha, Linden clearly wasn’t attentive to the amount of pain he was causing.

“Face down, ass in the air, always the most flattering position,” the Magistrate reiterated. “No need to see that smarmy expression.”

When did I have a smarmy expression? Tilrey wondered if he’d been insolent without realizing it.

But then he remembered Tollsha Linden saying that his uncle sometimes mistook him for his father. Similarly, Linden seemed to be looking at Tilrey and seeing someone else. Someone he disliked, but also someone who aroused him.

That was clear from the way the Magistrate touched Tilrey now. “You thought you’d slip away?” he asked almost tenderly, wrenching Tilrey’s thighs wide. “You belong to me, you miserable miscreant boy. You always have.”

Who is he talking to? Tilrey was so curious that he forgot to be afraid. With any other man, he would have improvised, playing the part he’d been cast in. But he knew it was best to keep quiet.

“Now you’ll learn.” Linden’s voice was caressing and disdainful at once. He drew back, then leaned over Tilrey again. “You aren’t even good enough for my cock, sweetheart. I’m going to take you the way you deserve. With a thing, because you are a thing.”

As he spoke, a blunt object nudged Tilrey’s crack. Tilrey remembered what Jorning had told him, and he let out his breath deliberately.

The answer to Jorning’s question was no, he never had been fucked with an object before. One night Malsha had opened a carved box to show Tilrey an array of dildos he had imported from Harbour, made of leather or inlaid wood. All-natural materials. The ones we manufacture here are synthetics or stainless steel, which is so sterile, don’t you think? I wonder if you could take this big one.

It was all talk. Malsha didn’t use any of the toys except to make Tilrey squirm at the thought of how they might feel inside him. I love the look on your face right now. What an imagination.

Now Linden, who had no interest in Tilrey’s face or his imagination, was working the tip of a dildo inside him. It felt larger than Jorning’s cock had.

The plastic phallus was room temperature, and the invasion wasn’t especially painful after what Jorning had done to him. Still, Tilrey had to force himself not to clench up. He was used to being fucked by a person who was panting with excitement, not in this clinical way. The sensation reminded him of the first time he’d been bent over in a chilly office and subjected to a rectal exam.

To be handled so impersonally, as if his body were a bale of goods, brought an unexpected flush to his cheeks. As the phallus sank deeper into him, its path lubricated by Jorning’s cum, he felt a shameful impulse to whimper and beg. Please don’t hurt me. As if reminding his tormentor that he was human might help.

He stayed quiet.

When the dildo was halfway in, the Magistrate gave Tilrey’s right cheek a light spank. “You like it. Move. Take it deeper.”

Tilrey knew how to do that. He levered himself up on his knees and began to pump with his hips—in and out, impaling himself a little more on the toy each time. It hurt as it widened him, but he was stretching. Soon it would slide all the way home.

He had a feeling of floating above himself, strange and familiar at once. Through Linden’s eyes, he saw red, welted buttocks rutting eagerly and the full length of the toy disappearing. At its base was a pair of plump synthetic balls, snug now against his crack.

That brought him back into his body. The sensation of fullness was so unexpected that his cock twitched and stiffened. Tears stung his eyes. He blinked them away, grateful that both his face and his arousal were hidden.

He tried to move again, but the Magistrate smacked his ass. “Stay.”

Tilrey stayed, though his position—balanced on his knees, ass high—was unstable and mortifying. He breathed. He felt Linden’s hand resting lightly on him, holding the toy inside.

“Get used to it,” Linden said. The words were muzzy, as if his mouth were full of saliva. “My thing now. Perfect fit.”

He drew the dildo all the way out of Tilrey, so that the tip slipped free with a wet pop, and then plunged it in again. Both movements were so rapid that Tilrey’s heart raced. He had an unsettling mental image of his innards spilling out of a gaping hole.

But it was all right. He was a sheath that took the shape of a cock or a toy without breaking. Flexible, obedient. Holding things was his function.

It went on a little longer. The Magistrate would stab him with the toy and withdraw it again, then order him to “keep moving,” then smack him to make him still. None of it made any sense, but Tilrey obeyed. If he did this long enough, he thought in a fuzzy way, he might stop needing anything to make sense ever again.

When he felt Linden’s hand withdraw, he allowed himself to collapse into a fully prone position. The toy slid partway out. Fearing the Magistrate would notice, Tilrey squirmed sideways to push the base against the mattress, keeping it securely lodged.

As he lay there, waiting to be used again or at least told what to do, he remembered a time in the Southern Range when Malsha had made him stay in bed all day, naked and sticky with cum. When you truly belong to me, he’d told Tilrey later, you’re always ready to serve my pleasure, like an object I can put on a shelf and take down at will. And you like it.

Tilrey knew Malsha very well by then. He’d done his best to spoil Malsha’s pleasure by offering no resistance. He lounged in bed, sometimes dozing and sometimes pretending he wasn’t itching with boredom. He was very proud of how unreactive he managed to be.

But when Malsha finally slipped into bed and began touching and caressing him, something unexpected happened. Tilrey’s body came alive. After hours of forced inaction, every touch was incredibly arousing. He rubbed languorously against Malsha, eager for more. He rolled onto all fours without being told, needing a cock inside him. And Malsha, taking advantage of his hyper-responsiveness, jerked him off so skillfully that they came together.

You see, my love? he’d told Tilrey as they lay exhausted and entangled. I want to be sure you belong to me, body and soul, before I make you my secretary. When you’re truly mine, all the decisions you make on your own will be my decisions, too.

Tilrey shuddered, remembering. If Malsha had stayed in Oslov, would he have ended up as a mere extension of the man who’d shaped him?

Better this way, he told himself. But right then he missed Malsha desperately, because at least Malsha knew he’d once been a real person with a will of his own.

Water splashed in the bathroom. Then Jorning was standing over Tilrey, yanking the toy out of him. “Get up, hurry,” he said, tossing a robe over Tilrey’s nakedness. “Fir Magistrate likes to sleep alone.”

Tilrey didn’t need to be told twice. He wondered if Linden had managed to come, but he didn’t really care.

Standing up hurt. He gritted his teeth, tugged on the robe, and followed Jorning through the hall and sitting room into the smaller bedroom where a kettle boy or guest would normally sleep.

“I changed the linens,” Jorning said, flicking on the lights as if Tilrey were any ordinary guest. “Your clothes are on the chair. Hungry? Nip of sap?”

“No, thanks.” Was it all over, then? No beating, no bruises for Verán to fret over? Tilrey ached everywhere, and his empty stomach rumbled. Yet he felt a surge of elation as he realized he had survived his second night with Linden fairly unscathed.

“Could I maybe … take a shower?” Normally he didn’t wash until he returned home, but this night wasn’t normal.

Jorning showed him the attached bathroom and brought out a washcloth and soap. “Hang your robe up for you?”

Well, he’s already seen me naked. Tilrey stripped and gave the robe to Jorning. He was relieved when the driver left and closed the door behind him.

The shower took a while. When he emerged, there was Jorning again, offering him a steaming cup. “This’ll help you sleep. Lie down, I’ll give you some more lotion. Helps, huh?”

“Yeah.” Tilrey wanted to be alone. But Jorning was being decent, and it wasn’t like he’d dare touch the Party’s Jewel out of turn. Their coupling had been for the Fir’s eyes only.

So he stretched out on the bed and let Jorning reapply lotion to his welts. Each touch made him wince, but the pain reliever did its work, and a pleasant numbness spread where the driver’s fingers had been.

The tea had sap in it. Tilrey closed his eyes, letting himself drift toward sleep.

“You ever been tied up?” the driver asked, massaging lotion into Tilrey’s hip. “I’m thinking we could try that next time. Make the Fir feel a little more secure.”

“Um, yes. I have.” He didn’t like Jorning’s casual assumption that scenes like this would recur. “Verán will notice, you know. Those may not be bruises, but they’re marks.”

“They’ll heal quickly.” Jorning sounded a touch defensive. “I didn’t break the skin.”

Tilrey reminded himself that Jorning bore Linden’s marks, too. “You did the best you could,” he assured the driver. “You’ve done all this before? With whores, you said?”

“Yeah, a few times. And in the service, my sergeant used to make me thrash recruits. Got my arm in practice.” He chuckled awkwardly. “First time, huh? Your ma and pa never gave you the strap?”

Tilrey didn’t want to talk about his mother. Jorning’s Skeinsha accent set him on edge now. In Thurskein, no one would have done these things to him; no one could have. A common soldier like Jorning wouldn’t even have dared to approach him without encouragement.

He asked, “You like that, don’t you? Using the belt on somebody?”

“Like it?” Jorning sounded offended. “It’s a job.”

“You don’t have to pretend you weren’t into it. I’ve pretty much seen everything.”

The driver put the lotion aside and spread the robe over Tilrey. “Anybody would be into it with you,” he said. “I mean, look at you. An ass like that. Sit up and I’ll tuck you in.”

Tilrey sat up with a grimace. As he slid under the bedclothes, the robe fell off, and Jorning’s rough palm ran over his bare shoulder and neck, sneaking a caress.

After the strain of the long night, Tilrey reacted without thinking. He knocked Jorning aside with his elbow.

When he saw the hurt look on the driver’s face, he knew he’d made a mistake. But he didn’t regret it. “Look,” he said, “thanks for the lotion and everything. I really appreciate it. But the Fir isn’t here anymore. And I need my sleep.”

Jorning got up, red-faced. “You misunderstood. Wouldn’t touch you that way without permission.”

“I know you wouldn’t,” Tilrey lied.

He must have been convincing, because Jorning hovered, looking hopeful again. “Sure you don’t want me to stay? We could just sleep in the same bed, like last time.”

Do I have to say yes? Will he turn against me if I don’t? But Jorning should know better. Vlastor might be a dick, but at least he respected boundaries.

In the instant it took Tilrey to weigh the question, the driver seemed to weigh things, too. “Never mind,” he said, opening the door. “Just thought you might want company. A friend, you know. Just ’cause you dress like a Strutter doesn’t mean you gotta act all high and mighty, like you’re too good for me.”

I’m not acting that way! But Tilrey had no idea what to reply. He was still sitting there, mouth open, as Jorning closed the door.

***

Tilrey was up well before Jorning came to wake him. He didn’t sleep well. Tossing and turning, he kept hearing the jeers of the protesters: Fake Strutters! Dressed up like dolls! And then Jorning saying essentially the same thing: that he was just a toy for Upstarts, putting on airs when he was nothing at all.

Should he have allowed Jorning to touch him? Would that have proved he was still something more than a fuck-piece? But he hadn’t wanted it. He’d been so tired.

It was pitch dark outside when he slipped out of bed to examine the welts in the bathroom mirror. They were bright red, but Jorning had told the truth about not drawing blood.

Just a little tenderization, Tilrey told himself firmly as he dressed. Like a deep tissue massage. He wouldn’t let Bror see. Easy enough to keep his trousers on until the marks faded.

He was afraid Jorning would try something with him again. But when the driver arrived, he said only, “Vlastor’s here” and led Tilrey out to the coldroom.

Tilrey had never been so happy to see Vlastor before. It was as if he’d been holding his breath all night. He told himself sternly that shedding tears on the way home was forbidden.

Vlastor’s first act was to grab Tilrey and peer up into his face, obviously looking for bruises. When he found none, he released Tilrey and said to the other driver, “Good as your word.”

Jorning seemed a little intimidated by Vlastor. Perhaps he was still self-conscious about being a Skeinsha—or he was afraid Tilrey would complain about his handsy behavior. “Tried my best,” he said as they left.

***

Verán did find out, of course—two days later, after Tilrey had run a bath for the majority leader, helped him into it, and followed the order to strip off his own clothes.

He knew the welts would be especially lurid under the bathroom lights, so he did his best not to turn around. But Verán’s eyes were sharp.

“What is that? Who did that to you? Come here, let me see!”

Tilrey stood thigh deep and allowed Verán to palpate the reddened skin. “They’ll be gone soon, Fir.”

“What was that, a belt?” Verán scolded as if Tilrey had requested the belting rather than enduring it. “I thought Mosha Linden didn’t hurt you this time. Vlastor said so. What do you do to that man to make him want to hurt you?”

“I don’t do anything, Fir.” For once, Tilrey couldn’t help snapping his reply. “I think he confuses me with someone else.”

“Does he?” After a moment, Verán chuckled nastily, as if he savored the thought of Linden losing touch with reality. “Not a word to anyone about that. Not yet, anyway.”

“Yes, Fir.”

Tilrey lowered himself into the water. He hoped Verán would think twice about sending him to Linden again.

A little later, when he was massaging Verán’s back, he took the risk of asking something that had been bothering him. “Who do you think Fir Magistrate might mistake me for, Fir? Is there anyone he used to know who looked like me?”

Verán laughed again. “Looked like you? Our Jewel? Not likely.”

Notes:

The incident where Malsha made Tilrey stay in bed all day was also described in this chapter of "A Serviceable Boy," though it's told a little differently there.

Chapter 50: Drawing a Line

Notes:

Warning: This chapter involves the CSA of a teenage girl, though I've tried to keep the details off-page. There are lines Tilrey won't cross, even at his lowest points, and this is one. So yeah, it's an ugly situation.

Here's the chapter where Lindthardt was introduced. Here's the one where Tilrey and Malsha humiliate him. And yes, Lindthardt's son will turn up much later to bully Ceill, because they're just a shitty family, I fear.

May, year 345

Tilrey was bored.

His brain was a sponge, eager to learn new things. Malsha had understood this and given him lessons of all kinds, but now his books were the only real intellectual stimulation he had.

He sucked up scraps of knowledge everywhere. When he learned that Bror had an excellent memory for ski-racing stats, he coaxed his friend into monologues on the topic. He asked Vlastor questions about car maintenance. He listened closely as Ulli and Ansha argued over their favorite streams. He observed the subtle differences in dialect and outlook among his fellow kettle boys, reflecting their upbringing in different Rings of the city. He read copies of the Council Record from cover to cover, plowing straight through stultifying descriptions of voting procedure.

Councillors’ conversations were occasions to file away tidbits of gossip. Without really trying, Tilrey now had a strong grasp of the intricate webs of patronage that connected everyone working in the Core. Malsha, he supposed bitterly, would have been proud of his protégé.

Sometimes Vlastor brought Tilrey to meet Verán in Government Sector before proceeding to the Lounge. On evenings when the majority leader was very busy, they might wait outside his office or in the antechamber for an hour or more. Vlastor fidgeted, clearly bored out of his skull. But Tilrey kept his eyes and ears open, eavesdropping on conversations in the corridor. He noted with interest how deftly Verán’s Secretary Gavras juggled the many colleagues who wanted a moment of the Councillor’s time.

In all of these situations, Tilrey avoided appearing observant. He had perfected a bored, sulky, slightly slack-jawed look to conceal his attention to his surroundings, and most people were fooled.

One spring day, when he’d been waiting in the antechamber of Verán’s office for forty minutes, Fir Councillor Jena swept in.

Jena didn’t even glance at Tilrey, who sat alone on a chair against the wall. (Vlastor was off fetching tea.) Majestic in his robe of office, Malsha’s son-in-law marched straight up to Secretary Gavras and demanded to talk to the majority leader about the wording of a budget amendment.

“I’m so sorry, Fir Councillor.” A gray, ageless little man, Gavras was a master of making a refusal sound like a groveling yes. “Fir Majority Leader is in a meeting. May I make you an appointment? No, I don’t know how much longer. You’re welcome to wait, Fir.” The secretary’s raised brow silently said, But I’d advise you not to.

“I’ll wait, then,” Jena growled and pulled out a chair.

The door of the inner office opened to reveal Besha, who beckoned to the secretary. “Got that report?”

“Of course, Fir.” Gavras followed Besha. The door closed behind them, leaving Tilrey alone with the man who had deflowered him.

Raped him would be more accurate, he knew. But the word made him deeply comfortable now. It belonged to another time, when he still considered his body his own.

Jena himself clearly hadn’t seen anything he did to Tilrey as a violation. But when he learned that Tilrey had spent a few hours alone in a room with his daughter, Vera, he’d reacted as if Tilrey had raped her, despite her protestations to the contrary.

And so Jena had also become the first person ever to bruise him. He’s trash, and I want him disposed of. I’ll see him dead before I see him on any Councillor’s arm, even an Islander’s.

Malsha had promised to toss Tilrey into a brothel, but he hadn’t promised to keep him there. A month or so later, he had traipsed into the Lounge with Tilrey on his arm, defying Jena to do anything about it.

It was so long since Tilrey had thought about this man, let alone worried about him. Jena was a small-fry Councillor, with his party currently out of power and no powerful connections except his wife, Albertine Linnett. The most he could do to make good on his threats was to glare witheringly at Tilrey.

He couldn’t know how things went on between Vera and me. Sleeping with Vera in her University dorm already felt like something Tilrey had done in another lifetime. Malsha had punished him for that. But he hadn’t informed his son-in-law, whom he despised.

Jena was giving him a long but neutral look—eyes cold, face expressionless.

“Can I fetch you something, Fir?” Tilrey asked, trying to be polite. “Vlastor went for tea.”

Jena continued his silent contemplation, then said in a thick voice, “The Island’s Jewel. Malsha would turn over in his grave if he knew what they call you.”

Malsha isn’t dead. Tilrey lowered his eyes. “My Fir calls me what he sees fit to call me.”

“You look unhappy.”

This was unexpected, but the response was easy. Automatic, even. “I’m quite well, Fir.”

Jena made a dry, scoffing sound. “I have eyes. I watched you with Malsha, and I see you in the Lounge with Verán. Tell me, lad, which of them do you hate more?”

I hate them both, and I’ve always hated you. Yet the question felt oddly like a gift. Here was an Upstart who still looked at him and saw something besides a visually pleasing object.

Because he knew Verán placed no value on Jena, Tilrey took the risk of speaking plainly. “Does it make you happy to think I’m miserable, Fir?”

“I can’t imagine why I should care.” But Jena’s tone was tinged with poison. “My wife has it in her head that I mistreated you. I ask on her account only.”

“How kind of your wife, Fir.” Tilrey kept his own voice even, not taking the bait. “Please convey my thanks to her.”

And fuck you both. Fuck you all. The anger that flared inside him felt surprisingly sweet. It was so satisfying to spar with an Upstart again. To say something nasty and have it register. He missed doing that with Malsha, he supposed.

Before Jena could respond, the inner door opened. Secretary Gavras returned to his desk while Besha finished his conversation with Verán in the doorway, laughing in his braying way.

In the instant before anyone noticed them, Jena said to Tilrey under his breath, “Never forget I was your first.”

***

The brief exchange roused Tilrey from his daze of boredom.

Half an hour later, in the Lounge, he sat up straighter than usual and actually paid attention to Verán and Besha, who were rehashing the day’s debate over budget allocations.

The Welfare Committee had been debating next year’s budget for care of elderly people—“post-workers,” they were called—in the Laborer cities. The Laborer Supervisors who governed Thurskein and Karkei had been agitating for more frequent cancer screenings and surgeries, updated cardiac therapy, more doctors overall. Some of their Upstart Admins had spoken for this position in the committee, arguing that Laborers had a right to aspire to the same life expectancy as their Upstart counterparts.

“No one’s stopping them from aspiring to anything,” Besha said now, snickering. “But why fund the health of workers who can’t work anymore?”

“We already fund their health care generously,” Verán reminded him. “But the numbers are clear: To give a factory Drudge the same life expectancy as a Programmer, one would actually have to spend more to offset the effects of a life of manual labor. Not to mention, they’re statistically more likely to indulge in bad habits. Higher mortality is a choice. You can’t rescue people from themselves.”

The words sounded reasonable in the abstract. But they’re talking about people like Bror’s family, Tilrey realized. Like Dal’s grandparents. Like my own mother.

In school, he’d been taught that health care was a human right guaranteed by the government, along with food, shelter, and employment. No one had ever mentioned that Laborers and Upstarts received different health care.

What a good little boy you are, Malsha had said once. You believe what they tell you.

“Ah, Beirthsha, you argued our case nicely today,” Verán said to a young Councillor who had just joined them. “What a pity you belong to the opposition.”

The newcomer was a sleek young man, with a generous mouth and wrestler’s build—Councillor Beirthrandt Lindthardt, Saldegren’s nephew. “Some things can’t be helped,” he said with a confident grin.

Tilrey dropped his eyes. This was becoming a night of flashbacks. He had been the congratulatory gift Lindthardt received from Malsha upon his election.

“Lindthardt doesn’t need to be introduced to our Jewel.” Besha’s voice was hoarse with excitement, as always when he was about to embarrass someone. “But it’s been some time for the two of you, hasn’t it? Mm-hm.”

Lindthardt allowed his eyes to rest on Tilrey. “I have had the pleasure,” he said. “You look well, Tilrey.”

“Thank you, Fir,” Tilrey replied in the same tone.

This wasn’t the Lindthardt he remembered, who’d been all over him before they even left the car. You sweet filthy slut. You haven’t been fucked properly in a while. The man had been annoyingly athletic in the bedroom, too, and boastful about his precocious political career, declaring his intention to wed Vera Linnett.

He hadn’t gotten far with that, at least partly because Tilrey had warned Vera about Lindthardt’s designs on her. Now Tilrey couldn’t help savoring this secret as he watched the young Councillor clawing his way back to prominence by sucking up to Malsha’s arch-enemy.

“We don’t call him Tilrey anymore!” Besha scolded Lindthardt. “We call him Nettsha.”

“Forgive me.” Lindthardt aimed a sycophantic smile at Verán. “Things were so different under Malsha—chaotic, really. It’s reassuring to have solid Oslovs back at the helm. I’ve thought about switching parties, but my grandmother would never forgive me. Still, I try to support your agenda where I can.”

The conversation went on like that. Tilrey wasn’t shocked to learn that Lindthardt was a political whore with no principles. He was more surprised that Verán seemed so eager for Lindthardt’s swing vote. After some polite small talk, the old man yawned. “Time for me to turn in. I don’t have the stamina for late nights anymore. Beirthsha, I appreciate your support today.”

“Least I could do!” Lindthardt protested.

Verán waved at Tilrey as if he were offering a spread of questionable leftovers. “Take the piece tonight, if you’re not already tired of him,” he said, putting ironic stress on the words.

This was a test, and Lindthardt passed it. “Tired? Hardly. I’m honored,” he declared, rising and offering his arm to Tilrey like a knight in a saga. “No one who experiences your Jewel could forget him.”

Besha crowed. “Always nice to see a happy couple reunited!”

Was he jealous, or did he just wish he could watch them? Tilrey wondered, allowing Lindthardt to lead him away.

As they crossed the Lounge, he looked for Bror—a reflex at this point—and found him at István’s table in the corner, laughing expansively at something his Fir was saying. Bror’s eyes sparkled with good cheer. His deep, resonant laughter brought back memories of their long days in the Vacants.

Bror glanced up as they passed, but Tilrey didn’t reciprocate. Later, he promised himself, knowing Bror understood. Sometimes even your eyes could betray you.

Once they were out of Verán’s sight, Lindthardt dropped his exaggerated manners, but he didn’t start pawing Tilrey as he had in the past. “Do you remember how I had you in my coldroom?” he asked, handing Tilrey his coat.

“Yes, Fir.”

“I couldn’t wait.” Lindthardt chuckled to himself. “I knew Malsha would only give you to me once, so I had to make it count.”

Had it only been once? Tilrey felt as if he could recall several nights with this tiresome young man, who was hellbent on demonstrating his potency. “You made it count, Fir,” he said flatly, so Lindthardt wouldn’t think he’d enjoyed it.

