Chapter 11: Coming Clean — The Key of Oslov

Volume 11: Crosscurrents and Consequences

Chapter 11 Coming Clean

Chapter Notes

In which someone does come clean and someone doesn’t. But a reckoning is fast approaching. Thank you to Fair_Feather_Friend for helping me think out this Vera situation! And thank you to swater64 for making me think more deeply about Gersha and Tilrey and the issue of empathy. You’re both giving me ideas I hope to explore in future chapters.

Chapter Notes

All the sewing machines were going at once, buzzing fiercely under the fluorescents. The room smelled like electricity, starch, and busyness. The ceiling was so high, no windows anywhere. Where was outside? Vera’s head was starting to spin.She needed to focus on the young man—what was his name? Mal something. He was asking her to notice the armbands on the workers’ gray coveralls. People with red bands were in the top five percent for productivity and had earned themselves an extra day off each month. The orange bands—The words blurred together, and suddenly the whole room was swaying. An arm looped around her, surprisingly strong. “Are you all right, Fir’n?”Vera closed her eyes and took two deep breaths, willing her nerves to settle. He shouldn’t be touching her, and everyone must be staring, but she was grateful for the support. “Fine,” she breathed. “Would you mind . . .?”Instead of releasing her, Mal led her through the labyrinth of the factory floor, navigating easily around obstacles. Vera saw a few workers glance up, but they looked down again immediately. Whatever Mal was—she still hadn’t figured out his official title—clearly they respected his authority.“To sit for a few minutes would be lovely,” she managed. “And some water or tea, if you could.”Mal guided her across a chalky-smelling hallway, through a door, and down onto something soft—a couch. “I’m sorry, Fir’n,” he said. “Three factories in six hours is too much. You must be exhausted.”“No, no.” Vera drank the water he handed her, trying to recover her composure. She had to sit up straight backed. Don’t show weakness in front of Laborers was one of the first lessons she’d ever learned. “I appreciate the thorough tour. It’s eye-opening.”Opposite the couch stood a counter with a sink and electric tea kettle, which Mal filled and plugged it in. Above the counter, children’s drawings hung on a corkboard. They made the room loud and colorful and completely inappropriate—as far as she could tell, this was a break room, not a nursery. But maybe the splash of brightness compensated for the absence of windows.As if reading her mind, Mal said, “I bet you’re thinking this is all pretty unorthodox, Fir’n. The way we run things.”A delicate tendril of pain came alive in Vera’s left temple, and she closed her eyes again. “Well, yes, frankly. I can’t help being surprised when you give workers three days off per ten-day, or eight-hour shifts. Whatever you may say about ‘incentives,’ all this idle time goes against decades of research and best practice.”She opened her eyes and found Mal leaning against the counter, looking straight at her. “And yet we keep meeting and even exceeding our quotas.”Was he challenging her? “The Bureau of Labor is open to innovation,” Vera said stiffly. “Even when it seems counterintuitive. That’s why I came here—to learn from you.”The kettle hissed. Mal switched it off and poured water into a tumbler, his pale face reddening in the steam. “Is that why you came here, Fir’n?”“Excuse me?” As he brought the tea over, Vera felt her own face flushing. “What exactly are you asking, young man?” she added, trying to sound as severe as her mother would have.Instead of demurring, Mal gave her the cup and stepped back, crossing his arms. His gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve had some experience with visitors from Government Sector, Fir’n. They tend to come here for one of two reasons: to fuck us or to fuck us over.”Vera narrowly managed not to spill tea in her lap. Her temples throbbed, and she forced words through a tight throat. “You’re being incredibly inappropriate. I may have to report you to Supervisor Lindtmerán.”Mal shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Lisha knows I’m not always a nice boy. But she also knows I care about keeping this sector a good place to live. And I care about her, because she does that. So I gotta ask, Fir’n. Were you sent here to arrange for Lisha’s replacement?”Vera opened her mouth, closed it. “If that was true, would I tell you?”“Guess not.” Mal sat down on the opposite end of the couch and smiled with a charm that jarred her. “That’s why I’m asking, Fir’n. Maybe I’m just being naïve, but I’m hoping you’ll be straight with me.”She couldn’t keep track of his moods. Was he trying to flirt? Vera took a brisk sip of her tea and burnt her tongue. She lowered it again, swearing under her breath. “I should not have to state that I didn’t come here under false pretenses. Questioning the integrity of a government functionary isn’t—”“My place. I know.” The violet eyes stayed fixed on her, though the smile faded. “Like I say, Fir’n, I’ve known a lot of Upstarts. The former Supervisor used to ask me to . . . entertain them.”“Oh.” Vera’s face burned again. No wonder he was so cheeky if he had seen visitors from Redda in compromising positions. But why was he confessing to being a, a—well, what Tilrey had been? She didn’t particularly like even to think the word.Mal seemed untroubled by her embarrassment. “Yeah. So, frankly, when it comes to the deference and respect, I’m over it. But I do care about Supervisor Lindtmerán. And I’ve seen that you people can snap your fingers and replace any of us, for any reason.” He narrowed his eyes. “So, please excuse my being boorishly direct, Fir’n, but are you really here to see how Lisha runs Sector Six? Or to put an end to it?”Vera did not owe him an answer, but she was too exasperated not to set him straight. “What have I done to suggest I’m here for some sinister reason? If anything, I’ve been too friendly and informal with your Supervisor, and too open to learning about her methods. That’s what my superiors would tell me, anyway.”Mal kept scrutinizing her as if she might have a hidden message in her eyes. “Strutters don’t come here just to learn, Fir’n.”“No?” Vera remembered what Lisha had said about Gersha “honoring us with his presence.” “What about Councillor Gádden?”“He’s different.” He broke the gaze, jiggling his knee. “You know Councillor Gádden?”“A little.” Vera wondered if Mal was ever this rude to Gersha, and whether Gersha cared. “What’s different about him coming here? Because he’s in love with the Supervisor’s son, does that make him acceptable to you?”