Chapter 20: Blood Will Out — The Key of Oslov

Volume 11: Crosscurrents and Consequences

Chapter 20 Blood Will Out

Chapter Notes

This chapter opens with a flashback that has mentions/aftermath of physical abuse and some dub-con.Also, warning for an unlikable POV throughout this chapter! I just read a very long book with an unreliable narrator who is basically an entitled dudebro but thinks he’s a good guy, and while it was frustrating at times, it helped me get inside Tollsha. :)

Chapter Notes

This chapter opens with a flashback that has mentions/aftermath of physical abuse and some dub-con.

Also, warning for an unlikable POV throughout this chapter! I just read a very long book with an unreliable narrator who is basically an entitled dudebro but thinks he’s a good guy, and while it was frustrating at times, it helped me get inside Tollsha. :)

Eight years ago

“Have you tried putting makeup on it?” Tollsha Linden asked. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he winced at how callous they sounded.The kettle boy didn’t take offense. He never seemed to, at anything. “I slathered stuff on, Fir. It shows through.”They were talking about a massive fucking black eye and a split lip, both a few days healed but still impossible to miss on the boy’s pale skin. In every other respect, the boy was dressed and groomed as impeccably as always—so impeccably that he made Tollsha feel like a slob. But his face looked like it had been through a nasty bar fight.If only it had. That would be easier to explain.The last time Uncle had told Tollsha to take the boy to the Lounge, there’d been a bruise on the boy’s cheek that was relatively subtle, easy to miss in dim lighting. Tollsha had fretted about it, while the boy just shrugged with that annoying stoic expression, but everything worked out in the end. Councillor Lindahl took Uncle’s offering home with no objections.This was different.Tollsha flopped down on the couch in his uncle’s living room, feeling defeated. “You can’t go tonight,” he said, pulling out his handheld. “I’m gonna tell Verán that you’re . . . indisposed.”The boy sat, too, but with grace and dignity, folding his hands on his knee. Every movement he made was elegant and probably calculated to be that way. Tollsha wondered if that was why Uncle hit the boy—because he was so irritatingly perfect, more like an Upstart than a real Upstart.Not that Tollsha considered perfection a good reason to hit someone. But Uncle was getting old, and the stroke had reduced the mobility of his already-ungainly bulk. What was painful for Tollsha to witness must be even more painful for Uncle to live. Since he’d gotten some of his strength back, the old man had become short-fused and uncivil; he barked orders at Tollsha and even at his colleagues, treating them all with equal disdain. So it was no real surprise that he beat the kettle boy, someone on whom he could take out his frustrations with impunity.No surprise, but an embarrassment to the whole family. Would Uncle have done that before the stroke? Tollsha hoped not.He messaged his excuse to the Island Party’s majority leader, too mortified to make voice contact. I’m here with Nettsha. Unfortunately, he seems indisposed tonight.The reply came immediately: We need to lock in Saldegren for tomorrow’s vote. How sick is he?Fucking Verán. While not as difficult as Uncle these days, the majority leader was almost as imperious with Tollsha as he was with the poor boy.Tollsha exchanged a furtive glance with his companion—what was his real name again? Tollsha had made a point of asking because he didn’t like to call the boy “Nettsha” the way the others did, nicknaming him after the exiled Magistrate. He didn’t believe in treating Drudges like extensions of the Upstarts who had charge of them. He wasn’t like that.When he was twelve, Tollsha had overheard Uncle describing Tollsha’s father as a “nice little ornament to the family.” He would never forget it—the dismissive, cloying tone. The only person he’d ever told about the shameful moment was his cousin Sibylla, who laughed and said, “If that bugs you, be glad you’re a Linden, because you couldn’t last a day being me.”In her good-natured way, Sibylla was always mocking Tollsha’s efforts to be sensitive and considerate toward his inferiors. And she had a point. A lot of good all that sensitivity did Tollsha, because Uncle’s kettle boy still hated his guts.He’s puking a lot, actually, Tollsha typed into the message field.Before he could send it, the boy said, “He knows, Fir.”Tollsha froze. “Knows what?”“There was an . . . accident last spring, before you started taking me to the Lounge. I had to go to the hospital. Verán came around to see me, and he found out.”“Why didn’t you tell me right away? I just made a fool of myself.” Tollsha wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or horrified. This meant Verán had known about previous incidents—worse than this?—and not done a thing. “And if Verán knows, why the hell are you even still living here?” It was completely within Verán’s power to take the boy out of the path of Uncle’s rage.The boy shrugged in a dry, superior little way he had, like his thoughts were oh-so-much-more-subtle than yours. “Fir Verán says it’s proper and customary for me to live with Fir Magistrate. He doesn’t want to be seen as monopolizing the party’s asset. It could create dissension.”Figured there was some bullshit political reason. Shaking his head, Tollsha erased what he’d written and redrafted: His face is messed up. Impossible to hide.This time, they both waited two minutes for the reply. Saldegren can handle it.Agitation drove Tollsha to his feet. He typed as he paced: It’s rough this time. Obvious.He didn’t type What I mean is that every fucking person in the Lounge will see my Uncle’s been beating someone who can’t fight back, you old mealy-mouthed fool.They would make a spectacle, and it would shame the Lindens. Uncle would choose to see the situation as Tollsha’s fault, naturally. When he was displeased with his nephew, he always looked at him very seriously and said, “Blood will out.”Verán’s next reply made Tollsha stop pacing. He stared at the screen, telling himself it didn’t say what it said.Then he looked up at the boy. “He says, um . . . well. I don’t follow his logic.”Technically, the boy’s face was blank. But anyone with half a brain could read contempt in the limpid pools of his eyes as he said, “It’s all right, Fir. I can fill in the rest. Fir Verán says I provoke this by being difficult with your Fir Uncle. It’s my way of trying to get out of working, and he has no patience with a little slut’s malingering and neither should you.”Tollsha reread the message. Point for point. “That’s the gist,” he said, hating himself. “I don’t want to disagree with the majority leader here, but uh—”“There’s no need to disagree, Fir.” The boy rose as smoothly as he’d sat down. “He’s made himself clear. We go to the Lounge.”Tollsha caught himself wringing his hands. When he went to work for Uncle as a Council aid, this wasn’t what he’d signed up for.“Do you really provoke him?” he asked almost hopefully, wanting to believe it was all some intricate consensual game. After all, the boy was huge; he could knock Uncle over with a flick of his finger. For him to take damage like that from a frail old man—well, he’d have to stand there and just take it.Halfway to the door, the boy turned round and gave Tollsha a look that was respectful and yet, in its own subtle way, withering. “Does it matter, Fir?”*

