Volume 11: Crosscurrents and Consequences
Chapter 6
What Besha Wants
Chapter Notes
Posting this early because I’m going to be away till the 20th, but there will be more when I return, if not before. Thanks for reading!
Chapter Notes
Posting this early because I’m going to be away till the 20th, but there will be more when I return, if not before. Thanks for reading!
Posting this early because I’m going to be away till the 20th, but there will be more when I return, if not before. Thanks for reading!
“Oh, so that’s how it works now.” Besha scowled at Tilrey. “You’re following me.”Tilrey grinned in the lazy way he had rehearsed. He was in the coldroom of the Sanctioned Brothel, leaning against the wall beside the long coat rack. The lighting here was atmospheric, limited to small torchieres near the ceiling, and the shadows had camouflaged him for the past two hours while he waited for Besha to emerge from within.“I heard,” he said, “that you’ve been coming here every eighth-night lately.”“Oh, Davita complained to you, did she?” Besha wound the heavy scarf around his neck. “She’s so nosy about my extracurriculars.”“No, your wife didn’t tattle, Fir. Let me do that.” Besha had sat down to tug his outdoor boots on. Tilrey knelt to lace and clasp them for him. “I have my ways of checking up on you.”Irin and Mirella had come through with that bit of intel, at least. Tilrey had wanted to catch Besha when he was off guard, coming from his pleasure, and Besha’s look of befuddled annoyance told him he’d succeeded.“Oh, you have your ways, do you?” the Councillor asked sharply, jerking his foot out of Tilrey’s hands. He snapped the clasp shut and stood up. “Ever since Gersha and I had our little talk over tea, I knew I could expect a visit from you. I’ve waited a whole ten-day. And here you are, ready to soothe my suspicions and smooth over my hurt feelings.”He swept his coat over his shoulders and strode across the room to the lift. “Have at it, then,” he continued, jabbing the button without a glance back at Tilrey. “Go ahead and try to convince me I’ve simply jumped to absurd conclusions.”They both knew, of course, that the lift and hallways had cameras. Tilrey followed Besha into the lift, and they rode downward in the silence of things that weren’t safe to voice yet. Normally Tilrey would have masked the tension between them with banter, but he didn’t have much heart for it today and suspected Besha didn’t, either.“Boy or girl?” he asked, trying anyway as they crossed the clammy, half-empty garage to Besha’s car.“Which was I seeing tonight?” Besha tossed a mirthless laugh over his shoulder. “None of your business, my beauty. Don’t be jealous. I have to have some secrets, don’t I?”Besha’s driver must have spotted them coming; he was already out of the car and holding the heavy door open. Without bothering to acknowledge the Laborer, Besha slid into the backseat and beckoned Tilrey to follow.“After all,” the Councillor finished, settling himself, “you have so many secrets of your own, don’t you?” And then, to the driver: “Lars, go upstairs and get yourself a drink or two at the bar. Run your chip and tell them to put it on my account. I’ll call up and have someone tap you on the shoulder when I’m ready to go.”The driver bobbed his head, blank-faced. “Very good, Fir.” He shut the door on them and trudged the way they’d come.“Now, that’s the sort of Drudge I like dealing with.” Besha took a vial of sap from his coat and trickled some into his palm. “He doesn’t know any big words, he follows orders without question, and he doesn’t plot against the Republic.” He licked his palm and held the vial out to Tilrey. “And then, apparently, there’s you. Fancy a dip?”Tilrey needed to keep his head clear. But he also needed to maintain the veneer of sociability, so he poured a bit of the gummy black liquid into his palm and licked it. At least Besha knew better these days than to try to feed him sap like a kettle boy.“Gersha told me about your conversation,” he said, wiping the sticky hand on his parka. The dose was making his head buzz, but he’d been careful to waste some of it. “I gather that you confronted Gersha with certain suspicions, and he attempted to turn them around on you.”“That’s one way of putting it.” Besha hunched beside him, the garage’s ambient light too dim to give Tilrey a good read on his expression. “He practically accused me of being history’s greatest monster.”He cut Tilrey off before he could reply: “No soothing, please. Don’t tell me he didn’t mean it. You and I both know that Gersha has a dangerous tendency, when he’s caught off guard, to blurt out what’s in his heart.”Behind the standard acidity of Besha’s tone, Tilrey thought he detected a hint of regret, as if Gersha’s attack had actually wounded him. Good. If Besha cared about Gersha’s approval, he’d be easier to manage.