Once they were in the car, Lindthardt shoved Tilrey against the seat and kissed him hard, reaching between them to squeeze his cock. There was nothing affectionate or even passionate in the gesture—Lindthardt was claiming Verán’s offering, simple as that. When he gave Tilrey space to breathe again, Tilrey took it.

“Verán thinks you’re a dolt,” the man said as the car floated lazily along the grid.

Bror would have cracked a joke. “Doesn’t take brains to suck cock, Fir.”

“Malsha thought you were clever, though. Didn’t he?” Lindthardt asked as if he’d caught Tilrey in a lie. “He encouraged you to show off—and humiliate his junior colleagues in the process.”

Oh. Two years ago in the Lounge, in conversation with Malsha, Lindthardt had flubbed a simple point of Council procedure. Malsha had mocked the younger Councillor and ordered Tilrey to correct him.

Tilrey had. And Malsha had said to his colleague, If I tested you both on Council procedure right now, we both know who would win.

Tilrey still remembered his flush of pride and triumph over the young Councillor. Lindthardt was right—he’d been showing off, knowing Malsha would protect him. Malsha couldn’t do that now.

“Malsha liked to play games, Fir,” he said.

“Hmm, yes.” Lindthardt drank some sap from his own palm and poured out more for Tilrey. “I hope you’re not nervous around me,” he added, running beefy fingers through Tilrey’s hair as Tilrey bent to lap up the sweet, viscous liquid. “I don’t hold a grudge—obviously. I know Malsha set me up. He tutored you so he could embarrass me.”

Tilrey didn’t know how Malsha could have predicted that Lindthardt would make a specific error. But he swallowed the sap and tried to seem sorry.

“You were his little protégé.” Lindthardt released Tilrey’s head and allowed him to sit up. “Now I see you playing dumb with Verán. You won’t do that with me.”

“Yes, Fir. I mean, no, Fir.” The whole conversation was making Tilrey uncomfortable. He didn’t like that Lindthardt remembered his past self so well. The quick-witted apprentice he’d been with Malsha was too different from the dead-eyed accessory he needed to be now.

But he also needed Lindthardt not to feel threatened by him, so he spoke artlessly and frankly for once. “I wasn’t playing at anything, Fir. I was just surprised by what you and Verán were saying. My mother’s back in Thurskein. It seems unfair to ration the best treatments, if you really want to know my opinion.”

Lindthardt stared at Tilrey for a moment. Then he laughed. “You were listening to us talk about the budget?”

“I can follow along, Fir.”

“Why would you want to? It’s so fucking boring.” But Lindthardt seemed charmed as he tousled Tilrey’s hair again and slung an arm around his waist. “Anyway, with the powerful friends you’re making, you should be able to keep your mother alive to ninety.”

Not if Verán tosses me in the Brothel when he’s done with me. “I only mentioned my mother as an example,” Tilrey said. “I was just surprised because, well, equality of opportunity is in our constitution. Isn’t it?”

“State-of-the-art treatments are a luxury, not an opportunity. And luxuries are not for all,” Lindthardt recited in his debating voice.

Then, as the car slid into the dock, he dropped the act and kissed Tilrey playfully on the throat. “You sound so feisty when you use big words. Like a shirker. Turns me on.”

The driver killed the engine and held the door for them. Lindthardt lingered, nuzzling and groping and humming with excitement, while Tilrey let his body be pliant and his mind float away. He hoped Lindthardt would have the sense not to tell Verán he had sounded “like a shirker.”

He expected Lindthardt to proceed straight to the main event. Instead, in the coldroom, the Councillor became a formal host again. Unknotting Tilrey’s scarf for him, he said, “Just one thing before we go in. I didn’t know Verán would be so generous, so I already had plans for tonight. You don’t mind that we’ll have a companion, do you?”

Tilrey’s heart sank. He wasn’t in the mood for a threesome. “Why would I mind, Fir?”

“Good.” Lindthardt removed Tilrey’s coat and hung it up. “Because my friend is waiting.”

Perhaps Tilrey couldn’t keep his apprehension off his face. Lindthardt laughed. “It’s not what you think. Not at all.”

They found the “friend” in the sitting room, lounging on the sofa with her feet up. Sure enough, she was nothing Tilrey had expected.

He recognized her as a server from the Restaurant—a Ring Sixer, part of Bror’s far-flung network of friends and relations. Beneath a flood of loose black hair, she wore only a shift and leggings, and she was very pretty and very young.

Too young. Tilrey had asked Bror why she wasn’t still in school, and Bror had explained that many Sixers dropped out to work at sixteen.

How long ago was that? The girl’s features were still soft and childish, but her smile was knowing as she bounced to her feet, threw her arms around the Councillor, and kissed him passionately. “I’ve been waiting forever, Beirthsha!”

“I’m sorry!” Lindthardt’s hands were all over the girl, as possessive as he’d been with Tilrey—who had to look away. “But look what I’ve brought you, sweetheart! This is the General Magistrate’s kettle boy.”

Tilrey could only stare at them, feeling queasy. Was she even younger than Ulli, who at least was legally of age?

The girl’s eyes moved over Tilrey. “Oh, I know him,” she said, sounding disappointed. “Everybody does.”

“But you’ve never been this close to him, have you?” Lindthardt beckoned to Tilrey impatiently. “This is the Island’s Jewel, the most sought-after boy in the whole city. Tilrey, this is my sweet Tzara.”

Tilrey clasped Tzara’s hand obediently, but every part of his body resisted the contact. She shouldn’t be here. She deserves better.

The feelings must have shown on his face. “I don’t think he likes me, Fir.”

“Silly! How could anyone not like you?” Lindthardt twined an arm around Tilrey’s waist, yanking the two of them closer together. “She’s hot, right?” he asked, his breath hot in Tilrey’s ear.

Tilrey didn’t nod. When he looked at Tzara, he saw seventeen-year-old Dal as he had known her in Thurskein—free and easy, full of adolescent mischief and mayhem. Far too young to have a Councillor’s arm around her.

Even he had been so young at eighteen. Frightened, innocent, unprepared—but not actually a child. No child should be put through these things.

Lindthardt tugged them both toward the hallway, seemingly oblivious to Tilrey’s reaction. “It’s late. Let’s retire to the bedroom.”

Tilrey stayed where he was. “I don’t think so, Fir.”

“He doesn’t want me, Beirthsha,” Tzara said. Her eyes glinted too brightly, as if she’d indulged in sap before they arrived. Perhaps Lindthardt gave her an allowance.

“Oh, please! If he likes girls, he likes you.” Abandoning Tilrey, Lindthardt wrapped both arms around Tzara and moved his hands easily over her curves.

Tilrey stared down at the carpet. Clearly this was nothing new to either of them.

The girl was telling the Councillor breathily that she had no interest in Tilrey. “I think you’re much prettier than he is. You’re older and more manly. I could never get tired of you.”

The two of them tumbled onto the sofa. Tilrey stood awkwardly to one side, trying to shut out the unmistakable sounds of Lindthardt getting a hand job.

He could imagine how the two of them had met—at the Restaurant, much like Bror and Councillor István. But Bror had been an adult, entering a mutually beneficial situation with open eyes. What had the arrogant young Councillor told this child? Did she think he was actually in love with her?

At least she seemed to have no genuine passion for him. The moaning sounds she made as Lindthardt touched her were obviously fake, at least to Tilrey’s ears.

She reminded him of the underage boys who hung around Supervisor Fernei’s office in Thurskein. They, too, seemed knowing beyond their years. When Tilrey was a schoolboy himself, they’d disgusted him. But now he knew their sophistication was at least partly an act—and a coerced one. Many Upstarts wanted to believe you were enjoying it, or even that it was your idea.

She shouldn’t be doing these things. He’s hurting her.

Tzara’s moans suggested the two of them were climaxing at once. Tilrey doubted they actually were, given Lindthardt’s tendency to focus on his own pleasure. He waited agonizing minutes for them to settle down, both panting amorously.

Why hadn’t he stopped it from happening? What kind of coward was he? Just because Lindthardt had done this before didn’t make it right.

 “Why are you standing there, boy?” the Councillor demanded. “C’mere.”

Tilrey sat down. A sidelong glance told him Tzara was now wearing only the sheer shift.

“No, c’mere.” Tunic off and shirt untucked, Lindthardt grabbed Tilrey’s hand to sprawl him out beside the two of them. “You’re no fun,” he scolded, unclasping Tilrey’s own tunic and yanking it off. “I’m giving you a treat.”

Maybe I can distract him from her. When Lindthardt’s mouth attacked his again, Tilrey gave himself to it wholly, parting his lips to admit the man’s eager tongue. As they paused for breath, he whispered, “Let me suck your cock, Fir.”

“Mmm, you’re good at that. I remember.” But after a kiss on the forehead, Lindthardt shoved Tilrey toward the girl. “Need a rest. Take her for me. Wanna see you together.”

Tilrey turned just in time to see the naked distaste in Tzara’s eyes as she heard this. She didn’t want to give Lindthardt a show any more than he did.

She caught herself quickly, though, and made big eyes at the Councillor. “Ooh, really, Fir? Would you like that?”

“I’m not jealous!” Lindthardt reached past Tilrey to pat Tzara’s shoulder. “I’ll watch and savor it. Take off your shift, darling, and give the poor boy some encouragement. He looks like he’s going to his execution.”

Tilrey kept his eyes down as Tzara stripped. His mind was racing. How do I get out of this?

Maybe if he acted like an aggressive lover, Lindthardt would change his mind about sharing his girlfriend. But that would mean touching her in ways he didn’t want to. And if Lindthardt actually enjoyed it … what then?

Or Tilrey could claim he was too tired and sapped to get it up. But he had no control over his trained responses. If she touched his cock, he would be hard whether he liked it or not.

He was so tired of pretending. When Tzara stroked his shoulder, he backed away, still averting his eyes.

It sickened him how predictable the girl’s moves were. She was trying to be a good little whore, just as he would have done in her place. Undeterred by his silent refusal, she crawled forward and reached for his cock.

He pushed her away, hard. “I can’t, Fir. She’s too young.”

“I am not,” Tzara said, sharp as a slap.

Lindthardt spoke over her. “You have no idea how old she is.”

Tilrey tasted sap at the back of his throat, sweet turned to bitter. It would be so easy to take their word for it and obey Lindthardt’s orders, holding himself blameless. How often had he gone along with things he didn’t like? But there had to be lines he wouldn’t cross. “I have eyes.”

“Maybe you just can’t get it up,” Tzara said. Her tone was taunting, but Tilrey heard unease in it. She needed to keep Lindthardt happy.

“Or he wants to correct my morals.” Lindthardt cackled. “I’m happy to take instruction from a Skeinsha whore who satisfies a dozen men in a night.”

Tilrey stared down at his feet, trying not to let that sting. Even Lindthardt, a Mainlander, knew about the Spring Fling, probably Election Night as well. Everyone knew he had been passed from man to man, objecting to nothing.

Except this. He was sure of one thing: In his place, Bror would never lay a hand on this girl. When Tilrey was young and wounded, Bror had protected him.

“I’m not telling you how you should act, Fir,” he said dully. Though I’d like to.

“I’m eighteen,” Tzara announced. “Do I look like I don’t enjoy what I’m doing?”

Tilrey sighed. For all he knew, she really was eighteen. “You can both do what you like. I’ll oblige you any way you want, Fir. And like it.” Or pretend to.

He met Lindthardt’s eyes as he spoke, to show he meant it. “She can even watch. But I won’t touch her.”

Lindthardt smacked Tilrey across the face, sending him recoiling backward. “How dare you come into my home and preach at me?”

The stinging pain reminded Tilrey of Linden. But he wasn’t bleeding, and a slap was a small price to pay for self-respect. “Sorry.”

“Oh, you’re sorry! Insolent snit.” Lindthardt drew back his arm again. “Malsha taught you well, didn’t he? He gave you all kinds of ways to embarrass your betters.”

“Sorry, Fir.” All he could do was repeat it. “I can’t.”

Lindthardt lowered his arm and stared at Tilrey, his dark eyes burning with resentment. Perhaps a little guilt, too.

“Let me work on him, Fir,” Tzara said in a breathy murmur. “I can set him right for you.”

“No.” Lindthardt straightened up as if making a resolution. “No, he might hurt you if you try to force him, and I can’t allow that.” He beckoned to Tilrey. “Get up. Take everything off.”

Tilrey rose from the sofa and began stripping as instructed. This I can do. I don’t mind.

He was undoing his fly when Lindthardt got impatient and pushed him down on all fours. “Sweetheart, get me the lube?” he asked through gritted teeth, tearing off Tilrey’s trousers and tossing them aside. “And be sure to watch. This is for you.”

I don’t mind. I don’t mind. Tilrey shut his eyes and took the man’s weight, trying not to think about the girl as her feet pattered to the bedroom. Hot, angry breaths ruffled his hair.

As Tzara returned with the lube, Lindthardt grabbed Tilrey by the nape and pushed his head down until the carpet swam in his vision. Fingers jabbed into him with no regard for his comfort. “Remember, you asked for this. You could have had her instead.”

He took Tilrey fast and rough, the will to hurt and humiliate in every thrust. Tilrey breathed through it, reminding himself that he couldn’t be hurt in any meaningful way.

He thought of Vera Linnett, who’d escaped Lindthardt’s courtship thanks to his warning. Twice he’d embarrassed the man, or three times if tonight counted. No wonder Lindthardt wanted a little payback—he had even more cause than he knew.

He thought of Bror, but that hurt too much.

He tried not to think of the girl sitting above them on the sofa. Hopefully she wasn’t watching. But she couldn’t close her ears to Lindthardt’s vicious grunts or his own gasping breaths as he tried to absorb the impact without whimpering.

After several minutes that felt like an hour, Lindthardt’s cock started softening. He collapsed heavily on top of Tilrey without coming, panting for breath. “You nasty … little … slut.”

Tilrey waited patiently for him to get a second wind. But Lindthardt really did seem to need a rest. He straightened his clothes, got up, and lumbered down the hall. After a bit, Tilrey heard the shower running.

Then and only then, he hauled himself to his feet and found his clothes. He was shaking badly as he put them on, keeping his back to the girl, his shoulders and thighs aching from the Councillor’s weight. Once he was dressed, there was nowhere to go. He sat down on the floor and rested his chin on his knees, wishing he could sink into oblivion.

“You shouldn’t have done that,” a hard little voice said from the sofa.

“Oh, you think?” Now that the Fir was gone, Tilrey couldn’t entirely hide his irritation, though he knew she didn’t deserve it.

“You could’ve just told him you don’t like girls. You didn’t have to … make a statement. Now he feels bad.”

And he should fucking feel bad. Tilrey knew all too well she was right—lying would have been the smartest approach. But Lindthardt had made him so angry he hadn’t been thinking straight.

“I saw you with Bror at the Restaurant,” he pointed out. “He told me how old you are.”

“I’ll be eighteen in seven months. Sheesh.” Tzara pulled her shift over her head. “It would’ve been so easy just to do what he wanted. I’m good at pretending I like it.”

And that’s just the problem. Maybe, if he tried, he could make a difference with her. Persuade her to look for a future elsewhere. “Why are you with him, anyway? What’s he giving you?”

She shrugged in a blasé way, clearly an affectation. “He’s okay. Nice to me. My dad broke his back in an accident last year, and Beirthsha gives me sap and pain relievers. The stuff we get in Six isn’t as good as what Strutters get in the Core.”

“I could get you pain relievers. Bror and I, we could both help.” How could he reach her without lecturing her? “You should’ve asked Bror in the first place. He’s your friend. He looks out for people.”

Tzara tossed dark hair over her shoulder. “Did you think I was an innocent virgin before the big, bad Councillor came along and corrupted me? Wrong. He wasn’t exactly my first.”

“That’s not the point. You shouldn’t have to do this.” Tilrey wished he had better words. Bror would have found them. “I mean, once you’re of age, you can choose. But everything you’re doing right now will affect you. It’ll stay with you. You can’t just shake it off.”

Her big dark eyes were fixed on him—full of pity or disdain, he wasn’t sure. “Easy for you to say. You live with Strutters, you sleep in their beds, you eat their food. You take it all for granted, and now you’re trying to keep me from having just a tiny taste of that life.”

I’m not. I swear. “I just think you should take care of yourself,” Tilrey said, struggling not to sound like a scolding older brother.

The shower had stopped running, and now the bedroom door opened. “Respect your instincts,” he added under his breath as the Councillor’s footsteps returned. What kind of advice might have helped his younger self? “Understand your value. Don’t do things you don’t want to.” If you have a choice about it, anyway.

If Tzara heard any of this, she didn’t acknowledge it. Lindthardt was back, and she bounded into his arms and kissed his cheek. “Can we be alone now, or does he have to stay?”

Lindthardt tucked her tenderly under his arm as if Tilrey might have tried to harm her. “No, love. He doesn’t.”

When he looked at Tilrey, his face hardened. “You know your way home.”

***

Tilrey took the tram by himself. He only needed to travel a few blocks, but the Core was deserted this close to midnight, and he couldn’t help savoring the brief solitude and freedom of empty streets. It was a relief after the company he’d had.

Stepping from the stairwell onto the car dock of Verán’s apartment, he even caught a glimpse of the stars.

The problem was Vlastor. Tilrey’s hand-chip only opened the apartment door from the garage. The driver was up late, as he often was, tinkering with some gadget while he listened to a portable radio.

“You’re supposed to be with Councillor Lindthardt till morning!” he cried when he saw Tilrey, dropping his wrench.

“He wanted me to fuck a seventeen-year-old.”

“He … what?” Comical alarm spread on Vlastor’s face. “I can’t believe that.”

Tilrey opened the door to the coldroom. He’d been blunt because he had no energy for the conversation. “I’m sure you can’t.”

Vlastor followed him, of course. “Why do you do these things, Nettsha? Why do you make my life so hard?” he lamented once he’d made Tilrey give a brief account of what had happened. “I mean, to be sent home in disgrace! Tomorrow in the Sector, Lindthardt will complain to the Fir.”

“Let him,” Tilrey suggested. He was almost curious to know what kind of lie Lindthardt would dream up. Deep down, Verán probably didn’t care about Lindthardt’s vices, but seducing a child was nothing a Councillor boasted of.

“But if I say nothing beforehand, if I let the Fir be blindsided by a complaint like that…” Vlastor was working himself up into a lather. “The Fir will blame me, don’t you see? You’re my responsibility.”

Tilrey had no fucks to give at this point, for Vlastor, Verán, or anybody else. He wanted his bed.

“Tell the Fir everything, then,” he said breezily, touching the sensor so the door of the apartment hissed open. “Or whatever you want. Don’t put yourself out for me, Vlastor. I’m fine.”

Chapter 51: Crossing a Line

“Damn, Rishka.” Bror massaged Tilrey’s bare shoulders, shocked at the tension knotted under the surface. “You need this, sweetheart. What happened last night?”

The rubbing didn’t seem to relax Tilrey, though he lowered his head and allowed Bror to kiss his nape. They were in the Gym sauna, just the two of them. In the weight room, Bror had sensed instantly that something was wrong, but he’d waited to ask Tilrey about it until Ansha was out of earshot.

For the past few months, there’d been a subtle distance between them. Bror thought he could date the change to the afternoon when the protestors in Ring Six had taunted them. For several days after that, Tilrey avoided everyone, saying he had a cold. It was more than a ten-day before they went to the Vacants again, and for a while after, Tilrey always had reasons not to undress in front of Bror.

He seemed fine now, at least on the surface. But Bror knew there was more to the story. He wished he knew a way to ask that wouldn’t seem voyeuristic or meddling or possessive.

This time, at least, Tilrey seemed willing to talk. “We need to go to the Restaurant, right after this,” he said, twitching under Bror’s hands. “Do you think you could talk to your friend Tzara for me?”

Tzara was the kid sister of Bror’s schoolmate Piter Kreifell—smart girl, sharp tongue, nimble with plates. “Why?”

Tilrey swung around on the bench to face Bror, something desolate in his expression. “It’s no good,” he said, shaking his head, as if he’d already considered a plan and rejected it. “She’s dug in deep. She won’t listen. But maybe if you got one of her relatives to help?”

“You got me on edge now, Rishka. Would you just explain?” Bror glanced at the door to make sure they were unobserved. Then he folded Tilrey into his arms, snuggling the blond head against his chest.

Tilrey’s cheek felt wet against Bror’s bare skin. After a minute, he said, “I did something stupid. But I couldn’t help it.”

Bror listened as details poured out of Tilrey. It was worse than he expected.

“Ah, shit,” he said. So Councillor Lindthardt had his grubby paws on Tzara—who, in Bror’s recent-feeling past, had been a kid running around pretending to be a helicopter. Now she was a wild girl and savvy for her years, but not ready for this. “That fucker Lindthardt. I knew there was something off about him.”

Tilrey looked relieved, almost as if he’d feared Bror would react differently. “He’s giving her pain relievers for her dad.”

“Yeah, I bet. That rat bastard.” Picturing Piter and Tzara’s father, whose legs had been crushed by a loading dock, made Bror want to punch Lindthardt even more. “We gotta talk some sense into Tzara without talking down to her, or she’ll be off like a shot,” he said, thinking aloud. “I remember how I was at her age. Or we could put pressure on Lindthardt. Threaten to tell his wife.”

Freeing himself from Bror’s embrace, Tilrey ducked his head as if he were holding something back. “I don’t have leverage over Lindthardt, I’m afraid. I handled it the exact wrong way.”

“What exactly happened?” Bror asked, probing cautiously. “After Lindthardt showed her off in front of you?”

Tilrey still wasn’t meeting Bror’s eyes; something bad had happened, all right. “He wanted me to … he wanted to give her to me. Or me to her. But I wouldn’t.”

“Shit.” Bror tried to imagine how he would have dealt with the order in Tilrey’s place, but his mind shied away from imagining Tzara in Lindthardt’s clutches. Instead, he saw eighteen-year-old Tilrey at their first meeting in the Café—a shy, scared stripling, barely out of childhood, schooling his face into blankness to show no sign of the unendurable things he’d already endured.

What if István had given Bror to Malsha one night and Malsha had ordered Bror to fuck his new kettle boy? Would Bror have obeyed, as gently as possible? Would he have told himself it was okay because Tilrey was of age? Even though reluctance would have been plain on Tilrey’s face?

He hoped not. But Bror rarely disobeyed a direct order. And he had fucked Ansha once for Verán’s amusement, when Ansha wasn’t more than a year older than Tzara was now.

Tilrey was still talking, faster and faster. “I fucked it up so badly, Brorsha. Even Tzara could tell. I should’ve just made an excuse, said I couldn’t get it up, but instead, I told him exactly why I wouldn’t touch her. I embarrassed him in front of her, practically called him out.”

Bror squeezed Tilrey’s knee; it was the most touching he dared do right now. “Let me guess. Lindthardt didn’t react well.”

“He didn’t. He … sent me home right then, so I had to explain everything to Vlastor, who’ll have to tell Verán.”

From the strain in Tilrey’s voice, it was clear Lindthardt had done more than just send him home. But Bror didn’t want to push him on specifics. “Fuck Vlastor,” he said, giving the driver the brunt of his anger because it was safer than expressing his feelings about Lindthardt. “If you have to, tell Verán the truth. He may not care, but he won’t take Lindthardt’s part, either. Most of the Council thinks the man’s a spoiled little shit who shouldn’t have been elected so young. Give Verán one of the excuses you didn’t give Lindthardt, and let them work it out.”

Tilrey nodded. But when he looked up, his expression was grim, the blue eyes clouded and full of doubts. “I wonder how old Adelbert was when his uncle offered him to Malsha?”