Now

Queasy. That was how Tollsha felt whenever he thought about Tilrey Bronn. Queasy and disgusted with himself because yes, he’d known better, and no, he hadn’t helped. Hadn’t even really wanted to help, not enough, because the boy’s cold, superior composure annoyed the shit out of him.Tollsha had mostly forgotten about those awful nights at the Lounge, because he had more important things to take care of, but the old queasiness rushed back when he found Tilrey and his wife in their little love nest.The whole mess felt like the boy’s revenge on Tollsha, whether it was planned that way or not. The way Vera fawned over Tilrey when she never even wanted Tollsha to touch her. The way she scolded Tollsha and shooed him away like a naughty child. Could you blame him for losing his temper?Tollsha was still slightly ashamed of how he’d behaved that evening, but Vera deserved to have all the facts about who she was fucking. Someone who had a grudge against the Lindens (okay, yes, maybe a justified one). Someone who might well have a grudge against the Linnetts, too. Every time Tollsha saw Tilrey Bronn in the Sector, the boy had ice cold in his eyes.Tollsha couldn’t help what had happened in the past. All he could do was cope with the present.He’d always been passingly curious about Thurskein, where Sibylla’s branch of his father’s family originated. But now he felt queasy (again) as he stepped through the massive sliding doors of the city into the greenish glare of fluorescents.The Drudge at the checkpoint droned, “Hand on the sensor, please.” Then he froze, nonplussed, as he took in Tollsha’s R-11 clothes. Perhaps he’d never seen a fitted greatcoat with a tweed outer layer before.Tollsha pressed the back of his left hand to the sensor with a condescending smile. “I’m here on business.” Just let them dare ask him to explain himself.You are being a shit, dear cousin, Sibylla said in his head.“Of course, F-Fir Councillor.” The Drudge official was beet red. “Should I notify Supervisor Lindtmerán?”“No, thank you. I’ll surprise him—him, her, whatever.” And with that, Tollsha swept on through a nondescript hallway toward the lift.He knew where to go because Sibylla sometimes visited her own distant relatives in Sector Four. She’d described the route from the lower transport decks to the suites where Upstarts were accommodated, assuring him that all the sectors of Thurskein were laid out the same way.Then she’d said, “I’m telling you this only because it sounds like you’re worried about Vera and the baby. But if you’re going to storm in there and be a dick to everybody, then fuck you, Tollsha.”“Fuck you,” he’d shot back. It was a pretty standard exchange between them. And then, “I’ll keep my temper and be respectful. Promise.” I’m not like Uncle, may his last moment be bright.“I hope so,” Sibylla said. “I know you can be a dick, but you don’t have to be.”Frankness was one of the many things Tollsha liked about Drudges—ones like Sibylla and his other cousins, anyway. They had no patience for the endless gab and subterfuge of Upstarts. They knew he wouldn’t take offense at insolence from his own flesh and blood, so they gave it to him straight and drank him under the table.He arrived at the lift to find a small cluster of Drudges already waiting to ascend. A few of the younger ones were tipsy and not trying to hide it. Others shot him wary looks, followed by disapproving ones at the revelers. Were these Skeinshaka of higher status, or just elders? He couldn’t tell; everybody was wearing what looked like the same damn coverall.Tollsha smiled pleasantly to show everyone he was not that kind of Strutter, the kind who’d order them around. Well, not unless he needed to.His gaze lingered on a buxom young woman whose long dark hair was escaping from a braid. She smiled back, sloppy-drunk, and he winked at her. She blushed. The raw-boned youth beside her wrapped his arm around her waist and glared at Tollsha—not a glare tempered with deference, but a glare that said he was fantasizing about tearing Tollsha’s throat out.The lift doors popped open. As they filed inside, Tollsha savored the adrenaline rush. What if the lout actually did attack him? After hours of fretting about Vera, he would’ve liked an excuse to pound someone into the floor.But the girl with the braid and her boyfriend waited for the next lift, to his disappointment. Coward, he thought as the doors closed on them.Blood will out, Uncle used to say. Fighting, drinking, stuffing yourself with food, raising your voice to tell