“You’re right about that,” Tilrey said, proceeding carefully. “But I think your insinuations did more than surprise Gersha. They frightened him.”Besha laughed, a dry little huff in the near-dark. “They were meant to. And they were more than insinuations.” He faced Tilrey, the sodium-light glow slanting devilishly across his angular features. “Please don’t insult my intelligence by lying to me. You aren’t just a reformist. You’re a shirker. And you’ve pulled Gersha down into that mess with you.”Tilrey didn’t let his breath hitch. He’d been expecting this. “Those are some bold conclusions to draw from one little Int/Sec analyst’s report about a series of meetings he didn’t witness firsthand.”“Blah, blah, whatever.” Besha’s hand mimed a jabbering mouth. “You have the words to argue yourself out of any jam. But I’m not listening, because you see, Tilrey, I know you. I knew you when you were a naïve little piece fresh from Thurskein, and I know you now.”“I see.” He kept his voice level. “And from knowing me so well, you’ve concluded . . .?”Besha went quite still, gazing at him. “Frankly, I’m angry at myself for not figuring it out sooner. I thought you were out for your personal advancement like any sensible person. But you aren’t. You’re out for revenge.”The stark word made Tilrey twitch, though he was already prepared to confess. “How dramatic.”“Tell me about it. But I’ve watched you, Rishka. You’ve got a dramatic side. And, if I’m honest, after everything you’ve been through with Upstarts—well, I can’t entirely blame you for wanting to get your own back. It’s mad, but it’s sensible.”“How suddenly subversive of you, Besha.” Tilrey kept his tone light, though there was bitterness underneath. “You used to tell me I was a lucky boy to belong to two General Magistrates in succession.”“You were lucky! I mean, technically. You came out better in the end, didn’t you? But you had a rough time of it. I know that better than most. Back then, I thought little of it because you didn’t seem all that much brighter than the average Drudge, and their feelings don’t concern me, but—”Tilrey couldn’t resist cutting him off. “Drudges of average intelligence don’t have feelings that matter?”“Well—no! I mean, we’re their betters. We know what’s best for them. It’s not like they’d hold a grudge. But you—you’ve got all a Drudge’s animal cunning, but you scheme and calculate and you don’t forget things, just like a Strutter. Like me, anyway. I know that now. You were watching us the whole time, totting up our offenses and preparing your revenge.”Now it was Tilrey’s turn to laugh without amusement. “You make me sound like the anti-hero of a melodramatic stream.”“I told you you have a dramatic side. All shirkers do.” Besha jabbed a finger at him. “You want revenge, and Egil put poison in your ear, and you listened. Now you want to tear the whole system down. You want to turn Strutters into Drudges so you can lord it over us.”Tilrey knew he should be shaken by the accusations, but they were so absurd. “Is that the fairy tale Upstart children grow up hearing, Besha? That Dissidents are monsters who want to murder or replace you?” Gersha had trotted out similar hyperbole when he first found out. “That’s not what we want at all.”“We. Huh. So you’re not denying it.”For the first time, Tilrey became aware that Besha was trembling. For all his show of disdain, sharing a confined space with a confessed shirker must unsettle him.He softened his voice, trying to sound beaten and contrite, though he felt nothing of the sort. “There’s no point in my denying anything. You know what you know.”“Indeed I do.”“And Gersha and I know what we know. About you.” A harder tone now. “The question is, where do we all go from here?”Tilrey expected hesitation, blustering, vaguely worded threats. But, despite the tension in his body, Besha retained his equilibrium. Words poured out of him, as if he too had rehearsed this conversation:“For starters, if we’re going to remain allies, I need to know what the real stakes are. If you’re planning to tear down the Republic, I won’t be a party to that unless you can offer me something better than I have now.” He shook his head impatiently as Tilrey tried to speak. “And no, please don’t say your revolution will free me to live in glorious equality with everybody else. If that’s the utopia you’re offering, no thanks.”Tilrey thought he’d prepared for everything, but hearing Besha speak so blithely of revolution was a shock. “Equality wouldn’t suit you, no,” he said, trying to imagine Besha wearing a coverall in the Southern Hearth the way Gersha had. “But Whybergism also doesn’t entirely suit you, does it? It puts so many limits on what you can have and achieve.”Besha crossed his arms. “If you’re trying to trap me into uttering a seditious soundbite you can use against me, don’t bother.”