“Adelbert? Verán’s nephew?” The handsome young Verán and Malsha had been an item long before Bror’s time; people still whispered about it. But Bror hadn’t heard anything about Verán brokering the relationship. “Why would Verán do that? Wasn’t Malsha his arch-enemy?”

“Not back then.” Tilrey bowed his head again. “It’s not just us they treat like things, Bror. Sometimes they do it to their own kids, or each other. Anyone they can get away with.”

Bror recalled a rumor Ansha had told him about Magistrate Linden’s family. After Edmond failed to carry on the family line, the duty of reproducing fell on his sister, Adeled. For a stud, she had chosen a pretty, low-named boy, barely an Upstart at all. Supposedly, Edmond had demanded that he also take the young man to bed before he gave his blessing to the marriage, much like a lord in days of old.

Bror thought of that anecdote whenever he saw Magistrate Linden’s nephew, who’d clearly gotten his good looks from his father. Did Tollsha Linden know his dad was little more than a glorified kettle boy? How many high-named families had similar stories?

“It’s messed up,” he agreed.

But the important thing right now was getting Tzara out of the situation—and making sure Tilrey didn’t suffer any consequences. “I’ll talk to the kid,” he added, trying to sound more confident than he was. “She likes me. She’ll listen. And … Tilrey?”

It hurt to see the tension in Tilrey’s body, the way Tilrey’s eyes slid away from his—then went glassy and opaque, refusing to convey anything at all. When Tilrey was upset, he went so deep inside himself that even Bror couldn’t reach him.

Bror rubbed the knob of Tilrey’s shoulder until their eyes met. I got you, no matter what, he tried to say with the touch, but aloud he said only, “You did the right thing, calling Lindthardt out. A prick like that needs to have his face rubbed in his own mess. Nobody else will do it.”

“It was still stupid.” Tilrey spoke in a dead voice.

Not stupid. Rash. I wouldn’t have done it. Bror hated himself for having that thought, all the more so because it was true. How many times had he held himself back from speaking the truth because it would wound a Councillor’s ego?

He drew Tilrey to him and kissed him on the forehead, then on the lips, trying to recapture the special kind of privacy they sometimes shared. “I love you for making Lindthardt feel like shit about himself,” he whispered, then grinned to lighten the moment. “You’re my hero.”

Deep down, he was absolutely serious.

***

 

That night, Vlastor knocked on Tilrey’s door. “Fir wants to see you.”

The driver’s demeanor suggested he was torn between smugness and sheepish apology. It would have been entertaining if Tilrey hadn’t had other things to worry about.

He was expecting the summons, so he hadn’t changed into sweats, as he usually did on Council worknights. He refastened the high collar of his tunic as he followed Vlastor into the sitting room, feeling as if he were strangling himself.

Verán sat on the sofa in a dressing gown, surrounded by a pot of tea, a vial of sap, his handheld, and the Council Record. “Stand,” he ordered, pointing in front of him.

Tilrey did as instructed, clasping his hands behind him and dropping his gaze.

He waited while Vlastor boiled more water, poured it, and left the room, obeying Verán’s commands. When they were alone, Verán asked, “Why did Beirthsha Lindthardt send you home last night?”

Tilrey barely felt the sharpness of the question. He was simply relieved that Lindthardt himself hadn’t complained to Verán today in the Sector, as Vlastor had feared. If he had, Verán would have led with that. Maybe the young Councillor had some shame, then.

Now was the time to use one of those excuses Tilrey and Bror had talked about. He could spare Lindthardt’s vanity by claiming it wasn’t in his power to get hard for a woman. Or he could pretend he’d been afraid Verán wouldn’t approve of him engaging in such a display at all.

But the excuses froze on his tongue when he remembered Bror kissing him and saying You’re my hero with that flash of white teeth. That beautiful, defiant grin.

And he knew he couldn’t do it. I can’t lie one more time.

He didn’t think it through. He only looked straight into the old man’s chilly blue eyes and said, “Fir Councillor Lindthardt wasn’t pleased when I refused an order to fuck his girlfriend in front of him. She’s not yet eighteen.”

Verán stared back at Tilrey for a few seconds. As always, he seemed startled that Tilrey could express himself coherently at all.

Then he laughed, “After all the times you’ve deep-throated me, I didn’t think you were such a prig. Are you even telling the truth?”

Tilrey’s nails found his palm. He was already regretting his honesty. What the fuck was I thinking? “I wouldn’t make something like that up, Fir.”

“No, you don’t have the brains for invention.” The majority leader seemed to muse on the situation. “I have to say, that’s messy behavior from Lindthardt. It’s presumptuous of him to think he can get creative the first time I give him the Island’s Jewel. But I suppose that’s his kink, seeing his girl with another man. More than I wanted to know. You,” he added as his gaze found Tilrey again, his voice turning to a whip crack, “should have stayed quiet about it. Telling me was indiscreet and disrespectful of your betters.”

You fucking asked. Tilrey managed to keep the words inside, but behind his back, his hands became fists. It was so hard to swallow the arrogance and hypocrisy, over and over again.

He couldn’t point out to Verán that the whole situation was rigged against him. That would be speaking up in his own defense, and he’d unlearned that long ago.

But he could speak up for Tzara—whether she wanted him to or not. “He’s buying the girl, giving her sap and painkillers. Exploiting someone who isn’t old enough to say no.” Even if she thinks she is. “It’s decadence, Fir,” he added, borrowing a word that Verán himself often used to disparage Malsha and his other enemies.

Verán chuckled. “Such moralizing from someone who rolls over and gives himself to all comers.”

Not by choice. “You don’t even care, do you, Fir? It doesn’t matter if Lindthardt’s fucking a child. After all, she’s a Drudge.”

Speaking freely made Tilrey lightheaded, the room swimming around him. Through a haze of adrenaline, he watched Verán’s amusement turn to annoyance. “I doubt very much the girl’s an actual child,” the majority leader said archly. “What on earth has gotten into you, boy?”

“She’s seventeen.” Now that Tilrey had started being unwise, words came faster than he could censor them. He hadn’t forgotten everything Adelbert had told him; he never would. “But you wouldn’t care, would you, Fir? Wasn’t your nephew still a schoolboy when you gave him to Malsha as a favor?”

The slap caught Tilrey off-guard—he wasn’t used to seeing Verán move so fast. One second, the old man was on the sofa. The next, he was on his feet and backing away from Tilrey, hand still raised, visibly trembling.

The blow he had delivered barely stung, but his rage was toxic and palpable. “How dare you repeat the exile’s lies to me, you worthless slut?” Verán hissed under his breath, as if he thought someone might overhear.

Tilrey was still riding the rush of honesty. Defiance felt good, and the slap only intensified his determination to stand his ground. In his current heightened state, he could almost have laughed at how wrong Verán’s assumption was. “Malsha didn’t tell me that, Fir. Adelbert did.”

Verán had gone dead white. He more collapsed than sat back down, his wasted body gone boneless. His tongue worked inside his mouth as if he were trying to swallow the last dregs of sap.

“Adelbert,” he said after a moment, “is a liar, a low achiever, a wastrel. He sabotaged his own Notification and had to be rescued from himself. His relationship with the exile was by his own choice. Anything he told you was part of a low scheme.”

The last part was true, as Tilrey knew better than Verán possibly could. “It still happened, though, didn’t it?” he asked—unable to resist, although Verán’s reaction had already confirmed Adelbert’s tale. “You sold your young nephew to Malsha so he wouldn’t be Lowered—that was how you ‘rescued him from himself.’ Did Adelbert even tell you that Malsha refused to use him that night? That he bided his time and seduced him later?”

He expected a scorching reply, fuel for the fire of his own anger. Instead, Verán merely stared back. His gaze looked lost, more plaintive than angry, as if Tilrey had actually conquered him.

“If you find my family so distasteful,” the old man said, “perhaps it’s time for you to go live with Linden. His family is known for its exemplary probity.”

The tone was that of a helpful suggestion, but the warning was plain. Verán had witnessed the aftermath of both nights with Linden.

He wants me to beg. Tilrey’s rush was ebbing now, and he knew he couldn’t sustain the intoxicating rage for much longer. He’d allowed himself to lose control. One way or another, he would pay the price.

Not that way, though. He had begged many times, but not today. Not after Bror had called him a hero, even in jest.

“I guess you’ll do whatever you see fit, Fir,” he said, knowing he was digging the hole deeper and refusing to care. “It’s your choice how to dispose of me.”

“So it is.” Verán was regaining some of his color and confidence. “For your sake, child, and no one else’s, I’ve kept you in my home for nearly two years,” he lectured. “I’ve nurtured you, protected you. And now look at you, biting the hand that feeds you—viciously, I might add. I’m not sure I have a choice anymore.”

Tilrey knew there was still time to reverse this. Fall at his feet. Apologize. Cry. Say you don’t know what got into you. You didn’t mean it. You were foolishly repeating what Adelbert told you. Crawl for him. Beg to suck his cock.

But he couldn’t. Not one more time. Whatever awaited him in Linden’s home—and he had a pretty good idea—suddenly seemed cleaner and more honest than what he’d been doing here.

“Your protection has been much appreciated, Fir,” he said, crossing his arms. “But I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties to the Republic. If you’re so offended, well, do as you see fit.”

The impotent exasperation on Verán’s face was almost worth it. Almost.

“I don’t need a fuckpiece’s permission for anything,” he said. “You’ve used up your last chance. Out of my sight.”

***

The next day, Tilrey didn’t get up. Didn’t go to the Gym. He was still in bed at noon, when Vlastor burst in.

“He wants me to pack your things by tomorrow,” the driver said, flustered and shame-faced. “He’s sending you to go live with the Magistrate. Nettsha, what did you do?”

Whatever madness had come over Tilrey yesterday was gone. He’d had time to think, but thinking hadn’t made the situation look any better. So here he was, contemplating the ceiling of his hated but familiar room. His safe room.

“Over and over you’ve asked me what I’ve done, Vlastor,” he said, knowing he didn’t have to suck up to the driver anymore. “And every time, I’ve only done the same unacceptable thing. I’ve existed. I’ve been me.”

How will I tell Bror? That was the black hole his brain kept circling.

He and Bror had made a sensible plan for dealing with the Lindthardt problem, and Tilrey had smashed that plan into a million pieces because apparently he had no sense of self-preservation. For the sake of a few moments of defiance, and the pleasure of seeing Verán speechless, he had sacrified his own relative safety and Bror’s peace of mind.

Bror wants so badly to protect me. Even Vlastor tried to do that, in his way. Why couldn’t I just let them?

“You’ve done a lot more than that,” Vlastor said. “The Fir’s in a fucking temper. He practically slapped me, and I never give him any trouble.” He sat down heavily on the bed. “I’m sorry I told him about Lindthardt, okay? I know now I didn’t need to. I just thought it might blow back on me.”

You always come first, don’t you? But the damage was done, so Tilrey said, “You’ve done what you could.” The memory of how Vlastor had stolen his mother’s letters kept him from sounding too grateful. “I don’t think Visha Verán and I were ever a good match.”

“Why can’t you be like the others? Like Ansha?” There was actual anguish in Vlastor’s tone. “It’s not that hard to be a Councillor’s piece, is it? You just do as you’re told and act grateful.”

“I’m terrible at it,” Tilrey conceded.

How kind you’re being to this fool, Malsha whispered. He doesn’t deserve it.

Tilrey had been hearing Malsha’s voice less often since he and Bror had become closer. Whenever Malsha spoke up, an imaginary Bror spoke over him, and soon Malsha went silent.

But that had changed last night. Tilrey needed company to get him through the long hours, and there Malsha was, congratulating him on the way he’d embarrassed the hated Verán.

Now, deep down inside him, Malsha added, This Vlastor’s probably in love with you.

I doubt it.

No, seriously. Look how miserable he is that you’re leaving. Rub his nose in it. Make him admit his own weakness. Wouldn’t that be a nice revenge?

Tilrey wasn’t sure it would be. But he was sad and bored and dreading tomorrow, so he sat up and nudged Vlastor’s hip with his knee. “Sounds like you’ll miss me. Poor Vlastor.”

Vlastor turned away, probably blushing. “I’m fine, Tilrey—Nettsha. Just worried about you.”

Tilrey crept closer until their shoulders touched. “So you do know my name, after all? Would you feel better if I gave you a little something to remember me by?”

“Fuck off.” Vlastor edged away from him. “I know my duty. Never been inappropriate with you, and I never will.”

Except when the Fir tells you to. But Tilrey did Vlastor the mercy of not reminding him of that night aloud.

Malsha was right. Giving Vlastor a sweet kiss or even a blow job and then crushing his spirit might be fun. But the driver had been “appropriate” with Tilrey, and that didn’t mean nothing. Not all drivers had such scruples, as Tilrey knew too well. He wasn’t especially looking forward to seeing Jorning again.

So he limited himself to a mocking smile as he said, “I’ll miss you, too, Vlastor. Just a little.”

Chapter 52: Fallen From Grace

Notes:

So I'm back and I finally managed to finish this chapter. Call this the calm before the storm. At some point I had a brainstorm about Ansha, and his backstory ended up in here. I'm not sure why I wanted to explore it so badly—maybe because he and Tilrey are parallel figures yet so different.

If anyone's still here, thank you for reading!!

Tilrey didn’t have much in the way of possessions—clothes and a few books, most of them on loan from the Library. They fit into a single hefty bag, which Vlastor deposited on the floor of Magistrate Linden’s sitting room after he escorted Tilrey to his new home, just as Verán had ordered.

“Be sure you have his tunics and trousers laundered, starched, and pressed after each wearing,” Vlastor told Jorning, who had met them in the garage. “That’s how Fir Verán likes it. His hair should be trimmed every month. Ask for Teina. His last annual physical was in October.”

He was lecturing, as if he considered Linden’s Skeinsha driver beneath him. But Tilrey knew Vlastor well enough by now to see he was drawing out the moment on purpose, reluctant to say goodbye.

Tilrey himself was numb. He’d been hiding in his room because he didn’t want to tell Bror about the move—childishly, he knew. Gossip spread fast in the Core. Tonight was a free-night, and Bror would know by tomorrow at the latest. Ansha and the rest of them, too—everyone would know that Tilrey had been punished and Verán had banished him, regardless of the official spin Verán put on it.

Bror tried so hard to help me.

So far, Tilrey had managed to hide from Bror’s eyes what Linden had done to him on their two nights together—the bruises, the welts, the invisible aches. He’d avoided the topic of the General Magistrate entirely. He couldn’t very well keep that up now.

“Tonight he goes to Lindahl,” Vlastor was saying, “but not directly—from the Lounge. Fir Majority Leader’s particular about things like that. Can Fir Magistrate escort him there? Or his nephew?”

This time, Jorning’s face was unblemished—no bruising. He nodded along respectfully enough, but Tilrey caught him rolling his eyes at Vlastor as he said, “I figure.”

“Fir Verán won’t be the escort anymore, see. But he’ll have explained that to Fir Magistrate. I’m just telling you in case. Let’s see, what else? Be sure he takes his vitamin C…”

When Vlastor had covered every conceivable topic related to Tilrey’s upkeep, he nodded awkwardly at Tilrey, as if he wanted to hug him but didn’t dare. “Okay, then, Nettsha. See you around?”

Tilrey was torn between irritation and real grief at what he was losing. He covered it up with a smile that mocked Vlastor’s fussiness and refused to indulge his sentimentality. “See you around, Vlasha.”

As the door hissed closed, he already regretted the lack of a proper goodbye. But Jorning was hauling the bag into his new room, so he followed.

“Sorry that dragged on,” Tilrey said, trying to sound breezy, as if nothing intimate had ever passed between him and Jorning. He’d decided this was the best approach—clean and professional. Let bygones be bygones. “Vlastor can be a pain—Reddan born, you know.”

“Tell me about it.” Jorning deposited the bag on the floor, not meeting Tilrey’s eyes. It seemed clear he hadn’t forgotten their last encounter, when Tilrey had rebuffed his offer to share the bed. “Help you unpack?”

“No worries.” Tilrey unzipped the bag and went to work shaking out his tunics and hanging them up. The room looked almost identical to the one he’d left, with a window in the same spot. Maybe there would be a different view.

Jorning lingered, shifting from foot to foot. Since they’d last seen each other three months ago, he’d shaved off all but a dark fuzz of his hair. The military look highlighted his decent cheekbones and strong jawline. “What happened with you and Verán?” he asked.

At least he’s direct. After Vlastor, that might be refreshing. Tilrey shrugged. “Guess he’s sick of me.”

“Sick of you?” Jorning laughed as if that were an impossibility.

“It happens.” Tilrey slipped his books among the shirts and trousers in the drawers under the bed, hoping Jorning wouldn’t notice them. Several of the Library books were in Harbourer. The four books he owned were gifts from Malsha, making them the sort of thing Verán might have confiscated had he known.

Luckily, Jorning didn’t seem interested in Tilrey’s things. “Fir can’t bring you to the Lounge tonight. He’s under the weather—like usual,” he added, lowering his voice. “Spending the day in bed.”

Linden was here now? Tilrey couldn’t help glancing apprehensively at the half-open door as if the man might appear.

“He don’t leave his room much,” Jorning reassured him. “Makes me fetch and carry—he’s got a buzzer in his room to call me from my quarters.” He grinned tightly, clearly not relishing caring for a grumpy invalid. “His nephew’ll be here at eight. He can take you to the Lounge.”

A chill ran over Tilrey as he remembered young Tollsha Linden, who’d brought him to Linden’s villa in the Southern Range for his first encounter with the Magistrate. In retrospect, he knew Tollsha had tried to warn him, just not very clearly.

You’re big, and you hold your head up like an Upstart, at least when you aren’t sweet-drowned. You might confuse him.

Maybe now he could ask Tollsha for more tips. “I’ll be ready,” he said, dumping the empty bag in the closet and hoping Jorning would leave.

The man still hovered. “You want lunch?”

“Thanks, already have.”

Tilrey wheeled toward the window, hoping the driver would get the message. The view wasn’t bad at all—the towers of the Sector and much of the snow-covered Core. If he ended up locked in here, he would have something besides books to distract him.

Any room could become a cell.

When he turned again, Jorning was gone, the closed door between them. Tilrey didn’t bother to check whether it was locked. He’d know soon enough.

***

Showering in preparation for the evening, he wondered how to defuse the tension between him and the driver. Jorning wanted him, obviously, and not just when an Upstart was watching. When Tilrey had asked to be alone after their performance for the Magistrate, the driver had snidely suggested he had too high an opinion of himself.

Why not give Jorning what he wanted? If he could be sure one fuck would clear the air, Tilrey would do it right now. But you never knew how someone would react when you gave them access to your body. If Jorning were the obsessive type, offering him a taste would only encourage him.

Tilrey would play it cool, then. Try to be friendly and see how things developed. Maybe let the Skeinsha burr sneak back into his speech so Jorning didn’t find him so “high and mighty.”

At ten to eight, he was ready and sitting on the bed. At quarter after, a knock sounded. At least no one’s barging in, Tilrey thought, rising to open the door. Vlastor didn’t always knock.

Young Tollsha had gained a little weight since their last encounter, and he carried it well. He looked like someone recently out of Uni, with his very fair hair on the long side of acceptable in the Sector and the collar of his tunic open.

“Nice to see you again,” he drawled impersonally, ushering Tilrey through the sitting room into the coldroom, while Jorning went to warm up the car. “You know we’re going to the Lounge?”

“I know, Fir.” Tilrey didn’t return the man’s smile, though he could tell Tollsha wanted him to. The young Upstart’s embarrassment was palpable, as if he saw chaperoning Tilrey as a duty.

On their way to the Lounge, Tollsha tried to make conversation—about last night’s snowfall, the lengthening days, a pickled shrimp toast he hoped the Lounge would be serving. When Tilrey barely responded, Tollsha took out his handheld and spent the rest of the ride tapping on it.

I’m not his type. That was a relief. Tilrey’s well-honed instincts told him that Tollsha preferred women, or anyway someone who wasn’t his uncle’s kettle boy. The young man smiled to himself as he messaged back and forth.

“Writing a sweetheart, Fir?” Tilrey asked as the car docked.

Tollsha chuckled good-naturedly. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

The foyer of the Lounge was decorated with spring-green mossy boughs strung with fairy lights. Tilrey braced himself. Please let Bror not be here tonight.

Could he convince Bror he was actually better off with Linden than he’d been with Verán? Perhaps for a while.

At the head of the stairs, he paused for Tollsha to take his arm. The young Upstart just kept walking, so Tilrey cleared his throat.

“Ohh, right.” Tollsha backtracked but still hesitated an instant before looping his arm through Tilrey’s, as if the closeness made him uncomfortable. “All these rituals,” he said under his breath. “Weirds me out.”

Not me. Not anymore. “Fir Lindahl’s on the right with Fira Gourmanian and Zenteivva,” Tilrey said, having taken in the occupants of the room at a glance.

His heart sank when he saw Bror at István’s table. Ah, well. He would find a way to explain everything tomorrow. Hadn’t Verán been threatening this for years?

Tollsha nearly tripped over Tilrey’s feet on the way downstairs. “How long do I have to stay there before I leave you with Lindahl?” he whispered.

So Linden hadn’t fully briefed his nephew. Lucky Tilrey knew the rules. “A half hour, Fir, to make sure he doesn’t take the favor for granted. And when you leave, say you hope he enjoys the fruits of his service to the Party.”

Tollsha groaned softly. “That happens every time? How do you stand it?”

Good question. But they were at the table, so Tilrey didn’t answer.

***

The night went more bearably than he’d feared.

Bror shot Tilrey a grin across the Lounge, but he didn’t seem to notice Tilrey’s altered situation. Neither did Lindahl—who was, as always, oblivious to anything that didn’t affect him directly. Gourmanian clearly knew something was up and made a show of fawning over the handsome Tollsha, pretending to ignore Tilrey entirely.

It was probably a relief to everyone when Tollsha rose to leave, though he didn’t do it gracefully. Instead of saying what Tilrey had told him to, he blurted out, “Verán told you what’s up, Enrik? It’s your night?”

“Oh, right, right.” Lindahl spoke absently, following Tollsha’s eyes to Tilrey. “Please give your uncle all my thanks. And Verán. Whoever. There’s nothing like a boy who knows his square roots.”

Gourmanian and Zenteivva laughed until their eyes watered. Tollsha fled.

Tilrey felt oddly grateful for Lindahl’s cluelessness. An hour later, when the man was on top of him, ordering him to recite the aforementioned square roots, it was as if nothing had changed.

The brilliant young Councillor fucked ferociously as usual, with no concern for Tilrey’s comfort. “So you’re with the Magistrate now,” he finally said once they were done, wrapping his arms possessively around Tilrey. “Good. Didn’t seem proper for Verán to monopolize you like that.”

“Fir Verán still disposes of me,” Tilrey pointed out. Besha had said the other Islanders found Verán too haughty and autocratic to be their party’s official leader. Lindahl certainly hadn’t liked it when Verán forced him to grovel.

But now he seemed to have reconciled himself to the new regime. So had the others, even though they could all see the ailing Linden was merely a figurehead.

 “Yes, well.” Lindahl nipped Tilrey’s ear, then changed the subject. “What do you think of that Tollsha Linden? Pretty boy, isn’t he? If only his father wasn’t a Lindtverán,” he added—with regret, as if the Lindtveráns were self-evidently inferior to him. “Bottom tercile.”

Tilrey couldn’t help the silent laughter that rippled through his body. “You take those tests so seriously, Fir.”

“Why do you think I prefer you to my own poor, stupid Ansha?” Lindahl drew back to rake Tilrey with sharp blue eyes. “Blood will out,” he said sternly. “Tollsha Linden has Drudge soft-headedness in his genes. He can’t code. He isn’t a serious person. I hope you realize that and don’t fall madly in love with him.”

