Chapter 25: The Big Picture — The Key of Oslov

Volume 11: Crosscurrents and Consequences

Chapter 25 The Big Picture

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“I’m going to need to start from the beginning,” Tilrey said. “Besha would never have found out about us if Gersha hadn’t found out first. But I suppose you know all about Gersha and what happened in Harbour.”Irin Dartán inclined his head to one side, his expression as unforgivingly blank as a snowfield. “Ranek Egil briefed me, yes. But I want you to tell the whole mess in your own words, my friend.”The cold of the Sanctioned Brothel’s basement pressed around them as Tilrey told the story as economically as possible. When he described Bors Dartán’s disastrous report to Gersha, Irin broke the chilly silence with a chuckle. “Oh yes, dear cousin Bors. He’s been such a little gadfly ever since he was Raised. Would you believe he tried to enlist me in proving your shirker activities?”Tilrey did not smile. He was still ashamed of how he’d miscalculated by deciding to have some cruel fun with Bors Dartán—a part of the story he kept to himself. “Well, your cousin didn’t do the damage he hoped. Gersha’s with us now, body and soul. I can vouch for him.”“No surprise there. He adores you, and apparently vice versa. Unless this whole business with Vera Linnett changes that?” Irin waved lazy fingers in the air. “You must have been a very naughty boy to drive that man into a woman’s arms.”So Gersha’s absurd tale was catching on. Tilrey didn’t contradict it. “We worked everything out in Harbour,” he said, stone-faced. “The marriage is just for the kid’s sake. Vera knows nothing.”“Good. Egil and Celinda Valde vouch for your Councillor, too. Clearly you’ve worked some sort of witchcraft on him.” Another dip of the finger in the vial. “But Linbeck, that little mercenary? How did he find out?”Irin’s expression darkened as Tilrey related how Gersha’s slip of the tongue had set Besha on the path to Bors Dartán’s report. “But I never gave Besha your name—any name. How did you know he knew?”“I know everything that happens in this establishment, and as you must know, men can be terribly indiscreet with their favorite bedmates. But that’s not the important thing. How are you keeping Linbeck quiet? Just with your sweet affection?”He’s trying to minimize me. To remind me my career as a spy started with conversations overheard in Councillors’ beds. Tilrey steadied his breathing and reminded himself what Artur had said about being a leader. “Not solely, no,” he said. “What I have on Besha isn’t germane to our business here. What matters is that I believe he’s willing to work for us eyes open, taking orders from me. That’s actually one of the reasons I’ve been trying to get an audience with you. I want to manage him with your cooperation.”Irin exchanged a glance with Sibylla. “I don’t mean to contradict you, Tilrey, but Councillors don’t take orders from secretaries. Ranek swears up and down that Gersha’s a man of principle, and I trust you to manage him. But Linbeck’s a different matter. He’s out for no one but himself.”“Believe me, I know. But I have Besha under control.” Tilrey tried to sound confident. “And we can offer him incentives. He’s genuinely unhappy with the status quo. All he wants in return for his ongoing cooperation are a few absurdly small favors—and some insight into your long-term goals.” He emphasized the last words.“That’s rather a lot,” Irin said. “How do we know he’s not going to take his ‘insight’ straight to Int/Sec?”“Besha’s not stupid.” It was time to get to the meat of the matter. “Personally, I’d like some insight into our goals, too. But you haven’t allowed me that, Irin. Lately, you haven’t even allowed me near you.”Sibylla said, “That was for your own protection.”Irin shot her a glance. “Tilrey knows that. He’s not stupid, either—are you, Rishka?” He swiveled his head to capture Tilrey’s gaze. “What you are is good at seizing the initiative but bad at following orders. I’m still trying to decide if that balances out in your favor.”His eyes narrowed as he spoke, the sharp features becoming sinister. For the first time, it occurred to Tilrey that he might have walked into a trap. No one else knew he was here. If Irin thought he represented a genuine threat, there were ways to dispose of him down here in the dark.Calm. Breathe. They needed him. “One of my ‘initiatives’ was to secure the opening of a garrison in Harbour. You’ll have the opportunity to staff it with soldiers handpicked for loyalty to you.”Irin arched a brow. “Fair enough. But, to be frank with you, we’re still struggling to recruit in the armed forces.”“Maybe soldiers like to know where their orders are coming from.” Tilrey glanced between them. Was it time to bring out the heavy artillery? “I’m happy to tell you why I traveled north and what I learned there. But first I need to know whose orders I’m following and where all these orders are leading. Without that—” He shrugged. “I might as well be stumbling around in the dark.”Irin said, “You aren’t ready to know.”But a new voice, close by and oddly muffled, contradicted him: “The boy’s right.”A harsh grating of steel against concrete made Tilrey swing toward the pillar. A panel had sprung open there, revealing an alcove just large enough to conceal someone. A hunched form pushed it from the inside, panting, and stepped out onto the floor.