“I never said you weren’t ‘acceptable,’ Fir’n!” The word seemed to take Mal aback, but a moment later he recovered himself. “You do seem to know Fir Gádden. Is that why you’re here? To quiz us about him and his visits?”Yes. No. Vera gulped down the cooling tea. She didn’t want to know anything about Gersha and Tilrey’s visits here, because it wasn’t her business, and she wanted to know everything.Did people here actually trust Gersha? Like him? Or did they only tolerate him for Tilrey’s sake? And did Gersha resent every minute of being in Thurskein, or did he enjoy Lisha’s company as much as she did? It didn’t seem fair that he’d worked his way into the fabric of Tilrey’s life in ways she seemed destined never to do. From the little she knew of Gersha Gádden, he was every bit as proud and uptight as . . . well, as she was.She plunked the cup on a low table and rose with dignity, supporting herself on the couch’s arm. “My business here has nothing to do with Fir Gádden. His weakness for his secretary is common knowledge in Redda. Now, if you don’t mind, I have had a full day. I’d like to lie down.”“I’m fine,” Gersha kept insisting woozily. He lay on a frameless bed in a room walled with stone and ferociously warmed by a woodstove. Cheap stick-on LED lights glowed from the walls and low ceiling. “I’m not hypothermic,” he went on. “Really. My head’s clear. Just tired. Rishka?”“I’m right here.” Tilrey took Gersha’s hand.But Artur’s companion, the woman with the Harbourer accent, muscled her way between them. “I need to check for frostbite,” she said, pulling off her parka to reveal red-brown skin, striking features, and a cloud of black hair. “His temperature, too. Turshka, bring more blankets and then make tea.”While Artur spread rough woven blankets over Gersha, the woman pressed a thermometer into his ear. It was a proper Oslov device, and she seemed to know how to use it, but Tilrey was tense with frustration and worry as he stood back to give them space. “What can I do?”“Take off your parka, any wet clothes you have. And let her work.” Artur brushed past Tilrey with a reassuring pat on the arm. “Moneta’s trained in medicine. She keeps this whole village healthy.”“She’s not an Oslov,” Tilrey snapped. Green hells, he sounded like Besha now, but how could a Harbourer practice real medicine when they didn’t even have proper electricity? What if Gersha—“I’m okay. Really.” Gersha was trying to sit up, struggling weakly in Moneta’s grip.Moneta shot Tilrey a look that practically gave him frostbite. “Lucky for you, your friend is right. His temperature isn’t quite in the danger zone. However, he needs to lie quiet while we warm him up, so I advise you to go help with the tea instead of upsetting him.”Tilrey knelt by the bed, still shaky from the trek through the storm, afraid to touch Gersha but not willing to leave him. “I need to know he’s okay.”Moneta eased off one of Gersha’s gloves. “There. Is it still numb? Some tingling? Good.” She swung around to Tilrey, her face hardening. “What sort of fools are you two, coming up here in this weather? At least we knew you were coming, thanks to Sergeant Aurinthal. If we hadn’t, you’d be dead.”So Aurinthal knew Artur better than she’d let on. But this was no time to worry about who else she might have told. “We’re very grateful,” Tilrey said in Harbourer, softening his tone. “My friend’s welfare is precious to me. We can pay you—”Moneta interrupted him in Oslov. “You can pay my husband and me by keeping your mouths shut about where you found us. If you don’t—”“Moneta. Monnie. Please,” Artur said, loping back from the kitchen. He handed Moneta a steaming mug and patted the small of her back, then turned to Tilrey. “Come with me, okay? He’s in good hands. Promise.”“Go on, sweetheart. I’m okay.” Gersha still sounded a little drowsy, but firm. “You two need to talk anyway. Don’t you?”“If you’re sure.” Tilrey knew he shouldn’t reveal the nature of their relationship before he’d tested the terrain. But fuck it—the middle of nowhere was no place to be cautious. He bent and kissed Gersha’s forehead. “I’ll be right next door.”As Tilrey followed Artur into the kitchen, his cheeks warmed, and not just because the room had its own roaring stove. “You and she are married?” he asked in a low voice, trying to change the subject before Artur commented on what he’d just seen. Artur . . . well, Artur had taught Tilrey never to let himself care about a Strutter, and in that time and place, it was a life-saving lesson.“Yup. Going on eight years.” Artur ushered Tilrey into a seat at the rough-hewn table. The reddish beard that crawled over his lean cheeks made it harder to read his expression than it used to be. Putting the kettle on a small solar-powered campstove (also of Oslov make), he said, “What about you? How long have you been with that Strutter? He’s Per Gádden’s little programmer nephew, isn’t he?”So much for Gersha’s disguise. “You’ve got a good memory,” Tilrey said sheepishly.“I’ve got an excellent memory, and Redda’s a small town.” Artur sat down opposite him. “Well, compared to Cleveland, anyway. I imagine you know where I’ve been, since you know where I ended up.”As his eyes met Tilrey’s, they hardened, the veneer of sociability dropping away. “Who sent you here, Rishka?”Trained by years at Malsha’s side, Artur had always been good at hiding his feelings. But now, as he kept talking without waiting for Tilrey’s answer, a twitch of the jaw betrayed him. “Have they captured Malsha in Resurgence?” he asked in a voice sharp with foreboding. “Or did he make some sort of deal to return to Oslov? Is that how you knew where to find me?”“No!” Tilrey could see the toll of fear that a decade as an outlaw and exile had taken on his friend. “Nothing like that. I came here on my own initiative.”He hastened to explain, as economically as he could, how he’d ended up as Malsha’s guest in Harbour, and how Malsha had told him Artur’s whereabouts. For now, he kept to himself what Malsha had said about Colonel Thibault’s plot, letting Artur think he’d come out of sheer desire to see what had become of his old friend.Artur listened intently. When the kettle whistled, he jumped up as if a shot had been fired, then laughed weakly as he poured them tea. “Green hills and valleys, Tilrey. The old bastard lured you to Resurgence, and he didn’t find a way to abduct you and make you stay? I mean, I’m happy you escaped his clutches, but I’m almost disappointed in him.”Tilrey laughed, too, though it was forced. “Malsha knew better than to defy Int/Sec, and he got what he wanted from me. An update on my life, and plenty of chances to make me uncomfortable.”Artur nodded; he knew Malsha’s pleasures and perversions too well. “So, when Int/Sec debriefed you after the Harbour mission, you didn’t tell them where I am? After he told you? Why the hell not?”