Lindahl’s way of seeing the world never ceased to amaze Tilrey. “I promise not to fall in love with Tollsha Linden,” he said. “But… why are you so cruel to Ansha, Fir? He’s hot and good in bed. He worships you.”

The casually contemptuous way Lindahl referred to Ansha had barely bothered Tilrey before tonight. He wasn’t sure what had changed.

Lindahl snorted. “I’m not cruel to that creature. I’m just not interested. Birkin insisted I take him on as my kettle boy for political reasons. But he can’t carry on an intelligent conversation—it’s all gossip and flattery. You at least look me in the eye and say what you mean.”

 Verán didn’t appreciate it when I spoke plainly to him. Tilrey lowered his gaze. “Ansha tries so hard to please you, though.”

“Maybe you should worry less about your friends and more about yourself,” Lindahl said pettishly, drawing Tilrey close again. “You prefer me to that Tollsha, don’t you?”

“I want you, Fir. Always. You know that.”

The Councillor didn’t seem to register Tilrey’s lack of enthusiasm. “I thought so.”

***

“Where’s Nettsha tonight, Fir?” Ansha asked. He had just bowed his head to lick sap from Verán’s palm. A pleasant indifference clouded his vision. Soon he’d be too blissed out to spare any thoughts for Tilrey.

For now, though, he was still attentive enough to catch an odd glance passing between Verán and Besha, who’d joined them tonight.

“He’s with Lindahl,” Besha said. Then, with a snicker, “You miss him? Were you hoping you wouldn’t be all alone with us two old bores?”

Yes, actually. Tilrey might be a buzzkill, but Ansha preferred his company to theirs. The news that Tilrey was obliging Lindahl, his Upstart, gave him a double pang of jealousy.

I’ve done so much for Tilrey and my Fir both, and they shut me out. It’s so unfair.

But Ansha knew what was expected of him. He snuggled closer to the majority leader, letting his thighs fall open invitingly. “I’d rather have you two to myself, actually.”

Verán’s claw-like hand snuck under Ansha’s tunic to cup his package. “You’re a lucky boy, then. Nettsha’s gone to live with the Magistrate.”

Shock made Ansha’s breath catch. He hadn’t expected Verán ever to relinquish Tilrey. “But why, Fir? Isn’t he your Jewel?”

“I can’t cope with the creature’s moods anymore.” Before Ansha could ask what Verán meant, the old man gave him a squeeze and a smack on the thigh. “Anyway, it was always the plan for Nettsha to live with the Magistrate. It’s not as if I’d want to monopolize our Jewel.”

“Of course not, Visha.” Besha was shamelessly sucking up to Verán, doing Ansha’s job, which always made Ansha feel a raw, dangerous contempt for him. “You were just holding him for Linden, until the man recovered from his stroke.”

“Exactly.” Verán reached for his cane. “Poor boy, you must be bored if you’re making chitchat,” he told Ansha in the tone that meant Shut your trap. “Besha can console you for Nettsha’s absence. Let’s take this elsewhere, shall we?”

Besha followed them into the bedroom, a grin plastered on his face. And Ansha understood how things were going to be now. In the past, he and Tilrey had often performed for Verán on free-nights. Now it would Besha fucking Ansha for Verán’s amusement.

Twenty minutes later, on his back with his legs in the air and Besha grunting and thrusting inside him, Ansha wondered what Tilrey was doing right now.

Tilrey hated Verán’s guts. Possibly he would be better off with the Magistrate? But Ansha had heard things about Linden that made him glad he wasn’t in Tilrey’s place.

He could feel Verán’s eyes on them. Besha didn’t seem to mind performing for the man’s entertainment, almost like a whore himself. Ansha didn’t mind, either—obviously he didn’t, because it was his job. He rocked his hips and tried to look eager and occasionally said, “Ooh, fuck me harder.”

This was exactly what he’d always wanted—to belong to the most powerful man in Oslov, who was undeniably Verán right now. Now he didn’t even have to share the majority leader’s bed with his rival. So why wasn’t he happy? Why couldn’t he enjoy this? Why did humiliation keep boiling in his gut?

What happened to me?

***

Five years ago, Ansha had arrived in the Core as a common slut with a Ring Eight accent you could cut with a knife. He was shacked up with an examining magistrate who had no scruples about trading him for political favors.

Even then, Ansha had known what he wanted—to be a kettle boy and live with a Councillor. He had the looks for it, and he knew how to please a man. When his Upstart patron introduced him to Admin Birkin, who was a close associate of Councillor Lindahl, everything seemed about to fall into place.

Lindahl was in his thirties, with a handsome face and fit body and a cap of golden hair. When Admin Birkin brought Ansha to meet him, Ansha thought he was the luckiest boy alive. He’d been carefully preserving his virgin ass for a Councillor, and here was a hot Councillor.

But the instant Ansha opened his mouth, Lindahl’s expression went sour. “I barely understand a word,” he complained, as if Ansha’s accent were a personal insult to him. “Please take him away.”

Admin Birkin did. She told Ansha she was sorry, it wouldn’t work. Lindahl was quite sensitive and particular.

Ansha begged her for another chance. He vowed he’d learn to be a proper kettle boy with a proper accent if it killed him. Anything was better than being passed from man to man until he ended up back in a factory in Eight, where he might get mangled by a robotic arm because he’d dozed off and been three seconds too late pulling a lever, just like his dad.

Admin Birkin moved him into her apartment and gave him three ten-days to lose his accent. Ansha tried to use sex to get her on his side, but she wasn’t falling for that. She did kiss him, but only for tutoring purposes—teaching him to be aggressive or receptive, how to use his tongue.

Since Birkin was away most of the day, she introduced Ansha to a kettle boy named Lus, who was supposed to teach him to pronounce his vowels correctly. Lus was nice. But Ansha’s body learned quicker than his brain, and changing his accent seemed to require a brain-body connection he didn’t have at all. Over and over he repeated simple sentences while Lus groaned at the results.

Every evening when Admin Birkin came home, she would start a conversation with Ansha, listening for improvement. If he mispronounced three words, he didn’t get a nip of sap that night. Four, and he didn’t get dinner, either.

The method was simple and brutal—and effective. Hunger did for Ansha what no amount of effort would. He woke sometimes to realize he’d been practicing vowels in his sleep. Bit by bit, the hated Eighter accent slipped away.

What was left? A handsome redhead who spoke like an Upstart and looked like one, too, when you put a tunic on him. Gazing at himself in the mirror on the way to his second interview with Councillor Lindahl, Ansha held his head high. This was no factory gutter rat. This was a kettle boy.

That night, he passed his test with flying colors. Lindahl’s face no longer screwed up when Ansha talked. He accepted Ansha as his kettle boy.

And so Ansha’s dreams came true. Nothing could tarnish them—for the first few hours, anyway.

Once they were alone in the bedroom, Lindahl ordered Ansha to shut his trap, because his role was to be seen and not heard. Being deflowered was a lot of fuss about nothing. Lindahl shoved Ansha up against a wall, yanked his trousers down, and went at it, while Ansha gritted his teeth.

So maybe his new life wasn’t perfect. But it was still a big step up.

A month or so later, when Ansha told the whole story to his new friend Bror, the older boy expressed shock. In Bror’s view, Admin Birkin had mistreated Ansha. Starved him. Well, that was easy for Bror to say, coming from his comfy life in Six. Ansha would have starved himself a hundred times over for a chance. He would do it again, if he could.

To this day, Lindahl treated him like a gutter rat who’d blown in off the street. Ansha smiled and bore it. At first, he’d had a childish dream of being Lindahl’s beloved, his boyfriend. Now he fetched and carried and made tea and kept his trap shut and pretended he was just fine.

And even if Lindahl didn’t like Ansha, Verán sure did. No, the old man wasn’t remotely attractive, and he fucked like a sledgehammer, but he had the real power. Ansha helped keep Verán and Lindahl on friendly terms. Admin Birkin was happy with him. He was useful.

Then, one year into Ansha’s kettle boy career, Tilrey Bronn arrived in Redda.

The new boy had an accent, too, but apparently Upstarts found the Skeinsha burr “cute” and “exotic” rather than “trashy.”

And Lindahl? He couldn’t take his eyes off Malsha’s new kettle boy. Ansha could see his Fir was smitten. Was it Tilrey’s golden hair, the blue eyes, the air of innocence, the test scores? All the things Ansha lacked?

Even Verán seemed mesmerized by Tilrey. One night in the Lounge, he casually told Ansha that Malsha’s boy was “objectively superior” to him.

That was a low point. Ansha wasn’t the suicidal type, but he fought a brief urge to throw himself off the nearest parapet.

He’d tried so hard to remake himself into what they wanted. And Tilrey didn’t have to try at all. The worse he behaved, the more everyone wanted him.

Life wasn’t fair. Ansha had grasped that younger than most people do. But did it have to be this unfair?

Now his dream wasn’t so shiny anymore, he’d come to believe that the happiest time of his entire life had been those three ten-days when he was living with Admin Birkin and learning to speak properly.

How Ansha missed those days! He’d had a clear goal. Every day, he made progress toward it. True, he was often lightheaded with hunger and dying for a nip of sap. But his fragile physical state just sharpened his senses and made his eventual triumph sweeter.

If only he could go back. Before Lindahl, before Verán, before Bror, before Tilrey, before everything except the struggle with himself.

***

But Ansha couldn’t go back. He closed his eyes and feigned excitement as Besha thrust faster, approaching his climax. Nine green hells, his back and thighs were killing him.

What the fuck had happened to Tilrey? he wondered. Why had Verán ditched him? Was he not so objectively superior after all?

Ansha had fantasized about the point when Verán would lose interest in Tilrey. But now he couldn’t savor it. It was like his first time with Lindahl all over again—a massive disappointment.

He arched his back and moaned as Besha came inside him.

Sensing Verán’s hungry gaze on them, Ansha knew his naked body was still enticing, splayed out for the old man’s delectation. That was some consolation.

He prayed he’d be allowed to sit up soon.

Verán accepted a quick blow job and started snoring immediately. Ansha himself couldn’t sleep. His brain was buzzing, trying to make sense of the new situation.

When Besha got up to piss, Ansha crept after him.

“What?” Besha asked irritably. “You want more sap or something?”

Ansha licked his lips. Last time he’d slept with Besha, in the Southern Range during the October recess, the little Councillor had spent the whole night grilling him about Tilrey. Besha clearly shared everyone’s obsession. Whatever was up now, he would know.

“Why’d he really send Tilrey away?” Ansha asked.

Besha finished pissing, pulled up his trousers, and made a show of washing his hands. “I thought you didn’t like Tilrey—Nettsha.”

I don’t. I could give a fuck about him! But Ansha needed to know what had happened. He wouldn’t be able to sleep otherwise. “He’s my friend, Fir,” he wheedled, striking a pose that showed his nakedness to advantage. “I need to know he’s okay.”

Besha barely glanced at him. “Tilrey has a smart mouth sometimes,” he said in a low voice. “I’m not sure what he said, but it must’ve been bad. Visha doesn’t want the boy in his house anymore. That’s all he’d say.”

So Tilrey had been thrown out. He was in disgrace. Even the Perfect Boy could go wrong.

Ansha knew he should be triumphant, but he felt only limp with exhaustion.

“Tilrey lost his accent in a day,” he said. “It was like he just had to want it gone, and it was gone.”

“Accent?” Besha stared at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Guess he’s just different. Special.” Bror cares more about Tilrey, too. Doesn’t just fuck him, like he used to fuck me. Really cares. Ansha knew Besha would never grasp what he meant, but he asked, “Is that fair, Fir?”

Besha’s features slid into a familiar cynical look. “The world isn’t fair, love.”

“I know that, Fir.”

Ansha didn’t feel sorry for Tilrey. Definitely not. Whatever had happened, Tilrey had probably deserved it in one way or another.

But it hurt to see perfection tarnished, was all. It hurt for dreams to die.

***

When an antsy-looking Jorning arrived at Lindahl’s the next morning, his eyes swept over Tilrey from head to toe. After Vlastor’s neutrality, it was fucking creepy.

In the car, Jorning asked, “You like that Councillor? He’s young, huh? Not bad looking.”

“He’s fine.” Jorning was embarrassingly easy to read—as easy as Lindahl himself. “You want to know the truth?” Tilrey added after a moment. “I’m really fucking sick of being fucked in general. I couldn’t care less who’s doing it.”

Unless it’s Bror. But he kept that thought to himself.

Jorning looked pained. “You shouldn’t say things like that. You’re what, nineteen, twenty? That’s too young to be jaded.”

“I’m twenty-two, and you sound like someone in a bad sobstream.” Tilrey kept his tone light. “I’m a whore. This is my job, not pleasure.”

“What about when you’re not working?” There was a note of neediness in Jorning’s voice.

Tilrey laughed to hide how uncomfortable it made him. “I’m always working.”

An unpleasant thought was worming its way through his head. I can’t let him know about Bror.

***

Later that morning, Tilrey was changing in the Gym locker room when he heard someone behind him. Turning, he stepped straight into Bror’s embrace.

Bror didn’t squeeze, just held him gently. Tilrey’s breath came short anyway. He wrapped his arms around his friend, the big form solid as a tree trunk, and pressed his forehead to the scratchy wool of Bror’s tunic and felt Bror’s breath on his hair. He didn’t allow his shoulders to heave or his tears to fall. But he knew Bror wouldn’t be fooled.

When they drew apart, he asked, “How did you know?”

“Ansha.” Bror grimaced. “He was at Verán’s last night. He told me just now, as I came in.”

Of course Ansha knew. He was probably telling the whole Core, overjoyed at the disgrace of his rival.

Tilrey had no feelings to spare for Ansha. He supposed he should reassure Bror that he was fine. But he had no energy for that, either.

He leaned his head on the bigger man’s chest and felt the shiver of Bror’s heart. “I’m so sick of the fucking Core. Wanna get out of here?”

***

That day they didn’t lift or run or swim, and they spent most of their waking hours together.

First they returned to the factory dive bar in Ring Six where Bror had brought Tilrey for their disastrous first “date.” Sharing a banquette, they drank vodka and made out shamelessly, kissing and nuzzling and groping under the table. They stayed there for a few hours, paying no mind to a crowd of grizzled workers coming off the night shift. The workers ignored them in turn, lighting up illegal pipes and filling the air with aromatic smoke.

When kissing and fondling weren’t enough, they left the bar—taking the bottle with them—and caught the tram to their favorite Vacant in Ring Four. It didn’t feel safe to make out on the tram. But they stood so close that Tilrey felt the jab of Bror’s hard cock through his thick coat. Watching the sunlit buildings slide by, his vision hazy with drunkenness, he knew he would always remember this day. No matter what happened after.

In the vacant apartment, they undressed in a flash. Tilrey used his tongue to gently lave Bror’s hole, an act he’d never chosen to perform on anyone until today. It felt right. The way Bror crooned and arched his back just made Tilrey harder. He mounted Bror and fucked him slowly, drawing it out, the two of them face-to-face, and managed to make them come close to the same time.

After that, they lounged in bed, just enjoying the warmth and comfort of each other’s bodies. Bror didn’t ask what exactly had happened with Verán. He could probably guess most of it, and he seemed to know Tilrey didn’t want to talk about it right now.

As evening approached, and their inevitable separation with it, Tilrey rolled over on all fours and begged to be fucked.

Bror kissed him deeply, sweetly, before rolling him face-up again. “Okay, but I want to look you in the eye.”

Tilrey remembered the first time they’d done this, in the cabin in the Southern Range. He’d insisted on role-playing as Ansha because it felt so embarrassing to want what had always been forced on him. But this time it didn’t frighten him to meet Bror’s eyes as the hefty cock pressed inside him. He didn’t mind being himself.

Soon he was twisting and moaning, his knees tight around Bror’s hips, everything coming apart as Bror wrecked and remade him, and there was no self anymore.

“I talked to that girl—Tzara,” Bror said as they rested afterward, a pile of sweaty, tangled limbs. “István’s gonna give her meds for her dad so she won’t need to fuck Lindthardt anymore. She thought I was trying to con her at first, and she didn’t promise anything. But I think I got through to her. I think she’ll come home.”

It was the best gift Tilrey could have received. If Tzara did leave Councillor Lindthardt, his foolish acts of defiance wouldn’t have been for nothing.

He nestled his head under Bror’s chin and whispered, “Thank you.”

***

Tilrey returned to the Magistrate’s apartment well after dinnertime. He was grateful that his newly reprogrammed hand-chip opened the door.

He didn’t go unnoticed, though. As he stripped off his outer things in the coldroom, Jorning popped in from the garage.

“You were out late.” The driver sounded more quizzical than outright disapproving, as if he were hoping Tilrey would give him a good excuse. “And you smell like stim smoke.”

Tilrey felt a strange calm descend on him. “Do I?” he asked coolly, continuing to tug off his boots without missing a beat.

Jorning continued to hover. But all he said was “Want me to get you some dinner?”

“Sure.” Tilrey led the way inside, treating Jorning with the same airy disdain an Upstart would have. Maybe that was the magic formula—boss the driver around.

But all the time he was thinking, It’s not safe. He notices too much. One of these days, if I’m not careful, I might get my Brorsha in serious trouble.

Chapter 53: Fractured

Notes:

Warning: This chapter gets graphically violent. Malsha was subtle. Linden is not. If you read ASB, you knew this was coming, but it's still bad.

Speaking of the contrast between Malsha Linnett and Mosha Linden—yes, I'm sorry, their names are way too similar—I decided we needed a dip into Mosha's perspective to grasp why he acts this way. Not excuse, just understand, because I don't want him to be a one-dimensional villain. He's still plenty unpleasant, and I apologize for that in advance.

This gives us a new view of Malsha, too, for better or worse. For the record, I don't think any of this backstory excuses him, either. He had a chance to be a rebel and chose instead to be a villain.

June, year 345

Nearly a ten-day passed before Tilrey had any direct contact with the man whose apartment he now inhabited.

“He’s in the sitting room. Wants you to fetch his tea and read the Council Record to him,” Jorning whispered. Although they were in Tilrey’s room, out of earshot of Magistrate Linden, the driver seemed to think it was necessary to speak practically in Tilrey’s ear. “He seems tired, though. Prob’ly won’t wanna take you to bed tonight.”

Would going to bed mean another session with the belt and the dildo? Tilrey managed to suppress a shudder of apprehension. He’d known this was coming, but that didn’t make it any easier.

He squared his shoulders, clad impeccably in a charcoal gray tunic with blue piping, and tried to put a hardened, indifferent look on his face. “I’m ready.”

Jorning led him to the door, as if he didn’t trust Tilrey to find the Magistrate by himself. Just outside the sitting room, though, he halted.

Through the doorway, Tilrey saw the Magistrate ensconced on the sofa in a blindingly white dressing gown, surrounded by pillows. The Council Record sat on his knee, but he wasn’t reading. Instead, he stared straight ahead, his jaw working as if something had displeased him.

Jorning was whispering again, his breath hot in Tilrey’s ear. “Can you still talk Skeinsha?”

“What?” Tilrey asked, distracted. But then he understood. “You mean, with an accent like yours?” Like the one I had when I came to Redda.

Jorning nodded. “Might help. When I tried to talk more proper, he called me insolent.”

Interesting. Tilrey had never known an Upstart to feel threatened by a Laborer with a “proper” Reddan accent, though a few of them claimed to regret the loss of his Skeinsha burr.

“Thanks for the tip,” he said under his breath, his eyes on the Magistrate.

He looked so harmless—a frail, doddering old man gazing into space, perhaps recalling the happier days of his youth. Impotent sexually—and politically, to a degree. Yet Tilrey couldn’t help feeling as if he were facing a predator.

What is he thinking? What does he want?

***

These days, Mosha Linden’s thoughts were frustratingly sluggish, and his memories could be as powerful as waking dreams. They came on him suddenly, like fainting spells, and refused to let go.

Tonight he was remembering back fifty-three years, to June 292.

In those days, Mosha was an Int/Sec interrogator, five years out of University. His superior officer had sent him to moral rehab to speak to a Hargist detainee. Apparently, the young man was so high-named that locking him up in the Funnel would have caused a stir.

See if you can get him to recant and testify against his friends, Mosha’s superior had said. We want to reform him before he does any more damage.

Of the six Hargists captured in a raid on an illicit Ring Three printing press, the other five were being interrogated in Int/Sec, with no regard for their Upstart status. One of them, reduced to a quivering shell by pain, had already given up the goods. But this young Linnett, because of his family connections, was sitting pretty in a locked room with a soft bed and a view of the Wastes.

In short, they wanted Mosha to babysit a privileged brat.

“Be outside if you need me, Fir,” the orderly said as the door slid open.

Mosha knew he wouldn’t need any muscle. Hargists were spindly intellectuals who had bizarre ideas about rejecting technology and returning to Feudal ways. Most of them posed a danger only to their families’ honor. But this particular cell had ideas about “liberating” Drudges, and that had to be nipped in the bud.

The prisoner sat on the bed, facing the window. As the door hissed and clicked shut, he gave a start and turned around. “Who are you?”

Mosha’s mouth went dry. From the ID photo, he hadn’t expected the detainee to be attractive.

He was pale and a little spindly, yes, and the plain white coverall did him no favors. But he had broad shoulders; wide-set, long-lashed eyes; elegant bone structure. A real aristocrat, this one, Mosha thought with an inner eye roll, because he himself wasn’t blessed with high cheekbones to match his high name. He couldn’t help imagining cupping that face and tousling the sandy-blond hair.

Under his tunic, his cock perked up, but he kept his face stern. “Linnett, Bror Malkien?”

“Yes.” The young man’s gaze traveled over Mosha’s uniform. Those pretty eyes of his were wary. “You’re Mosha Linden, aren’t you? I knew your sister Adeled at school. She said you’d joined Int/Sec.”

Mosha adored his free-wheeling kid sister, but she was a professional embarrassment to him, so he ignored the remark.

“On your feet,” he said in a ringing, intimidating voice, pulling up a chair for himself. “We’re here to talk about the crimes for which you’re detained.”

The young Linnett stood up, but he took his time about it. Though he’d been isolated in this room for nearly seventy-two hours, he clearly wasn’t broken yet.

“Why aren’t I in the Funnel?” he asked. “Given why I was arrested and the fact that you’re interrogating me, it would make sense.”

Most people wouldn’t have detected the slight tremor in the young man’s voice. But Mosha’s training served him well. “So you admit you committed treason?” he asked, settling on the chair and crossing his legs, at his ease.

“Does it matter what I admit?” The prisoner’s mouth tightened. “Or that I don’t consider it treason to disseminate information to our workers about the regime that controls their lives?”

The Hargists had been using their press to print a broadsheet, which their Laborer allies then posted in the factories of Rings Seven and Eight. The copies that Mosha had seen were crammed with a mishmash of facts about the internal workings of the Sector and recent votes that might affect the wellbeing of Drudges. Painfully earnest, do-gooder stuff—and unlikely to be that destructive, in Mosha’s private opinion. Nine out of ten workers were too dense to care how the government worked. Give them their ration of beer after work, and they were satisfied.

But the tenth worker—that was the one you had to worry about. The one who might be radicalized into a shirker.

Mosha tried a new tack: rapid-fire accusation. “Your great-uncle Edvard was a Dissident who died in moral rehab, was he not? Are you trying to follow in his footsteps? Do you want to dishonor your parents?”

“Haven’t you read my file? My dad comes home from Harbour maybe every other year. He works in the embassy there and doesn’t give a fuck what I do.” Linnett crossed his arms.