“Of course. You’d never speak poorly of Whybergism or our Republic. But, Besha, you’ve never set foot outside Oslov. You haven’t seen what Gersha and I saw in Harbour—a different way of life.”Besha laughed. “What does that have to do with shirking? You want to run away to Harbour? Live with barbarians and die of a curable illness?”“You asked what you could have that’s better than what you have now. There’s your answer. The Duke of Bettevy wields far less actual power than you do, but he lives in a palace waited on by a fleet of servants. In terms of luxury and comfort, he’s far above any Oslov, because we self-limit. You Councillors could live that way, but you don’t.”“I suppose.” After a moment, Besha asked warily, “But is it really that nice? This palace?”“You can’t imagine.” Tilrey didn’t have to pretend now. His voice strengthened as he remembered the carvings on the walls, the gold-threaded garments, the fine cider and wine and the gardens stretching down to the sparkling lake. How to sum up all that? And should he really dangle it in front of Besha as a enticement? Harbour wasn’t his to offer, but he needed something to dazzle the man and reel him in. Equality wouldn’t cut it.So he did his best to describe the life-style he’d witnessed in the Duke’s and Malsha’s homes: the combination of primitivism with wealth and pleasure almost unimaginable by Oslov standards. “It was warm enough to swim outdoors, Besha. We ate dinner under the stars and smelled flowers and heard the hum of insects. I know it must sound strange to you, but—”“I’m an Oslov,” Besha said in a strained voice, as if he’d been trying, despite himself, to imagine everything Tilrey described. “Maybe you want to escape to the south and paddle around in lakes and live like a microbe-infested barbarian warlord, but I’m quite happy where I am. I just want . . .”“What?”Besha went limp like someone surrendering a heavy burden. “Currency, all right? I want to live in a world where I can do something besides barter, and where everything I have doesn’t come from the government. You’re right about one thing—we limit ourselves, and I fucking hate it. I’m so tired of having to pull a million strings and break a million tiny nitpicky rules every time I want something. You know when I was the happiest in my life? When I was running that smuggling operation out of the military depot. We used sap for currency, and when I wanted something, I paid for it.” He slashed the air. “No questions, no paperwork. If I wanted a thicker rug in my quarters or real butter in my tea or a whore to suck me off every night before bed, I handed over some V, and there it was. Whereas now . . .”“You still exchange a form of currency, you know. All Councillors do. But it’s patronage and kettle boys and—”“And my hands are tied half the time and it’s way too complicated.” Besha sounded far more aggrieved than he had when they discussed tearing down the Republic. “For instance, right now, I’d love to get a private sauna in my quarters, but faking the paperwork for a medical reason is such a headache. And worse, there’s the situation with my daughter. If your shirkers can solve that for me, I might actually start thinking about collaborating.”Tilrey was tempted to laugh—it was classic Besha, hurtling from the serious to the trivial. But he didn’t let himself. “What’s the problem with your daughter?”“You probably think it’s funny—Davita does. But Gunde’s being bullied by girls at school, and she doesn’t know how to defend herself. She’s sensitive.”“Have you tried mediation? Getting the staff involved?”“Oh please. The staff turns a blind eye to bullying, and kids hate tattlers—I know all about that. No, what my Gunde needs is a bodyguard. Preferably a nice big hulking lass from a Drudge family, with a sharp tongue and ruthless nails and fists.”He sounded dead serious. Tilrey’s amusement gave way to incredulity. “You think this is something a Dissident movement could help you with?”