“Why would I give you up to Int/Sec? They might have come up here to see if they could wring any intel out of you.”Artur was scowling. “It’s never a good idea to hold out on Int/Sec. You could end up in a cell.”This time Tilrey’s laugh was pure surprise. “You’re my friend.”“We haven’t seen each other in years. You should have thought of yourself first, Rishka.”That tone, brotherly and patronizing at once, brought Tilrey back twelve years to the days when they sat together in Malsha’s living room. Over pots of tea, Artur taught him all about Redda—whom to trust, whom to avoid, how to look out for himself.For an instant, he was that frightened, naïve little Skeinsha again. But only for an instant. “I have ample experience in dealing with Int/Sec,” he said evenly. “Believe me, Turshka, their cells aren’t anything new to me.”He expected Artur to keep grilling him—how much did he know about Resurgence? How had he learned it? But the older man only slumped back in his chair, gazing at Tilrey with a worried, almost beseeching look.“What?”Artur clasped his hands on the table, which was scored with old knife marks. “It’s my fault,” he said in a small voice. “How bad was it, Rishka? How long did they keep you locked up after Malsha left?”“Less than two ten-days.” Why were they getting into this ancient history? “I’m fine, Artur. It was ten years ago, and how was it your fault? Malsha was the one who decided to betray Oslov and kill thousands of Harbourers in exchange for a retirement home.”“It shouldn’t have happened. It wasn’t fair to you.” Artur raised his hazel eyes, no defenses or suspicion in them now. “What happened after that? Did the Island . . . take you in?”Tilrey laughed harshly. “Yeah, Verán gave me a home. There were some rough patches, but after three years, I found a better situation.”“With that little Gádden?” Artur had lowered his voice. “Or is he your thing on the side? He’s not a power player, and Aurinthal said—”“I have a patron in the Council. I’m fine.” Tilrey waved the questions away, grateful for Artur’s ignorance of current events in Redda. Not that an exile was likely to pose a danger to Gersha’s position, but Artur was clever and politically savvy, and you never knew. “Gersha and I—well, the important thing is, you can trust him. I vouch for him absolutely.”Artur just kept looking at him with that faintly pained expression, as if he were more concerned for Tilrey than alarmed for himself. “Do you trust him, then?”“Yes.” Perhaps if he was curt enough, he could stop the questions. “I wouldn’t have let him come with me if I didn’t. I’m not a child anymore, Turshka.”A russet brow arched. “I can see that. When I met you, you cringed and cowered and had an accent I could cut with a knife. And now—the way you talk and walk and hold your head, I could swear you were Reddan-born. You move like an Upstart, Tilrey. And you have plenty of new skills, like speaking Harbourer and lying to Int/Sec.”Tilrey tried to explain, but Artur plowed on: “And Gádden’s besotted with you. Any fool can see that. But I have to wonder if you’re overplaying your hand.”“Excuse me?” Green hells, he hated being underestimated, whether by his old friend or by the True Hearth. It made him want to throw caution to the winds.“Too many risks, Tilrey. Did you tell Gádden who I am, what I am? He may adore you, but he’s a Strutter from a high-named family, and you know what they—”Pressure was mounting in Tilrey’s head. “Gersha knows you’re an exile, yes,” he rapped out. “He’s a Dissident. A shirker. And he is one because I recruited him. So please stop acting like I can’t take care of myself.”For a moment they just sat there letting the words vibrate between them. What the fuck did I say? All Tilrey remembered was blistering irritation.He rubbed his temples, trying to find his way back to the diplomatic approach he was supposed to take. But everything came out sounding belligerent: “If you’re going to start lecturing me now, you’re way too late.”Artur ran his fingers through his shaggy red hair. Far from angry, he looked at sea again. “Me lecture you? I worked for a traitor. I live in exile. I have two kids with my Harbourer wife.”“Kids?” Tilrey peered around the kitchen. As far as he could tell, the house only had the two rooms.“They’re sleeping in the guest room—or pantry, really.” Artur pointed at a low door that Tilrey had assumed was a cupboard. “We’re in close quarters here, but at least it’s warm, and we haven’t had an actual guest in ages.”He returned his eyes to Tilrey, focused and canny again, as if he’d bounced back from his surprise. “So, you’re a shirker now. I can see that, after everything you went through. Can’t say I was never tempted myself. Who’s giving you orders? Is it that scrawny biologist, Brangán?”The name was familiar—an older Dissident or Hargist of whom Ranek Egil had spoken with contempt. “No. I don’t take orders from any Upstart, Artur—not about this, anyway. Sometimes they even take orders from me.”It felt like a dangerously boastful thing to say, but wasn’t it true? Tilrey had single-handedly persuaded Egil to let them leave the Southern Hearth. He was the one who kept Besha and their other allies in line, even if he had to mask himself in Gersha’s authority to do it.When Artur just stared at him, he went on, pressing his advantage: “Who gives you orders now? You mentioned spending time in Cleveland. I know whose seat of power that is. And Malsha told me a little something about the ‘guests’ you host here. How you teach them to pass for Oslov.”Artur glanced at the door to the other room as if he thought Gersha might appear. Nothing happened—the fire continued to crackle, the wind to howl. Turning back to Tilrey, he said in a voice just above a whisper, “Malsha has been indiscreet. If he told you about the Colonel’s business, he must want to start trouble.”“Trouble for me? Or for you?”“Both. But then, that’s his mission in life, isn’t it? To be an imp of the perverse. Not that it matters,” Artur said briskly. “I haven’t had a guest in a few years, and I have no idea if I ever will again. Communications between here and Harbour are so poor that Colonel Thibault could have been assassinated for all I know. She’s not my master now, if she ever was.”“I’m glad to hear that.”“Oh, I bet you are.” Artur’s face was closing up. “Tell me, when Malsha told you about my guests, did he know you were a shirker?”“He was always good at figuring me out,” Tilrey admitted. “But when he told me you might have valuable intel for our movement, I didn’t take that on faith. I thought I’d wait and get the real story from you.”