Chapter 12: Snowbound — The Key of Oslov

Volume 11: Crosscurrents and Consequences

Chapter 12 Snowbound

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Gersha woke feeling immensely, deliciously warm. The air was thick with a strange yet comforting smell—burning, but not the acrid stink of an electric heater. Something woodsy, organic, and just a touch too musky. It reminded him of Harbour.Weight pressed down on him, soft and even, as if a polar bear had settled on his chest. He sat up, shoving off what felt like a dozen layers of blankets and—were those furs? Outers killed wolves and bears for their pelts. And the room around him, crude stone insulated with masonry and moss, looked like an Outer dwelling.But last night someone had been doctoring him with proper Oslov instruments. He remembered hot tea, a soothing female voice, then nothing.All but his underclothes had been removed. He slid himself to the foot of the bed and found the heat source: an enormous iron stove. Sweat already beading on his cheeks, he called softly, “Tilrey?”A heavy door opened to reveal the woman he remembered from last night. She wore a strange mishmash of garments: hand-knitted shawl and leg warmers, Oslov fleece jacket and pants, Oslov snow boots with added fur lining. All the Oslov-made goods must be contraband smuggled through here by the intrepid Sergeant Aurinthal.“Pull those blankets back up,” she scolded Gersha in her Harbourer accent, letting her hand rest on his brow. “Your temperature feels good. If you’re strong enough, get up and put your outer layers back on. You had a lucky escape last night, my friend.”Gersha’s first impulse was to resent being scolded. Then he recalled how quickly the white-out had surrounded them, and how Tilrey had hauled him to his feet and half carried him through the storm. “I know. Thanks to you and my friend—he’s okay, isn’t he?”“Oh, he’s fine. Barely the worse for wear.”She passed Gersha his fleeces and scarf, and he pulled them on. “You saved my life last night, but we weren’t properly introduced, er, madam.” He used the Harbourer word, savoring the language that reminded him how it felt to be where his surname was of no consequence. “My name is Gersha.”Too late, he remembered the false persona he’d adopted at the base. But perhaps it didn’t matter here, in this land of outlaws.“I’m Moneta. Most of us in Weigand prefer not to use our last names; you’ll fit right in.” She shot him a broad smile that showcased her freckles. “I imagine you’re wondering where your friend is. He’s outside with my husband and the girls, shoveling around the vents so we don’t suffocate. It’s still snowing, you see. Would you like breakfast?”“I’d be very grateful, uh, Moneta.” What was a Harbourer doing here? Was she one of Colonel Thibault’s infiltrators? After she’d saved them, it seemed beyond rude to ask.Gersha used the privy—which was half iced over and rather terrifying—and then joined Moneta in the warm kitchen. “So you and Artur are . . . married?” he asked as she spooned porridge from a cast-iron pot.An Oslov couldn’t legally marry a non-citizen, but then, Artur wasn’t an Oslov anymore. How would that feel—to have your citizenship ripped from you? In those strange summer days when he thought he’d spend the rest of his life in the Southern Hearth, Gersha had managed not to think hard about that possibility.“Yeah.” Moneta set a steaming teapot on the table. “Where did you two learn to speak English?”“In school. And we spent some time in Harbour last summer on government business. Not just in Bettevy, but in Resurgence.” Gersha caught her gaze and held it. “I gather Artur was there, too. Is that where you’re from?”Moneta returned his gaze with no apparent discomfort. “Another thing we usually don’t discuss in Weigand is our origins, Fir Upstart. Oh yes, Artur told me a bit about you.”Gersha’s heart sped up. “He and I have barely been introduced.”“Artur remembers faces. But yes—to answer your question, I was once a Resurgent. I learned to practice medicine in the rebuilt hospital complex of the capital; for a while, I was the personal physician to Colonel Thibault herself. So you can trust my doctoring.”“I never doubted it,” Gersha assured her too quickly.