long-winded stories and stupid jokes around a big table—all these were Drudge pleasures, and they were Tollsha’s favorite things, too, green help him. What was the point of being alive if you had to devote your whole self to rationality and decorum?Tollsha could fake the proper Linden manners, but none of it came naturally. He’d struggled his entire life to understand the paradoxical nature of being an Upstart, how you were supposed to have all this power and almost never use it for fun.Vera, on the other hand . . . His throat closed as he remembered how haughty she’d been that evening he found her with Tilrey. She had a way of making Tollsha feel small and dirty even when she was the one doing something stupid.Things were supposed to be getting better between the two of them. Things had been getting better. The evening with Tilrey was a low point, yes, and the perfunctory coupling sessions that followed were the opposite of fun. But then Vera announced she was pregnant, and everybody was happy, or happier. Her parents were over the moon, and she started being civil to Tollsha and even friendly on occasion.Neither of them had mentioned her lover in the ensuing months. It was a condition of the unspoken truce between them. Tollsha couldn’t in good conscience ask if his wife was still seeing Tilrey when he currently had three rotating girlfriends of his own—sweet sly Drudges who laughed at his jokes and were never uptight.He and Vera had been getting along, though. They had perfectly fine little discussions about possible names for the baby whenever they saw each other—which, admittedly, was no more than two or three days in ten.In August, they’d had dinner together two whole times, just the pair of them, and they’d found themselves gossiping like old schoolmates over the doings of the Sector. Tollsha told some of his stupid jokes, and miracle of miracles, Vera laughed.More recently, though, her mood seemed to have shifted again. She went back to avoiding Tollsha unless obligations brought them together. He twice caught her looking at him with an expression he could only describe as cringing.When Sibylla casually mentioned that she’d run into Vera on the way out of moral rehab, where she was visiting one of her old Hargist friends, Tollsha had grilled her, hoping for clues to his wife’s mood. “How did Vera look? What did she ask you about?”Sibylla rolled her eyes. “What was she supposed to ask? She doesn’t know we’re related, and I wasn’t going to tell her. She looked pissy. She probably thinks I’m one of your girls on the side.”“But why was she there?” He wondered if Vera’s mood swings had to do with her brother.“How could I ask her a question like that? Why don’t you just ask her what’s wrong?”His cousin was right, but Tollsha hadn’t asked. He couldn’t seem to find the words. And finally, right before her due date, Vera disappeared into the black hole of Thurskein, leaving her husband to chase after her like an idiot.He was trying so hard to be worthy of his name, dispassionate and rational and dignified. He was.The lift stopped to disgorge some passengers. The pleasant fizz of adrenaline in Tollsha’s head had faded. He didn’t like the sidelong glances the Drudges gave him as he pressed his hand to the sensor and pushed the button for the top floor. Your chip will give you full access, Sibylla had assured him.Soon he was all alone in the steel cubicle, trundling steadily upward. And the thoughts he’d tried to repress were flocking in thick and fast.How much had Tilrey told Vera? That was the thing he always came back to. He was bothered by them fucking, yes. But way more than that, he was bothered by what they might say to each other.Had Tilrey told her about that night with the black eye and fat lip? Had he told her how, when he and Tollsha arrived at the Lounge, everything went spectacularly wrong?Despite what Verán had promised, Councillor Saldegren didn’t simply “handle” the situation. He reacted to Tilrey’s battered face with a look of horror before shifting his gaze to Tollsha, the horror curdling into accusation. “Who did this?”Tollsha was speechless. It was Tilrey who lied for them: “I got in a fight, Fir.”Saldegren wasn’t so easily fooled. “Nonsense, love,” he said, patting the boy’s arm. “I know you better than that.” And then, to Tollsha: “I want you to tell Verán that I consider this a personal insult. If he wants my support, he’ll make sure this never, ever happens again.”Tollsha was red all over, but what could he say in Uncle’s defense? He could only