“The real story, eh?” Artur looked downright confrontational now. “It’s been very pleasant to catch up, Rishka. But I wasn’t aware you were on an official mission. If you’ve come to pump me about my guests from Resurgence for your own Dissident reasons, I’ve got nothing to say to you.”“When he was eight, I had his hearing checked because the teachers complained he didn’t listen,” Lisha said. “His hearing was fine, of course, and when I asked why he wasn’t answering his teachers, he told me, ‘If I really want to learn, I need to ignore the teacher so I can focus on my books’!”Vera smiled, though it was a little forced. “Your son was bright.”“Oh yes. He was shy, and he had trouble with hands-on proficiency tests in the classroom, but give him a book, and he’d learn everything in it. You have to learn from your child how they learn.”They were having their second dinner in Lisha’s quarters while snow whirled outside. Vera had already heard all about Tilrey’s early outdoor adventures (he could sled before he could walk), his battles with strep and bronchitis, and his refusal to go to bed at a reasonable hour.She told herself it was natural to enjoy these reminiscences, given how proud Lisha clearly was of her son. But at the same time she felt uncomfortable, like a spy gathering information that Tilrey might prefer to keep from her. He almost never talked about his past in Thurskein. And would Lisha be so chatty if she knew why Vera was actually here?Well, she was going to know soon, because Vera was flying out tomorrow morning. By the end of this evening, she would find the courage to tell the truth.While Lisha brewed the tea, Vera rehearsed what she would say, taking deep, even breaths. But when the Supervisor returned to the living room, all the fine words died in her throat. There was no way to say it without turning herself into a different person, and she didn’t yet know who that person was. A Laborer? An Upstart? A romantic heroine who transcended Levels? An idiot who was hopelessly infatuated with someone who didn’t love her?Fearful that Lisha would read her feelings on her face, she said the first thing that entered her head: “I had an odd conversation today with your assistant—Mal.”“Oh?”“He thought I might have some ulterior motive for being here.”Vera expected Lisha to say that Mal was incorrigible and would be reprimanded for his disrespect. But all the warm reassurance had left Lisha’s manner. She gazed at Vera, her eyes unsettlingly neutral. “Mal has a suspicious temperament. But sometimes his suspicions are apt.”What was going on? Why on earth had she introduced the topic? Vera tried to make it into a joke. “Is it really so bizarre that I would come here to learn how you’ve increased your productivity without driving your workers into the ground?”Lisha picked up a napkin and wiped condensation delicately from her upper lip. “Yes, actually,” she said. “Well, perhaps not ‘bizarre,’ but unusual. Generally, unless Government Sector thinks we’re harboring smugglers or Dissidents, it ignores us. A sharp dip in productivity might merit a visit, but an increase? Never.”“Well, that’s . . . too bad.” Until today, Vera had seen Sector Six productivity as one more spreadsheet number. Now, whether she liked it or not, her head was crowded with images: the kids’ drawings in the breakroom; the two women who’d stopped to share a wink and a fist-bump before returning to their sewing machines; the old man who took pride in his own special fertilizer recipe. Numbers could never fully describe people.Lisha kept studying her in that off-putting way. “I have to ask, Fir’n. Do you have some sort of theory you’re trying to prove using our sector? Or . . . were you sent here to study labor at all?”“What are you—” Vera’s heart hammered, and her thoughts made as much sense as the maelstrom outside. “I am in the Bureau of Labor,” she managed.“But your mother, I can’t help noticing, Fir’n, is the chair of the Int/Sec committee in the Council. Which makes me wonder if they were the ones who sent you here.”Int/Sec send her here! Vera forced herself to unknot her fists, relieved and a little shocked at the same time. “My mother isn’t my boss, and I have nothing to do with intelligence!” She shuddered just thinking about that vast concrete complex in the Sector. “If an Int/Sec spy ever comes here, I’m sure they’d be less conspicuous and less, uh, prone to blunders than me. How do you even know that about my mother?”But Lisha was no longer looking at Vera in that diamond-hard way. Her attention was on her rudimentary handheld, which had issued some sort of buzzing alert.“Excuse me,” she said, darkening the screen. “What were we saying? Never mind—I’m afraid I have bad news. The storm isn’t moving on as fast as expected, so tomorrow’s flights have been canceled.”The “bad” news made Vera go weak with relief. “Even the flights to the Southern Range?” she asked, doing her best to seem dismayed.“I could try to find you a ground transport, but in high winds like these, they like to limit the traffic to essential shipments. I know you’d rather be with your family, but may I offer you my hospitality for one more night?”“Of course! I’d be honored.” Lightheaded and suddenly eager to move, Vera sprang up and went to the window. Snow was blowing nearly horizontal under the floodlight, so thick she couldn’t see more than a meter. She had an impulse to dance and clap her hands, thankful for the storm, but refrained.The wind dropped briefly, showing her tiny lights through the blizzard—far below her, blue and green and white and icy pink. “What are those? Is someone lost out there?”Lisha came to stand beside her. “Oh, no. Those are for our snow-sculpture festival, to mark the turns of the maze.”“But it’s not the solstice yet.”“We’ve got no shortage of winter fests in ’Skein. People like things to look forward to during the dark months.” Lisha sounded deferent again, as if she’d never questioned Vera’s motives—as if Vera had imagined it. “This one’s a chance for snow carvers to show their skill. With any luck, the storm will quiet down tomorrow so they’ll have time to repair their work.”Vera had made snowmen in the Southern Range as a child, but Redda was too cold for such outdoor amusements. “Could I go see?” she asked. “I mean, tomorrow, if it’s not too cold?”It came out sounding all wrong—like a child asking for a favor. Maybe Lisha was taken off guard, too, because she patted Vera’s arm and said, “Of course. Why shouldn’t you see something new while you’re here?”Why not indeed? And Vera went off to bed feeling wretched about her failure of nerve and guiltily elated that she had another day to figure this out.