“No?” She arched an expressive brow. “Artur tells me you come from a proud line of Oslovs. Pride is something I understand—I was brought up at the Colonel’s court.”She spoke the words the way Gersha might have said, “I am a Councillor of the Republic of Oslov,” as if all the pomp and grandeur of the Resurgent court were still spread out before her mind’s eye.Gersha wondered if his own background even impressed her. It was hard to imagine anyone not being awed by the most advanced society in the world—in terms of technology, anyway—but the over-weening Colonel Thibault and her hangers-on clearly had their own notions of power and glory. And who was to say theirs were less legitimate than his own?“If I may ask, how did you get here from Resurgence?” he asked. “Did you come to be with Artur?”“Oh no.” Moneta’s throaty laughter was warm and haughty at once, reminding him of Davita Lindblom. “You’re asking if I came to this place for love? Dear me, I’m not sure any love is that powerful. I came to save my life.”While Gersha drank tea and spooned the gluey porridge into his mouth, she explained: “For most of my life, I was a loyal follower of our Glorious Leader. Even when I thought she was a bit mad, I respected her. But my Hippocratic oath came first. When she ordered me to kill a patient—a rival of hers—and make the death look natural, I refused. Naturally, her Majesty found someone else to do it and framed me for the crime.”Gersha shuddered. “This is something Colonel Thibault does? Assassinate her rivals?”“Of course. Lady Curran was married to a man her Majesty fancied, and she wasn’t properly complimentary of her Majesty’s headdress at the Sunday salon, so the poor woman had to go.” Moneta sipped her own tea. “Your Councillors don’t kill each other?”“No! Well, not yet. We . . . vote on things.” He cleared his throat, wishing Tilrey would appear. “So, did her Majesty exile you here?”Moneta nodded. “My punishment was to help Artur set up house at the end of the world. I imagine her Majesty thought I wouldn’t last six months. I despised Artur at court, you see—I found him arrogant.” She smiled wistfully. “Which he was in those days. Such an Oslov! Our first week in this godforsaken place, we came close to killing each other. But then . . . something happened.”For a moment she looked dreamy again. Then her eyes narrowed on him. “I hope you know, Fir Oslov, that if you threaten my family in any way, you won’t leave here alive. I have no intention of being dragged to Redda as a prisoner.”Without thinking, Gersha had spooned up too much porridge; it stuck in his throat. Moneta’s cold gaze left no doubt that she meant what she said. When his coughing subsided, he said, “We’re not here to disturb your lives. I promise.”“Good.”Before he could make any further assurances, commotion erupted in the adjoining room. Two children burst into the kitchen—girls of six or seven, Gersha estimated, though they were so swaddled in parkas and furs that they could have been goblins from Feudal stories. They were arguing loudly about treats they wanted for lunch, using a fluent mix of Oslov and Harbourer that made his head spin.“Avalyn! Cintra!” Moneta silenced them with a ferocious look. “Where’s your father? He’s been out there too long.”“He’s in the shed oiling the backup generator,” said the apparent elder of the sisters.“And arguing with the other guest,” the younger one added. “Is the other guest a giant, Ma? He looks like a giant.”“No, many Oslovs are tall, and don’t be rude. A guest is a guest. Off to your room and out of your outdoor things.” Moneta rose and opened a cabinet. “Or nobody will have pickled caribou liver for lunch.”With some grousing and curious glances at Gersha, the sisters retreated through a door that didn’t appear tall enough to accommodate an adult. “I apologize,” Moneta said, slicing into a loaf of something gray-pink and grainy. “If we were at court, I would have taught them better manners. Out here, it’s more important that they know how to knife a marauding wolf in the heart.”Gersha winced. “Do you ever think of leaving?”“Oh, often. Believe me.” She picked up a wooden mallet and began tenderizing the unappetizing slices. “You see, though, when I came here, the village had no doctor. People made do with the Oslov medications they could smuggle or steal, and they didn’t use them right. Life expectancy was low; many children never made it beyond five. If I leave, it goes back to that.”Now Gersha understood her straight posture and the sparks in her eyes—she had a purpose. He remembered how it felt to polish a speech for the Council. “You’re doing good work, then.”