“And your mother?” A powerful Programmer, she was probably the one who’d pressured Mosha’s superiors not to toss her son into the Funnel.

That made the prisoner’s eyes flash. He didn’t like the question. “Where are my friends? Are they here, too?”

“Are you referring to Anton and Antone Brangán?” They were the leaders of this jolly little Hargist band—a pair of low-named cousins, male and female.

When Mosha spoke Anton’s name, Linnett twitched almost imperceptibly. Mosha caught it, though.

So you care about him. According to Mosha’s briefing, Anton Brangán and Linnett were or had been lovers.

“You’re fucking Anton, aren’t you? Or he’s fucking you.” Mosha leaned back in his chair and sized up Linnett with a lazy leer, trying to humiliate him. “You know, Bror, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re not the first to toss away his honor for a hot piece of ass.”

Linnett stood up a little straighter. “You have no idea what was between me and Anton. And only my mother calls me Bror.”

“I notice you say was. Are you and Brangán done, then?”

“What’s it to you?” The prisoner frowned. “If I testify against Anton, will I get a slap on the wrist and be allowed to return to my job in the Sector? While my friends spend the rest of their lives in cells—or face exile?”

Yes, actually. Mosha had to give the kid credit for knowing the score, though he kept cold disgust on his face. “What makes you think you’ll be treated differently from any other shirker?”

“My name.” The boy shrugged, acknowledging what they both knew.

But Mosha caught a glimmer of nerves in those blue eyes. Bror Malkien Linnett was wondering if he could be sure he had nothing to fear.

If the boy’s looks stirred Mosha’s cock, his defiance had an even stronger appeal. Mosha had always dreamed of subduing and seducing a tasty little Dissident—not a Drudge, of course, but one of his own peers. A prey worthy of the effort.

Imagining himself straddling young Linnett, stripping off the boy’s clothes, he had to suppress a smirk. Yes, he’d like to humble this spoiled creature.

He had his orders, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a bit of fun, too.

“Do you really think your name will save you from the consequences of treason?” he barked. “Your friends have already given us more than enough information to exile you. Or, more mercifully, to lock you up for life like your great-uncle.”

The prisoner held his head high. “I think you’re bluffing, Mosha—Fir Linden. My mother would never allow that.”

He was right—she wouldn’t. But Mosha put a pitying look on his face. “Your mother is a patriot. She’s horrified by your crimes. It’s forgivable to have a Hargist phase in Uni, but you’re not in school anymore. You distributed malicious misinformation through unlawful channels, undermining the Republic from within.”

Linnett furrowed his noble brow, as if the words offended him. “The government spews propaganda all day long. We thought we’d give the workers a few facts.”

“Facts, I see.” Mosha hated these prissy Upstart shirkers, always lecturing. “Is that what the Brangáns told you—that you were arming Laborers with the truth? Were you too naïve to see that your friends were only after power?”

He lowered his voice, bringing out the big guns. “If those fools had managed to spark a worker uprising, they would’ve started by slaughtering high names and government officials. You’d have been caught in the cross-fire, my friend.”

Linnett shook his head, clearly familiar with these scare tactics. “I’m not afraid of blood-thirsty Drudges.”

“So Drudges are your friends now, are they?”

“I’ve known Laborers who were more than worthy of my friendship.” The young man sighed. “They had no reason to trust me with theirs, though.”

To think of this high-born beauty consorting with his inferiors—it was pathetic. In Mosha’s opinion, Drudges weren’t even good enough to screw, though he knew most of his peers disagreed on that point.

The prisoner would break—Mosha could see that. He was putting on a show, but he lacked real reasons to resist. It was just a matter of time and pride.

And Mosha was growing impatient. He knew what he wanted to do was completely unprofessional, but fuck it. This session wasn’t being recorded.

He rose from his chair, stretched, and strode straight into Linnett’s personal space, pleased to see that his height matched the younger man’s.

“Let’s save us both some time, Bror.” He lowered his voice as he leaned in, making the prisoner inch away. “I’ll tell you a secret—you’re right. No one wants to see a fine young fellow like you locked up. But I also can’t set you free without getting your signed confession and recantation.”

As he pronounced the final word, drawing out each syllable, Mosha reached down to give the young man’s ass a squeeze. Here in moral rehab, there was no need to be subtle.

Linnett winced, and resistance flickered across his face. But he didn’t push Mosha away. In a steady voice, he asked, “And I suppose this confession and recantation have already been drafted for me? All I need to do is sign?”

His ass was nice, lean but muscular. Mosha gave it a stroke before letting his hand drop. “Bright lad. We’d like you to sign like a good boy, and after that, you’ll simply keep yourself out of trouble.”

He angled his head to convey the part he couldn’t say aloud.

“I see.” There was defeat in Linnett’s tone—and in his posture as he backed away. He sank onto the bed, raking elegant fingers through sandy hair. “So I let you fuck me, and you’ll make sure all this goes away?”

Mosha would never have said it so crudely. But the prisoner’s frankness was yet another turn-on. “Do you kiss your mother with that mouth, Bror?”

“I don’t kiss her at all. I hate her. And I told you, don’t call me Bror.” The young man sounded fretful, as if he’d already given up but was determined not to make this too easy for Mosha. “Everyone calls me Malsha.”

“I see, Malsha.” Mosha didn’t mind a bit of a challenge. Liked it, even. Pressing his advantage, he advanced until their knees touched.

“You think you’re in control here?” He drawled the words scornfully, knowing this privileged brat had no experience in trading his body for favors. “You’re still a schoolboy, fresh from a schoolboy romance with a shirker who got you in way too deep. Everything you did with Anton Brangán, you regret.”

“I don’t regret any of it.” Malsha raised his eyes. “We cared about each other.”

They were playing cat and mouse now. The boy kept darting away, not ready to surrender, but Mosha felt sure of his victory.

He sat down beside Malsha and let his hand rest on the young man’s knee. Again the prisoner twitched without actually moving away. After a moment, Mosha said very softly, “I can feel you trembling.”

“You like that.” His captive spoke in a small voice, yet there was a hint of pride in it, as if he liked knowing what made people tick. “Fucking someone who’s scared of you. Making him submit.”

Mosha had never bothered finding words for his desires. But yes, he supposed so. Even at school, before his Notification, he’d always had an eye for pretty boys who were intimidated by his name, size, and confidence. He would corner them in empty rooms and offer them sap or trinkets, then bully them into getting on their knees. He never hurt anyone, though, and weaklings were usually grateful for his favor and protection.

He let his hand slip between the prisoner’s legs, just grazing his thigh. “And you like being with someone who scares you a little,” he said, making an educated guess. “Don’t you?”

“I don’t know.” Malsha’s tone was doubtful, yet his legs fell open. “I’ve never been sure what I like. Maybe you could teach me.”

Oh yes, I could. I’ll teach you to like what I want you to. Mosha was uncomfortably hard now, but he couldn’t forget his duty entirely.

He gave the prisoner’s cock a proprietary squeeze, sizing it up. Then he withdrew his hand, rose, and went over to get his handheld. “Let’s start with your confession, before we get to the fun part.”

Malsha hung his head, hair in his eyes. “Must we?”

The pouting only made Mosha more excited. This young Linnett was like a fruit at the perfect point of ripeness, ready for plucking. If Mosha played his cards right, he could keep taking his pleasure for several months or even a year, until the young man began to bore him.

“We must,” he said, placing the device in Malsha’s hands. “Once you’ve signed, I’ll personally escort you out of this shithole to somewhere more comfortable for us both. We wouldn’t want to create the appearance of impropriety.”

The prisoner stared at the screen, reading his predrafted confession. His resignation to his fate was plain from his slumping shoulders.

But instead of signing the touchscreen, he said, “I refuse to bear witness against Anton. Delete his name from this statement.”

“Nonsense!” The boy had more fight than Malsha had expected. “Anton is the one who recruited you.”

“I won’t incriminate him.” The prisoner handed the device back. “Did you think I would?” His mouth twisted sarcastically. “I’ll renounce the error of my ways, but no names. Whatever happens to Anton, I won’t be responsible.”

Mosha was both annoyed and impressed. Maybe there was a budding politician inside this pathetic traitor. More importantly, though, Mosha’s cock wanted what it wanted, and it didn’t like to wait.

“Fine.” He grabbed the handheld and made the requested edits to the document, telling himself he was still fully in control of the situation. Young Linnett’s testimony against Anton Brangán wasn’t needed for a conviction. “How does that suit you?”

Malsha’s eyes flicked over the screen. He nodded.

As Mosha retrieved the device, the prisoner caught his captor’s hand. He stroked it tenderly and kissed the palm, his eyes full of surprisingly earnest gratitude. “Thank you, Fir Linden.”

The submissive gesture caught Mosha off guard. Before he could have second thoughts, he was pulling the young man in for a forceful kiss.

The hot mouth opened against his, wet and pliant. Mosha filled it with his tongue, moaning with his need. He hadn’t meant to start things here in the cell, but delaying his pleasure might be physically impossible.

The prisoner seemed to have sensed this. His hand was under Mosha’s tunic, cupping his cock. Fumbling his fly open. Releasing the aching, engorged flesh and taking it in a hard grip and jerking Mosha off with swift, expert strokes.

Mosha would have preferred to come in the prisoner’s mouth, choking him. But right now he was grateful for any form of release. He congratulated himself on having just enough presence of mind to slip young Linnett a handkerchief so his own tunic wouldn’t be soiled.

Mosha came after a few of those skillful strokes and collapsed into the prisoner’s arms, weak and spent and very satisfied. When he was able to speak, he asked, “Are you just as good with your mouth?”

“Anton thought so.” Malsha’s face had gone blank, unreadable. He tugged himself free of their embrace, but without violence, and got up. “Can we leave now?”

Mosha rose and straightened his tunic, still shaky. He gathered his things, took the prisoner by the arm, and led him to the door.

He’d just remembered that tonight was the Communal Meal, which his mother and uncle expected him to attend. But no matter. He could wait until tomorrow to pay Malsha a nice, long visit. There were many ways to savor a ripe fruit, and he would enjoy each one.

“Thank me again,” he said, palm poised over the door button, “for giving you a path to redeem yourself and your family’s honor.”

“Thank you,” the prisoner said without hesitation.

“And thank yourself for doing the right thing for your future.” Mosha liked the prisoner’s tone, submission edged with sulkiness. Moments like this made his job worthwhile.

This time, though, Malsha didn’t comply. “The right thing? You just made me betray my friends.”

“They deserved it,” Mosha said smugly, opening the door. Despite the reproach, he was sure the boy was broken now. Putty in his hands. And he suspected Malsha was as excited about taking their intimacy further as he was.

Oh, yes, this was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

***

And then Mosha was back in the present.

Trapped in his decaying, traitorous body, staring down at the Council Record. Trying to cut his reminiscence short, because the rest of the memory wasn’t nice.

“Excuse me, Fir. I brought the tea.”

A Skeinsha accent—was that Jorning? Steam wafted in his face. Feeling helpless and adrift, as he so often did these days, Mosha edged away. He watched as a loaded tea tray appeared on the table. Who was serving him?

Oh. Not Jorning. It was Verán’s precious kettle boy—the one who looked like Malsha.

He saw now that their faces weren’t much alike, aside from the cheekbones—wasted on a whore. No, it was the brightness of those blue eyes, the alert way they observed Mosha, that reminded him of the man who had once been his prisoner. The cleverness and cunning and quiet judgment in that gaze.

The echo of Malsha was tantalizing—and infuriating. No Drudge should look at Mosha that way.

He snapped his fingers and pointed to the sofa beside him. Sit. Wasting words on this creature was pointless.

Nettsha. That was what the idiot Verán and his friends called this kettle boy. As if Malsha Linnett hadn’t just used him for a while but had possessed him, body and soul.

All I wanted was to have you, Mosha thought confusedly—then realized he was back in his memories, still speaking to the cursed Malsha.

“Sit!” he barked, since the Drudge apparently hadn’t caught his meaning.

The boy sat—too abruptly. Although the sofa stayed still, the movement jarred Mosha, making the room seem to lurch around him. Young people moved too fast nowadays. Even his nephew, Tollsha, made Mosha’s head spin. Too much rushing around, too many words.

But a fuck-piece had no excuse for such behavior.

To teach the boy a lesson, Mosha reached in and snapped his fingers again, this time right against the boy’s cheek so that his nails dug into the soft skin.

The boy winced, and Mosha smiled. He hoped it hurt. He hoped it left a bruise.

“When he’s with me, he pays attention,” he said patiently. He avoided the word you, which suggested the boy mattered enough to deserve his direct address.

“I’m sorry, Fir.”

Don’t be sorry. Don’t … be anything. A kettle boy should be seen and not heard. If the boy spoke again, Mosha might hit him to remind him of his place.

Because Mosha’s cock was useless now, he would never truly be able to possess Malsha’s discarded fuck-piece. And every glance at the boy reminded him he had never possessed Malsha, either. Not really.

He’d come so close.

After their meeting in moral rehab, Mosha had gotten the prisoner discharged and brought him home. Then he’d hurried off to join his family at their Communal Meal, promising to return to Malsha’s apartment the following night to finish what we started.

When he did return, no one answered the door. His increasingly furious messages were ignored.

Mosha soon learned what had happened. The morning after Malsha’s liberation from moral rehab, the young man had flown straight to Harbour. He had a new posting in the Embassy, under his father’s watchful eye. It was an escape route that few would have chosen, a self-imposed exile from civilization. But apparently Malsha Linnett found that preferable to sharing Mosha’s bed.

Decades passed before Linnett returned permanently to Redda, older and harder but still alluring. He got himself elected to the Council, despite the misdeeds of his younger years. Mosha was forced to treat him like a colleague. For a few years, the two of them even maintained an alliance, plotting the downfall of their enemies over pots of tea.

Mosha never suggested renewing their more intimate relationship, because he could tell Malsha would enjoy turning him down. Often he caught the younger man looking at him with a touch of scorn. I got what I wanted from you, and then I ditched you, that cold gaze said.

Malsha Linnett had played and humiliated Mosha. Slipped through his fingers. Even now that the traitor was gone—dead, Mosha hoped—forgiving him was out of the question.

He should have been punished.

The kettle boy had poured the tea. He’d managed to do that smoothly and quietly, at least. Mosha took a sip. It tasted like nothing—was he losing his sense of taste?

Aging was undignified. Unworthy of him. Unacceptable. “Disgusting,” he muttered.

The boy’s head snapped up, as if Mosha had startled him.

And that was one time too many. The boy had been warned about sudden movements. Mosha had given him plenty of chances.

“Get up,” he said, his voice already like a blow.

***

Tilrey kept his breathing even and calm. He’s just an old man. He can’t hurt you.

The General Magistrate had risen with him and was stalking toward him with surprising speed. Tilrey stood his ground at first. But Linden just kept coming, pushing him back against the wall.

“I’m sorry, Fir.” Tilrey used his Skeinsha accent, combining it with the most respectful tone he could manage. He sounded to himself like Supervisor Fernei groveling to Admin Makari. No, don’t think about that.

“If you just tell me what I did wrong, Fir,” he added, hoping to appeal to the man’s reason, “I’ll do better. I don’t know your ways yet.”

The only answer was a contemptuous grunt. Linden was so close now that Tilrey felt every breath on his cheek.

The old man reached down, flipped up the hem of Tilrey’s tunic, and grabbed his cock in a businesslike way. Did he want sex, then? Tilrey stood patiently as the thick fingers played with him, palming the still-soft organ through his trousers. Weighing and squeezing his balls one by one.

The old man kept muttering under his breath. The words didn’t seem to be intended for Tilrey, since Linden wasn’t looking him in the face. But he caught something like …show me up, you little asshole. And then Stand still. Make you like it.

He closed his eyes, feeling like a bale of goods being examined in a marketplace. But that was all right—normal, expected.

Until Linden’s fingers twisted, hard.

The pain was sharp enough to override Tilrey’s conscious control. Yielding to impulse, he slapped the hand away and darted back along the wall—but not in time to escape a hard cuff on the side of his head.

Oh, shit. Tilrey couldn’t keep running away—that would be direct disobedience. He stayed where he was as the Magistrate’s arm flashed out again, backhanding him across the face.

The blow didn’t hurt the way the twist to his balls had. He’ll tire himself out in a second, Tilrey reasoned, gazing down at the floor.

Instead, though, each smack seemed to re-energize Linden. He applied his plump palm to Tilrey’s right and left cheeks several times, varying the pattern with an occasional cuff that knocked him sideways.

It didn’t hurt, Tilrey assured himself. He was taller and stronger than the old man, more than capable of absorbing the blows. Yes, his cheeks stung, each impact bringing blood surging to the surface. But he’d had vigorous massages that stung like that—in fact, he often requested them from Bror. He’d wait it out. Only a few more slaps to go.

Okay, so it hurt a little. And it wasn’t ending.

The taste of blood roused Tilrey from his numb endurance. One of Linden’s back-and-forth slaps had split his lip.

He wiped the trickle from his chin, hoping to avoid a mess on the rug, and knew he couldn’t lie to himself anymore. There would be bruises. Verán, already seriously displeased with him, would be furious.

Enough. This had to stop, whatever the fallout.

Tilrey seized Linden’s wrists and forced the old man’s arms down to his sides, trying to be as gentle as possible. It was shockingly easy to turn the tables. And he couldn’t deny it felt good.

The Magistrate didn’t fight back. He wilted and tottered. Tilrey had to steady him before he fell.

He led Linden back across the room, bearing most of the man’s weight, and deposited him on the sofa. “Are you all right, Fir?” He himself wasn’t even out of breath, while Linden looked as if he might be on the verge of a dizzy spell or seizure. Please, don’t let me have hurt him!

To Tilrey’s relief, the Magistrate recovered after a moment. But he still hunched in on himself, haunted eyes staring forward as if he was the one who’d just been beaten.

Slowly and clearly, Tilrey said, “I’m very sorry for laying hands on you, Fir Magistrate. That was unacceptable.” He reminded himself to sound Skeinsha. “But Fir Verán made it clear he doesn’t want me damaged.” And you need to respect that, damn it.

He raised the tea tumbler to the old man’s lips. “You are okay, Fir? Would you like a drink?”

Linden sipped the tea, still not looking at Tilrey. When he was done, his mouth worked, but no words emerged.

Tilrey felt almost sorry for the Magistrate. Maybe this is how you manage him. He’s like a kid who works himself into a lather and needs a time-out before he goes too far.

Again Linden’s mouth moved. This time, Tilrey made out a wheezed command. “Jorning. Fetch him.”

“Are you sure, Fir? I could put you to bed myself, you know.” He might as well learn the routine. “Do you need medication? An inhaler?”

“Jorning,” the Magistrate repeated stubbornly.

Tilrey didn’t want to involve the driver. But he couldn’t just ignore a direct order, and it made sense that Linden would want his usual caretaker when he was out of sorts.

He left the sitting room and slipped through the coldroom to knock at Jorning’s door. It felt good to be in control of his fate again, even in such a small way. To draw a boundary. Yes, Fir, you can slap me for your amusement, but you can’t draw blood.

See? he could almost hear Bror saying in his head, full of love and approval. It’s always better to take action than to suffer in silence. You don’t deserve to suffer, Rishka.

Jorning opened up, wearing his off-duty sweats and smelling faintly of liquor. He seemed alert enough, though. “You’re bleeding!”

“Yeah. I…” What could Tilrey say? “He was hitting me. I stopped him. He asked for you.”

The driver was already tugging on his boots. “You what?”

Tilrey just shook his head. Jorning pushed past him. “Well, c’mon! We can’t leave him that way.”

Then things started happening very fast—too fast. Later, Tilrey would struggle to reconstruct the rest of the night in his memory.

When the driver entered the sitting room, Linden perked up, his exhaustion falling from him like a cloak. He pointed an accusing finger at Tilrey and announced loudly, “That creature laid hands on me. Hold him.”

Jorning glanced from the Magistrate to Tilrey and back, as if confused. But only for an instant. Then he seized Tilrey, obeying the command.

Tilrey tried to explain again. But Jorning wrested both arms behind his back and pinned them so hard that pain cut short his words. The driver hissed in his ear, “Don’t fight. I told you to be careful with him.”

Tilrey didn’t fight. Not at first.

He watched, dazed by the sudden turn of events, as Linden rose from the sofa and advanced on him. He saw the man’s right hand curl into a fist. Saw the Magistrate snag a tea cloth and wrap it tightly around his knuckles. Saw him draw his arm back, cheeks pink with effort and beady eyes half closed.

None of it meant anything until that fist connected with Tilrey’s face.

This was no slap or cuff. Tilrey grunted, staggering backward against Jorning’s sturdy form, blood filling his mouth. As he watched the old man’s swaddled knuckles come at him a second time, realization flashed through his mind: He could kill me.

The second blow caught him on the left eye socket. It woke an animal survival instinct inside Tilrey, erasing every thought of duty or Level.

He thrashed and kicked against Jorning. When head-butting the driver failed, he made a desperate effort to dodge Linden’s fist. But powerful arms held him captive.

Strong as he was, Tilrey had never been in a fight before, never learned to defend himself. Sheer confusion put him at a serious disadvantage. Jorning clung to him stubbornly, whispering, “Take your licks.”

The fourth blow made Tilrey’s knees buckle. Or was it the fifth? Hard to say. Not all of the old man’s punches connected, but enough did. Tilrey was already reeling, the room coming apart in a fuzzy white blur.

Maybe he would die here, far from Bror or anyone who’d loved him.

The whole thing probably lasted less than five minutes. It felt longer. Tilrey was faintly aware of Jorning holding him up, taking his whole weight. Hot stickiness streamed down his neck, into the collar of his tunic. It was in his mouth, choking him. The fifth or sixth or seventh blow caught him on the chin with a sharp crack.

He must have passed out then. When he opened his eyes, he was sprawled on the floor looking up at Jorning, wondering how he’d gotten there.

Jorning was pressing a cloth to Tilrey’s face and swearing steadily under his breath. “Shit, shit, shit, fuck.”

Tilrey found this inexplicably funny. His lower lip was numb, and his ears ached. Otherwise, he felt like he’d just drunk a whole vial of sap—giddy and floating. He opened his mouth to ask What’s wrong?

The movement of his jaw brought white-hot pain that tore a less coherent sound from his throat—half scream, half whimper.

“Don’t talk!” Jorning snatched Tilrey’s hand and placed it over the cloth. “Hold that.” He slipped an arm around Tilrey and hoisted him to his feet. “Getting you to the car.”

Next thing Tilrey knew, he was lying on his back in a tight, dim place that was moving. A scarf was tied around his forehead like a makeshift bandage, covering one eye. Another appeared to be holding his jaw in place, but not firmly enough. The vibration of the compartment made him moan in agony.

“You okay back there?” Jorning’s frightened voice came from nearby. They were in the car, Tilrey realized.

Through the window, he saw snowflakes falling lazily, each limned by the eerie twilight of the midnight sun. He could almost feel them melting on his mangled, swelling face. Healing him.

“Don’t talk!” Jorning warned. “Think your jaw’s broke. We’re almost to the hospital.”

My jaw’s broke, all by itself. Tilrey brought a hand to the bandage to hold the fractured bone still, and the pain receded slightly.

He knew his current state of calm was an illusion. His brain must have released some neurotransmitter to stop him from panicking and flailing. Still, he sighed dreamily as he imagined telling Bror about this later. The world is beautiful, Brorsha. Every snowflake has a halo.

He hoped Bror would think he’d made the right choice, despite how things had panned out.

In, out, in, out. Breathing hurt, and there was blood in his throat, but he managed.

