Volume 11: Crosscurrents and Consequences
Chapter 7
Complicities
Chapter Notes
I’m back from vacation and hope to return to posting at least weekly. Thanks so much for reading! <3
Chapter Notes
I’m back from vacation and hope to return to posting at least weekly. Thanks so much for reading! <3
I’m back from vacation and hope to return to posting at least weekly. Thanks so much for reading! <3
Einara was busy stripping the bed in suite 5 when Irin Dartán came in. “You look wiped out,” he said. “Hulda asked me to bring you a cup of tea.”Hulda was the director of the Sanctioned Brothel, and this pallid, nasal-voiced little man was her nephew and lieutenant. Being noticed by either of them rarely meant anything good.Hiding her distaste, Einara drew her robe around her and accepted the tea with a humble bow. Irin slipped a vial of sap into her hand at the same time, and she said, “Thank you, Fir. Tell Fir’n Hulda thank you, please.”Everyone here knew she was an Outer, and she’d found that showing excessive deference helped reconcile the Laborers to her presence. Sometimes they grumbled about “fake Oslovs” taking their jobs. If they’d known she was not just an Outer but a Harbourer—well, they would never know. Or not till it was too late.Irin waved her thanks away. “It’s nothing. Sit down, lass. Let me do that.”Einara wanted to get to the showers, but she sat down obediently and sipped her tea while Irin tackled the linens. The beds in the suites, reserved for high Upstarts and Councillors, were enormous and canopied. They were facsimiles of the beds in R-11 apartments, one of the lads had told her. But they weren’t a tenth as beautiful as some of the rooms in Colonel Thibault’s palace.It still astounded Einara how little Oslovs seemed to care about the aesthetics of their surroundings. Central heating and electricity were blessings that she immensely appreciated, but with all that technology, surely they could have made their city a little less . . . monotone?Irin whisked the hamper out from under the bed and piled it high. “How many times have you been with Fir Councillor Linbeck?”She tried to remember, but the men blended together, even Councillors. The only ones she noticed were the ones who might tell her something she could use. “Four or five, I think.”“He’s been seeing you every ten-day. He seems to like you.”Did he? Fir Linbeck liked to give orders; Einara followed them. Sometimes he talked. But he had nothing to do with war or weaponry, as far as she knew, so she immediately forgot what he said. She was good at remembering but even better at forgetting; both were useful skills.“He gives me sap, Fir,” she said, staring straight ahead in the open, guileless way that worked to convince most Oslovs she didn’t have much going on upstairs. “He’s nice.”“I imagine he’s quite generous.” Irin unfurled a fresh bottom sheet and fitted it with brisk efficiency, as if he’d done her job in his day. “Does he ask you to dress as a boy? A kettle boy?”“Sometimes, Fir.” Many patrons liked girls to dress in those tightly belted tunics and trousers. This was considered cross-dressing and was “naughty” and “taboo breaking,” according to a chatty boy named Tobias whom Einara had overheard in the staff lounge. For her part, she was still mystified by Oslov clothing. The men’s tunics were only slightly shorter than the women’s skirts; why did the difference matter? “Sometimes he has me dress as a girl, though. Or just wear nothing.”“Does Fir Linbeck hurt you?”Einara took a moment to process that one. “Hurt” was something she rarely felt anymore—and, more importantly, she wasn’t sure what Irin would expect her to feel. “He ties me up sometimes, Fir. He uses objects on me. He asks me to plead and say I don’t like it. But none of it really hurts.”Irin nodded impatiently, smoothing down the top sheet. “Does he talk to you afterward about his life? His work?”Einara opened up one of the locked drawers in her memory where she kept most of her interactions with “patrons.” “He talks about his wife, mostly. Little fights they have. Sometimes he’ll do something to me, and he’ll say that when his wife did the same thing to him, it really stung afterward.”That made Irin grimace as if he disliked Councillor Linbeck. “You’re not very discreet, are you, Einara?”“Oh!” She brought a hand to her mouth in mock distress. Was he trying to trap her? To find out if she was smarter than she appeared? “I wasn’t thinking, Fir. I guess it was wrong of me to say so much. But you did ask.”