nod, choked with shame, as Saldegren continued: “And I don’t just mean keep the aftermath out of my sight. We all have the greatest respect for your uncle, Tollsha, but this isn’t working. Tell Verán to find the boy a home with someone who won’t mistreat or monopolize him. A nice quiet junior Councillor. Gádden, maybe?”The whole time, Tollsha kept nodding. Tilrey stared down at the table. For the first time, Tollsha felt a twinge of something more than abstract sympathy for the boy. Both trapped in their roles, they were like scolded children, though none of this was their fault (was it?).To make his point, Saldegren refused to take the boy home “in this condition.” So they went home to Tollsha’s apartment because there was nowhere else to go without letting Uncle know what had happened.Tollsha said, “You can sleep on the couch. I’ll find some blankets.”The boy acted like he hadn’t heard. “I need to be of use. Let me at least make tea for you, Fir.”He did more than that. After serving the tea, he got down on his knees and unfastened Tollsha’s trousers, and Tollsha didn’t stop him. He let it happen.Tollsha had told Vera about that night in front of Tilrey, throwing it out like a taunt, but he wasn’t proud of it. Sucking Tollsha’s cock seemed like just something the boy felt he had to do, no different from brewing the tea and arranging the tumblers on a tray. It had been good—for Tollsha, anyway—but it hadn’t been flattering. He felt like a fucking prop.After that, though, he felt bad about making the boy sleep on the couch, so he said, “We can share the bed if you want.”Tilrey nodded as if he’d assumed this. “You can have me if you like, Fir. Verán says a party member should always have me on free-nights, and you’re your uncle’s proxy tonight, so . . .”Verdant hells, no. Tollsha stumbled through a polite refusal, unable to explain that the offer was way too creepily clinical for him. He liked to fuck people (usually girls) who were enthusiastic about having his cock inside them. People he’d shared some drinks and some laughs with. He was basic that way.The boy didn’t undress when they lay down together, and Tollsha was happy with that. They started out on opposite sides of the bed. But at some point during the night Tollsha woke up pressed against Tilrey’s warmth and heard his own voice saying in a half-drunk, half-asleep way, “I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry about everything.” And he heard Tilrey replying in a bizarrely kind voice, “It’s all right, it’s okay.”Or maybe Tollsha only dreamt that part. But either way, green hells, he hoped Tilrey never told Vera about that night.A shrill tone sounded. The doors opened, and Tollsha stepped out.This corridor was nicer than the lower levels, with carpeting and soft-white lights in recessed fixtures. He did his best to recall Sibylla’s instructions. Third corridor to the right? Or to the left? Never mind, he’d figure it out. Vera was here somewhere.Tilrey wouldn’t tell Vera, would he? He wouldn’t tell her how Tollsha had asked him that night if he’d really provoked Uncle. Not unless he was playing a perverse game with them both.Because, if Tilrey had told, that might explain Vera’s renewed coldness. She already thought Tollsha was a boor. Knowing the details of that night might make her decide he was unworthy of raising their child.Was that the third turning, or the second? Tollsha was lost. The lack of windows and doors was the problem, he decided, retracing his steps. No tram platforms like he was used to, no openings to the outside world. The whole place was like a gigantic prison—no, was one. He was just glad he wasn’t the one locked in it.Hushed voices to his left, from the intersection just ahead. One was a querulous tenor, the other deeper. They were interrupted by a little murmur that didn’t sound like an adult’s voice at all.Tollsha peered into the branching corridor. What he saw there made blood speed from his extremities to the center of his body, leaving him so lightheaded he had to reach out and steady himself on the wall.It was Tilrey, all right. Not with Vera, but with Gersha Gádden. The young man held a bundle in his arms, and they were both gazing down at it—the Councillor with a look of rapture, the boy with a more guarded one. Neither of them seemed to have noticed Tollsha standing a few yards away.He cleared his throat. But before they could look up, the bundle began to wail. Tollsha pressed his back to the wall as if he were the one who’d been caught doing something wrong.