“For green’s sake,” Irin said. “This wasn’t the plan.”“I want to speak to him face to face.” The newcomer was slight and further shrunken by age, with a wide-jawed, bulbous-eyed face that reminded Tilrey of the small amphibians he’d seen croaking in puddles in Harbour. She reminded him of something else, too, that made his stomach twist queasily, but he wasn’t sure what.With a dignity that belied her appearance, she walked over to examine him. “Do you remember me, lad? From that night?”Her throaty, jaded voice brought it all back in a flood. Blood rushed to Tilrey’s head, making his vision swim. That night.He saw an old woman rising from a desk to look him up and down, her only reaction a raised brow. Oh yes, he’ll do. Then she was scribbling in a ledger. Turning to a cabinet behind her, bringing out folded clothes. Irin—where you are, Irin? Get this one showered and changed for me. Give his fancy clothes back to the Fir’s driver. I think we can put him in Hall C with the birthday party.Tilrey dug nails into his palms. That night was twelve years gone, and he wouldn’t let its filthy, suffocating tide pull him under. He would not panic. He would breathe.When he spoke, he sounded calm. “You managed the officers’ club when Irin worked there. When I . . . was there. You’re his aunt, aren’t you?” He turned to Irin. “This is your leader? Someone who arranges gang rapes on a professional basis?”Irin flinched at that, but the old woman smiled. “Hulda Dartán,” she said, extending a withered hand. “My title these days is director of the Sanctioned Brothel. We try not to host rapes between these walls if we can help it.”Tilrey kept his hands at his sides. “I wonder how hard you really try.”Irin was fidgeting. “We can’t squabble over ancient history, Tilrey. Whoever checked you into that hellhole, an Upstart sent you there to crush your spirit. Upstarts put us all there. Upstarts built the brothels in the first place, for their needs.” He gestured wildly into the dark. “We’re all the same. We all have the same cause. I’m not sure you grasp that.”“Irin. Enough.” Hulda turned to Tilrey again. “You know, when we first met, I didn’t think you’d last long. I’ve seen other lads who were trafficked or forced into the life. They usually end up drowning themselves in sap so they won’t have to feel anything.”“I’m still here. I don’t need your compliments.”“I imagine not. But what do you need, Tilrey? Or what do you want?” She peered at him through the half-light. “Whatever it is, I suppose you’re used to getting it with that pretty face and heroic physique of yours—and those shining eyes and clever words, too. Oh yes.” A glance at Irin. “I see why you keep him at a distance, nephew. He looks like he should be playing your role.”Irin’s laugh sounded strangled. “I’m not jealous of him.”“I didn’t say you were. But he cuts a nice figure, doesn’t he? People would trust him who wouldn’t trust you or me.”“Because he looks like an Upstart,” Sibylla said. Her voice was lazy, but her gaze, as she turned it on Tilrey, conveyed something like hate. “People trust Strutters and want them to lead. Even Drudges do. It’s not a conscious thing. We’ve all been brainwashed.”Hulda said, “I trust no one, lass. Not even my family. That’s how I’ve survived.” She shot another meaningful glance at Irin before turning to Tilrey. “So if you’re hoping to charm me, young man, think again. You’re in over your head—anyone can see that. That said, I know what a corruptible little rodent Councillor Linbeck is. I’ve heard how he ran that weapons depot in the Wastes. When I learned of his election, I practically expected the Council Chamber to collapse on his head in protest.”Tilrey enjoyed the mental image. “It probably should have.”“Should have collapsed on all of them,” Irin muttered.Hulda’s smile was cold. “So yes, I believe you can manage Linbeck. He wouldn’t have kept quiet this long if you didn’t have a dagger at his throat. Tell him I’ll grant these ‘absurdly small favors’ he wants—if he’ll connect me with his equally corrupt friends in the military. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask.”Tilrey realized he’d been holding his breath and released it. For the first time, he felt himself in the presence of someone who might actually bring down the Republic of Oslov. There was no rhetoric, idealism, or petty resentment in Hulda, only a bone-deep cynicism that reminded him of Malsha Linnett.If the reminder was disturbing, it was reassuring, too. Malsha was the one who had taught him about power. On some level, he didn’t trust anyone who claimed to want anything else.“I’ll give Linbeck the message,” he said. “But you already know what I want. I want to know the big picture.”Hulda stared straight at him. Though her eyes were pits of darkness, he felt their force like tractor beams. “First, tell me what else you want out of this, lad. Tell me why you’re here.”What did he want? Tilrey thought he knew. But as he thought backward—the Southern Hearth, his fight with Gersha, his realization that Dal was a Dissident, his meetings with Egil, the terrifying darkness of the Int/Sec cell—he realized how many of his choices had been forced.He believed in reforming the system, but he didn’t crave destruction or chaos, or even revenge. He was happiest when he could make tea and discuss Tangle books with Gersha. Free or not, his life was good.Now Ceill existed, though. That did change things.