“I did ask.” Irin creased the duvet neatly under the pillows—then, looking satisfied with his handiwork, plumped down on the bed. “Don’t worry, lass. I am discreet, and I won’t pass the info on. I’m just wondering . . . does the Councillor ever talk to you about someone named Tilrey Bronn?”The name wasn’t familiar. Einara shook her head, taking another sip of tea. What was this man’s game? Normally she stayed aloof from the internal politics of the brothel, being so low in its hierarchy and an Outer to boot. Many of the staff barely treated her like a person, discussing her while she was standing right there. Pretty girl, but slow on the uptake. Or are all Outers a bit slow?Yet Irin seemed to think she might know something useful, which made her wonder in turn if he did. And then she remembered something else about Linbeck. “The Councillor calls me ‘Rishka’ sometimes, Fir. He sort of groans it when he’s about to come.”That got a reaction—a wide, unpleasant smile. “Have you ever asked him who Rishka is?”“No, Fir. I don’t ask patrons anything.”Irin tugged another vial from his coverall and rolled it across the duvet to her. “Next time, ask him. See how he reacts. Tell me everything.”Einara bowed her head in tacit consent, but she didn’t reach for the vial. “Is there anything else I should ask Councillor Linbeck, Fir?”“Hmm. Yes. Ask him if he’s stressed out, if he’s been working hard. If he says yes, offer to massage him. As he relaxes, ask if there’s anything specific he wants to talk about, any worries. Flatter him. Tell him you can’t imagine how anyone manages a job as hard and important as his.” Irin broke off, frowning. “You do understand what I’m saying? Be subtle. Don’t interrogate him. If you ask him questions point blank, he’ll get his guard up.”“I understand, Fir.” Einara had always hidden behind a veil of feigned stupidity, but if she wanted to gain Irin’s trust, she would have to reveal some small part of herself. Was it worth it?She took hold of the vial on the duvet and rolled it back toward him. “This isn’t what I want, though.”“No?” He was still frowning, suspicion pulling the angles of his vulpine face tight. “And what does Fir’n Einara want, then?”She pretended not to notice the mockery. “I want to know about the invasion, Fir.”“Invasion?”Einara made her eyes wide and naïve. “The invasion of Harbour by Oslov. When is it going to happen?”Irin looked baffled, which was no great surprise. Artur Threindal had warned Einara long ago: Never ask an Oslov about the attack on your homeland. Never ask about foreign policy at all. They’ve all been raised to believe Oslov is an island. Only Upstarts with the highest security clearance might be able to answer your questions, and they know enough not to.But it was all right if Irin thought she was making no sense. It might even be helpful. Keeping her innocent face on, she continued: “Piter told me about it—one of the soldiers I knew in the garrison. He’d been stationed in Harbour. He told me Oslov has enough soldiers and weapons to conquer the whole continent. He said someday you’ll all live there and run around outdoors naked and eat fruit off trees. That’s when I knew I wanted to be an Oslov, Fir. Living in Harbour sounds lovely.”Irin snorted out a laugh. “What was your soldier drinking when he told you this? Ten-year-old lichen moonshine?”Straight face. “I don’t know, Fir. So it’s not true, then? About the invasion?”“Of course not. Well, I mean, not that I would know.” He scowled. “I’m nobody. But your soldier was a foolish boy daydreaming to pass his time in the Wastes. Oslov doesn’t invade anything. Oslov is an island.”Einara bowed her head again, as if accepting his superior knowledge, and asked slyly, “Then why does Oslov have such a great arsenal, Fir?”“For security! And that’s not our business—yours or mine. Our business is keeping high Upstarts happy.” Irin rose from the bed and gazed down at her. “Did you learn a lot about this ‘arsenal’ when you were in the garrison?”“Oh no, Fir. Just that it exists.” That was no lie. She dropped her eyes. “The troops, well . . . they kept me busy in other ways.”“I’m sure they did.” He took the tea tumbler from her with a click of his tongue: tut tut. “So you’re a curious girl, then. Maybe not entirely happy with your new home.”“I didn’t say that, Fir!” Einara sprang up and backed away from him. “Please don’t tell Fir’n Hulda I said any of that. I’m so very grateful to be here.”