My child? Could it be? How dare they?

Across the hall, a door snapped open. A woman’s authoritative voice said, “He probably needs to be fed.”His mother-in-law. And naturally she was the one to spot him.Tollsha was reasonably sure he wasn’t in the wrong, but Albertine’s imperious eyes had a way of making him feel otherwise. He froze in place. Gersha and Tilrey turned to stare, too, and for once Tollsha couldn’t think of a single cutting, superior thing to say.Luckily, his mother-in-law was not at a loss. When the infant had been securely transferred to her arms, she beckoned Tollsha matter-of-factly, as if she couldn’t see he was speechless with shock and rage. “How lucky you’re here, Tollsha, and at just the right moment. Vera would like to have a talk with you.”

Eight years ago

“Have you tried putting makeup on it?” Tollsha Linden asked. The moment the words were out of his mouth, he winced at how callous they sounded.

The kettle boy didn’t take offense. He never seemed to, at anything. “I slathered stuff on, Fir. It shows through.”

They were talking about a massive fucking black eye and a split lip, both a few days healed but still impossible to miss on the boy’s pale skin. In every other respect, the boy was dressed and groomed as impeccably as always—so impeccably that he made Tollsha feel like a slob. But his face looked like it had been through a nasty bar fight.

If only it had. That would be easier to explain.

The last time Uncle had told Tollsha to take the boy to the Lounge, there’d been a bruise on the boy’s cheek that was relatively subtle, easy to miss in dim lighting. Tollsha had fretted about it, while the boy just shrugged with that annoying stoic expression, but everything worked out in the end. Councillor Lindahl took Uncle’s offering home with no objections.

This was different.

Tollsha flopped down on the couch in his uncle’s living room, feeling defeated. “You can’t go tonight,” he said, pulling out his handheld. “I’m gonna tell Verán that you’re . . . indisposed.”

The boy sat, too, but with grace and dignity, folding his hands on his knee. Every movement he made was elegant and probably calculated to be that way. Tollsha wondered if that was why Uncle hit the boy—because he was so irritatingly perfect, more like an Upstart than a real Upstart.

Not that Tollsha considered perfection a good reason to hit someone. But Uncle was getting old, and the stroke had reduced the mobility of his already-ungainly bulk. What was painful for Tollsha to witness must be even more painful for Uncle to live. Since he’d gotten some of his strength back, the old man had become short-fused and uncivil; he barked orders at Tollsha and even at his colleagues, treating them all with equal disdain. So it was no real surprise that he beat the kettle boy, someone on whom he could take out his frustrations with impunity.

No surprise, but an embarrassment to the whole family. Would Uncle have done that before the stroke? Tollsha hoped not.

He messaged his excuse to the Island Party’s majority leader, too mortified to make voice contact. I’m here with Nettsha. Unfortunately, he seems indisposed tonight.

The reply came immediately: We need to lock in Saldegren for tomorrow’s vote. How sick is he?

Fucking Verán. While not as difficult as Uncle these days, the majority leader was almost as imperious with Tollsha as he was with the poor boy.

Tollsha exchanged a furtive glance with his companion—what was his real name again? Tollsha had made a point of asking because he didn’t like to call the boy “Nettsha” the way the others did, nicknaming him after the exiled Magistrate. He didn’t believe in treating Drudges like extensions of the Upstarts who had charge of them. He wasn’t like that.

When he was twelve, Tollsha had overheard Uncle describing Tollsha’s father as a “nice little ornament to the family.” He would never forget it—the dismissive, cloying tone. The only person he’d ever told about the shameful moment was his cousin Sibylla, who laughed and said, “If that bugs you, be glad you’re a Linden, because you couldn’t last a day being me.”

In her good-natured way, Sibylla was always mocking Tollsha’s efforts to be sensitive and considerate toward his inferiors. And she had a point. A lot of good all that sensitivity did Tollsha, because Uncle’s kettle boy still hated his guts.

He’s puking a lot, actually, Tollsha typed into the message field.

Before he could send it, the boy said, “He knows, Fir.”

Tollsha froze. “Knows what?”

“There was an . . . accident last spring, before you started taking me to the Lounge. I had to go to the hospital. Verán came around to see me, and he found out.”

“Why didn’t you tell me right away? I just made a fool of myself.” Tollsha wasn’t sure whether to be relieved or horrified. This meant Verán had known about previous incidents—worse than this?—and not done a thing. “And if Verán knows, why the hell are you even still living here?” It was completely within Verán’s power to take the boy out of the path of Uncle’s rage.

The boy shrugged in a dry, superior little way he had, like his thoughts were oh-so-much-more-subtle than yours. “Fir Verán says it’s proper and customary for me to live with Fir Magistrate. He doesn’t want to be seen as monopolizing the party’s asset. It could create dissension.”

Figured there was some bullshit political reason. Shaking his head, Tollsha erased what he’d written and redrafted: His face is messed up. Impossible to hide.

This time, they both waited two minutes for the reply. Saldegren can handle it.

Agitation drove Tollsha to his feet. He typed as he paced: It’s rough this time. Obvious.