“Oh? The almighty Oslov government approves of me?”“Well, I wasn’t exactly—”“No, you weren’t speaking for your government, Fir. Your government doesn’t care about these people—these ‘Outers,’ as you call them. Sometimes it even sends soldiers to kill them like rats.”“But they trespass on our land and steal and scavenge our goods like—like vermin.” Gersha stopped, realizing what he was saying. “You’re right. I haven’t thought much about it, but we do, uh, treat our non-citizens in a questionable manner.”“Do you think so?” Moneta’s sarcasm was impeccable. She poured water from the kettle into a gigantic thermos, steam reddening her face. “The Colonel’s no different, though. She used to send gangs to kill the Michiganders because they allied themselves with the Empire of the Plains. She’s a tyrant, but at least she doesn’t pretend to do it all in the name of logic and reason, the way your people do.”“You have a point. We don’t always respect our own principles.” It hurt to admit this in a way Gersha had thought he was past. “But have you always thought the Colonel was a tyrant? Didn’t you grow up believing in her?”“Oh yes.” She gave him a dark look. “When I was young and naïve, I actually thought she was a glorious leader. At your age, I would hope to be wiser. Much wiser.”What did you say to that? Feeling chastened, Gersha watched her bustle through her lunch preparations. “Can I help with anything?” he asked at last, half expecting the offer to be rebuffed.Moneta handed him the thermos. “Put on your outdoor things and find my husband and your friend. Give them this, and make them stop fighting and come in for lunch.”“I’m sure they’re not fighting.” Gersha looked around for his parka, remembering Moneta’s daughter’s words with misgiving. “Tilrey is a negotiator. He doesn’t fight. And they’re friends, aren’t they? Or were.”Moneta snorted. “Sometimes friends fight the most.”Dressing for the outdoors took Gersha ten minutes, and making his way across the yard to the shed took five more. The snow was up to his thighs and still falling. All he could see of the village was a succession of white humps sheltered against the towering Ceiralt Wall, whose top was lost in the thickening dusk.The shed was a dank pre-fab structure that smelled of space heaters. From the entryway, he heard raised voices.“I don’t know how you could think that of me, Artur.”“I don’t know how to think anything of you, Rishka,” Artur’s voice was raspy with irritation. “I don’t know you anymore. You’re a shirker, you’re shacked up with a high Upstart, and whenever you play innocent, like just now, you sound like him.”“Like who?”Tilrey was “playing innocent”; Gersha knew the tone. And why had he told Artur they were shirkers?“Who do you think?” Artur snapped back. “I hear what you’re saying. But I won’t risk innocent lives. These kids you call ‘infiltrators’ had no idea what they were getting into when the Colonel recruited them.”“I don’t want to hurt them, Turshka! I just want to—”“Locate them—I know. And I believe you. You wouldn’t hurt them. I’m just not convinced you wouldn’t hand them over to someone who would.”Now Tilrey sounded like he was having trouble not yelling. “If these ‘kids’ made it to Redda, they may already be in grave danger. We could help them.”“In exchange for their loyalty to your rebellion?”“Maybe it would be in their interests to—”Gersha took a step, and Artur whipped around. “Who’s there? Moneta?”The game was up, so Gersha continued into the room. To his surprise, Artur’s posture and demeanor changed with whiplash speed, softening from fierce opposition into deference. “Ah, Fir Gádden. Did you sleep well? I hope my wife hasn’t been tormenting you with poultices or cod livers.”“Your wife has been lovely.” Gersha offered the thermos. There was a time when Artur’s respectful manner would have put him at ease, but that time was over. “She’d like you to come to lunch.”Tilrey took the thermos, stroking Gersha’s shoulder as he did so—a discreet caress that felt like a calculated attempt to soothe him. Gersha flinched. Couldn’t either of them be genuine around him?