“Yes, yes, of course you are. How about this, then? You tell me what you can learn from Fir Councillor Linbeck, and I’ll tell you what I can learn about our current relations with Harbour. It’s not much, of course. But I do know the lad who services the Ambassador whenever he’s back in Redda.”The word Ambassador was a lightning bolt through Einara’s brain, stiffening every part of her body. She did her best not to show it. “Thank you, Fir. I swear I meant no treason; I just like to hear stories about the fruit trees and flowers and animals. It sounds so beautiful.”“You know you’re not supposed to be thinking about things that have no relevance to our lives?”“Of course!” She spoke too quickly, as if she hadn’t known till just now how subversive her thoughts were.“Being a proper Oslov is about self-limiting, Einara. The whole reason your people live in caves is that they lack discipline.”Did he believe anything he was saying? Einara suspected not, but she said, “I know, Fir. I know. You really won’t tell your aunt?”Irin looked at her in a new way—expectant and calculating, the way a potter back home might look at a fresh hunk of river clay. “Don’t worry, my love. I think we can keep each other’s secrets.”*Tilrey had barely said two words since coming home from his “damage control” talk with Besha. He’d taken the tea that Gersha offered, and he’d let Gersha make him a bath. He’d stripped and settled docilely in the tub, his cup on the tiled rim beside him. He wouldn’t meet Gersha’s eyes.Was something really wrong, or was he just preoccupied? This morning at the office, Tilrey had warned Gersha he’d be late because he was hoping to catch Besha alone. Now dread ballooned in Gersha’s chest. It was his fault Tilrey had had to ambush Besha at all; he’d made such a mess of things.He climbed out of the bath, knelt beside Tilrey, and took hold of his shoulders. Tilrey tensed, then went limp as Gersha began to knead, digging into the muscle with his thumbs.“How’s that, love? Too hard?”“No, it’s good.” He relaxed back into Gersha’s touch. “Keep going, please.”Gersha had never trained in massage, but Tilrey had taught him the basics. Steam drifted from the bath and condensed on their faces in cool pinpricks. Tilrey sighed, his knotted muscles loosening, and dropped his head forward. “I have to go to the Wastes,” he said.The pronouncement was such a surprise that Gersha’s hands stilled. “Why? When?”“Over November recess, before the heavy snows come. I need to find a settlement in the mountains called Weigand, near Base H98. It’s not on any maps I have access to, but I have a contact at the base who might be able to help. A friend of Gavril Ardaly’s—we arranged it in Harbour.”“Wait a moment, love. Back up.” Gersha pressed his palms to Tilrey’s shoulder blades, feeling the tense, chiseled ridges of muscle. “Why do you need to go? What’s out there?”“Artur Threindal. Malsha’s former secretary—a defector now, I guess.” Tilrey spoke in a monotone, giving every word equal weight. “Malsha told me he trains the infiltrators from Resurgence, teaches them to act like Oslovs. I need him to tell me where and who they are.”The mention of Malsha Linnett made Gersha bristle—why was Tilrey still listening to the man who’d hurt him?—but he resumed his patient kneading. Tilrey was upset enough already; his job was to calm them both down. “Did you end up seeing Besha tonight?” he asked carefully. “Does he have something to do with this new plan?”“I saw him, but this isn’t his idea. Well, not per se. It’s complicated.”“I thought you had someone else you could ask about these so-called infiltrators. A contact in the Sanctioned Brothel.”“That didn’t go anywhere.” Tilrey sighed again and leaned his head back against Gersha’s chest. “Everybody’s being so fucking difficult.”Dread reached up into Gersha’s throat, stealing his breath. “Is Besha, uh, being difficult? Did he threaten us?”“No, no, nothing like that. Don’t worry.” Tilrey’s hand was warm around Gersha’s, lifting it, and Gersha felt the soft press of his lips. “Besha’s actually more receptive than I imagined—well, assuming he’s not entrapping us. But that wouldn’t be in his interest. No, it’s just that he’s given me an inconvenient ultimatum. He’s making his cooperation contingent on my speaking directly to my contact in the True Hearth, getting certain questions answered. And my contact doesn’t want to be spoken to.”Gersha couldn’t help noticing that Tilrey found ways around saying the contact’s name. To protect Gersha, or because Gersha still couldn’t be trusted?He didn’t like that, but he understood—being back in Oslov made him remember the bad times, too, when there’d been secrets between them. With his free hand, he stroked Tilrey’s damp hair, slicking it back from his face. “Besha demanded that? He has some nerve.”