He didn’t type What I mean is that every fucking person in the Lounge will see my Uncle’s been beating someone who can’t fight back, you old mealy-mouthed fool.

They would make a spectacle, and it would shame the Lindens. Uncle would choose to see the situation as Tollsha’s fault, naturally. When he was displeased with his nephew, he always looked at him very seriously and said, “Blood will out.”

Verán’s next reply made Tollsha stop pacing. He stared at the screen, telling himself it didn’t say what it said.

Then he looked up at the boy. “He says, um . . . well. I don’t follow his logic.”

Technically, the boy’s face was blank. But anyone with half a brain could read contempt in the limpid pools of his eyes as he said, “It’s all right, Fir. I can fill in the rest. Fir Verán says I provoke this by being difficult with your Fir Uncle. It’s my way of trying to get out of working, and he has no patience with a little slut’s malingering and neither should you.”

Tollsha reread the message. Point for point. “That’s the gist,” he said, hating himself. “I don’t want to disagree with the majority leader here, but uh—”

“There’s no need to disagree, Fir.” The boy rose as smoothly as he’d sat down. “He’s made himself clear. We go to the Lounge.”

Tollsha caught himself wringing his hands. When he went to work for Uncle as a Council aid, this wasn’t what he’d signed up for.

“Do you really provoke him?” he asked almost hopefully, wanting to believe it was all some intricate consensual game. After all, the boy was huge; he could knock Uncle over with a flick of his finger. For him to take damage like that from a frail old man—well, he’d have to stand there and just take it.

Halfway to the door, the boy turned round and gave Tollsha a look that was respectful and yet, in its own subtle way, withering. “Does it matter, Fir?”

Now

Tollsha had mostly forgotten about those awful nights at the Lounge, because he had more important things to take care of, but the old queasiness rushed back when he found Tilrey and his wife in their little love nest.

The whole mess felt like the boy’s revenge on Tollsha, whether it was planned that way or not. The way Vera fawned over Tilrey when she never even wanted Tollsha to touch her. The way she scolded Tollsha and shooed him away like a naughty child. Could you blame him for losing his temper?

Tollsha was still slightly ashamed of how he’d behaved that evening, but Vera deserved to have all the facts about who she was fucking. Someone who had a grudge against the Lindens (okay, yes, maybe a justified one). Someone who might well have a grudge against the Linnetts, too. Every time Tollsha saw Tilrey Bronn in the Sector, the boy had ice cold in his eyes.

Tollsha couldn’t help what had happened in the past. All he could do was cope with the present.

He’d always been passingly curious about Thurskein, where Sibylla’s branch of his father’s family originated. But now he felt queasy (again) as he stepped through the massive sliding doors of the city into the greenish glare of fluorescents.

The Drudge at the checkpoint droned, “Hand on the sensor, please.” Then he froze, nonplussed, as he took in Tollsha’s R-11 clothes. Perhaps he’d never seen a fitted greatcoat with a tweed outer layer before.

Tollsha pressed the back of his left hand to the sensor with a condescending smile. “I’m here on business.” Just let them dare ask him to explain himself.

You are being a shit, dear cousin, Sibylla said in his head.

“Of course, F-Fir Councillor.” The Drudge official was beet red. “Should I notify Supervisor Lindtmerán?”

“No, thank you. I’ll surprise him—him, her, whatever.” And with that, Tollsha swept on through a nondescript hallway toward the lift.

He knew where to go because Sibylla sometimes visited her own distant relatives in Sector Four. She’d described the route from the lower transport decks to the suites where Upstarts were accommodated, assuring him that all the sectors of Thurskein were laid out the same way.

Then she’d said, “I’m telling you this only because it sounds like you’re worried about Vera and the baby. But if you’re going to storm in there and be a dick to everybody, then fuck you, Tollsha.”

“Fuck you,” he’d shot back. It was a pretty standard exchange between them. And then, “I’ll keep my temper and be respectful. Promise.” I’m not like Uncle, may his last moment be bright.

“I hope so,” Sibylla said. “I know you can be a dick, but you don’t have to be.”

Frankness was one of the many things Tollsha liked about Drudges—ones like Sibylla and his other cousins, anyway. They had no patience for the endless gab and subterfuge of Upstarts. They knew he wouldn’t take offense at insolence from his own flesh and blood, so they gave it to him straight and drank him under the table.

He arrived at the lift to find a small cluster of Drudges already waiting to ascend. A few of the younger ones were tipsy and not trying to hide it. Others shot him wary looks, followed by disapproving ones at the revelers. Were these Skeinshaka of higher status, or just elders? He couldn’t tell; everybody was wearing what looked like the same damn coverall.

Tollsha smiled pleasantly to show everyone he was not that kind of Strutter, the kind who’d order them around. Well, not unless he needed to.