“You don’t have to stop arguing on my account,” he said stiffly. “I know perfectly well why we’re here.” And then, to Artur, “I don’t know what you remember about me from your time working in the Sector, but there’s no need to coddle me with your fancy manners. I am not that person anymore.”Artur met his gaze evenly. “No? I do wonder what your uncle would think if he knew you were consorting with Dissidents, Fir.”Tilrey shot a warning, apologetic look at Gersha. Gersha ignored him and went on addressing Artur: “That’s technically Fir Councillor, but you can stop with all the ‘Fir this’ and ‘Fir that.’ Please don’t patronize me. I’m not ‘consorting with Dissidents.’ I am one.”Artur stared at him, mouth open. “You’re a Councillor now? Which party?”“Island,” Gersha managed. He couldn’t look at Tilrey, already regretting his outburst. He’d lost his temper and said too much, just as he’d been warned not to do.After a moment, Artur laughed aloud, sounding a little stunned. To Tilrey, he said, “How did you do that? I mean, I know you’re good, but—witchcraft?”Gersha felt his face blaze. “I’m standing right here. Everything I’ve done for him or with him, I’ve done of my free will.”“Oh? Or was he the one who got you into this mess?” Artur asked, his eyes darting to Tilrey. “I can’t figure you two out.”“Not him,” Tilrey said at the same time that Gersha said, “It’s not a mess!”A smile was creeping across Artur’s face. “It may or may not be a mess, but someone needs to explain to me how a high-named Upstart from one of the most conservative families—a Councillor, no less—turns into a shirker. No, not now,” he added, silencing them with a gesture. “Monnie expects us for lunch. But afterward” —he turned to Gersha— “if you’re such an egalitarian, maybe you can help me with my afternoon chores and give me a primer on how the hell this happened.”*Vera ate breakfast in front of the windows in her suite, watching snow flurry madly in the darkness that preceded a winter dawn. Storms had always made her feel cozy. In the Southern Range during family holidays, bad weather had meant a welcome delay of the return to Redda. This storm was giving her a reprieve, too—from making choices that remained impossible.She hadn’t been lying when she told Tilrey she was expected to present Tollsha with their child’s genetic profile in the presence of all four of their parents. Twice her mother had reminded her she needed to set a date for the Ceremony of Recognition, and twice she’d failed to do so. Tollsha himself hadn’t mentioned it; maybe he was embarrassed by the whole thing. But sooner or later, the issue would come to a head.She rose and gazed at her reflection in the dark glass—her belly larger than ever, her face wan and haggard. Her due date was scarcely more than a ten-day away. She couldn’t just let things take their course. She’d told Tilrey she wouldn’t be faithless to her husband, wouldn’t pass another man’s child off as his own, and she meant it.Would Tollsha rage at her, full of injured pride? Or would he feel grief? Disappointment? Whatever her feelings about him, he didn’t deserve this. In his awkward, utterly miscalculated way, he’d tried to make himself agreeable to her.A knock on the door made her jump—she was way too tense these days. She pulled her robe tight around her and opened up to find Mal. “Did you come for the breakfast tray?”The young man shook his head. “I’ll take it if you like, Fir’n, but I’ve brought you a visitor. She wants to see you right away.”“A visitor? Lisha?” Vera dodged around him and stepped into the hall.But the tall woman who stood waiting, arms crossed on her chest, was not Tilrey’s mother but her own.Vera stepped backward, her heart jolting against her ribcage. She had a childish impulse to slam the door in her mother’s face as if that would banish her for good. “What are you—how did you get here? The storm . . .”“I was already halfway here when the storm hit,” Albertine Linnett said, seemingly unbothered by this reception. “I hitched a ride on a supply transport for discretion’s sake, which turned out to be an excellent choice because weather doesn’t stop them.”She stepped past Vera into the suite, cocking her head at Mal. “Thank you. I don’t think we’ll need anything for a while.” And then, to her daughter, “We have to talk.”