“Why not? I mean, they’re Laborers, aren’t they?” Besha scowled, clearly aware that Tilrey found him ridiculous and not caring. “If they’re a real political movement, then they have a patronage structure. Someone must know someone with a kid who could protect my Gunde. Get me a meeting with your leader, and I’ll work out the terms of the deal myself.”Trust Besha to think of everything as a deal, just as Gersha thought of everything as an ideal. And trust him to breeze in and think he could have whatever he wanted. “You can’t just meet with a leader. You have to prove your loyalty to the movement first.”“A leader?” Besha’s eyes glittered, fixed hard on Tilrey. “Just how many leaders do the shirkers have? Or do you even know who’s really in charge?”Now it was Tilrey who fumbled for words. “It’s not like the Sector. We aim for minimum visibility. I have someone I report to, and that person has someone they report to, but no one sees the entire structure.” Because they don’t want me to. Because they won’t let me.“Except the person at the top—obviously, because it wouldn’t work otherwise.” Besha’s voice was a honed blade. “I’m surprised at you, Tilrey. I thought you knew something about politics. Are you saying you let some shadowy Dissident boss order you around?”The words hit home. When it came down to it, Tilrey had no idea whether Irin Dartán was the True Hearth’s ultimate leader, whether there was a leader, or how many members the movement had. He knew about the Southern Hearth; he knew enough to send hundreds of people to death or exile. But that was knowledge he’d discovered by risking his own life in the field.“By keeping to the shadows, we survive the light,” he said almost primly, quoting one of Mirella’s favorite maxims.“These shirkers sound like a barrel of laughs. I can see why the leader would remain hidden from the rank and file,” Besha conceded. “That’s common sense. But you’re not a foot soldier, Rishka—or you shouldn’t be. You’ve brought this rebellion the resources of a Councillor. You should be part of their inner circle. And you’re saying you don’t even know who this inner circle is?”“Did I say that?” He’s trying to manipulate me by playing on my ego. Tilrey knew the tactic too well, but he couldn’t deny he’d had all the thoughts Besha was voicing. “What I know, the extent of what I know, isn’t for you to know unless you choose to put some skin in the game.”A nasty laugh. “Oh, we’re just full of secrets, aren’t we? Labyrinths of enigmas. Tell me, Rishka, do you even know what these rebels’ ultimate objective is? Their endgame? Or have they kept that in the shadows, too?”“If I’m being vague, it’s because I have to be. The less you know, the less you can tell Bors Dartán or someone like him.”Besha ignored that, pressing his advantage. “You don’t even know whether they want to tear down Whybergism or have a bloodbath or something else, do you? They want reform, and so do you. So you’re doing their bidding. But what if they tell you to do something you don’t like? Something that hurts Gersha?”“That wouldn’t happen.” The words were out of Tilrey’s mouth before he could stop them. He didn’t need better light to see the triumph on Besha’s face.For a moment they gazed at each other, evenly matched and all too aware of it. Then Besha reached out and twitched a lock of hair off Tilrey’s forehead. For once it wasn’t an erotic gesture. Tilrey didn’t take Besha’s hand and caress it, didn’t try to distract him.He simply waited, still, until Besha withdrew to his own half of the seat. Then he said, “You want something. A price for your continued cooperation with us. What?”Besha didn’t smile. “I want you to meet with the leader. Directly.” There was no more mockery in his voice, only steel. “I don’t need to know the leader’s name, but I want you to ask them the endgame question, and I want to know how they answer. And I want you to get me a bodyguard for Gunde and some workmen to build my sauna off the books.”The jump from vast demands to petty ones made Tilrey laugh, grateful for the release of tension. “The last two things are easy. You do realize they could compromise you? Make you look corrupt?”Besha made an imperious slash in the air. “I’m not afraid. But don’t try to put me off, Tilrey. If I’m going to be your ally, yours and Gersha’s, I need to know more about what’s in it for me. And, frankly, I’m doing you a favor by forcing you to demand a degree of transparency from your comrades that you should’ve had long ago.”“Oh, you’re doing me a favor, are you?”Besha pretended not to notice the sarcasm. “Think of me as your mentor in the art of high treason. Now, go forth and ask the hard questions, my little revolutionary. Do what you have to.”He took out his handheld and made a whisking gesture, dismissing Tilrey as haughtily as he might have from his office in the Sector. “And don’t try to corner me again till you have a proper answer.”