She needed to focus on the young man—what was his name? Mal something. He was asking her to notice the armbands on the workers’ gray coveralls. People with red bands were in the top five percent for productivity and had earned themselves an extra day off each month. The orange bands—

The words blurred together, and suddenly the whole room was swaying. An arm looped around her, surprisingly strong. “Are you all right, Fir’n?”

Vera closed her eyes and took two deep breaths, willing her nerves to settle. He shouldn’t be touching her, and everyone must be staring, but she was grateful for the support. “Fine,” she breathed. “Would you mind . . .?”

Instead of releasing her, Mal led her through the labyrinth of the factory floor, navigating easily around obstacles. Vera saw a few workers glance up, but they looked down again immediately. Whatever Mal was—she still hadn’t figured out his official title—clearly they respected his authority.

“To sit for a few minutes would be lovely,” she managed. “And some water or tea, if you could.”

Mal guided her across a chalky-smelling hallway, through a door, and down onto something soft—a couch. “I’m sorry, Fir’n,” he said. “Three factories in six hours is too much. You must be exhausted.”

“No, no.” Vera drank the water he handed her, trying to recover her composure. She had to sit up straight backed. Don’t show weakness in front of Laborers was one of the first lessons she’d ever learned. “I appreciate the thorough tour. It’s eye-opening.”

Opposite the couch stood a counter with a sink and electric tea kettle, which Mal filled and plugged it in. Above the counter, children’s drawings hung on a corkboard. They made the room loud and colorful and completely inappropriate—as far as she could tell, this was a break room, not a nursery. But maybe the splash of brightness compensated for the absence of windows.

As if reading her mind, Mal said, “I bet you’re thinking this is all pretty unorthodox, Fir’n. The way we run things.”

A delicate tendril of pain came alive in Vera’s left temple, and she closed her eyes again. “Well, yes, frankly. I can’t help being surprised when you give workers three days off per ten-day, or eight-hour shifts. Whatever you may say about ‘incentives,’ all this idle time goes against decades of research and best practice.”

She opened her eyes and found Mal leaning against the counter, looking straight at her. “And yet we keep meeting and even exceeding our quotas.”

Was he challenging her? “The Bureau of Labor is open to innovation,” Vera said stiffly. “Even when it seems counterintuitive. That’s why I came here—to learn from you.”

The kettle hissed. Mal switched it off and poured water into a tumbler, his pale face reddening in the steam. “Is that why you came here, Fir’n?”

“Excuse me?” As he brought the tea over, Vera felt her own face flushing. “What exactly are you asking, young man?” she added, trying to sound as severe as her mother would have.

Instead of demurring, Mal gave her the cup and stepped back, crossing his arms. His gaze didn’t waver. “I’ve had some experience with visitors from Government Sector, Fir’n. They tend to come here for one of two reasons: to fuck us or to fuck us over.”

Vera narrowly managed not to spill tea in her lap. Her temples throbbed, and she forced words through a tight throat. “You’re being incredibly inappropriate. I may have to report you to Supervisor Lindtmerán.”

Mal shrugged. “Wouldn’t be the first time. Lisha knows I’m not always a nice boy. But she also knows I care about keeping this sector a good place to live. And I care about her, because she does that. So I gotta ask, Fir’n. Were you sent here to arrange for Lisha’s replacement?”

Vera opened her mouth, closed it. “If that was true, would I tell you?”

“Guess not.” Mal sat down on the opposite end of the couch and smiled with a charm that jarred her. “That’s why I’m asking, Fir’n. Maybe I’m just being naïve, but I’m hoping you’ll be straight with me.”

She couldn’t keep track of his moods. Was he trying to flirt? Vera took a brisk sip of her tea and burnt her tongue. She lowered it again, swearing under her breath. “I should not have to state that I didn’t come here under false pretenses. Questioning the integrity of a government functionary isn’t—”

“My place. I know.” The violet eyes stayed fixed on her, though the smile faded. “Like I say, Fir’n, I’ve known a lot of Upstarts. The former Supervisor used to ask me to . . . entertain them.”

“Oh.” Vera’s face burned again. No wonder he was so cheeky if he had seen visitors from Redda in compromising positions. But why was he confessing to being a, a—well, what Tilrey had been? She didn’t particularly like even to think the word.

Mal seemed untroubled by her embarrassment. “Yeah. So, frankly, when it comes to the deference and respect, I’m over it. But I do care about Supervisor Lindtmerán. And I’ve seen that you people can snap your fingers and replace any of us, for any reason.” He narrowed his eyes. “So, please excuse my being boorishly direct, Fir’n, but are you really here to see how Lisha runs Sector Six? Or to put an end to it?”

Vera did not owe him an answer, but she was too exasperated not to set him straight. “What have I done to suggest I’m here for some sinister reason? If anything, I’ve been too friendly and informal with your Supervisor, and too open to learning about her methods. That’s what my superiors would tell me, anyway.”

Mal kept scrutinizing her as if she might have a hidden message in her eyes. “Strutters don’t come here just to learn, Fir’n.”

“No?” Vera remembered what Lisha had said about Gersha “honoring us with his presence.” “What about Councillor Gádden?”

“He’s different.” He broke the gaze, jiggling his knee. “You know Councillor Gádden?”

“A little.” Vera wondered if Mal was ever this rude to Gersha, and whether Gersha cared. “What’s different about him coming here? Because he’s in love with the Supervisor’s son, does that make him acceptable to you?”

“I never said you weren’t ‘acceptable,’ Fir’n!” The word seemed to take Mal aback, but a moment later he recovered himself. “You do seem to know Fir Gádden. Is that why you’re here? To quiz us about him and his visits?”

Yes. No. Vera gulped down the cooling tea. She didn’t want to know anything about Gersha and Tilrey’s visits here, because it wasn’t her business, and she wanted to know everything.