His gaze lingered on a buxom young woman whose long dark hair was escaping from a braid. She smiled back, sloppy-drunk, and he winked at her. She blushed. The raw-boned youth beside her wrapped his arm around her waist and glared at Tollsha—not a glare tempered with deference, but a glare that said he was fantasizing about tearing Tollsha’s throat out.

The lift doors popped open. As they filed inside, Tollsha savored the adrenaline rush. What if the lout actually did attack him? After hours of fretting about Vera, he would’ve liked an excuse to pound someone into the floor.

But the girl with the braid and her boyfriend waited for the next lift, to his disappointment. Coward, he thought as the doors closed on them.

Blood will out, Uncle used to say. Fighting, drinking, stuffing yourself with food, raising your voice to tell long-winded stories and stupid jokes around a big table—all these were Drudge pleasures, and they were Tollsha’s favorite things, too, green help him. What was the point of being alive if you had to devote your whole self to rationality and decorum?

Tollsha could fake the proper Linden manners, but none of it came naturally. He’d struggled his entire life to understand the paradoxical nature of being an Upstart, how you were supposed to have all this power and almost never use it for fun.

Vera, on the other hand . . . His throat closed as he remembered how haughty she’d been that evening he found her with Tilrey. She had a way of making Tollsha feel small and dirty even when she was the one doing something stupid.

Things were supposed to be getting better between the two of them. Things had been getting better. The evening with Tilrey was a low point, yes, and the perfunctory coupling sessions that followed were the opposite of fun. But then Vera announced she was pregnant, and everybody was happy, or happier. Her parents were over the moon, and she started being civil to Tollsha and even friendly on occasion.

Neither of them had mentioned her lover in the ensuing months. It was a condition of the unspoken truce between them. Tollsha couldn’t in good conscience ask if his wife was still seeing Tilrey when he currently had three rotating girlfriends of his own—sweet sly Drudges who laughed at his jokes and were never uptight.

He and Vera had been getting along, though. They had perfectly fine little discussions about possible names for the baby whenever they saw each other—which, admittedly, was no more than two or three days in ten.

In August, they’d had dinner together two whole times, just the pair of them, and they’d found themselves gossiping like old schoolmates over the doings of the Sector. Tollsha told some of his stupid jokes, and miracle of miracles, Vera laughed.

More recently, though, her mood seemed to have shifted again. She went back to avoiding Tollsha unless obligations brought them together. He twice caught her looking at him with an expression he could only describe as cringing.

When Sibylla casually mentioned that she’d run into Vera on the way out of moral rehab, where she was visiting one of her old Hargist friends, Tollsha had grilled her, hoping for clues to his wife’s mood. “How did Vera look? What did she ask you about?”

Sibylla rolled her eyes. “What was she supposed to ask? She doesn’t know we’re related, and I wasn’t going to tell her. She looked pissy. She probably thinks I’m one of your girls on the side.”

“But why was she there?” He wondered if Vera’s mood swings had to do with her brother.

“How could I ask her a question like that? Why don’t you just ask her what’s wrong?”

His cousin was right, but Tollsha hadn’t asked. He couldn’t seem to find the words. And finally, right before her due date, Vera disappeared into the black hole of Thurskein, leaving her husband to chase after her like an idiot.

He was trying so hard to be worthy of his name, dispassionate and rational and dignified. He was.

The lift stopped to disgorge some passengers. The pleasant fizz of adrenaline in Tollsha’s head had faded. He didn’t like the sidelong glances the Drudges gave him as he pressed his hand to the sensor and pushed the button for the top floor. Your chip will give you full access, Sibylla had assured him.

Soon he was all alone in the steel cubicle, trundling steadily upward. And the thoughts he’d tried to repress were flocking in thick and fast.

How much had Tilrey told Vera? That was the thing he always came back to. He was bothered by them fucking, yes. But way more than that, he was bothered by what they might say to each other.

Had Tilrey told her about that night with the black eye and fat lip? Had he told her how, when he and Tollsha arrived at the Lounge, everything went spectacularly wrong?

Despite what Verán had promised, Councillor Saldegren didn’t simply “handle” the situation. He reacted to Tilrey’s battered face with a look of horror before shifting his gaze to Tollsha, the horror curdling into accusation. “Who did this?”

Tollsha was speechless. It was Tilrey who lied for them: “I got in a fight, Fir.”

Saldegren wasn’t so easily fooled. “Nonsense, love,” he said, patting the boy’s arm. “I know you better than that.” And then, to Tollsha: “I want you to tell Verán that I consider this a personal insult. If he wants my support, he’ll make sure this never, ever happens again.”