Weight pressed down on him, soft and even, as if a polar bear had settled on his chest. He sat up, shoving off what felt like a dozen layers of blankets and—were those furs? Outers killed wolves and bears for their pelts. And the room around him, crude stone insulated with masonry and moss, looked like an Outer dwelling.

But last night someone had been doctoring him with proper Oslov instruments. He remembered hot tea, a soothing female voice, then nothing.

All but his underclothes had been removed. He slid himself to the foot of the bed and found the heat source: an enormous iron stove. Sweat already beading on his cheeks, he called softly, “Tilrey?”

A heavy door opened to reveal the woman he remembered from last night. She wore a strange mishmash of garments: hand-knitted shawl and leg warmers, Oslov fleece jacket and pants, Oslov snow boots with added fur lining. All the Oslov-made goods must be contraband smuggled through here by the intrepid Sergeant Aurinthal.

“Pull those blankets back up,” she scolded Gersha in her Harbourer accent, letting her hand rest on his brow. “Your temperature feels good. If you’re strong enough, get up and put your outer layers back on. You had a lucky escape last night, my friend.”

Gersha’s first impulse was to resent being scolded. Then he recalled how quickly the white-out had surrounded them, and how Tilrey had hauled him to his feet and half carried him through the storm. “I know. Thanks to you and my friend—he’s okay, isn’t he?”

“Oh, he’s fine. Barely the worse for wear.”

She passed Gersha his fleeces and scarf, and he pulled them on. “You saved my life last night, but we weren’t properly introduced, er, madam.” He used the Harbourer word, savoring the language that reminded him how it felt to be where his surname was of no consequence. “My name is Gersha.”

Too late, he remembered the false persona he’d adopted at the base. But perhaps it didn’t matter here, in this land of outlaws.

“I’m Moneta. Most of us in Weigand prefer not to use our last names; you’ll fit right in.” She shot him a broad smile that showcased her freckles. “I imagine you’re wondering where your friend is. He’s outside with my husband and the girls, shoveling around the vents so we don’t suffocate. It’s still snowing, you see. Would you like breakfast?”

“I’d be very grateful, uh, Moneta.” What was a Harbourer doing here? Was she one of Colonel Thibault’s infiltrators? After she’d saved them, it seemed beyond rude to ask.

Gersha used the privy—which was half iced over and rather terrifying—and then joined Moneta in the warm kitchen. “So you and Artur are . . . married?” he asked as she spooned porridge from a cast-iron pot.

An Oslov couldn’t legally marry a non-citizen, but then, Artur wasn’t an Oslov anymore. How would that feel—to have your citizenship ripped from you? In those strange summer days when he thought he’d spend the rest of his life in the Southern Hearth, Gersha had managed not to think hard about that possibility.

“Yeah.” Moneta set a steaming teapot on the table. “Where did you two learn to speak English?”

“In school. And we spent some time in Harbour last summer on government business. Not just in Bettevy, but in Resurgence.” Gersha caught her gaze and held it. “I gather Artur was there, too. Is that where you’re from?”

Moneta returned his gaze with no apparent discomfort. “Another thing we usually don’t discuss in Weigand is our origins, Fir Upstart. Oh yes, Artur told me a bit about you.”

Gersha’s heart sped up. “He and I have barely been introduced.”

“Artur remembers faces. But yes—to answer your question, I was once a Resurgent. I learned to practice medicine in the rebuilt hospital complex of the capital; for a while, I was the personal physician to Colonel Thibault herself. So you can trust my doctoring.”

“I never doubted it,” Gersha assured her too quickly.

“No?” She arched an expressive brow. “Artur tells me you come from a proud line of Oslovs. Pride is something I understand—I was brought up at the Colonel’s court.”

She spoke the words the way Gersha might have said, “I am a Councillor of the Republic of Oslov,” as if all the pomp and grandeur of the Resurgent court were still spread out before her mind’s eye.

Gersha wondered if his own background even impressed her. It was hard to imagine anyone not being awed by the most advanced society in the world—in terms of technology, anyway—but the over-weening Colonel Thibault and her hangers-on clearly had their own notions of power and glory. And who was to say theirs were less legitimate than his own?