Jorning, by contrast, was flailing. “I’m sorry,” he babbled. “I didn’t realize he’d take it that far. If I had, I wouldn’t have… oh, shit, you gotta believe me. He doesn’t usually use his fists. And he gave me an order.”

 The apology brought unpleasant memories back in a rush. Again Tilrey felt Jorning’s strong arms holding him so Linden could use him as a punching bag.

Jorning had only been following orders, though. As Tilrey should have been. “No worries,” he tried to say, but the words came out in a groan.

“Don’t try to talk!” Jorning sounded close to tears. “I should’ve explained before. When he hits you, you take your licks, always. He’ll stop on his own. But you can’t make him, see? That’s disrespect.”

Tilrey understood now. My mistake. Sorry, Bror. I guess it wasn’t the right time to stand up for myself.

“I didn’t think he’d hurt you that bad, though. Swear it! Please forgive me.”

Jorning began muttering something under his breath that sounded familiar. After a moment, Tilrey recognized it as a prayer left over from Feudal times, still heard occasionally in Thurskein. Spark protect him. Spark shield him.

I’m okay, he tried to say. You don’t need to pray for me. But the words became a gurgle of pain, and the world grayed out again.

Chapter 54: Lying

Malsha was back.

This time Tilrey heard no scorn or cruelty in the old man’s voice, only regret. My poor boy. If only I’d brought you along to Harbour. You’d be happier here, I promise, even if you were still in my bed.

Tilrey was just conscious enough to know Malsha was a figment of his imagination. But right now the company was welcome. As hands lifted him from the car onto a gurney and wheeled him into the warmth of a building, the old man seemed to stay close by. He even grasped Tilrey’s hand reassuringly.

Tilrey knew he couldn’t actually speak, yet he answered Malsha easily. I’d like to be in Harbour, too. Even with you. But…

But what?

If I’d run away with you, I wouldn’t … know Bror the way I do now.

Oh right—Bror. Don’t be so coy. You’re in love with that lout, aren’t you?

Safely inside his mind, behind the veil of his closed eyelids, Tilrey whispered, He’s no lout, but yes. I love him.

Then, because it frightened him to admit the feeling even to himself, he changed the subject. Let’s pretend I am in Harbour with you. In bed. Tell me all about our new life.

Malsha painted an elaborate scene involving a carved wooden bed and moonlight spilling across a thick carpet of vibrant colors. A gentle summer breeze blows through the open window, bringing calls of night birds. My arms are tight around you, protecting you. Tomorrow we’ll walk in the woods. Nothing can hurt you there.

Tilrey knew his own brain was concocting the scene, assembling it from bits of Malsha’s stories and Harbourer books he had read. But it soothed him. Even Malsha’s imagined presence was no longer unwelcome. Sometimes it had felt almost pleasant to doze in the old man’s arms, hadn’t it?

Just as he was about to drift off for real, Malsha said something that punctured the fantasy.

You can’t let Bror see you like this. The poor boy will be so furious that he might get himself hurt.

With that thought in his head, Tilrey was jerked back to wakefulness. Someone was touching him, gloved hands peeling up his eyelids to force him to look at a bright light.

Someone else still held his right hand, warm and steady. Not Malsha, though.

Tilrey realized who it was when Jorning spoke. “It was a fight,” the driver explained, presumably to the doctor examining Tilrey. “His friends dropped him off at home like this. They’d been at a bar. He got into it with some workers over a girl.”

“You didn’t report the attackers?”

“Nah, he didn’t want me to.” Jorning sounded nervous—clearly not an experienced liar. Tilrey knew he could have crafted a more convincing story, but he was glad not to be the mouthpiece of the lie.

A lie was necessary—of that he had no doubt.

The bright light withdrew. He kept his eyes open, trying to make out details in the fuzzy hospital glare around him. An IV was attached to his arm, which must be why the pain had shrunk to a dull ache.

“No signs of serious concussion,” the doctor was saying, “but let’s do a cranial scan as well as an x-ray, just in case. Then prep him for surgery for the fracture.”

Jorning stayed beside Tilrey as his gurney was wheeled down the hall. When the tests were finished, they let him rest, and the driver pulled up a chair and grabbed his hand again in a sweaty grip. “Good news—you’ll be okay. They’re gonna stick a wire in your jaw while it mends. Nothing else broken, though.”

Tilrey didn’t miss the anxious note in the driver’s voice. “Good news” or not, Jorning was all too aware of his own role in Tilrey’s injuries.

But he accepted the touch. It was good to have someone there.

The staff shooed Jorning out of the room when it was time to prep Tilrey for surgery on his fractured jaw. As a nurse implanted a new IV for the local anesthetic, the surgeon’s masked face appeared above him. “Is it true what your friend says? This happened in a bar fight? Nod or shake your head.”

Tilrey nodded adamantly.

“Do you want to bring charges?”

He shook his head.

The surgeon stared down at Tilrey, doubt in his eyes. Then he sighed. “Looks like you were outnumbered.”

It was hardly a plausible story. Why would a kettle boy be at a bar on a free-night? Why would he risk damaging his face? But Tilrey knew telling the truth would only get them both in worse trouble. He had an all-too-vivid memory of the Judicial complaint he’d tried to lodge against Malsha, back when he was naïve enough to think Councillors weren’t above the law. Crimes like this were handled by the criminal’s peers—or not at all.

As the anesthetic pumped itself into his veins, Malsha’s words drifted back to him. You can’t let Bror see you like this.

Now Tilrey understood. Bror would know the bar fight story was bullshit. He would want to do something about it, and trying could only hurt him.

When the surgery was over, and Tilrey returned to consciousness, there was Jorning again.

“You look less scary now they cleaned you up,” the driver said, squeezing Tilrey’s hand. “You’ll be okay, promise. I have to drive the Fir to work—it’s morning now. But I’ll be back soon, okay?”

Tilrey nodded. Okay.

***

He stayed in the hospital for another day, woozy with painkillers. A wire held his jaw closed now, making speech virtually impossible. Jorning kept him company, telling stories about his buddies back in Sector Seven of Thurskein and people he’d met in the army.

None of the stories were as funny as Jorning clearly thought they were, and some of them had an all-too-obvious subtext of his insecurity and need to prove himself. Tilrey smiled anyway and sometimes managed a chuckle.

He needed an ally in Linden’s house, and Jorning had experienced enough of the Magistrate’s wrath to help him endure it. Bygones would have to be bygones.

He would have preferred Bror’s company, but imaginary Malsha had a point. If he sees me this way… Tilrey didn’t let himself finish the thought. He would handle Bror later, when his face didn’t look quite so bad. (He hadn’t seen it yet, but he could imagine.) He would make up a better story. Something.

By the time the doctors let him leave, he was more than capable of walking out on his own. When he saw Tollsha Linden waiting in the car, though, his knees buckled. Jorning had to hold him up for a few seconds.

Tollsha looked so like his uncle.

Someone had clearly warned the young Linden what to expect. But he still winced when he saw Tilrey, and he didn’t meet his eyes. Once they were all in the car and Jorning was navigating it onto the mag-grid, Tollsha said in a strained voice, “I told you to be careful.”

Tilrey tried to look contrite. Tollsha fished around in his briefcase, found a notepad and pen, and handed them over, still not looking directly at Tilrey. “My uncle says you laid hands on him. Is that true?”

“That’s not exactly what happened, Fir,” Jorning said. He seemed to be having another fit of guilt. “Nettsha didn’t want to hurt Fir Magistrate.”

“No, I imagine not.” Tollsha’s tone was clipped. “But what I’m asking you both is what did happen. Tell me everything. And then tell me what I’m going to tell Verán when he asks me next free-night why I can’t bring him the Island’s Jewel.”

Jorning stumbled over his words, clearly stumped. “It’s … complicated.”

Apparently the Magistrate himself had put the lie to the bar fight story, which did indeed complicate things. Tilrey scribbled frantically: Fir Magistrate was not gentle and I attempted to remove his hands from me. This was wrongly done and I apologize. Best to tell Fir Linbeck first and let him tell Verán.

He held out the notepad, but Tollsha was focused on Jorning. “Did you beat him?” he asked accusingly. “Were you told to?”

“Me? No, Fir!” Jorning seemed overwhelmed by the delicate situation. He wasn’t supposed to lie to a Linden, but neither was he supposed to speak ill of one. “I … I just … followed Fir Magistrate’s orders. Your uncle can be a hard man to please, Fir. I think Nettsha tried.”

“Oh, did you, Nettsha?” Tollsha plucked the note from Tilrey’s hand.

Crimson washed over the young man’s handsome face as he read. Tilrey felt almost sorry for him. When you’d been raised to believe you were above making mistakes, it must be mortifying to have a close relation who kept forcing you to do damage control. He suspected this wasn’t the first time, either.

“What do you mean my uncle ‘was not gentle’?” Tollsha demanded, looking up at Tilrey. “You write like a Councillor—bunch of polite words saying nothing. Tell me what you mean.”

Tilrey wrote on the next sheet: I’m trying to be discreet, Fir. You told me to be careful. I tried but failed to take sufficient precautions. I’ll learn to manage your Fir Uncle with respect, so this won’t happen again.

The answer made Tollsha stare at Tilrey, as if he’d expected a very different attitude. Outrage? Self-righteous reproach? Despair?

Well, those emotions were useless here, Tilrey reminded himself. Better to be matter-of-fact and proactive about the situation. Better to focus on what he could change.

After a moment, Tollsha said in a low voice, “I just want to know two things. Nod or shake your head. My uncle’s fists did this?”

Tilrey nodded. Without words, the truth was easier to admit. And Tollsha did have a right to know.

“Before he did it, did you injure him in any way? I didn’t see marks on him. But I need to know.”

Tilrey shook his head.

“You were just … resisting him?”

Defending myself. But it was close enough. Tilrey nodded.

The young Upstart sucked in a breath. He seemed to be struggling with himself, trying to decide what to do.

At last he said, as if it were his own idea and not one Tilrey had just fed him, “I think the best idea is to tell Besha. He can decide what to tell Visha Verán.”

***

When Tilrey finally spied his face in the bathroom mirror, it wasn’t the wire in his jaw that shocked him. It wasn’t the two black eyes or the scabbed-over lip or the massive bruise on his left cheek. All that he’d expected.

It was the swelling that turned his stomach. His face seemed to belong to someone else now, its familiar angles buried in monstrous, tortured flesh. No wonder Tollsha had flinched.

Turning from the mirror, he wondered what would happen if he didn’t heal good as new. Would Verán finally release him from his service?

Who would still want him then? Would Bror?

The questions wafted away before he could fret over them. The latest dose of pain relievers had left his brain fuzzy and fragile, unable to hold anything for long. He peeled off his clothes, revealing more bruises. Had the Magistrate kicked him once he was down, or were those from being picked up and toted around? No matter, he supposed.

Jorning tucked him into bed and fed him broth through a straw, the way nurses had in the hospital. Then Tilrey slipped into a mercifully dreamless sleep.

When he woke, late-evening sun was slanting through the window. Jorning was standing over him. “Your friend’s here. István’s boy. Bror. He was worried because you weren’t at the Gym. Can I tell him to go away?”

Tilrey was instantly wide awake, reaching for the notebook and pen he’d placed in his bed alcove.

Malsha’s warning ran through his mind. You can’t let Bror see you like this. The poor boy will be so furious that he might get himself hurt.

The doctors had said it might take three to four ten-days for the wire to come out of Tilrey’s jaw—an eternity. Surely the rest of his face would improve before then, though. He could invent an explanation of the fracture.

A story spun itself in his head. He wrote: Tell him I got food poisoning at the Restaurant. As I was staggering out to puke, I slipped on the ice and fell and broke my jaw. All drugged up now, but I’ll see him soon.

He handed over the notebook. Jorning frowned at it. “A bar fight makes more sense.”

Tilrey grabbed the notebook back. I don’t get in fights. Bror knows.

The driver was right—it was an unlikely story. But if Tilrey stuck to it stubbornly enough, Bror would have to stop asking. And finally he would grasp what Tilrey was really telling him: If you make a stink about this, you’ll get yourself in trouble. That would hurt me worse than anything.

Jorning looked unhappy, but he said, “I’ll tell him.”

Tilrey waited nervously for twenty minutes, wondering if Bror might try to force his way past Jorning. He could almost see the disbelief and disappointment on Bror’s face.

He tugged the bedclothes over his head and curled tight, feeling as if he’d betrayed his friend. Wishing he could feel Bror’s arms around him right now and hear the soothing voice in his ear: It’ll be okay, Rishka, promise.

No. His friend couldn’t be allowed to see him this way.

When he heard multiple voices outside, he sat up again, bracing for Bror’s reaction. But Bror didn’t appear. Instead, Jorning led Tollsha and Besha into the room.

Besha got a good look at Tilrey and recoiled, wide-eyed. “Fuuuck,” the little Councillor hissed through his teeth. “Visha’s not gonna like this.”

“It wasn’t the boy’s fault,” Tollsha said. Tilrey could hear what the words cost him—he was tacitly admitting that his uncle, the head of his family, was responsible.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck.” Besha kept darting around, examining Tilrey from different angles. “He’s gonna freak.”

On their first night together, when Tilrey was fishing for tips on how to handle Linden, Besha had said, If Linden ever does anything you don’t like, tell Visha. But things had changed since then. They both knew Verán was already at the end of his rope with Tilrey.

Besha might as well know everything. Tilrey scribbled in the notebook: It’s not the first time, just the worst. Fir Verán knows that.

Besha scowled as he read. Then he rounded on Tollsha. “This happened before?”

Tollsha shook his head emphatically. “Not like this! The boy says he, uh … resisted somehow. My uncle’s been touchy since the stroke. Random things set him off.”

“Then why didn’t the boy keep resisting?” Besha turned to Tilrey, tossing the notebook at him. “Did you decide to just stand there and let an old man pummel you?”

Tilrey stared down at his hands, clasped on the coverlet. If he made things tough for Jorning, the driver might make things tough for him.

“Answer me!” Besha was practically yelling. “Pick up that stupid notebook and write. Do you enjoy pain, Nettsha? What happened?”

Jorning cleared his throat. His voice was thick with shame as he confessed, “Fir Magistrate asked me to hold the boy still. I followed orders. What else could I do?”

“You could’ve made an excuse, you big nitwit,” Besha said, redirecting his rage. “Are you stupid? No, don’t answer that. No need.”

Tollsha also seemed happy to shift blame to the driver. “You’re lucky Nettsha’s not hurt worse,” he told him.

“You’re lucky, too,” Besha shot at his fellow Upstart. “Imagine if your uncle had killed our Jewel. How would you explain that?”

No need. They would have found ways to keep my death quiet.

But Tilrey didn’t bother contributing further to the conversation. Instead, he listened as the two Upstarts argued, noting their mutual disdain. Besha clearly thought Tollsha was a privileged brat with no practical savvy. And Tollsha was mortified by having to defend his family’s honor to someone he regarded as a low-named inferior. Jorning skulked in the doorway, clearly glad they’d both forgotten about him.

Eventually Tollsha promised to “have a talk with” his uncle, though he didn’t sound optimistic about the outcome. Besha turned to Tilrey again. “You still haven’t told us what set the Magistrate off.”

What was Tilrey going to say? I stopped him from twisting my balls because it hurt? He shrugged.

“It could have been almost anything.” Tollsha sounded so miserable that Tilrey wondered if Linden occasionally took a swing at his nephew, too.

“Fine! You talk to your uncle, and I’ll handle things with Verán.” Besha clearly didn’t relish the job. “He may want to see the boy before that jaw is healed, though—how long’s it going to take?”

Dislike flashed in Jorning’s eyes. He hadn’t forgiven Besha for calling him stupid. But he answered in a thick, submissive voice: “A month, Fir, maybe more.”

***

Once the Upstarts left, Jorning assured Tilrey that Bror was gone, too. He had asked “lots of annoying questions” and vowed to return in a few days at the latest. “He wanted to come tomorrow, but I said no, you wanted to be alone.”

Tilrey did his best to pretend his friend’s worrying didn’t worry him. Tired from the effort, he tried to read, then sank gladly down into the nest of bedclothes and closed his eyes.

He was deep in a stupor when breath ghosted over his cheek. Malsha’s voice whispered, How’s my lad doing?

I did what you said, Fir. I sent Bror away.

That hurt, didn’t it? But you had to. To keep him safe.

The dream was vivid, perhaps because of the painkillers. The sorrow in Malsha’s voice sounded real. Tilrey felt the old man’s body arching over him, then pressing down on him. A hand fumbled around and grasped hold of his cock through the bedclothes.

Shh, Malsha breathed when Tilrey flinched away. You’ve earned some comfort, don’t you think?

Tilrey didn’t want the touch right now, yet he couldn’t pretend it didn’t feel good. Malsha knew what he was doing.

He was too tired to struggle anyway. So he just lay there, allowing his tense muscles to signal a token resistance, as he had so many times in the past. You like this way too much, Fir.

Maybe. But you’re going to like it, too.

Malsha’s hand withdrew. A few moments later, it was replaced by a warm, wet pressure that slid down Tilrey’s hardening cock, enveloping it. Tilrey arched his back, shivers running down his spine. Before he knew what was happening, Malsha’s throat was sheathing his whole aching organ.

Tilrey tried not to respond. But when Malsha withdrew to flick a clever tongue over his cockhead, he writhed with excitement. The old man was good with his mouth on the rare occasions when he chose to enjoy Tilrey this way.

I don’t want this, though. Not now! Torn by warring impulses, Tilrey rolled over to shove Malsha off—

—and opened his eyes into darkness. The blankets were thrown back, and someone was resting heavily on top of him, exactly as Malsha had been in the dream.

He caught a whiff of motor oil. Jorning.

The driver’s hand still gripped Tilrey’s cock. “It’s okay,” he whispered. “Lie still. This is all for you.”

Before Tilrey could protest, Jorning lowered his head and swallowed him again.

Tilrey let his eyes close, trying to shut out the sensations that were exploding in his groin. Not now, he mouthed weakly, knowing his body wasn’t reinforcing his words. Jorning wasn’t as good a cocksucker as Malsha, but what he lacked in skill he made up for in determination.

Tilrey reminded himself that his body had already taken Jorning’s cock, not to mention the belt; they had no secrets from each other. Tonight the driver was simply doing him a favor.

But the man’s weight and strong grip brought visceral memories of struggling in Jorning’s arms while Linden’s fist came down again and again. Tilrey ordered himself to go along with it, for the sake of their fragile alliance. Not to resist.

Jorning kept doggedly blowing him, pausing occasionally to stroke Tilrey’s flank and murmur, “You’re so beautiful. You’re so hot.”

Finally he seemed to lose patience, grousing, “Would you just finish already?” And that was enough. Tilrey’s body responded as it had been trained, spattering his chest with his own cum as Jorning’s mouth hastily released him.

Jorning tidied him up with great care. Then he stretched out beside Tilrey and wrapped his arms around him, nestling him close. “I’ll take such good care of you, and you’ll be good as new. You trust me, don’t you?”

Just let me fucking sleep. But Tilrey couldn’t answer in words, so he nodded grimly and did his best to relax in the driver’s octopus grip.

Bror would have been just as careful, just as sweet, but he wouldn’t have demanded assurances from Tilrey, let alone sex. He would have held Tilrey and considered that more than enough. Bror knew how to shelter without clinging, to listen to Tilrey’s body and respect both spoken and unspoken needs.

Tilrey ached for his friend, now more than ever. But he needed an ally here and now, and keeping Bror safe meant keeping him away, at least for a while.

Isn’t that sweet? Malsha said as sleep took hold of Tilrey again. You have a new friend.

Chapter 55: Supported

Notes:

It's been a rough few chapters! I hope this one offers some respite, if not exactly relief.

Bror hung around the Café all afternoon, waiting for Ansha to show. Tonight was a free-night, and he hoped Ansha would be able to find out for him what had really happened to Tilrey.

Bror had already been to Linden’s twice in the past four days. He no longer expected to hear the truth from that ass of a driver. On their first meeting, Jorning had seemed friendly enough, all smiles for Bror and concern for Tilrey as he described a terrible fall on the ice. When Bror begged for entry, the Skeinsha said Tilrey was drugged up and sleeping, and Bror saw no reason to doubt him.

But today, when Bror returned, Jorning had been less polite. “Nettsha’s still really hurting,” he’d said, no longer smiling as he blocked the door. “Not ready to see anyone. Anyway, he can’t talk with his jaw wired shut. Do you want to embarrass him?”

“I won’t try to make him talk!” Bror didn’t like this stranger’s tone when he talked about Tilrey. It sounded intimate, almost possessive. “Just want to make sure he’s okay. Two minutes and I’m gone.”

“Why wouldn’t he be okay?” The driver’s eyes widened. “You think we’re keeping him prisoner?”

After ten minutes or so of arguing, Jorning agreed to talk to Tilrey and disappeared inside. He returned with a note, which he practically tossed at Bror. “Believe me now?”

It was Tilrey’s handwriting, all right. After reading it, Bror left—but reluctantly.

Now he unfolded the note to read it for the tenth or twelfth time. It was a slow hour at the Café. Soft conversation and warm yellow lighting made the place feel cozy, especially with a summer snowstorm raging outside.

A storm raged inside Bror, too, as he read Tilrey’s words.

Brorsha—I look and feel like death warmed over. Remember when I sapped too much and was a drooling mess? That’s me right now. Can’t talk either. You’re better off staying away. Not good company, trust me. Be back at the Gym before you know it. We need a rematch in the pool. Dibs on Lane 387!

This had confused Bror at first, because the pool had only fifteen lanes. Then he’d remembered that 387 was the number of their favorite suite in the Vacants. Tilrey was promising him they’d be together soon, in bed.

But why not just say that? The breezy vagueness wasn’t like Tilrey at all. Was the driver not trustworthy?

Bror glared down at the note, wishing it would give him answers. Tilrey’s writing was pinched, spiky, and precise, except for occasional dramatic swooshes that reminded him of the passion his friend showed in bed.

“What’s that?” Ansha asked, slouching up to the table. “Love letter?”

Bror swept the note under the table. Then he decided he was being childish and showed it to Ansha. After all, he needed his friend’s help.

“From Tilrey,” he said and explained the circumstances.

Ansha winced when Bror told him about the accident. “I was wondering why he wasn’t at the Lounge two night ago.”

He took his time reading the note, lips moving as he sounded out words, then returned it to Bror. “Shit.”

“What are you thinking?” Bror didn’t like that worried look.

“You don’t believe he actually fell on the ice, do you?” Ansha was practically whispering. He picked up his foamy tea and took a nervy sip.

“Well, if he didn’t, what happened?” Bror wanted to shake Ansha, but he couldn’t antagonize him now. “Did you hear something from Verán? Spit it out!”

Ansha glanced quickly around the room, as if he thought someone might be listening. “Didn’t you ever have an aunt who’d show up to the Communal Meal with a black eye or a split lip? You’d ask why, and she’d say she fell on the ice?”

Bror was confused. “I have five aunts. All sure-footed.”

With an exasperated sigh, Ansha leaned in until Bror could feel his breath. “This has nothing to do with balance. Verán says the Magistrate hasn’t been the same since his stroke. He’s got a short temper. I don’t know for sure, but I think maybe … Tilrey didn’t just fall.”

Understanding washed over Bror like icy water.

The next instant, rage exploded inside him, making his eyes burn. “You think Fir Magistrate hurt him?”

“Shh!” Ansha grabbed Bror’s hand and squeezed it until Bror winced. “Stay calm, Brorsha,” he added, relaxing his grip. “I mean, it happens. I’ve gotten slapped around. Haven’t you?”

Bror squelched an urge to shout A fractured jaw doesn’t just happen! He reminded himself that Ansha came from a rougher background than his own.