“I know, but he’s right. The True Hearth still keeps me at a distance, treating me like an asset instead of a decision maker. That needs to change.” Tilrey worried Gersha’s fingers between his own, his tension palpable. “If I want to be on equal footing, I need to give them truly valuable intel. A vague promise worked with Ranek, but it won’t here. Irin discounts me—”He stopped short. Gersha freed his hand as gently as he could and began massaging Tilrey’s shoulders again. “You can say his name,” he said, keeping the reproach out of his voice. “I’m with you for life, Rishka—and with the Hearth, for that matter.”“But they won’t see it that way. I mean, back in Harbour when you were wearing a coverall, yes, but here it’s different. They don’t even trust me, and I don’t know if they’ll ever trust you.” Tilrey jerked fretfully. “I need something precious. Something the Hearth can’t do without. That could be the price of entering the inner circle.”Watching Tilrey, Gersha remembered how it felt to worry constantly about his status in a rigid hierarchy. He’d resented it, even hated it, but he’d still suffered sleepless nights and bitter mornings because it drove him mad to see Majority Leader Verán favoring Besha—Besha!—over him.All that was over. Tilrey had taught him how to be a person instead of a status-girded shell. Harbour and the Southern Hearth and Ranek and the Duke and Peony had swept away the last remnants of his old self. If Gersha still cared about his social position, he swore to himself, it was only because he wanted to use it as a tool to free them both—and so many others.“Shhh,” he said, tracing Tilrey’s vertebrae with his thumbs. “If Threindal’s intel is what you need, if you’re sure, then you’ll get it. Just not alone.”“What do you mean? You can’t—”“Come with you to the Wastes? I don’t see why not, and I don’t see how you can go alone with a broken ankle.”Tilrey twitched. “I barely need the cane now. I won’t need it in mid-November.”“Better safe than sorry. We’ll say we’re spending time at my villa. We can visit your mother afterward—it’s been a while. I miss her, and I want to call you ‘husband’ in front of her.”Tilrey’s shoulders hitched in what might have been a laugh. “She’ll think you’re mad. Or she’ll be overjoyed—I’m honestly not sure. But you’re trying to distract me, Gersha. Weigand is remote—high in the Southern Range. Are you sure you’re up for climbing a mountain?”Gersha tipped his husband’s head back and dropped a kiss on his hairline. All this turmoil inside your stubborn head, love, and I can hold it between my hands.If only he could soothe that turmoil as easily as he smoothed the drops of condensation from Tilrey’s brow. “Am I up for it? Considering what I survived in Harbour, I’m going to say yes. More importantly, though, I won’t hear of you going alone. That’s out of the question.”“I’ll have a soldier guide at least part of the way,” Tilrey protested, but he eased backward as Gersha’s arms slipped around him. “I don’t want to put your life in danger again.”“You didn’t put my life in danger. I did.” Gersha kissed Tilrey’s shoulder, opening his mouth to suckle the moist, silken skin. He’d been so foolhardy chasing after Tilrey, and others had paid the price for it. But he couldn’t help feeling grateful for the time they’d had together in the Southern Hearth, warm September hours that he’d cherish till his last moment and beyond.They’d affirmed their bond in front of witnesses, and no one had laughed or pronounced Gersha a degenerate. People had toasted and celebrated with them. He had to keep those things fresh in his memory; they had happened.“Anyway,” he went on, “a solo trip is out of the question. I hereby order you to take me on your wild jaunt to the Wastes.”Tilrey laughed, a faint rumble under the skin, and turned to draw Gersha down into his arms. “Oh, it’s an order, is it?”Gersha buried his face against Tilrey’s neck to hide his blush—how strange that Tilrey could still make him blush. “You know what I mean, love. I won’t stop you from doing anything. I just—I want to be with you. To help you.”Tilrey’s nod was a soft pressure on the crown of Gersha’s head. “Just one thing. If we find Artur Threindal . . . well, he remembers me another way. Younger. It could be awkward. And, for safety, we should disguise you.”“Disguise me?” Gersha couldn’t help cringing a bit at the word. Wearing the clothing of a Level not one’s own was criminal. But he saw immediately what Tilrey meant: A Councillor couldn’t traipse openly about the Wastes without attracting attention.“Whatever it takes.” He nipped gently at Tilrey’s neck. “I’ll be someone else for you. It could even be fun.”