“If I may ask, how did you get here from Resurgence?” he asked. “Did you come to be with Artur?”

“Oh no.” Moneta’s throaty laughter was warm and haughty at once, reminding him of Davita Lindblom. “You’re asking if I came to this place for love? Dear me, I’m not sure any love is that powerful. I came to save my life.”

While Gersha drank tea and spooned the gluey porridge into his mouth, she explained: “For most of my life, I was a loyal follower of our Glorious Leader. Even when I thought she was a bit mad, I respected her. But my Hippocratic oath came first. When she ordered me to kill a patient—a rival of hers—and make the death look natural, I refused. Naturally, her Majesty found someone else to do it and framed me for the crime.”

Gersha shuddered. “This is something Colonel Thibault does? Assassinate her rivals?”

“Of course. Lady Curran was married to a man her Majesty fancied, and she wasn’t properly complimentary of her Majesty’s headdress at the Sunday salon, so the poor woman had to go.” Moneta sipped her own tea. “Your Councillors don’t kill each other?”

“No! Well, not yet. We . . . vote on things.” He cleared his throat, wishing Tilrey would appear. “So, did her Majesty exile you here?”

Moneta nodded. “My punishment was to help Artur set up house at the end of the world. I imagine her Majesty thought I wouldn’t last six months. I despised Artur at court, you see—I found him arrogant.” She smiled wistfully. “Which he was in those days. Such an Oslov! Our first week in this godforsaken place, we came close to killing each other. But then . . . something happened.”

For a moment she looked dreamy again. Then her eyes narrowed on him. “I hope you know, Fir Oslov, that if you threaten my family in any way, you won’t leave here alive. I have no intention of being dragged to Redda as a prisoner.”

Without thinking, Gersha had spooned up too much porridge; it stuck in his throat. Moneta’s cold gaze left no doubt that she meant what she said. When his coughing subsided, he said, “We’re not here to disturb your lives. I promise.”

“Good.”

Before he could make any further assurances, commotion erupted in the adjoining room. Two children burst into the kitchen—girls of six or seven, Gersha estimated, though they were so swaddled in parkas and furs that they could have been goblins from Feudal stories. They were arguing loudly about treats they wanted for lunch, using a fluent mix of Oslov and Harbourer that made his head spin.

“Avalyn! Cintra!” Moneta silenced them with a ferocious look. “Where’s your father? He’s been out there too long.”

“He’s in the shed oiling the backup generator,” said the apparent elder of the sisters.

“And arguing with the other guest,” the younger one added. “Is the other guest a giant, Ma? He looks like a giant.”

“No, many Oslovs are tall, and don’t be rude. A guest is a guest. Off to your room and out of your outdoor things.” Moneta rose and opened a cabinet. “Or nobody will have pickled caribou liver for lunch.”

With some grousing and curious glances at Gersha, the sisters retreated through a door that didn’t appear tall enough to accommodate an adult. “I apologize,” Moneta said, slicing into a loaf of something gray-pink and grainy. “If we were at court, I would have taught them better manners. Out here, it’s more important that they know how to knife a marauding wolf in the heart.”

Gersha winced. “Do you ever think of leaving?”

“Oh, often. Believe me.” She picked up a wooden mallet and began tenderizing the unappetizing slices. “You see, though, when I came here, the village had no doctor. People made do with the Oslov medications they could smuggle or steal, and they didn’t use them right. Life expectancy was low; many children never made it beyond five. If I leave, it goes back to that.”

Now Gersha understood her straight posture and the sparks in her eyes—she had a purpose. He remembered how it felt to polish a speech for the Council. “You’re doing good work, then.”

“Oh? The almighty Oslov government approves of me?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly—”

“No, you weren’t speaking for your government, Fir. Your government doesn’t care about these people—these ‘Outers,’ as you call them. Sometimes it even sends soldiers to kill them like rats.”