Did people here actually trust Gersha? Like him? Or did they only tolerate him for Tilrey’s sake? And did Gersha resent every minute of being in Thurskein, or did he enjoy Lisha’s company as much as she did? It didn’t seem fair that he’d worked his way into the fabric of Tilrey’s life in ways she seemed destined never to do. From the little she knew of Gersha Gádden, he was every bit as proud and uptight as . . . well, as she was.

She plunked the cup on a low table and rose with dignity, supporting herself on the couch’s arm. “My business here has nothing to do with Fir Gádden. His weakness for his secretary is common knowledge in Redda. Now, if you don’t mind, I have had a full day. I’d like to lie down.”

“I’m fine,” Gersha kept insisting woozily. He lay on a frameless bed in a room walled with stone and ferociously warmed by a woodstove. Cheap stick-on LED lights glowed from the walls and low ceiling. “I’m not hypothermic,” he went on. “Really. My head’s clear. Just tired. Rishka?”

“I’m right here.” Tilrey took Gersha’s hand.

But Artur’s companion, the woman with the Harbourer accent, muscled her way between them. “I need to check for frostbite,” she said, pulling off her parka to reveal red-brown skin, striking features, and a cloud of black hair. “His temperature, too. Turshka, bring more blankets and then make tea.”

While Artur spread rough woven blankets over Gersha, the woman pressed a thermometer into his ear. It was a proper Oslov device, and she seemed to know how to use it, but Tilrey was tense with frustration and worry as he stood back to give them space. “What can I do?”

“Take off your parka, any wet clothes you have. And let her work.” Artur brushed past Tilrey with a reassuring pat on the arm. “Moneta’s trained in medicine. She keeps this whole village healthy.”

“She’s not an Oslov,” Tilrey snapped. Green hells, he sounded like Besha now, but how could a Harbourer practice real medicine when they didn’t even have proper electricity? What if Gersha—

“I’m okay. Really.” Gersha was trying to sit up, struggling weakly in Moneta’s grip.

Moneta shot Tilrey a look that practically gave him frostbite. “Lucky for you, your friend is right. His temperature isn’t quite in the danger zone. However, he needs to lie quiet while we warm him up, so I advise you to go help with the tea instead of upsetting him.”

Tilrey knelt by the bed, still shaky from the trek through the storm, afraid to touch Gersha but not willing to leave him. “I need to know he’s okay.”

Moneta eased off one of Gersha’s gloves. “There. Is it still numb? Some tingling? Good.” She swung around to Tilrey, her face hardening. “What sort of fools are you two, coming up here in this weather? At least we knew you were coming, thanks to Sergeant Aurinthal. If we hadn’t, you’d be dead.”

So Aurinthal knew Artur better than she’d let on. But this was no time to worry about who else she might have told. “We’re very grateful,” Tilrey said in Harbourer, softening his tone. “My friend’s welfare is precious to me. We can pay you—”

Moneta interrupted him in Oslov. “You can pay my husband and me by keeping your mouths shut about where you found us. If you don’t—”

“Moneta. Monnie. Please,” Artur said, loping back from the kitchen. He handed Moneta a steaming mug and patted the small of her back, then turned to Tilrey. “Come with me, okay? He’s in good hands. Promise.”

“Go on, sweetheart. I’m okay.” Gersha still sounded a little drowsy, but firm. “You two need to talk anyway. Don’t you?”

“If you’re sure.” Tilrey knew he shouldn’t reveal the nature of their relationship before he’d tested the terrain. But fuck it—the middle of nowhere was no place to be cautious. He bent and kissed Gersha’s forehead. “I’ll be right next door.”

As Tilrey followed Artur into the kitchen, his cheeks warmed, and not just because the room had its own roaring stove. “You and she are married?” he asked in a low voice, trying to change the subject before Artur commented on what he’d just seen. Artur . . . well, Artur had taught Tilrey never to let himself care about a Strutter, and in that time and place, it was a life-saving lesson.

“Yup. Going on eight years.” Artur ushered Tilrey into a seat at the rough-hewn table. The reddish beard that crawled over his lean cheeks made it harder to read his expression than it used to be. Putting the kettle on a small solar-powered campstove (also of Oslov make), he said, “What about you? How long have you been with that Strutter? He’s Per Gádden’s little programmer nephew, isn’t he?”

So much for Gersha’s disguise. “You’ve got a good memory,” Tilrey said sheepishly.

“I’ve got an excellent memory, and Redda’s a small town.” Artur sat down opposite him. “Well, compared to Cleveland, anyway. I imagine you know where I’ve been, since you know where I ended up.”

As his eyes met Tilrey’s, they hardened, the veneer of sociability dropping away. “Who sent you here, Rishka?”

Trained by years at Malsha’s side, Artur had always been good at hiding his feelings. But now, as he kept talking without waiting for Tilrey’s answer, a twitch of the jaw betrayed him. “Have they captured Malsha in Resurgence?” he asked in a voice sharp with foreboding. “Or did he make some sort of deal to return to Oslov? Is that how you knew where to find me?”

“No!” Tilrey could see the toll of fear that a decade as an outlaw and exile had taken on his friend. “Nothing like that. I came here on my own initiative.”

He hastened to explain, as economically as he could, how he’d ended up as Malsha’s guest in Harbour, and how Malsha had told him Artur’s whereabouts. For now, he kept to himself what Malsha had said about Colonel Thibault’s plot, letting Artur think he’d come out of sheer desire to see what had become of his old friend.

Artur listened intently. When the kettle whistled, he jumped up as if a shot had been fired, then laughed weakly as he poured them tea. “Green hills and valleys, Tilrey. The old bastard lured you to Resurgence, and he didn’t find a way to abduct you and make you stay? I mean, I’m happy you escaped his clutches, but I’m almost disappointed in him.”

Tilrey laughed, too, though it was forced. “Malsha knew better than to defy Int/Sec, and he got what he wanted from me. An update on my life, and plenty of chances to make me uncomfortable.”

Artur nodded; he knew Malsha’s pleasures and perversions too well. “So, when Int/Sec debriefed you after the Harbour mission, you didn’t tell them where I am? After he told you? Why the hell not?”