Einara was busy stripping the bed in suite 5 when Irin Dartán came in. “You look wiped out,” he said. “Hulda asked me to bring you a cup of tea.”
Hulda was the director of the Sanctioned Brothel, and this pallid, nasal-voiced little man was her nephew and lieutenant. Being noticed by either of them rarely meant anything good.
Hiding her distaste, Einara drew her robe around her and accepted the tea with a humble bow. Irin slipped a vial of sap into her hand at the same time, and she said, “Thank you, Fir. Tell Fir’n Hulda thank you, please.”
Everyone here knew she was an Outer, and she’d found that showing excessive deference helped reconcile the Laborers to her presence. Sometimes they grumbled about “fake Oslovs” taking their jobs. If they’d known she was not just an Outer but a Harbourer—well, they would never know. Or not till it was too late.
Irin waved her thanks away. “It’s nothing. Sit down, lass. Let me do that.”
Einara wanted to get to the showers, but she sat down obediently and sipped her tea while Irin tackled the linens. The beds in the suites, reserved for high Upstarts and Councillors, were enormous and canopied. They were facsimiles of the beds in R-11 apartments, one of the lads had told her. But they weren’t a tenth as beautiful as some of the rooms in Colonel Thibault’s palace.
It still astounded Einara how little Oslovs seemed to care about the aesthetics of their surroundings. Central heating and electricity were blessings that she immensely appreciated, but with all that technology, surely they could have made their city a little less . . . monotone?
Irin whisked the hamper out from under the bed and piled it high. “How many times have you been with Fir Councillor Linbeck?”
She tried to remember, but the men blended together, even Councillors. The only ones she noticed were the ones who might tell her something she could use. “Four or five, I think.”
“He’s been seeing you every ten-day. He seems to like you.”
Did he? Fir Linbeck liked to give orders; Einara followed them. Sometimes he talked. But he had nothing to do with war or weaponry, as far as she knew, so she immediately forgot what he said. She was good at remembering but even better at forgetting; both were useful skills.
“He gives me sap, Fir,” she said, staring straight ahead in the open, guileless way that worked to convince most Oslovs she didn’t have much going on upstairs. “He’s nice.”
“I imagine he’s quite generous.” Irin unfurled a fresh bottom sheet and fitted it with brisk efficiency, as if he’d done her job in his day. “Does he ask you to dress as a boy? A kettle boy?”
“Sometimes, Fir.” Many patrons liked girls to dress in those tightly belted tunics and trousers. This was considered cross-dressing and was “naughty” and “taboo breaking,” according to a chatty boy named Tobias whom Einara had overheard in the staff lounge. For her part, she was still mystified by Oslov clothing. The men’s tunics were only slightly shorter than the women’s skirts; why did the difference matter? “Sometimes he has me dress as a girl, though. Or just wear nothing.”
“Does Fir Linbeck hurt you?”
Einara took a moment to process that one. “Hurt” was something she rarely felt anymore—and, more importantly, she wasn’t sure what Irin would expect her to feel. “He ties me up sometimes, Fir. He uses objects on me. He asks me to plead and say I don’t like it. But none of it really hurts.”
Irin nodded impatiently, smoothing down the top sheet. “Does he talk to you afterward about his life? His work?”
Einara opened up one of the locked drawers in her memory where she kept most of her interactions with “patrons.” “He talks about his wife, mostly. Little fights they have. Sometimes he’ll do something to me, and he’ll say that when his wife did the same thing to him, it really stung afterward.”
That made Irin grimace as if he disliked Councillor Linbeck. “You’re not very discreet, are you, Einara?”
“Oh!” She brought a hand to her mouth in mock distress. Was he trying to trap her? To find out if she was smarter than she appeared? “I wasn’t thinking, Fir. I guess it was wrong of me to say so much. But you did ask.”
“I did ask.” Irin creased the duvet neatly under the pillows—then, looking satisfied with his handiwork, plumped down on the bed. “Don’t worry, lass. I am discreet, and I won’t pass the info on. I’m just wondering . . . does the Councillor ever talk to you about someone named Tilrey Bronn?”