Tollsha was red all over, but what could he say in Uncle’s defense? He could only nod, choked with shame, as Saldegren continued: “And I don’t just mean keep the aftermath out of my sight. We all have the greatest respect for your uncle, Tollsha, but this isn’t working. Tell Verán to find the boy a home with someone who won’t mistreat or monopolize him. A nice quiet junior Councillor. Gádden, maybe?”

The whole time, Tollsha kept nodding. Tilrey stared down at the table. For the first time, Tollsha felt a twinge of something more than abstract sympathy for the boy. Both trapped in their roles, they were like scolded children, though none of this was their fault (was it?).

To make his point, Saldegren refused to take the boy home “in this condition.” So they went home to Tollsha’s apartment because there was nowhere else to go without letting Uncle know what had happened.

Tollsha said, “You can sleep on the couch. I’ll find some blankets.”

The boy acted like he hadn’t heard. “I need to be of use. Let me at least make tea for you, Fir.”

He did more than that. After serving the tea, he got down on his knees and unfastened Tollsha’s trousers, and Tollsha didn’t stop him. He let it happen.

Tollsha had told Vera about that night in front of Tilrey, throwing it out like a taunt, but he wasn’t proud of it. Sucking Tollsha’s cock seemed like just something the boy felt he had to do, no different from brewing the tea and arranging the tumblers on a tray. It had been good—for Tollsha, anyway—but it hadn’t been flattering. He felt like a fucking prop.

After that, though, he felt bad about making the boy sleep on the couch, so he said, “We can share the bed if you want.”

Tilrey nodded as if he’d assumed this. “You can have me if you like, Fir. Verán says a party member should always have me on free-nights, and you’re your uncle’s proxy tonight, so . . .”

Verdant hells, no. Tollsha stumbled through a polite refusal, unable to explain that the offer was way too creepily clinical for him. He liked to fuck people (usually girls) who were enthusiastic about having his cock inside them. People he’d shared some drinks and some laughs with. He was basic that way.

The boy didn’t undress when they lay down together, and Tollsha was happy with that. They started out on opposite sides of the bed. But at some point during the night Tollsha woke up pressed against Tilrey’s warmth and heard his own voice saying in a half-drunk, half-asleep way, “I’m so sorry, I’m so fucking sorry about everything.” And he heard Tilrey replying in a bizarrely kind voice, “It’s all right, it’s okay.”

Or maybe Tollsha only dreamt that part. But either way, green hells, he hoped Tilrey never told Vera about that night.

A shrill tone sounded. The doors opened, and Tollsha stepped out.

This corridor was nicer than the lower levels, with carpeting and soft-white lights in recessed fixtures. He did his best to recall Sibylla’s instructions. Third corridor to the right? Or to the left? Never mind, he’d figure it out. Vera was here somewhere.

Tilrey wouldn’t tell Vera, would he? He wouldn’t tell her how Tollsha had asked him that night if he’d really provoked Uncle. Not unless he was playing a perverse game with them both.

Because, if Tilrey had told, that might explain Vera’s renewed coldness. She already thought Tollsha was a boor. Knowing the details of that night might make her decide he was unworthy of raising their child.

Was that the third turning, or the second? Tollsha was lost. The lack of windows and doors was the problem, he decided, retracing his steps. No tram platforms like he was used to, no openings to the outside world. The whole place was like a gigantic prison—no, was one. He was just glad he wasn’t the one locked in it.

Hushed voices to his left, from the intersection just ahead. One was a querulous tenor, the other deeper. They were interrupted by a little murmur that didn’t sound like an adult’s voice at all.

Tollsha peered into the branching corridor. What he saw there made blood speed from his extremities to the center of his body, leaving him so lightheaded he had to reach out and steady himself on the wall.

It was Tilrey, all right. Not with Vera, but with Gersha Gádden. The young man held a bundle in his arms, and they were both gazing down at it—the Councillor with a look of rapture, the boy with a more guarded one. Neither of them seemed to have noticed Tollsha standing a few yards away.

He cleared his throat. But before they could look up, the bundle began to wail. Tollsha pressed his back to the wall as if he were the one who’d been caught doing something wrong.

My child? Could it be? How dare they?

Across the hall, a door snapped open. A woman’s authoritative voice said, “He probably needs to be fed.”

His mother-in-law. And naturally she was the one to spot him.

Tollsha was reasonably sure he wasn’t in the wrong, but Albertine’s imperious eyes had a way of making him feel otherwise. He froze in place. Gersha and Tilrey turned to stare, too, and for once Tollsha couldn’t think of a single cutting, superior thing to say.

Luckily, his mother-in-law was not at a loss. When the infant had been securely transferred to her arms, she beckoned Tollsha matter-of-factly, as if she couldn’t see he was speechless with shock and rage. “How lucky you’re here, Tollsha, and at just the right moment. Vera would like to have a talk with you.”