“Oh, so that’s how it works now.” Besha scowled at Tilrey. “You’re following me.”
Tilrey grinned in the lazy way he had rehearsed. He was in the coldroom of the Sanctioned Brothel, leaning against the wall beside the long coat rack. The lighting here was atmospheric, limited to small torchieres near the ceiling, and the shadows had camouflaged him for the past two hours while he waited for Besha to emerge from within.
“I heard,” he said, “that you’ve been coming here every eighth-night lately.”
“Oh, Davita complained to you, did she?” Besha wound the heavy scarf around his neck. “She’s so nosy about my extracurriculars.”
“No, your wife didn’t tattle, Fir. Let me do that.” Besha had sat down to tug his outdoor boots on. Tilrey knelt to lace and clasp them for him. “I have my ways of checking up on you.”
Irin and Mirella had come through with that bit of intel, at least. Tilrey had wanted to catch Besha when he was off guard, coming from his pleasure, and Besha’s look of befuddled annoyance told him he’d succeeded.
“Oh, you have your ways, do you?” the Councillor asked sharply, jerking his foot out of Tilrey’s hands. He snapped the clasp shut and stood up. “Ever since Gersha and I had our little talk over tea, I knew I could expect a visit from you. I’ve waited a whole ten-day. And here you are, ready to soothe my suspicions and smooth over my hurt feelings.”
He swept his coat over his shoulders and strode across the room to the lift. “Have at it, then,” he continued, jabbing the button without a glance back at Tilrey. “Go ahead and try to convince me I’ve simply jumped to absurd conclusions.”
They both knew, of course, that the lift and hallways had cameras. Tilrey followed Besha into the lift, and they rode downward in the silence of things that weren’t safe to voice yet. Normally Tilrey would have masked the tension between them with banter, but he didn’t have much heart for it today and suspected Besha didn’t, either.
“Boy or girl?” he asked, trying anyway as they crossed the clammy, half-empty garage to Besha’s car.
“Which was I seeing tonight?” Besha tossed a mirthless laugh over his shoulder. “None of your business, my beauty. Don’t be jealous. I have to have some secrets, don’t I?”
Besha’s driver must have spotted them coming; he was already out of the car and holding the heavy door open. Without bothering to acknowledge the Laborer, Besha slid into the backseat and beckoned Tilrey to follow.
“After all,” the Councillor finished, settling himself, “you have so many secrets of your own, don’t you?” And then, to the driver: “Lars, go upstairs and get yourself a drink or two at the bar. Run your chip and tell them to put it on my account. I’ll call up and have someone tap you on the shoulder when I’m ready to go.”
The driver bobbed his head, blank-faced. “Very good, Fir.” He shut the door on them and trudged the way they’d come.
“Now, that’s the sort of Drudge I like dealing with.” Besha took a vial of sap from his coat and trickled some into his palm. “He doesn’t know any big words, he follows orders without question, and he doesn’t plot against the Republic.” He licked his palm and held the vial out to Tilrey. “And then, apparently, there’s you. Fancy a dip?”
Tilrey needed to keep his head clear. But he also needed to maintain the veneer of sociability, so he poured a bit of the gummy black liquid into his palm and licked it. At least Besha knew better these days than to try to feed him sap like a kettle boy.
“Gersha told me about your conversation,” he said, wiping the sticky hand on his parka. The dose was making his head buzz, but he’d been careful to waste some of it. “I gather that you confronted Gersha with certain suspicions, and he attempted to turn them around on you.”
“That’s one way of putting it.” Besha hunched beside him, the garage’s ambient light too dim to give Tilrey a good read on his expression. “He practically accused me of being history’s greatest monster.”
He cut Tilrey off before he could reply: “No soothing, please. Don’t tell me he didn’t mean it. You and I both know that Gersha has a dangerous tendency, when he’s caught off guard, to blurt out what’s in his heart.”
Behind the standard acidity of Besha’s tone, Tilrey thought he detected a hint of regret, as if Gersha’s attack had actually wounded him. Good. If Besha cared about Gersha’s approval, he’d be easier to manage.