The name wasn’t familiar. Einara shook her head, taking another sip of tea. What was this man’s game? Normally she stayed aloof from the internal politics of the brothel, being so low in its hierarchy and an Outer to boot. Many of the staff barely treated her like a person, discussing her while she was standing right there. Pretty girl, but slow on the uptake. Or are all Outers a bit slow?
Yet Irin seemed to think she might know something useful, which made her wonder in turn if he did. And then she remembered something else about Linbeck. “The Councillor calls me ‘Rishka’ sometimes, Fir. He sort of groans it when he’s about to come.”
That got a reaction—a wide, unpleasant smile. “Have you ever asked him who Rishka is?”
“No, Fir. I don’t ask patrons anything.”
Irin tugged another vial from his coverall and rolled it across the duvet to her. “Next time, ask him. See how he reacts. Tell me everything.”
Einara bowed her head in tacit consent, but she didn’t reach for the vial. “Is there anything else I should ask Councillor Linbeck, Fir?”
“Hmm. Yes. Ask him if he’s stressed out, if he’s been working hard. If he says yes, offer to massage him. As he relaxes, ask if there’s anything specific he wants to talk about, any worries. Flatter him. Tell him you can’t imagine how anyone manages a job as hard and important as his.” Irin broke off, frowning. “You do understand what I’m saying? Be subtle. Don’t interrogate him. If you ask him questions point blank, he’ll get his guard up.”
“I understand, Fir.” Einara had always hidden behind a veil of feigned stupidity, but if she wanted to gain Irin’s trust, she would have to reveal some small part of herself. Was it worth it?
She took hold of the vial on the duvet and rolled it back toward him. “This isn’t what I want, though.”
“No?” He was still frowning, suspicion pulling the angles of his vulpine face tight. “And what does Fir’n Einara want, then?”
She pretended not to notice the mockery. “I want to know about the invasion, Fir.”
“Invasion?”
Einara made her eyes wide and naïve. “The invasion of Harbour by Oslov. When is it going to happen?”
Irin looked baffled, which was no great surprise. Artur Threindal had warned Einara long ago: Never ask an Oslov about the attack on your homeland. Never ask about foreign policy at all. They’ve all been raised to believe Oslov is an island. Only Upstarts with the highest security clearance might be able to answer your questions, and they know enough not to.
But it was all right if Irin thought she was making no sense. It might even be helpful. Keeping her innocent face on, she continued: “Piter told me about it—one of the soldiers I knew in the garrison. He’d been stationed in Harbour. He told me Oslov has enough soldiers and weapons to conquer the whole continent. He said someday you’ll all live there and run around outdoors naked and eat fruit off trees. That’s when I knew I wanted to be an Oslov, Fir. Living in Harbour sounds lovely.”
Irin snorted out a laugh. “What was your soldier drinking when he told you this? Ten-year-old lichen moonshine?”
Straight face. “I don’t know, Fir. So it’s not true, then? About the invasion?”
“Of course not. Well, I mean, not that I would know.” He scowled. “I’m nobody. But your soldier was a foolish boy daydreaming to pass his time in the Wastes. Oslov doesn’t invade anything. Oslov is an island.”
Einara bowed her head again, as if accepting his superior knowledge, and asked slyly, “Then why does Oslov have such a great arsenal, Fir?”
“For security! And that’s not our business—yours or mine. Our business is keeping high Upstarts happy.” Irin rose from the bed and gazed down at her. “Did you learn a lot about this ‘arsenal’ when you were in the garrison?”
“Oh no, Fir. Just that it exists.” That was no lie. She dropped her eyes. “The troops, well . . . they kept me busy in other ways.”
“I’m sure they did.” He took the tea tumbler from her with a click of his tongue: tut tut. “So you’re a curious girl, then. Maybe not entirely happy with your new home.”
“I didn’t say that, Fir!” Einara sprang up and backed away from him. “Please don’t tell Fir’n Hulda I said any of that. I’m so very grateful to be here.”
“Yes, yes, of course you are. How about this, then? You tell me what you can learn from Fir Councillor Linbeck, and I’ll tell you what I can learn about our current relations with Harbour. It’s not much, of course. But I do know the lad who services the Ambassador whenever he’s back in Redda.”
The word Ambassador was a lightning bolt through Einara’s brain, stiffening every part of her body. She did her best not to show it. “Thank you, Fir. I swear I meant no treason; I just like to hear stories about the fruit trees and flowers and animals. It sounds so beautiful.”