“Why would I give you up to Int/Sec? They might have come up here to see if they could wring any intel out of you.”

Artur was scowling. “It’s never a good idea to hold out on Int/Sec. You could end up in a cell.”

This time Tilrey’s laugh was pure surprise. “You’re my friend.”

“We haven’t seen each other in years. You should have thought of yourself first, Rishka.”

That tone, brotherly and patronizing at once, brought Tilrey back twelve years to the days when they sat together in Malsha’s living room. Over pots of tea, Artur taught him all about Redda—whom to trust, whom to avoid, how to look out for himself.

For an instant, he was that frightened, naïve little Skeinsha again. But only for an instant. “I have ample experience in dealing with Int/Sec,” he said evenly. “Believe me, Turshka, their cells aren’t anything new to me.”

He expected Artur to keep grilling him—how much did he know about Resurgence? How had he learned it? But the older man only slumped back in his chair, gazing at Tilrey with a worried, almost beseeching look.

“What?”

Artur clasped his hands on the table, which was scored with old knife marks. “It’s my fault,” he said in a small voice. “How bad was it, Rishka? How long did they keep you locked up after Malsha left?”

“Less than two ten-days.” Why were they getting into this ancient history? “I’m fine, Artur. It was ten years ago, and how was it your fault? Malsha was the one who decided to betray Oslov and kill thousands of Harbourers in exchange for a retirement home.”

“It shouldn’t have happened. It wasn’t fair to you.” Artur raised his hazel eyes, no defenses or suspicion in them now. “What happened after that? Did the Island . . . take you in?”

Tilrey laughed harshly. “Yeah, Verán gave me a home. There were some rough patches, but after three years, I found a better situation.”

“With that little Gádden?” Artur had lowered his voice. “Or is he your thing on the side? He’s not a power player, and Aurinthal said—”

“I have a patron in the Council. I’m fine.” Tilrey waved the questions away, grateful for Artur’s ignorance of current events in Redda. Not that an exile was likely to pose a danger to Gersha’s position, but Artur was clever and politically savvy, and you never knew. “Gersha and I—well, the important thing is, you can trust him. I vouch for him absolutely.”

Artur just kept looking at him with that faintly pained expression, as if he were more concerned for Tilrey than alarmed for himself. “Do you trust him, then?”

“Yes.” Perhaps if he was curt enough, he could stop the questions. “I wouldn’t have let him come with me if I didn’t. I’m not a child anymore, Turshka.”

A russet brow arched. “I can see that. When I met you, you cringed and cowered and had an accent I could cut with a knife. And now—the way you talk and walk and hold your head, I could swear you were Reddan-born. You move like an Upstart, Tilrey. And you have plenty of new skills, like speaking Harbourer and lying to Int/Sec.”

Tilrey tried to explain, but Artur plowed on: “And Gádden’s besotted with you. Any fool can see that. But I have to wonder if you’re overplaying your hand.”

“Excuse me?” Green hells, he hated being underestimated, whether by his old friend or by the True Hearth. It made him want to throw caution to the winds.

“Too many risks, Tilrey. Did you tell Gádden who I am, what I am? He may adore you, but he’s a Strutter from a high-named family, and you know what they—”

Pressure was mounting in Tilrey’s head. “Gersha knows you’re an exile, yes,” he rapped out. “He’s a Dissident. A shirker. And he is one because I recruited him. So please stop acting like I can’t take care of myself.”

For a moment they just sat there letting the words vibrate between them. What the fuck did I say? All Tilrey remembered was blistering irritation.

He rubbed his temples, trying to find his way back to the diplomatic approach he was supposed to take. But everything came out sounding belligerent: “If you’re going to start lecturing me now, you’re way too late.”

Artur ran his fingers through his shaggy red hair. Far from angry, he looked at sea again. “Me lecture you? I worked for a traitor. I live in exile. I have two kids with my Harbourer wife.”

“Kids?” Tilrey peered around the kitchen. As far as he could tell, the house only had the two rooms.

“They’re sleeping in the guest room—or pantry, really.” Artur pointed at a low door that Tilrey had assumed was a cupboard. “We’re in close quarters here, but at least it’s warm, and we haven’t had an actual guest in ages.”

He returned his eyes to Tilrey, focused and canny again, as if he’d bounced back from his surprise. “So, you’re a shirker now. I can see that, after everything you went through. Can’t say I was never tempted myself. Who’s giving you orders? Is it that scrawny biologist, Brangán?”

The name was familiar—an older Dissident or Hargist of whom Ranek Egil had spoken with contempt. “No. I don’t take orders from any Upstart, Artur—not about this, anyway. Sometimes they even take orders from me.”

It felt like a dangerously boastful thing to say, but wasn’t it true? Tilrey had single-handedly persuaded Egil to let them leave the Southern Hearth. He was the one who kept Besha and their other allies in line, even if he had to mask himself in Gersha’s authority to do it.

When Artur just stared at him, he went on, pressing his advantage: “Who gives you orders now? You mentioned spending time in Cleveland. I know whose seat of power that is. And Malsha told me a little something about the ‘guests’ you host here. How you teach them to pass for Oslov.”

Artur glanced at the door to the other room as if he thought Gersha might appear. Nothing happened—the fire continued to crackle, the wind to howl. Turning back to Tilrey, he said in a voice just above a whisper, “Malsha has been indiscreet. If he told you about the Colonel’s business, he must want to start trouble.”

“Trouble for me? Or for you?”

“Both. But then, that’s his mission in life, isn’t it? To be an imp of the perverse. Not that it matters,” Artur said briskly. “I haven’t had a guest in a few years, and I have no idea if I ever will again. Communications between here and Harbour are so poor that Colonel Thibault could have been assassinated for all I know. She’s not my master now, if she ever was.”

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Oh, I bet you are.” Artur’s face was closing up. “Tell me, when Malsha told you about my guests, did he know you were a shirker?”