“You’re right about that,” Tilrey said, proceeding carefully. “But I think your insinuations did more than surprise Gersha. They frightened him.”
Besha laughed, a dry little huff in the near-dark. “They were meant to. And they were more than insinuations.” He faced Tilrey, the sodium-light glow slanting devilishly across his angular features. “Please don’t insult my intelligence by lying to me. You aren’t just a reformist. You’re a shirker. And you’ve pulled Gersha down into that mess with you.”
Tilrey didn’t let his breath hitch. He’d been expecting this. “Those are some bold conclusions to draw from one little Int/Sec analyst’s report about a series of meetings he didn’t witness firsthand.”
“Blah, blah, whatever.” Besha’s hand mimed a jabbering mouth. “You have the words to argue yourself out of any jam. But I’m not listening, because you see, Tilrey, I know you. I knew you when you were a naïve little piece fresh from Thurskein, and I know you now.”
“I see.” He kept his voice level. “And from knowing me so well, you’ve concluded . . .?”
Besha went quite still, gazing at him. “Frankly, I’m angry at myself for not figuring it out sooner. I thought you were out for your personal advancement like any sensible person. But you aren’t. You’re out for revenge.”
The stark word made Tilrey twitch, though he was already prepared to confess. “How dramatic.”
“Tell me about it. But I’ve watched you, Rishka. You’ve got a dramatic side. And, if I’m honest, after everything you’ve been through with Upstarts—well, I can’t entirely blame you for wanting to get your own back. It’s mad, but it’s sensible.”
“How suddenly subversive of you, Besha.” Tilrey kept his tone light, though there was bitterness underneath. “You used to tell me I was a lucky boy to belong to two General Magistrates in succession.”
“You were lucky! I mean, technically. You came out better in the end, didn’t you? But you had a rough time of it. I know that better than most. Back then, I thought little of it because you didn’t seem all that much brighter than the average Drudge, and their feelings don’t concern me, but—”
Tilrey couldn’t resist cutting him off. “Drudges of average intelligence don’t have feelings that matter?”
“Well—no! I mean, we’re their betters. We know what’s best for them. It’s not like they’d hold a grudge. But you—you’ve got all a Drudge’s animal cunning, but you scheme and calculate and you don’t forget things, just like a Strutter. Like me, anyway. I know that now. You were watching us the whole time, totting up our offenses and preparing your revenge.”
Now it was Tilrey’s turn to laugh without amusement. “You make me sound like the anti-hero of a melodramatic stream.”
“I told you you have a dramatic side. All shirkers do.” Besha jabbed a finger at him. “You want revenge, and Egil put poison in your ear, and you listened. Now you want to tear the whole system down. You want to turn Strutters into Drudges so you can lord it over us.”
Tilrey knew he should be shaken by the accusations, but they were so absurd. “Is that the fairy tale Upstart children grow up hearing, Besha? That Dissidents are monsters who want to murder or replace you?” Gersha had trotted out similar hyperbole when he first found out. “That’s not what we want at all.”
“We. Huh. So you’re not denying it.”
For the first time, Tilrey became aware that Besha was trembling. For all his show of disdain, sharing a confined space with a confessed shirker must unsettle him.
He softened his voice, trying to sound beaten and contrite, though he felt nothing of the sort. “There’s no point in my denying anything. You know what you know.”
“Indeed I do.”
“And Gersha and I know what we know. About you.” A harder tone now. “The question is, where do we all go from here?”
Tilrey expected hesitation, blustering, vaguely worded threats. But, despite the tension in his body, Besha retained his equilibrium. Words poured out of him, as if he too had rehearsed this conversation:
“For starters, if we’re going to remain allies, I need to know what the real stakes are. If you’re planning to tear down the Republic, I won’t be a party to that unless you can offer me something better than I have now.” He shook his head impatiently as Tilrey tried to speak. “And no, please don’t say your revolution will free me to live in glorious equality with everybody else. If that’s the utopia you’re offering, no thanks.”