“You know you’re not supposed to be thinking about things that have no relevance to our lives?”
“Of course!” She spoke too quickly, as if she hadn’t known till just now how subversive her thoughts were.
“Being a proper Oslov is about self-limiting, Einara. The whole reason your people live in caves is that they lack discipline.”
Did he believe anything he was saying? Einara suspected not, but she said, “I know, Fir. I know. You really won’t tell your aunt?”
Irin looked at her in a new way—expectant and calculating, the way a potter back home might look at a fresh hunk of river clay. “Don’t worry, my love. I think we can keep each other’s secrets.”
Tilrey had barely said two words since coming home from his “damage control” talk with Besha. He’d taken the tea that Gersha offered, and he’d let Gersha make him a bath. He’d stripped and settled docilely in the tub, his cup on the tiled rim beside him. He wouldn’t meet Gersha’s eyes.
Was something really wrong, or was he just preoccupied? This morning at the office, Tilrey had warned Gersha he’d be late because he was hoping to catch Besha alone. Now dread ballooned in Gersha’s chest. It was his fault Tilrey had had to ambush Besha at all; he’d made such a mess of things.
He climbed out of the bath, knelt beside Tilrey, and took hold of his shoulders. Tilrey tensed, then went limp as Gersha began to knead, digging into the muscle with his thumbs.
“How’s that, love? Too hard?”
“No, it’s good.” He relaxed back into Gersha’s touch. “Keep going, please.”
Gersha had never trained in massage, but Tilrey had taught him the basics. Steam drifted from the bath and condensed on their faces in cool pinpricks. Tilrey sighed, his knotted muscles loosening, and dropped his head forward. “I have to go to the Wastes,” he said.
The pronouncement was such a surprise that Gersha’s hands stilled. “Why? When?”
“Over November recess, before the heavy snows come. I need to find a settlement in the mountains called Weigand, near Base H98. It’s not on any maps I have access to, but I have a contact at the base who might be able to help. A friend of Gavril Ardaly’s—we arranged it in Harbour.”
“Wait a moment, love. Back up.” Gersha pressed his palms to Tilrey’s shoulder blades, feeling the tense, chiseled ridges of muscle. “Why do you need to go? What’s out there?”
“Artur Threindal. Malsha’s former secretary—a defector now, I guess.” Tilrey spoke in a monotone, giving every word equal weight. “Malsha told me he trains the infiltrators from Resurgence, teaches them to act like Oslovs. I need him to tell me where and who they are.”
The mention of Malsha Linnett made Gersha bristle—why was Tilrey still listening to the man who’d hurt him?—but he resumed his patient kneading. Tilrey was upset enough already; his job was to calm them both down. “Did you end up seeing Besha tonight?” he asked carefully. “Does he have something to do with this new plan?”
“I saw him, but this isn’t his idea. Well, not per se. It’s complicated.”
“I thought you had someone else you could ask about these so-called infiltrators. A contact in the Sanctioned Brothel.”
“That didn’t go anywhere.” Tilrey sighed again and leaned his head back against Gersha’s chest. “Everybody’s being so fucking difficult.”
Dread reached up into Gersha’s throat, stealing his breath. “Is Besha, uh, being difficult? Did he threaten us?”
“No, no, nothing like that. Don’t worry.” Tilrey’s hand was warm around Gersha’s, lifting it, and Gersha felt the soft press of his lips. “Besha’s actually more receptive than I imagined—well, assuming he’s not entrapping us. But that wouldn’t be in his interest. No, it’s just that he’s given me an inconvenient ultimatum. He’s making his cooperation contingent on my speaking directly to my contact in the True Hearth, getting certain questions answered. And my contact doesn’t want to be spoken to.”
Gersha couldn’t help noticing that Tilrey found ways around saying the contact’s name. To protect Gersha, or because Gersha still couldn’t be trusted?
He didn’t like that, but he understood—being back in Oslov made him remember the bad times, too, when there’d been secrets between them. With his free hand, he stroked Tilrey’s damp hair, slicking it back from his face. “Besha demanded that? He has some nerve.”