“But they trespass on our land and steal and scavenge our goods like—like vermin.” Gersha stopped, realizing what he was saying. “You’re right. I haven’t thought much about it, but we do, uh, treat our non-citizens in a questionable manner.”

“Do you think so?” Moneta’s sarcasm was impeccable. She poured water from the kettle into a gigantic thermos, steam reddening her face. “The Colonel’s no different, though. She used to send gangs to kill the Michiganders because they allied themselves with the Empire of the Plains. She’s a tyrant, but at least she doesn’t pretend to do it all in the name of logic and reason, the way your people do.”

“You have a point. We don’t always respect our own principles.” It hurt to admit this in a way Gersha had thought he was past. “But have you always thought the Colonel was a tyrant? Didn’t you grow up believing in her?”

“Oh yes.” She gave him a dark look. “When I was young and naïve, I actually thought she was a glorious leader. At your age, I would hope to be wiser. Much wiser.”

What did you say to that? Feeling chastened, Gersha watched her bustle through her lunch preparations. “Can I help with anything?” he asked at last, half expecting the offer to be rebuffed.

Moneta handed him the thermos. “Put on your outdoor things and find my husband and your friend. Give them this, and make them stop fighting and come in for lunch.”

“I’m sure they’re not fighting.” Gersha looked around for his parka, remembering Moneta’s daughter’s words with misgiving. “Tilrey is a negotiator. He doesn’t fight. And they’re friends, aren’t they? Or were.”

Moneta snorted. “Sometimes friends fight the most.”

Dressing for the outdoors took Gersha ten minutes, and making his way across the yard to the shed took five more. The snow was up to his thighs and still falling. All he could see of the village was a succession of white humps sheltered against the towering Ceiralt Wall, whose top was lost in the thickening dusk.

The shed was a dank pre-fab structure that smelled of space heaters. From the entryway, he heard raised voices.

“I don’t know how you could think that of me, Artur.”

“I don’t know how to think anything of you, Rishka,” Artur’s voice was raspy with irritation. “I don’t know you anymore. You’re a shirker, you’re shacked up with a high Upstart, and whenever you play innocent, like just now, you sound like him.”

“Like who?”

Tilrey was “playing innocent”; Gersha knew the tone. And why had he told Artur they were shirkers?

“Who do you think?” Artur snapped back. “I hear what you’re saying. But I won’t risk innocent lives. These kids you call ‘infiltrators’ had no idea what they were getting into when the Colonel recruited them.”

“I don’t want to hurt them, Turshka! I just want to—”

“Locate them—I know. And I believe you. You wouldn’t hurt them. I’m just not convinced you wouldn’t hand them over to someone who would.”

Now Tilrey sounded like he was having trouble not yelling. “If these ‘kids’ made it to Redda, they may already be in grave danger. We could help them.”

“In exchange for their loyalty to your rebellion?”

“Maybe it would be in their interests to—”

Gersha took a step, and Artur whipped around. “Who’s there? Moneta?”

The game was up, so Gersha continued into the room. To his surprise, Artur’s posture and demeanor changed with whiplash speed, softening from fierce opposition into deference. “Ah, Fir Gádden. Did you sleep well? I hope my wife hasn’t been tormenting you with poultices or cod livers.”

“Your wife has been lovely.” Gersha offered the thermos. There was a time when Artur’s respectful manner would have put him at ease, but that time was over. “She’d like you to come to lunch.”

Tilrey took the thermos, stroking Gersha’s shoulder as he did so—a discreet caress that felt like a calculated attempt to soothe him. Gersha flinched. Couldn’t either of them be genuine around him?

“You don’t have to stop arguing on my account,” he said stiffly. “I know perfectly well why we’re here.” And then, to Artur, “I don’t know what you remember about me from your time working in the Sector, but there’s no need to coddle me with your fancy manners. I am not that person anymore.”

Artur met his gaze evenly. “No? I do wonder what your uncle would think if he knew you were consorting with Dissidents, Fir.”