Tilrey thought he’d prepared for everything, but hearing Besha speak so blithely of revolution was a shock. “Equality wouldn’t suit you, no,” he said, trying to imagine Besha wearing a coverall in the Southern Hearth the way Gersha had. “But Whybergism also doesn’t entirely suit you, does it? It puts so many limits on what you can have and achieve.”
Besha crossed his arms. “If you’re trying to trap me into uttering a seditious soundbite you can use against me, don’t bother.”
“Of course. You’d never speak poorly of Whybergism or our Republic. But, Besha, you’ve never set foot outside Oslov. You haven’t seen what Gersha and I saw in Harbour—a different way of life.”
Besha laughed. “What does that have to do with shirking? You want to run away to Harbour? Live with barbarians and die of a curable illness?”
“You asked what you could have that’s better than what you have now. There’s your answer. The Duke of Bettevy wields far less actual power than you do, but he lives in a palace waited on by a fleet of servants. In terms of luxury and comfort, he’s far above any Oslov, because we self-limit. You Councillors could live that way, but you don’t.”
“I suppose.” After a moment, Besha asked warily, “But is it really that nice? This palace?”
“You can’t imagine.” Tilrey didn’t have to pretend now. His voice strengthened as he remembered the carvings on the walls, the gold-threaded garments, the fine cider and wine and the gardens stretching down to the sparkling lake. How to sum up all that? And should he really dangle it in front of Besha as a enticement? Harbour wasn’t his to offer, but he needed something to dazzle the man and reel him in. Equality wouldn’t cut it.
So he did his best to describe the life-style he’d witnessed in the Duke’s and Malsha’s homes: the combination of primitivism with wealth and pleasure almost unimaginable by Oslov standards. “It was warm enough to swim outdoors, Besha. We ate dinner under the stars and smelled flowers and heard the hum of insects. I know it must sound strange to you, but—”
“I’m an Oslov,” Besha said in a strained voice, as if he’d been trying, despite himself, to imagine everything Tilrey described. “Maybe you want to escape to the south and paddle around in lakes and live like a microbe-infested barbarian warlord, but I’m quite happy where I am. I just want . . .”
“What?”
Besha went limp like someone surrendering a heavy burden. “Currency, all right? I want to live in a world where I can do something besides barter, and where everything I have doesn’t come from the government. You’re right about one thing—we limit ourselves, and I fucking hate it. I’m so tired of having to pull a million strings and break a million tiny nitpicky rules every time I want something. You know when I was the happiest in my life? When I was running that smuggling operation out of the military depot. We used sap for currency, and when I wanted something, I paid for it.” He slashed the air. “No questions, no paperwork. If I wanted a thicker rug in my quarters or real butter in my tea or a whore to suck me off every night before bed, I handed over some V, and there it was. Whereas now . . .”
“You still exchange a form of currency, you know. All Councillors do. But it’s patronage and kettle boys and—”
“And my hands are tied half the time and it’s way too complicated.” Besha sounded far more aggrieved than he had when they discussed tearing down the Republic. “For instance, right now, I’d love to get a private sauna in my quarters, but faking the paperwork for a medical reason is such a headache. And worse, there’s the situation with my daughter. If your shirkers can solve that for me, I might actually start thinking about collaborating.”
Tilrey was tempted to laugh—it was classic Besha, hurtling from the serious to the trivial. But he didn’t let himself. “What’s the problem with your daughter?”
“You probably think it’s funny—Davita does. But Gunde’s being bullied by girls at school, and she doesn’t know how to defend herself. She’s sensitive.”
“Have you tried mediation? Getting the staff involved?”
“Oh please. The staff turns a blind eye to bullying, and kids hate tattlers—I know all about that. No, what my Gunde needs is a bodyguard. Preferably a nice big hulking lass from a Drudge family, with a sharp tongue and ruthless nails and fists.”
He sounded dead serious. Tilrey’s amusement gave way to incredulity. “You think this is something a Dissident movement could help you with?”
“Why not? I mean, they’re Laborers, aren’t they?” Besha scowled, clearly aware that Tilrey found him ridiculous and not caring. “If they’re a real political movement, then they have a patronage structure. Someone must know someone with a kid who could protect my Gunde. Get me a meeting with your leader, and I’ll work out the terms of the deal myself.”