“I don’t get ‘slapped around,’ no,” he said, forcing himself under control. An occasional smack on the ass didn’t count. “If István raised his hand to me, I’d leave him.”

“Well, you’re big and scary, Brorsha, and you can leave. In case you haven’t noticed, Rishka can’t.”

Bror didn’t need the reminder. “A slap or two isn’t the same as broken bones,” he said tightly. “If that man hurt Tilrey, I’ll make him pay. I’ll get him expelled from the Council. I’ll fucking crush him.”

He clenched his free fist, the ferocity of his anger filling the terrifying vacuum that had opened inside him when Ansha first clued him in. Linden would be sorry he’d ever laid eyes on Tilrey. And that driver, doing the Magistrate’s lying for him—Bror would make him regret it, too. Everyone involved would pay.

Then he noticed the look on Ansha’s face. Worry and something softer—concern, maybe even pity. How could Ansha pity Bror?

Bror had been crushing his friend’s hand. He released it and growled, “What the fuck is that face for?”

“You know you can’t do anything, right?” Ansha looked straight at Bror, no snark in his tone. “I know you want to be a hero, but we’re not talking about a schoolyard bully here.”

“Sure as hell, I know it won’t be easy.” Bror wasn’t naïve. He was the one who’d shown both Ansha and Tilrey the ropes of the Core; he knew how things worked. He didn’t take foolish risks.

But when the image of Tilrey with a broken jaw surfaced in his mind again, he had to repress a snarl of animal rage. “We let Strutters get away with a hell of a lot, all the time. But broken bones, Ansha? No fucking way.”

Ansha patted Bror’s back as if to ground him. “We don’t know for sure what happened yet, and the driver obviously won’t talk. I can find out from Verán or Besha.”

“Well, then, fucking find out.” Bror sounded different to himself—like a complete asshole. He knew Ansha didn’t deserve his anger, so he tried to rein it in. “You gonna see Verán tonight?”

Ansha promised to learn what he could. Rising to leave, because it was nearly time for them both to prep for tonight, he said, “You really care about Rishka, don’t you?”

“I’d do the same for you, Ansha,” Bror snapped, still a long way from calm. “You think if some Strutter beat the shit out of you, I’d be okay with it?”

“Nah. You’re a good guy, Bror.” Ansha’s mouth twitched into a faint smile. “I wish you’d been around back when I was getting clobbered every day at recess. But the way you feel about Tilrey, it’s different. You gotta at least admit that.”

Bror knew it was true, though he had no way to describe his relationship with Tilrey. “Friends” didn’t cut it anymore, and they were certainly more than just fuck-buddies.

“Tilrey’s sensitive,” he said, still hoping to make Ansha believe all he felt was a big brother’s protectiveness. “I mean, not that you aren’t. But he’s vulnerable.”

Ansha hoisted his brows. “Tilrey’s a hell of a lot tougher than he was when he came to Redda—trickier, too. Trust me on that. He’ll be okay, Bror, I promise. We’ll make sure he is.”

Nine verdant, steaming hells, we fucking better. A line from Tilrey’s note kept repeating itself in Bror’s head, and the more he thought about it, the more it worried him.

You’re better off staying away.

***

“What’s your name?” Jorning demanded.

Tilrey looked up from the broth he’d been sucking through a straw. Consuming everything in liquid form was getting old fast, and so was being functionally mute.

At least he was getting better at expressive gesturing. He gave Jorning a shrug intended to convey You know my name, why ask?

For the past few days of Tilrey’s convalescence, Jorning had been kind and patient. He hadn’t attempted to touch Tilrey again the way he had their first night home. But now he was scowling. “Your friend called you Tilrey. Is Nettsha not your real name?”

Tilrey, Rishka, Bror’s voice whispered inside Tilrey’s head, hoarse with passion.

Tilrey pushed the memory aside and reached for his indispensable notebook. Tilhard/Tilrey = legal name. Nettsha = Island’ s name for me. My friends haven’t all made the switch.

Jorning looked perplexed. “So you’d rather be Nettsha? Like how I got called Jorning in the service, and now I like that better than Boris?”

It wasn’t like that at all. But Tilrey shrugged and wrote, Best to call me what Fir Verán calls me.

“But is it what you want? Even when we’re alone?” A furrow had appeared on the driver’s smooth brow. He opened Tilrey’s dresser and started pulling out clothes. “You must like one name better than the other.”

When he turned with his arms full of trousers and underclothes to find Tilrey staring at him in surprise, Jorning added in an apologetic tone, “It’s a free-night. Fir Verán asked to see you.”

Tilrey didn’t reach for the notebook. He knew his dismay showed on his face. The swelling was going down, and he’d been tapering off the meds. But it felt way too soon to face Verán.

Jorning dropped his eyes. “Fir Linbeck explained everything, so Fir Verán won’t be surprised. Fir Tollsha made him wait as long as he could. But now you need to get dressed and go.”

***

Tilrey could walk okay, and it felt good to use his legs for a change. He made a mental note to ask Jorning if he could go to the Gym and run on the track, very late or early when the place was empty.

Besha intercepted them in the coldroom of Verán’s apartment. He peered at Tilrey, frowned, and then led him inside, leaving Jorning behind without a word. “You look a little better. Not as much as I hoped.”

In the sitting room, Ansha was pouring tea under Verán’s stern gaze. When the old man glimpsed Tilrey, his eyes opened wide, the expression mixing repulsion with a certain cold relish. “I told you the creature was unpardonably insolent to me, Besha. I don’t know what’s got into him. And now look at him—ruined.”

Ansha set down the teapot. When their eyes met, Tilrey saw a flash of horror on the other boy’s face, rapidly followed by sympathy. Then Ansha’s expression went blank again, as he took his place beside Verán.

Besha sat Tilrey down on the opposite end of the sofa, as if he didn’t want Verán to see Linden’s handiwork up close. “Let’s not assume the worst, Visha. The doctors say he’ll heal like new.”

Verán scoffed, dipping a pinkie into his ever-present sap vial. “Maybe. But what if he provokes Mosha again? The boy’s broken somehow. It’s like he wants punishment.”

Broken, like a machine worn out from overuse. It made sense. Tilrey hadn’t expected to hear anything so reasonable from Verán. He stared into space as Besha “defended” him.

“I don’t know what Nettsha said to you, and I’m sure it was inexcusable, but this mess with Linden is completely different. The driver was there—he saw everything. Mosha was rough with the boy, and when the boy resisted, Mosha lost his temper…”

And so on. Already knowing the story, Tilrey tuned it out, watching Ansha lap up sap from Verán’s palm. When he raised his head, his eyes met Tilrey’s again.

And fear pinched Tilrey’s throat shut as he realized what Ansha’s presence meant. He’ll tell Bror everything.

He had to keep Ansha quiet. But how? He started following the conversation again while keeping a close eye on the other kettle boy, who was now in Verán’s lap.

The two Councillors were debating whether Linden was still fit to hold his office. Verán hoped they could “prop him up” for a few more years, but he instructed Besha to watch for any erratic behavior by the Magistrate in the Council chamber. “We have a stranglehold on the majority for now. But we don’t want any Mainlanders gossiping about how Mosha’s just a figurehead.”

Besha bobbed his head like the yes man he was. “Of course, Visha. Will do. I have noticed he sometimes … wanders on the podium, but then he catches the thread again.”

Tilrey wondered if all that obsequious nodding was scrambling Besha’s brain. Both of them seemed to have forgotten he was there, which was a relief. He didn’t matter except as a symptom of the Magistrate’s mental decline.

As the strategizing dragged on, Ansha rose to brew a new pot. Verán glanced at Tilrey again and winced, as if he really had forgotten him. “At least while he’s wired up like that, he can’t mouth off.”

“But he also can’t suck cock.” Besha snickered, playing up to Verán as usual. “His greatest talent.”

“Pity, isn’t it?” Verán beckoned to Tilrey and patted the cushion beside him.

Tilrey obeyed the silent command. He sat very still as Verán clamped a possessive hand on his knee. “Look me in the eye, boy. Have we learned our lesson yet?”

Tilrey met the man’s flinty gaze. Nodded. Right now he felt nothing for either Councillor but a cold distaste. Less than a ten-day ago, he’d come so close to death that he still felt its presence like ice at his heart.

“No more being difficult?” Verán persisted, glaring at him. “No more questioning your betters?”

It took Tilrey a moment to realize the Councillor was referring to their quarrel, the incident that had landed him with Linden. How long since then? Decades seemed to have passed, but it was probably still less than a ten-day. The offense was fresh in Verán’s head.

Tilrey knew how stupid his defiance had been. He’d dared to remind Verán of pimping his own nephew to Malsha, an incident that the old man had surely done his best to bury under fathoms of self-delusion.

Tilrey had been a different person that day, intoxicated by Bror’s love. Suicidally naïve. He doubted he’d ever be that person again.

He shook his head. “No, Fir.”

Verán stroked up Tilrey’s thigh—more gingerly than usual, as if he expected his usually resilient fuck-piece to crumble under his hands. “What do you think?” he asked Besha over his shoulder. “Shall we start giving him to the inner circle before he’s healed? Gourmanian’s been asking for him.”

Besha chuckled. “I’ll bet. I’ll just brief them first, so they aren’t too put off.”

So they know not to complain, Tilrey thought.

“You’ll tell them a story, of course,” Verán said. “They don’t have to believe it.”

Besha nodded. “The driver told the doctors something about a bar fight. We can use that.”

***

Verán sent Besha away before they went to bed, and Ansha braced himself. He could tell from the majority leader’s squeamishness that he didn’t want to fuck Tilrey himself, not in this state. But he might still want to see someone else do it.

“No kissing tonight,” Verán said as Ansha straddled Tilrey and unclasped his tunic, trying his best not to hurt him. “You might open up stitches or something.”

Tilrey’s sensitive, Bror had said earlier today. And Ansha had scoffed.

Now, lifting Tilrey’s hips to tug off his trousers, he was all too aware of his friend’s fragility. Ansha had endured thrashings, sure, but never one like this. The two black eyes, the swelling, the mangled lip, the wired jaw—it hurt just to look at Tilrey.

Ansha knew how it felt after some asshole went to town on you—as if your body were a breakable vessel you had to clutch protectively to your chest. And he could sense Tilrey cringing away from the touch, despite pretending he felt nothing.

When Ansha spied deep purple bruises on Tilrey’s ribs, just starting to yellow at the edges, he sucked in his breath. “Maybe,” he suggested, “I could suck him off, Fir. If I get on top of him right now, I might hurt him.”

Verán was nursing a sap vial, bedclothes and pillows mounded around him. “Nonsense,” he said. “If the boy can walk, he can take a cock.”

But Ansha heard a note of uncertainty there. Worried about getting blood on his bedclothes, the old bastard. “Let’s just see how he takes my fingers first, Fir. I’ll make him squirm for you,” he promised, knowing that even the kindest touch would make Tilrey squirm right now, and not with pleasure.

Verán relented.

Ansha rolled Tilrey on his side and fingered him for a while, trying to be gentle. Then he placed Tilrey’s hand on his own cock—still soft, because nothing about this turned him on—and said, “Make me come.”

Tilrey worked on Ansha. He didn’t get much of anywhere, but it didn’t matter, because soon Verán was asleep.

“It’s okay. You can stop now.” Ansha removed Tilrey’s hand from his wilting cock and spread a blanket over him, then got up to turn out the lights.

“Fuck,” he whispered, returning to bed, being sure not to crowd Tilrey. “I told Bror I’d find out what happened to you. I never thought…”

Tilrey’s body stiffened, as if he’d suddenly woken from a deep sleep. He shook his head violently and raised a finger to his lips.

“You don’t want me to tell Bror,” Ansha translated.

Tilrey nodded, a beseeching look on his face.

“But here’s the thing, Rishka. Bror’s already guessed. Now he needs to see for himself you’re not dead.” Remembering Bror’s rage, Ansha added, “You don’t want him to do something stupid, do you?”

Tilrey flinched, and Ansha knew they were thinking the same thing. Bror was savvy in many ways, but not this way. Seeing the damage to Tilrey might make him do something they’d all regret.

Tilrey shook his head again. He pulled Ansha close and whispered into his ear, the monotone words hissing through his wired jaws: “Can’t see me like this.”

“I know. I know.” Ansha stroked Tilrey’s arms, trying to soothe him. “But the thing is, he’s already upset.” Which is partly my fault—but Bror would’ve figured out the truth on his own sooner or later. “And you might be the only person in the world who can calm him down.”

It had stung Ansha to see Bror fly into a towering rage over Tilrey, just a little. When somebody threatened to “crush” the General Magistrate of Oslov for your sake, that was more than friendship talking. That was sheer and utter madness. Ináthera. Love.

Right now, though, holding a battered Tilrey in his arms, Ansha couldn’t find any jealousy in his heart. Tilrey and Bror had something, and he might as well accept it already. What use were friends if you didn’t help them through times like this?

“Tell the driver to let you see Bror,” he instructed, patting Tilrey’s back. “I’ll come with him. Together we’ll make Brorsha understand.”

***

Bror had no patience left for the Magistrate’s driver. When he and Ansha came to Linden’s door on the afternoon following the free-night, he let Ansha do the talking.

That turned out to be the right move. Ansha fawned over Jorning as if he were an Upstart, and this time the driver let them in almost immediately. “I cleared it with Tilrey beforehand,” Ansha whispered as they crossed the sitting room. “But a little politeness never hurts.”

At Tilrey’s door, though, Jorning paused to block the way. “He’s still not well,” he said, glaring straight at Bror. “Promise you won’t tire him out?”

A growl of rage swelled in Bror’s throat. Before he could release it, Ansha answered with a sweet smile: “We promise. We’re so grateful you’re taking good care of our friend. It was just a matter of time before he had an accident like this.”

Jorning looked startled. “Like…?”

“Falling on the ice! Poor Rishka’s clumsy, especially when he’s wasted. He has a lot of good qualities, but grace isn’t one of them.”

With that, Ansha waltzed past the driver and hit the door button. Bror couldn’t help savoring Jorning’s confused expression. Had he not expected anyone to buy the lie about how Tilrey got hurt?

When the door opened, Bror’s schadenfreude vanished. He found himself hanging back, dreading what came next.

Ansha had warned him Tilrey’s injuries were bad, really bad. Bror knew how to conceal his feelings with a blank expression, but it wouldn’t be easy. Abandoning Tilrey would be even worse, though, so he stepped resolutely inside—to find Tilrey in bed with his back to them. His shoulders were hunched, his head bowed as if he didn’t want to face them.

Jorning patted Tilrey’s back. “Hey, your friends are here. You change your mind about seeing them?”

“Why would he change his mind?” Without waiting for permission, Ansha sat down on the bed. He threw an arm around Tilrey and whispered in his ear.

Bror watched from a few paces away, feeling helpless. He could think of so many ways to comfort Tilrey, but none of them were possible with the driver standing right there.

The driver’s got a crush, Ansha had suggested when they were planning this.You need to make him think you’re only Tilrey’s friend, or he’ll get difficult. And sure enough, Jorning was hovering in a way that suggested his interest in Tilrey was more than professional.

Asshole. Bror could only stand there with his fists clenched, waiting for Tilrey to turn around.

“You say the word, Nettsha, they’re out of here,” Jorning said with a warning glance at Bror and Ansha, as if their very presence might be a threat to Tilrey.

Tilrey scribbled on a notepad and passed it to the driver. Jorning frowned as he read, then said, “Okay. But only an hour. Be back after that.”

Ansha shot Bror a triumphant glance.

“You two, be careful. Don’t try to make him talk,” Jorning lectured them from the doorway. “He’s got stitches.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it!” After the door closed behind Jorning, Ansha rolled his eyes. “Guess you have a new admirer, Rishka.”

Tilrey hadn’t moved, still facing the wall. Ansha rose and signaled Bror with a head wag to take his place on the bed.

Bror forced himself to sit beside Tilrey, angry at himself for being afraid. Not of Tilrey, never of Tilrey, but of what he was about to see. And of his own reaction to it.

“Hey, Rishka,” he said in a low voice. “Ansha told me what to expect. And … what happened. Why you didn’t want to see me.”

A brief tremor ran over Tilrey, but he stayed still.

Very carefully, Bror cupped Tilrey’s knee through the bedclothes. “I was pretty pissed off—not at you, obviously! You can see I’m calm now.”

“He was so angry he scared me!” Ansha contributed. “Be glad you’ve never seen him that angry, Rishka.”

Bror scowled at his friend. You’re not helping.

But maybe Ansha actually was helping, somehow. Because now Tilrey finally untwisted his upper body to face them.

Bror had prepared for this moment. He would not let his feelings show. But when he saw the livid bruises, the swelling that transformed the contours of Tilrey’s face, and the wired jaw, he sucked in a breath and blinked hard.

He wasn’t squeamish. He’d seen the aftermath of drunken brawls. But when the opponent couldn’t strike back, it wasn’t a fight, was it? This amount of injury couldn’t be excused as “discipline” or “punishment,” either. To Bror it looked like torture, plain and simple.

And they were all accepting it because of who the torturer was.

Bror knew the longer he stared, the more he would alarm Tilrey. So he did the only thing he could: He threw his arms around his friend and pulled him close, as if he could somehow retroactively shield him from everything that had happened.

“Tell me if I’m hurting you,” he breathed in Tilrey’s ear. “No, don’t try to talk. Just nod.”

Tilrey shook his head. He relaxed into Bror’s arms, propping his forehead on Bror’s shoulder.

It was a familiar position for them. But now Bror sensed Tilrey’s fragility in the stiffness of each movement and the ragged hitches in his breathing. He longed to kiss Tilrey and reassure him with the heat of his mouth. That didn’t seem wise, though, so he kept still and rubbed lazy circles on Tilrey’s back, hoping the rhythmic motion would soothe him.

They stayed that way a while. After a bit, when he dared, Bror ran cautious fingers through Tilrey’s hair. Tilrey’s breathing leveled out.

“I’ve missed you so much,” Bror breathed. “So much.”

When they finally parted, and Bror was able to notice something besides Tilrey, he saw that Ansha had found a way to occupy himself. He was sitting crosslegged on the floor with a large book in his lap. “A little light reading?” Bror asked.

“Yeah, right.” Ansha scowled with comical exaggeration. “Don’t you have any fun books, Rishka?”

Bror’s eyes met Tilrey’s. Now they were both smiling, just a little. And the ray of sunlight on his friend’s mangled face did something to Bror that the earlier mute misery hadn’t.

Hot tears rose to Bror’s eyes, blurring his vision. He knew he couldn’t stop them from falling, so he didn’t try. He only hugged Tilrey again, hiding his messy face against Tilrey’s shoulder, and said in a low, broken voice, “This is never gonna happen to you again. Never.”

He wanted to make a different vow: to “crush” Magistrate Linden, the way he’d proposed to Ansha in his rage yesterday. At the very least, he wanted to promise to bring the man to justice.

But deep down, Bror knew he had no power to do either of those things. Upstarts had protections he and Tilrey didn’t, protections that would crush them both before he could even get started.

This was a time for survival, not playing the hero. So Bror held Tilrey close and wept, reminding his friend that at least they could endure this together.

***

Suddenly Tilrey was the one comforting Bror, rubbing his back, and it felt good for a change. He might be broken now, but in the future he hoped they could take turns being the strong one. Everyone needed someone to lean on sometimes.

Even Ansha was more than pulling his weight as a friend today. He’d handled the situation brilliantly, talking Bror out of doing anything drastic, so Tilrey could simply enjoy Bror’s arms around him. Held in that solid grip, he didn’t feel frightened by Bror’s tears, because they told him his friend was resigned to reality.

Time was passing, though. Jorning had given them only an hour. Reluctantly, Tilrey tugged himself free enough of Bror to reach for his notepad and pen.

He wrote: You’re right. This won’t happen again. But you’re not the one who can stop it. Promise me you won’t talk to anyone, even István.

Bror frowned at that. His tears had dried, but his face was so pale between the blotchy patches that he looked ill. “István might be able to help, though.”

Tilrey shook his head.

A Mainlander has no pull with the Magistrate. Linden listens to his nephew, though. Tollsha, Besha, and Verán will make sure it doesn’t happen again.

He tried to look confident as he handed Bror the note. In reality, he had little respect for Tollsha’s influence over his uncle, and he knew Verán would care only as long as he found Tilrey “useful.” Besha might want to help, if only for selfish reasons, but Tilrey doubted he could do much on his own.

No. The real line of defense was Tilrey’s power to read people’s moods—and then to seek help from Jorning, who could divert Linden’s rage by “punishing” Tilrey in other ways the Magistrate enjoyed. Together, they needed to channel the old man’s desire for violence into activities that wouldn’t do lasting damage.

Jorning appeared to be thinking along those lines, too. This morning, he had given Tilrey an update on Linden: He asked how you were last night. I don’t think he’ll want to see you till you’re better. His tone was reassuring and conspiratorial, as if they were allies against a powerful and erratic enemy.

Once Tilrey could talk again, they would agree on a plan going forward. And if being sure of Jorning’s cooperation meant accepting his occasional clumsy advances … well, that was a small price to pay.

Bror still looked doubtful, but he put a brave smile on his face. “So Tollsha knows? That’s good. I heard he’s his uncle’s favorite. Maybe I could talk to him?”

Tilrey shook his head vehemently. So did Ansha, who’d put the book away and gotten up. “I can talk to Tollsha, Bror. I know what to say. You can’t be so … obvious.”

“About what?” Bror gave Tilrey an anguished glance. Tilrey dropped his eyes.

“Don’t let people know you’re stuck on Rishka,” Ansha said matter-of-factly, plopping down at the foot of the bed. “It’s fine for me to speak up for him, because everybody’s seen me fuck him.”

Bror flinched visibly. Tilrey clasped his friend’s hand tight.

“What?” Ansha asked, having also caught Bror’s reaction. “That’s what happened on Election Night, Brorsha. You know that. Anyway, Strutters figure it’s kinda natural and sweet that I’m concerned for him. But you? Might come off a different way. At least for now.”

Bror hadn’t stopped glowering. “You’re saying it would be less weird for me to defend Tilrey if Verán had made the two of us fuck for his amusement?”

Ansha shrugged. “I don’t make the rules.”

Crude as Ansha was, Tilrey knew he was right. Upstarts were less likely to feel threatened by a bond between two kettle boys when they had orchestrated it for their own delectation. For the first time, he wondered if a public performance with Bror might protect both of them. It wasn’t a pleasant thought, so he thrust it aside to reconsider once he was healed.

To distract Bror now, he brought his friend’s hand to his lips. With his eyes, he said Trust me. Everything will be fine.

Bror grabbed Tilrey’s free hand and squeezed it. A violent shudder shook his body, as if he were repressing sobs. He kissed Tilrey’s knuckles, then released the hand and kissed him on the forehead. “Fine. I won’t complain. But I’m coming back tomorrow, okay?”

“Every few days is safer.” Ansha hopped off the bed. “You saw how the driver is,” he added, cutting his eyes at the door. “And soon Rishka’ll be all better, and you can see him every day in the Café and Vacants with no one watching. Right?”

It took a few more minutes of coaxing to get Bror to leave. Tilrey finally managed to budge him by whispering, “Soon. I love you.”

He didn’t even care if Ansha heard. A shared glance as Ansha practically dragged Bror out the door confirmed their friend would keep their secret.

When no one else could or would help, kettle boys stuck together.