“I know, but he’s right. The True Hearth still keeps me at a distance, treating me like an asset instead of a decision maker. That needs to change.” Tilrey worried Gersha’s fingers between his own, his tension palpable. “If I want to be on equal footing, I need to give them truly valuable intel. A vague promise worked with Ranek, but it won’t here. Irin discounts me—”
He stopped short. Gersha freed his hand as gently as he could and began massaging Tilrey’s shoulders again. “You can say his name,” he said, keeping the reproach out of his voice. “I’m with you for life, Rishka—and with the Hearth, for that matter.”
“But they won’t see it that way. I mean, back in Harbour when you were wearing a coverall, yes, but here it’s different. They don’t even trust me, and I don’t know if they’ll ever trust you.” Tilrey jerked fretfully. “I need something precious. Something the Hearth can’t do without. That could be the price of entering the inner circle.”
Watching Tilrey, Gersha remembered how it felt to worry constantly about his status in a rigid hierarchy. He’d resented it, even hated it, but he’d still suffered sleepless nights and bitter mornings because it drove him mad to see Majority Leader Verán favoring Besha—Besha!—over him.
All that was over. Tilrey had taught him how to be a person instead of a status-girded shell. Harbour and the Southern Hearth and Ranek and the Duke and Peony had swept away the last remnants of his old self. If Gersha still cared about his social position, he swore to himself, it was only because he wanted to use it as a tool to free them both—and so many others.
“Shhh,” he said, tracing Tilrey’s vertebrae with his thumbs. “If Threindal’s intel is what you need, if you’re sure, then you’ll get it. Just not alone.”
“What do you mean? You can’t—”
“Come with you to the Wastes? I don’t see why not, and I don’t see how you can go alone with a broken ankle.”
Tilrey twitched. “I barely need the cane now. I won’t need it in mid-November.”
“Better safe than sorry. We’ll say we’re spending time at my villa. We can visit your mother afterward—it’s been a while. I miss her, and I want to call you ‘husband’ in front of her.”
Tilrey’s shoulders hitched in what might have been a laugh. “She’ll think you’re mad. Or she’ll be overjoyed—I’m honestly not sure. But you’re trying to distract me, Gersha. Weigand is remote—high in the Southern Range. Are you sure you’re up for climbing a mountain?”
Gersha tipped his husband’s head back and dropped a kiss on his hairline. All this turmoil inside your stubborn head, love, and I can hold it between my hands.
If only he could soothe that turmoil as easily as he smoothed the drops of condensation from Tilrey’s brow. “Am I up for it? Considering what I survived in Harbour, I’m going to say yes. More importantly, though, I won’t hear of you going alone. That’s out of the question.”
“I’ll have a soldier guide at least part of the way,” Tilrey protested, but he eased backward as Gersha’s arms slipped around him. “I don’t want to put your life in danger again.”
“You didn’t put my life in danger. I did.” Gersha kissed Tilrey’s shoulder, opening his mouth to suckle the moist, silken skin. He’d been so foolhardy chasing after Tilrey, and others had paid the price for it. But he couldn’t help feeling grateful for the time they’d had together in the Southern Hearth, warm September hours that he’d cherish till his last moment and beyond.
They’d affirmed their bond in front of witnesses, and no one had laughed or pronounced Gersha a degenerate. People had toasted and celebrated with them. He had to keep those things fresh in his memory; they had happened.
“Anyway,” he went on, “a solo trip is out of the question. I hereby order you to take me on your wild jaunt to the Wastes.”
Tilrey laughed, a faint rumble under the skin, and turned to draw Gersha down into his arms. “Oh, it’s an order, is it?”
Gersha buried his face against Tilrey’s neck to hide his blush—how strange that Tilrey could still make him blush. “You know what I mean, love. I won’t stop you from doing anything. I just—I want to be with you. To help you.”
Tilrey’s nod was a soft pressure on the crown of Gersha’s head. “Just one thing. If we find Artur Threindal . . . well, he remembers me another way. Younger. It could be awkward. And, for safety, we should disguise you.”
“Disguise me?” Gersha couldn’t help cringing a bit at the word. Wearing the clothing of a Level not one’s own was criminal. But he saw immediately what Tilrey meant: A Councillor couldn’t traipse openly about the Wastes without attracting attention.
“Whatever it takes.” He nipped gently at Tilrey’s neck. “I’ll be someone else for you. It could even be fun.”