Trust Besha to think of everything as a deal, just as Gersha thought of everything as an ideal. And trust him to breeze in and think he could have whatever he wanted. “You can’t just meet with a leader. You have to prove your loyalty to the movement first.”
“A leader?” Besha’s eyes glittered, fixed hard on Tilrey. “Just how many leaders do the shirkers have? Or do you even know who’s really in charge?”
Now it was Tilrey who fumbled for words. “It’s not like the Sector. We aim for minimum visibility. I have someone I report to, and that person has someone they report to, but no one sees the entire structure.” Because they don’t want me to. Because they won’t let me.
“Except the person at the top—obviously, because it wouldn’t work otherwise.” Besha’s voice was a honed blade. “I’m surprised at you, Tilrey. I thought you knew something about politics. Are you saying you let some shadowy Dissident boss order you around?”
The words hit home. When it came down to it, Tilrey had no idea whether Irin Dartán was the True Hearth’s ultimate leader, whether there was a leader, or how many members the movement had. He knew about the Southern Hearth; he knew enough to send hundreds of people to death or exile. But that was knowledge he’d discovered by risking his own life in the field.
“By keeping to the shadows, we survive the light,” he said almost primly, quoting one of Mirella’s favorite maxims.
“These shirkers sound like a barrel of laughs. I can see why the leader would remain hidden from the rank and file,” Besha conceded. “That’s common sense. But you’re not a foot soldier, Rishka—or you shouldn’t be. You’ve brought this rebellion the resources of a Councillor. You should be part of their inner circle. And you’re saying you don’t even know who this inner circle is?”
“Did I say that?” He’s trying to manipulate me by playing on my ego. Tilrey knew the tactic too well, but he couldn’t deny he’d had all the thoughts Besha was voicing. “What I know, the extent of what I know, isn’t for you to know unless you choose to put some skin in the game.”
A nasty laugh. “Oh, we’re just full of secrets, aren’t we? Labyrinths of enigmas. Tell me, Rishka, do you even know what these rebels’ ultimate objective is? Their endgame? Or have they kept that in the shadows, too?”
“If I’m being vague, it’s because I have to be. The less you know, the less you can tell Bors Dartán or someone like him.”
Besha ignored that, pressing his advantage. “You don’t even know whether they want to tear down Whybergism or have a bloodbath or something else, do you? They want reform, and so do you. So you’re doing their bidding. But what if they tell you to do something you don’t like? Something that hurts Gersha?”
“That wouldn’t happen.” The words were out of Tilrey’s mouth before he could stop them. He didn’t need better light to see the triumph on Besha’s face.
For a moment they gazed at each other, evenly matched and all too aware of it. Then Besha reached out and twitched a lock of hair off Tilrey’s forehead. For once it wasn’t an erotic gesture. Tilrey didn’t take Besha’s hand and caress it, didn’t try to distract him.
He simply waited, still, until Besha withdrew to his own half of the seat. Then he said, “You want something. A price for your continued cooperation with us. What?”
Besha didn’t smile. “I want you to meet with the leader. Directly.” There was no more mockery in his voice, only steel. “I don’t need to know the leader’s name, but I want you to ask them the endgame question, and I want to know how they answer. And I want you to get me a bodyguard for Gunde and some workmen to build my sauna off the books.”
The jump from vast demands to petty ones made Tilrey laugh, grateful for the release of tension. “The last two things are easy. You do realize they could compromise you? Make you look corrupt?”
Besha made an imperious slash in the air. “I’m not afraid. But don’t try to put me off, Tilrey. If I’m going to be your ally, yours and Gersha’s, I need to know more about what’s in it for me. And, frankly, I’m doing you a favor by forcing you to demand a degree of transparency from your comrades that you should’ve had long ago.”
“Oh, you’re doing me a favor, are you?”
Besha pretended not to notice the sarcasm. “Think of me as your mentor in the art of high treason. Now, go forth and ask the hard questions, my little revolutionary. Do what you have to.”
He took out his handheld and made a whisking gesture, dismissing Tilrey as haughtily as he might have from his office in the Sector. “And don’t try to corner me again till you have a proper answer.”