Chapter 56: Surviving

One ten-day later

“Oh no.” Fir Councillor Gourmanian couldn’t seem to take his gaze off Tilrey as they sat down for tea in his sitting room. “Oh no,” he repeated in a whisper, tender tears filling his eyes. “Besha warned me what to expect, but I never imagined…”

Half a month into his convalescence, Tilrey was royally sick of being fretted over—and even more sick of not being able to say so. He fished out his trusty notebook and passed the Councillor a prewritten note: Not as bad as it looks, Fir. I’m mending.

Indeed, his face was back to its normal shape, and the bruises had yellowed and begun to fade. Glancing in the mirror these days, Tilrey recognized himself. He’d been running and lifting weights in the mornings when the Gym was nearly empty, flanked by the protective escort of Bror or Jorning or both.

The tension between his friend and the driver remained palpable. But Bror had reverted to treating Tilrey like a kid brother, at least when Jorning was around, and Jorning no longer bristled at his presence. Tutored by Ansha, no doubt, Bror tried hard not to seem like a rival for Tilrey’s attention. Sometimes he even turned his charm on Jorning and buttered him up.

Tilrey suppressed a smile at the thought and forced himself to focus on Gourmanian, whom he was seeing for the first time tonight since the incident (as Verán and Besha called it). Resuming his usual duties was part of a welcome return to normalcy, and he needed to act normal. Keep everything on an even keel.

Gourmanian, for his part, seemed unable to find words. He drew Tilrey into a careful, trembling embrace as if he expected the healing jawbone to break again.

Maybe he won’t spank me tonight. That’s something. Tilrey had enjoyed the playacted “punishments” for a while. But play had felt more serious since the night Jorning had used a belt on him, raising actual welts. And after the incident—well, he didn’t want to be hit right now, even with all the care and consideration in the world. Too soon.

I can take it, of course, he told himself sternly. I’m used to it.

His brain trusted Gourmanian to respect boundaries even after Linden had trampled on them. But he couldn’t be sure his body would cooperate, and that worried him.

“Darling. My poor child,” the Councillor breathed, then drew back to give the damage a closer look. “I didn’t think you were a brawler,” he added bemusedly, tucking a strand of hair behind Tilrey’s ear. “And to take on a bunch of factory louts … what were you thinking?”

Oh, right. Besha had offered to feed Gourmanian and the others Jorning’s “bar fight” story. With two different flimsy lies in play, Tilrey found it hard to keep track.

He couldn’t help shaking his head and smiling, to the extent the wires permitted. Surely Gourmanian knew him better than that.

“Wait, what did I miss?” The Councillor nuzzled Tilrey, dark stubble against his healing cheek, which Jorning had carefully shaved for him a few hours ago. “What’s funny?”

After a moment, when Tilrey didn’t answer, Gourmanian figured it out. “That fucking Besha. I should never listen to him. What really happened?”

Tilrey repressed a sigh as he went for the notebook again. Maybe it would be smarter to flesh out the bar fight story with more details, giving it a degree of plausibility. Malsha would have suggested that.

But the lie was so out of character that it felt like an insult to him. Poor Jorning had no talent for compelling falsehoods. Remembering Verán’s take on the incident at their last meeting, he wrote with a flourish: Unpardonable insolence.

Gourmanian snatched the notebook. “I don’t understand. You’re never insolent.”

Why was the Upstart being so dense? Tilrey added: I court punishment. I enjoy it. You said so yourself once.

This time, Gourmanian’s face reddened as he read. When he looked up, his tears were welling again. “I never said such a thing about you.”

Tilrey shrugged. He wasn’t equipped to argue the point.

The Councillor fluttered wet lashes, as if thinking back. “Well, maybe. But I didn’t mean this kind of punishment. I never said you were … asking to be hurt.” His voice broke. “I told you I was sorry about the spring fling. That was before I actually knew you. You must know I would never harm you. You’re the sweetest, cleverest, most agreeable boy I’ve ever had in my bed.”

He grasped Tilrey’s hand and pressed it to his heart, as if afraid to hug him again. “Whoever did this, they didn’t know you like I do. They only wanted to hurt you, to break you. My sweet Nettsha.”

Tilrey averted his gaze as the Councillor fawned on him, kissing and sniveling on his hand. For a few moments, he felt almost powerful, as if this Upstart’s contrition could somehow make up for what Linden had inflicted on him. But he knew that wouldn’t last.

Gourmanian set Tilrey’s hand down again. “It wasn’t Verán?” he asked quietly.

Tilrey sketched another shrug. Figure it out if it matters to you, you fool.

“No. Visha’s always too pleased with himself to have that much anger in him. But he wouldn’t cover for anyone else, either. Except maybe… oh.”

When Tilrey looked up, Gourmanian’s face was awash in understanding—and pity. “My poor boy,” he murmured, drawing Tilrey to him again and kissing his forehead and stroking his hair. “My poor boy.”

The evening passed without spanking, shackles, or playacting. When they retired to the bedroom, Gourmanian rolled Tilrey on his side and opened and entered him with immense care, insisting he nod periodically to confirm it didn’t hurt. The Councillor clearly still enjoyed the fuck despite these extra precautions—and to his own surprise, Tilrey did as well.

He was never more than half hard during it, despite Gourmanian’s fitful efforts, but it felt right to have a cock inside him again. Necessary, even. He hadn’t consciously missed it. But wasn’t this what he was for? And he couldn’t currently use his mouth, as Verán had untactfully pointed out.

As the warmth of the Councillor’s release gushed into him, Tilrey had a sudden memory of the most recent time he’d done this with Bror, the day after he moved in with Linden. It had felt different then, hadn’t it? Better? He’d been down on all fours, begging shamelessly for Bror’s cock, and he hadn’t needed to pretend he was Ansha. He’d just wanted it, as himself.

The memory seemed foreign now, though, like someone else’s life. After the shocks from which his body was still recovering, it was hard to imagine wanting anything except to be safe. And the sweaty body slumped against Tilrey’s felt like safety. As long as enough Islanders still liked fucking him, they wouldn’t want him maimed or dead.

Linden couldn’t fuck him, so Linden didn’t care if he existed—Tilrey had felt that reckless disregard in the old man’s blows. He was useful to the Magistrate only as an outlet for frustration. The man might kill Tilrey one day out of rage, out of carelessness, or for no reason at all.

But I won’t let him. Tilrey snuggled closer to Gourmanian, who seemed loath to let him go. This is up to me, at least—whether I live or die. I won’t let that old prick decide.

The next morning, the Councillor helped him dress, as if he were an invalid. With a troubled expression, he said, “We can’t let it happen again.”

Tilrey nodded. Every day he was building his relationship with Jorning, the friend he needed most as long as he stayed in the Magistrate’s home. Tollsha was second most important, followed by Verán (ugh) and Besha. But Gourmanian’s support certainly couldn’t hurt.

Gourmanian fastened Tilrey’s trousers and patted his flank. “I’ll talk to Verán. There must be a better solution. Remember how we talked about you living here with me? Wouldn’t you like that?”

Tilrey hadn’t expected such a rash suggestion. He seized his tunic from Gourmanian and fumbled in the pocket, desperate for his notebook.

What was Gourmanian thinking? Last fall, yes, the man had kindly offered to take in Tilrey rather than let him land in the Brothel. But Verán would never allow that now, while Tilrey was still useful. Possessing the Jewel was the highest mark of the Island’s favor.

In his haste, Tilrey wrote a note that was blunter than anything he would have said aloud. You don’t have that much clout. He’ll laugh at you.

Gourmanian looked wounded. “Isn’t it worth a try?”

Tilrey wasn’t sure whether to be touched by the gesture or annoyed that the man lacked so much political savvy. Malsha would never have overestimated his own power that way.

I’d love to live with you, of course. But you don’t want to second guess Verán, Fir. That always makes him dig in his heels. Just tell him you’re concerned for me and leave it at that.

“You make a good point.” Gourmanian sighed, then took back the tunic and held it for Tilrey to insert his arms. “That man should be removed from our highest office, though,” he added meditatively, as Tilrey finished putting the garment on. “I only supported him because I didn’t like the alternative. Now I see he’s unfit.”

Tilrey was glad he couldn’t speak in that moment, because stinging words might have burst from him. Do something about it. Form a splinter coalition in your party. Lead an uprising against Verán.

And he knew Gourmanian wasn’t going to lead any uprising. The man was ranting about deposing Linden without even pronouncing his name, as if he were afraid his apartment might be bugged.

He’s a spineless coward, Malsha whispered inside Tilrey’s head. They all are. My love, if you’re going to stay alive, it’s all on you.

***

Nearly another ten-day passed before the Island Party needed Tilrey’s services again. He saw Bror at the Gym every morning, and his friend’s smiles and casual touches were enough to sustain him—for now. Jorning hovered so close that it wasn’t safe to go to the Vacants just yet.

Tilrey made good use of the long, dull afternoons in his room, too. He discovered that Jorning liked playing games on a battered portable console. His favorite involved shooting Outers with a sniper rifle. Tilrey would watch him dispatch hundreds, sucking on tea or broth through a straw. After an hour or so of this, he allowed Jorning to beat him in dual-player mode, trying gamely to follow the driver’s instructions: “Watch out, I’m coming at you!” “No, you’re aiming too far to the right!”

It was mind-numbing, but it was safe. And when Jorning touched him—leaning over his shoulder to guide his hand or “accidentally” jogging his elbow—Tilrey didn’t shy away. When he caught Jorning staring at him, he pretended not to notice.

It was comical how timid the driver was being now, after the night when he’d boldly slithered under the covers to suck Tilrey’s cock. After all, no one was likely to stop him from taking any liberties he wanted to with Tilrey, as long as he left no visible traces behind.

That oaf is like a pining schoolboy, Malsha crooned inside Tilrey’s head. It’s sweet. String him along until he’s practically exploding with wanting you.

What if I don’t want him back?

Will he put his big, strong body between you and Linden’s fists? Then I think you do want him.

Tilrey was glad Malsha wasn’t actually there to hear his next thought: I miss how safe I felt with you.

That was what he really needed, he was realizing: a member of the ruling coterie who cared about him enough to protect him. Bror’s love might make him feel warm and blissful for a few hours, but it had no power behind it. Even Gourmanian’s doting was worthless right now.

What about Besha? He had Verán’s favor and was fond of Tilrey. He was also unpredictable with a cruel streak, but maybe Tilrey could learn to manage him. Hadn’t he already used Besha’s jealousy to drive a wedge between the little Councillor and Makari?

Tonight Verán was having a small gathering of his inner circle. As Tilrey showered and dressed, he told himself he was grateful for the distraction. He was less eager to show his wired jaw to anyone new, even though most of the visible injuries had healed.

When Jorning led him out into the sitting room, Linden was sitting on the sofa with his tea, flipping through the Council Record.

Tilrey’s heart stuttered. It was his first time facing the Magistrate since the incident.

His brain told him to walk to the door without making eye contact, but his body froze midstep. And then panic wiped his mind clean, as Linden set down the journal and looked up at him.

Tilrey dropped his own gaze instantly. The white walls were a vortex, spinning and spinning and pulling him in. In the distance, he heard the old man’s voice say, “Bring him here. Let me see him.”

Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into agonizing minutes, and then abruptly leap forward. Shaky and nauseous, Tilrey found himself standing beside the sofa. Only Jorning’s hand clamped around his arm saved him from falling.

Linden was on his feet now, gazing up at his kettle boy. He touched Tilrey’s cheek with those flabby, baby-soft fingers, which seemed incapable of inflicting harm.

Tilrey screwed his eyes shut but opened them the next moment, scolding himself. After all, he had prepared for this. Painful experience had taught him rules: Breathe levelly. No eye contact. Above all, no sudden moves.

His heart was racing, booming. As those fingers moved over him, probing his healing jaw, he saw the Magistrate’s lips move.

The Fir was speaking, and Jorning was answering. Something about doctors and removing the wire, a snowstorm, Verán. It was all a senseless jumble of words until Linden released Tilrey and sat back down.

“Keep him quiet with sap,” the Magistrate said, picking up the Council Record again. “There are vials in the bowl on the bookcase. We don’t want Verán upset.” His lips tugged into a sneer. “My nephew is adamant that I mustn’t upset anyone.”

“The boy can’t even speak just now, Fir.” Jorning’s tone had the slightest hint of reproach. “He won’t upset anyone.”

The Magistrate flapped his hand impatiently, his attention back on the page. “Use your judgment, then, if you have any. Out of my sight.”

Tilrey didn’t regain the full use of his senses until they were in the car and unmoored from the dock. He sucked in a deep breath, watching city lights stream through blowing snow, and released it. It’s all right. Still here. Still me.

When Jorning glanced back to check on him, Tilrey shot him a look that said, You didn’t fucking warn me.

“Sorry. Thought he’d be in his room. That’s where I brought him the tea.”

Jorning’s tone was meek. Nervous, even. Tilrey felt the same brief rush of power he had when Gourmanian was smearing his hand with tears.

I’ve made him care. If Linden ordered Jorning to hold Tilrey still for another beating, the driver was more likely to think twice now. He’d make excuses. If forced, he might even say no.

It was a small victory but a real one. And all it took was a dozen mindless hours of watching him play video games.

***

The group was intimate: just Verán, Besha, gloomy Niko Karishkov, and Besha’s wife, Davita Lindblom. Sap flowed freely, along with a bitter golden liquor imported from Harbour, and everyone munched on dumplings and smoked-salmon rusks.

Neither Lindblom nor Karishkov asked about Tilrey’s injury. Besha must have fed them some story or other. Now and then, Tilrey felt one of their gazes skittering over his face.

The presence of a woman made him uneasy, though he wasn’t sure why. Maybe it was Davita’s beauty, those imperious features and the shiny black hair that reminded him of Dal. Maybe it was the fact that she was a mother, updating Verán on her young children with pride and affection.

Tilrey pitied those kids, having Besha for a father. But he felt sure Davita loved them dearly, just as his mother had loved him.

Verán had been feeding Tilrey sap all night, poking sticky fingers between his wired jaws. By the time he tugged Tilrey’s head down into his lap, Tilrey’s thoughts were liquefying into nonsense. Mom, I wish you were here. You wouldn’t let anyone hurt me…

Your mother can’t be here, love, Malsha reminded him. Your mother has no power outside of Sector Six of Thurskein. Remember her letters and how sad they made you?

I’m not sad now. I’m glad she’s faraway and safe.

Tilrey’s whole body felt waterlogged. Verán’s bony hand stroked his hair, back and forth, in the possessive way that always made him feel small and powerless but also … safe? Yes, he felt safe like this. Véran still wanted him. Perhaps he had forgiven Tilrey’s foolish fit of insolence—or, more likely, forgotten it entirely.

They’re talking about me, he realized, his breath catching.

“Just one more ten-day, according to the specialist,” Verán was saying. “Good thing. He’s practically useless without his mouth.”

“You’re not an ass man?” Besha suggested cheekily.

Verán didn’t join in the laughter. “My proclivities aren’t the point. I just hate to keep our Jewel idle for a whole month, losing his luster. The only one of his regulars I’ve sent him to is Gourmanian, who isn’t exactly picky. He gave me a lecture afterward, though. Said he was ‘concerned.’”

So Gourmanian had given Verán a piece of his mind, but he hadn’t made any foolish demands. Tilrey was relieved.

Davita laughed—a husky, sexy laugh. “Poor Visha, stuck with the best piece of ass in the city. If it pains you that much to leave him idle, I could take him off your hands tonight.”

Besha and Karishkov greeted this proposal with hearty guffaws, as if they thought (or hoped) she was making a joke. Everyone knew kettle boys were for men. Tilrey had heard of a few female Councillors sharing pretty girls, but it wasn’t really the same at all.

Davita seemed to enjoy the attention. “There’s plenty he can do for me without his mouth,” she added archly, sending the men into a fresh round of merriment—except for Verán, who remained silent.

“You all see what I put up with?” Besha asked with comical frustration. “My wife is voracious.”

“Oh, poor sweetheart,” his wife riposted. “I don’t recall complaining last year when I was watching the boy suck you off.”

“Why would you complain about something that turned you on?”

Karishkov said in his dry way, “Some of us actually take our marriages seriously.”

Finally, Verán put a stop to the irreverence. “You always do make me laugh, Davita,” he said, twirling a strand of Tilrey’s hair around his finger, “but I hope you didn’t also intend to be taken seriously. A boy like this is strictly for men.”

Davita scoffed. “You’re such a traditionalist, Visha. Women can only have fun in bed with other women, or you brand them as shameless hussies.”

“I would never call you such a thing, my lovely friend.” Verán spoke lightly, but the reproach was plain. “I simply believe the coitus of man and woman is a sacred act that should be saved for the purposes of reproduction.”

“Sacred. Ah, I see.” Davita’s sarcasm was so barbed that Tilrey winced, twitching in Verán’s grip. “Is your wife the only woman who’s ever had the honor of your … sacred contact, then?”

Besha’s bark of laughter sounded insecure. “Boundaries, sweetness! Don’t ask questions you don’t want answers to.”

Something was happening between Verán and Davita that her little schemer of a husband couldn’t control, Tilrey noted with interest. Perhaps there was history there.

Verán seemed unbothered. “We’ve all had our lapses, Davita,” he said, reaching down to give Tilrey’s ass a squeeze. “I simply prefer to respect tradition.”

“As do I, Visha. That’s how I was raised. But it’s such a waste, don’t you think?” Davita’s voice had that edge again. “A beautiful thing shouldn’t sit on a shelf when someone could make good use of it.”

And they all laughed again.

***

Davita and Karishkov departed soon afterward, but Besha stayed. While Verán was washing up and Vlastor cleared the dishes, the little Councillor hooked his arm around a still sap-woozy Tilrey and hoisted him to his feet.

“Poor boy,” he said as he led Tilrey into the bedroom. “I bet you would’ve liked fucking my wife. If she didn’t eat you alive first, which is a strong possibility.”

By the time Verán joined them, Tilrey was sprawled on the bed, letting Besha undress him. Apparently this was going to be a threesome of some kind. Tilrey couldn’t bring himself to care, especially after Verán fed him another palmful of sap.

He wished he’d had time to catch up with Vlastor. Maybe in the morning. The poor man had tried so hard to protect him.

Besha appeared to be playing the part that Ansha had played last time, prepping Tilrey for a token fuck while a bored Verán watched. Unlike Ansha, though, he jabbered the whole time.

“The nerve of my wife, Visha,” he said, stroking a hot little lubed finger into Tilrey’s ass crack. “She shocks even me sometimes. What was she offering to do, ride his cock?”

“You know she’s capable of it. Davita’s spoiled and headstrong. No one’s ever reined her in. Of course, she’s worth several of you,” Verán added casually a moment later.

Besha gave Tilrey a painful jab. “Thanks for the vote of confidence, boss.”

Verán ignored the sarcasm. “You’re a clever lad, Besha, in your way. But Davita is a brilliant tactician and an indispensable steward of the next generation, which is precisely why she shouldn’t waste her time with whores.”

“Waste time? Is that what we’re doing here?” Besha rolled Tilrey on his side and began probing him again, this time more gently, stroking his flank soothingly with the other hand. “Or don’t you think my time is valuable?”

“Every second of your time belongs to me. You were nothing, and I made you.” Again Verán spoke matter-of-factly, as if he expected no objections from Besha. He got none. Only Tilrey was close enough to hear the younger man’s irritated intake of breath.

“Anyway, women are different,” Verán added in a sticky drawl, which Tilrey recognized as a welcome sign the old man was getting drowsy. “Their needs aren’t as urgent as ours. They can afford to hold the moral high ground. Look at my wife—I don’t think she’s slept with anyone for the past few decades. Doesn’t seem to bother her.”

Besha chortled. “Maybe your wife would tell a different story.”

Tilrey remembered his brief conversation with Verán’s wife on the plane last fall. For the past thirty-odd years, even his most casual touches have made my stomach curdle. He hoped she was getting her needs satisfied elsewhere, if she still had any.

He wondered if he would have any interest in sex when he was that old. He hoped not. Even tonight, the whole process made him cringe inside, despite the occasional twinges of arousal when Besha’s fingers brushed the right spot.

Safety. That’s what turns me on now. He recalled the pleasantly protective sensation of Gourmanian spooning him. Maybe Besha would do that, too.

“The cheek of you, Besha.” But Verán clearly had no energy for banter. Ten or so minutes later, while Tilrey was stroking Besha’s cock to full hardness, snoring rose from the old man’s side of the bed.

“Don’t stop just because he’s asleep!” Besha squirmed in Tilrey’s grip, his tone more complaint than command.

Tilrey wished he could use his mouth; he didn’t feel like getting fucked just now. Besha made no attempt to mount him, though, so he continued the hand job, and the little man writhed and whimpered until he spilled all over Tilrey’s fist and belly with a guttural groan.

Then Besha held Tilrey fiercely, forming a barrier between him and the slumbering Verán. “How’re things at home?” he hissed into Tilrey’s ear. “No more temper tantrums from our senile friend, I hope?”

Tilrey shook his head. This close, he could communicate in a whisper. “Tollsha talked to him. The driver…”

“That driver’s a dumb brute,” Besha said. “Or he likes seeing you in pain. It’s his fault you’re like this.”

Tilrey didn’t point out the irony of Besha’s accusing someone else of enjoying his pain. “Not anymore. Working on him.” Each word still hurt, jogging the mending bone. “Scared, though, Fir.”

“Scared? I don’t blame you.” Besha stroked Tilrey’s shoulder blade with one hand and tangled the other in his hair, just as possessive as Verán had been earlier. “Poor, silly Davita. She doesn’t get it, does she?” His tongue darted out to lick Tilrey’s neck. “She may want you, but she can’t take care of you. Not like I do.”

I want protection. That’s the only kind of caring that matters. Tilrey let the man nuzzle and fondle him, feeling more and more irritated by the difficulty of expressing himself.

Soon the wire would be out, and he and Jorning would be able to talk. They would plan. Once he could speak properly, he might eventually even dare to make Besha a proposition.

So you want to take care of me. What if you could keep me? What if I were really yours?

***

The better part of another ten-day passed before the big day arrived.

Jorning drove Tilrey to the hospital, where the doctors poked and prodded and tested and finally decided his jaw had mended itself enough to be liberated from the wire.

Neither of them spoke on the way back. Tilrey was too used to silence to know where to start. Jorning seemed tense, as if a dark cloud hung over his head.

The driver waited until they were in the warm safety of the apartment, behind the door of Tilrey’s room, before he said, “The Fir wants to see you tonight. What should we do?”

Tilrey sat down on the bed and held out his hand. The driver took it and joined him.

Jorning’s puppy-dog eyes and furrowed brow were almost endearing to Tilrey now he knew him better. The driver might try to control their relationship, but deep down, he needed a strong hand and a level head to guide him.

I have both. Just gotta be subtle about it. Need to train him to take his real orders from me instead of Linden.

Tilrey kissed Jorning’s knuckles, noting the shiver of desire that gripped the driver’s body in response.

“I think you know exactly what to do, Jorning.” His voice was rusty from disuse, but it felt good to speak again. He would get used to it. “And if you don’t, I’ll give you some ideas.”

“Don’t wanna hurt you.” Jorning spoke under his breath, not making eye contact. “Know I did before.”

Yeah, you did. But this was no time to rub it in. “You can’t hurt me,” Tilrey said, stroking the man’s hand. “Not if we plan everything out together. You and me, we’re gonna be a great team.”

Notes:

So, I think I'll alternate between posting chapters of this and my AU with Malsha and Tilrey in Harbour, until I'm done with the latter. As you can see, this story just gets darker and darker, so it's nice to have a little break and see a less fucked-in-the-head Tilrey.

This scene is the one that Tilrey remembers when he's with Davita in this chapter of "Oslov Unlocked." Just another reminder of how everything he endures in this story paves the way for a revolution decades later.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 20 of The Key to Oslov