“He was always good at figuring me out,” Tilrey admitted. “But when he told me you might have valuable intel for our movement, I didn’t take that on faith. I thought I’d wait and get the real story from you.”

“The real story, eh?” Artur looked downright confrontational now. “It’s been very pleasant to catch up, Rishka. But I wasn’t aware you were on an official mission. If you’ve come to pump me about my guests from Resurgence for your own Dissident reasons, I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

“When he was eight, I had his hearing checked because the teachers complained he didn’t listen,” Lisha said. “His hearing was fine, of course, and when I asked why he wasn’t answering his teachers, he told me, ‘If I really want to learn, I need to ignore the teacher so I can focus on my books’!”

Vera smiled, though it was a little forced. “Your son was bright.”

“Oh yes. He was shy, and he had trouble with hands-on proficiency tests in the classroom, but give him a book, and he’d learn everything in it. You have to learn from your child how they learn.”

They were having their second dinner in Lisha’s quarters while snow whirled outside. Vera had already heard all about Tilrey’s early outdoor adventures (he could sled before he could walk), his battles with strep and bronchitis, and his refusal to go to bed at a reasonable hour.

She told herself it was natural to enjoy these reminiscences, given how proud Lisha clearly was of her son. But at the same time she felt uncomfortable, like a spy gathering information that Tilrey might prefer to keep from her. He almost never talked about his past in Thurskein. And would Lisha be so chatty if she knew why Vera was actually here?

Well, she was going to know soon, because Vera was flying out tomorrow morning. By the end of this evening, she would find the courage to tell the truth.

While Lisha brewed the tea, Vera rehearsed what she would say, taking deep, even breaths. But when the Supervisor returned to the living room, all the fine words died in her throat. There was no way to say it without turning herself into a different person, and she didn’t yet know who that person was. A Laborer? An Upstart? A romantic heroine who transcended Levels? An idiot who was hopelessly infatuated with someone who didn’t love her?

Fearful that Lisha would read her feelings on her face, she said the first thing that entered her head: “I had an odd conversation today with your assistant—Mal.”

“Oh?”

“He thought I might have some ulterior motive for being here.”

Vera expected Lisha to say that Mal was incorrigible and would be reprimanded for his disrespect. But all the warm reassurance had left Lisha’s manner. She gazed at Vera, her eyes unsettlingly neutral. “Mal has a suspicious temperament. But sometimes his suspicions are apt.”

What was going on? Why on earth had she introduced the topic? Vera tried to make it into a joke. “Is it really so bizarre that I would come here to learn how you’ve increased your productivity without driving your workers into the ground?”

Lisha picked up a napkin and wiped condensation delicately from her upper lip. “Yes, actually,” she said. “Well, perhaps not ‘bizarre,’ but unusual. Generally, unless Government Sector thinks we’re harboring smugglers or Dissidents, it ignores us. A sharp dip in productivity might merit a visit, but an increase? Never.”

“Well, that’s . . . too bad.” Until today, Vera had seen Sector Six productivity as one more spreadsheet number. Now, whether she liked it or not, her head was crowded with images: the kids’ drawings in the breakroom; the two women who’d stopped to share a wink and a fist-bump before returning to their sewing machines; the old man who took pride in his own special fertilizer recipe. Numbers could never fully describe people.

Lisha kept studying her in that off-putting way. “I have to ask, Fir’n. Do you have some sort of theory you’re trying to prove using our sector? Or . . . were you sent here to study labor at all?”

“What are you—” Vera’s heart hammered, and her thoughts made as much sense as the maelstrom outside. “I am in the Bureau of Labor,” she managed.

“But your mother, I can’t help noticing, Fir’n, is the chair of the Int/Sec committee in the Council. Which makes me wonder if they were the ones who sent you here.”

Int/Sec send her here! Vera forced herself to unknot her fists, relieved and a little shocked at the same time. “My mother isn’t my boss, and I have nothing to do with intelligence!” She shuddered just thinking about that vast concrete complex in the Sector. “If an Int/Sec spy ever comes here, I’m sure they’d be less conspicuous and less, uh, prone to blunders than me. How do you even know that about my mother?”

But Lisha was no longer looking at Vera in that diamond-hard way. Her attention was on her rudimentary handheld, which had issued some sort of buzzing alert.

“Excuse me,” she said, darkening the screen. “What were we saying? Never mind—I’m afraid I have bad news. The storm isn’t moving on as fast as expected, so tomorrow’s flights have been canceled.”

The “bad” news made Vera go weak with relief. “Even the flights to the Southern Range?” she asked, doing her best to seem dismayed.

“I could try to find you a ground transport, but in high winds like these, they like to limit the traffic to essential shipments. I know you’d rather be with your family, but may I offer you my hospitality for one more night?”

“Of course! I’d be honored.” Lightheaded and suddenly eager to move, Vera sprang up and went to the window. Snow was blowing nearly horizontal under the floodlight, so thick she couldn’t see more than a meter. She had an impulse to dance and clap her hands, thankful for the storm, but refrained.

The wind dropped briefly, showing her tiny lights through the blizzard—far below her, blue and green and white and icy pink. “What are those? Is someone lost out there?”

Lisha came to stand beside her. “Oh, no. Those are for our snow-sculpture festival, to mark the turns of the maze.”

“But it’s not the solstice yet.”

“We’ve got no shortage of winter fests in ’Skein. People like things to look forward to during the dark months.” Lisha sounded deferent again, as if she’d never questioned Vera’s motives—as if Vera had imagined it. “This one’s a chance for snow carvers to show their skill. With any luck, the storm will quiet down tomorrow so they’ll have time to repair their work.”

Vera had made snowmen in the Southern Range as a child, but Redda was too cold for such outdoor amusements. “Could I go see?” she asked. “I mean, tomorrow, if it’s not too cold?”

It came out sounding all wrong—like a child asking for a favor. Maybe Lisha was taken off guard, too, because she patted Vera’s arm and said, “Of course. Why shouldn’t you see something new while you’re here?”

Why not indeed? And Vera went off to bed feeling wretched about her failure of nerve and guiltily elated that she had another day to figure this out.