Tilrey shot a warning, apologetic look at Gersha. Gersha ignored him and went on addressing Artur: “That’s technically Fir Councillor, but you can stop with all the ‘Fir this’ and ‘Fir that.’ Please don’t patronize me. I’m not ‘consorting with Dissidents.’ I am one.”

Artur stared at him, mouth open. “You’re a Councillor now? Which party?”

“Island,” Gersha managed. He couldn’t look at Tilrey, already regretting his outburst. He’d lost his temper and said too much, just as he’d been warned not to do.

After a moment, Artur laughed aloud, sounding a little stunned. To Tilrey, he said, “How did you do that? I mean, I know you’re good, but—witchcraft?”

Gersha felt his face blaze. “I’m standing right here. Everything I’ve done for him or with him, I’ve done of my free will.”

“Oh? Or was he the one who got you into this mess?” Artur asked, his eyes darting to Tilrey. “I can’t figure you two out.”

“Not him,” Tilrey said at the same time that Gersha said, “It’s not a mess!”

A smile was creeping across Artur’s face. “It may or may not be a mess, but someone needs to explain to me how a high-named Upstart from one of the most conservative families—a Councillor, no less—turns into a shirker. No, not now,” he added, silencing them with a gesture. “Monnie expects us for lunch. But afterward” —he turned to Gersha— “if you’re such an egalitarian, maybe you can help me with my afternoon chores and give me a primer on how the hell this happened.”

Vera ate breakfast in front of the windows in her suite, watching snow flurry madly in the darkness that preceded a winter dawn. Storms had always made her feel cozy. In the Southern Range during family holidays, bad weather had meant a welcome delay of the return to Redda. This storm was giving her a reprieve, too—from making choices that remained impossible.

She hadn’t been lying when she told Tilrey she was expected to present Tollsha with their child’s genetic profile in the presence of all four of their parents. Twice her mother had reminded her she needed to set a date for the Ceremony of Recognition, and twice she’d failed to do so. Tollsha himself hadn’t mentioned it; maybe he was embarrassed by the whole thing. But sooner or later, the issue would come to a head.

She rose and gazed at her reflection in the dark glass—her belly larger than ever, her face wan and haggard. Her due date was scarcely more than a ten-day away. She couldn’t just let things take their course. She’d told Tilrey she wouldn’t be faithless to her husband, wouldn’t pass another man’s child off as his own, and she meant it.

Would Tollsha rage at her, full of injured pride? Or would he feel grief? Disappointment? Whatever her feelings about him, he didn’t deserve this. In his awkward, utterly miscalculated way, he’d tried to make himself agreeable to her.

A knock on the door made her jump—she was way too tense these days. She pulled her robe tight around her and opened up to find Mal. “Did you come for the breakfast tray?”

The young man shook his head. “I’ll take it if you like, Fir’n, but I’ve brought you a visitor. She wants to see you right away.”

“A visitor? Lisha?” Vera dodged around him and stepped into the hall.

But the tall woman who stood waiting, arms crossed on her chest, was not Tilrey’s mother but her own.

Vera stepped backward, her heart jolting against her ribcage. She had a childish impulse to slam the door in her mother’s face as if that would banish her for good. “What are you—how did you get here? The storm . . .”

“I was already halfway here when the storm hit,” Albertine Linnett said, seemingly unbothered by this reception. “I hitched a ride on a supply transport for discretion’s sake, which turned out to be an excellent choice because weather doesn’t stop them.”

She stepped past Vera into the suite, cocking her head at Mal. “Thank you. I don’t think we’ll need anything for a while.” And then, to her daughter, “We have to talk.”

Chapter End Notes

The hour of decision/reckoning approaches for Vera, and Gersha may get a bit of schooling, too. Thank you everyone for reading, and for your wonderful comments!

Chapter End Notes

The hour of decision/reckoning approaches for Vera, and Gersha may get a bit of schooling, too. Thank you everyone for reading, and for your wonderful comments!