“I have a son.” There was no need to offer specifics—he could easily have a bastard somewhere, or a dozen. “I don’t want him ever to be what I was. I don’t want him bought and sold. And . . . I don’t want him to treat people like tools or chattel, either.” This part was harder to voice. It made him feel as earnest and naïve as Vera. “I don’t want him to live in a world where those things happen. Does that sound absurd to you?”He half expected Hulda to say yes, there was no society without some form of exploitation. But she just kept looking at him. “Does it sound absurd to you?”“I don’t know.” He dropped his eyes, not wanting to see Irin’s or Sibylla’s expression.“It’s your answer that matters, young man. I’m unlikely to live to see the dawn of a new Oslov.” Hulda waved away her nephew’s objection. “You know it’s true, Irin. I’ve spent my life digging like an industrious little mole under the foundations of the old Oslov, trying to topple it, but we’re still not that close. So rebuilding it will be your responsibility, you young people. Think long and hard about what you want to see in its place. Will I share our plans with you, such as they are? Yes.”Irin asked, “You’re sure about this?”Again Hulda waved him away. “He’s earned that much. Plans are only plans, and ours are hardly set in granite. Now, tell me, Tilrey, what were you and your Councillor doing in the north?”Her eyes swung back to him, all the mercilessness of the Wastes in them, and this time Tilrey knew he would tell.Hulda, Irin, and Sibylla listened first with skepticism, then with mounting interest, as he told them about the Resurgent sleeper agents who were armed with codes that just might bring Redda to its knees.“I’ve heard rumors about backdoor codes that could take apart the city’s whole infrastructure,” Irin said. His vial was empty by that point, and he couldn’t seem to control his nerves, jiggling a knee and biting ragged nails. “But Harbourers aren’t hackers. Hell, they don’t even have electricity.”“And we Drudges aren’t supposed to use electronics for anything but basic data entry,” Hulda pointed out. “But some of us teach ourselves to code, don’t we? Some of us even hack into the main networks.”“So maybe these Resurgents aren’t totally clueless. But whatever intel they have, it could be decades or even centuries out of date.”True enough. But the possibility was there. “Artur said these infiltrators were instructed to seduce and whore their way into Redda,” Tilrey said. “Which means that, if any made it, they could be right here in your brothel.”Hulda seemed to take the possibility seriously. “A fair percentage of our staff aren’t born Oslov citizens. We’ll look at them closely.”“No one jumps to mind?”Aunt and nephew exchanged a glance. “Not at the moment,” Irin said, still fidgeting.“But you will look?”Hulda said, “I don’t particularly like it when my whores keep secrets from me, but it wouldn’t be the first time. You’ve brought us something of great potential value, Tilrey. Now, let’s discuss the big picture, as you put it.”“So?” Besha couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting, his socked feet drawn up under him on the couch. “What did they tell you? What are their plans?”“What do you think?” Tilrey asked.They were sharing a vial of sap mixed into a pot of tea in Besha’s living room, lit by a single lamp on the end-table. Snow battered the great black bare windows in torrents and swirls that hid the city from view.“How should I know?” Besha swung his feet to the floor, irritated. “Are they planning a general strike? Because the last one was nearly sixty years ago, and these days the workers just aren’t miserable enough. We give them their pubs and their games and their streaming dramas and porn, and they seem perfectly happy—well, except for the occasional malcontents.”Tilrey was struck by how similarly Besha’s and Hulda’s minds worked. What she had told him was nearly identical. “That’s right,” he said, trying to remember her wording. “Every Oslov is ensured a basic level of wellbeing, and we’ve been taught that any dissatisfaction with our lot could get us tossed out into the cold.” He gestured at the window, the storm. “We’ve never experienced a greater degree of freedom. Most of us don’t miss it.”“Huh.” Besha propped his elbows on his knees. “So the shirkers’ plan is to give up?”Tilrey ignored that. “You can’t overthrow a society like Oslov, so instead, you undermine it. You begin with reform within the system. Within the Council. You start ironing out the differences between the Levels, eliminating the corruption and abuses of power, bringing things closer to how Whyberg actually intended. But reform . . .”“Reform eventually provokes a reaction,” Besha said. “Upstarts get insecure, make new laws, and consolidate their power. That’s how it always works—in cycles. Which is why nothing ever changes.”Again, Hulda had said almost the same thing. “That’s why we need to provoke a bigger reaction,” Tilrey said. “A draconian one. First come the modest reforms, to get people used to greater freedom. Then . . .”“Then you stage some kind of protest or revolutionary action.” Besha was nodding excitedly. “Something that scares the fuck out of Upstarts. The Council blames the reforms. They decide it’s time to crack down. They bring in troops, make arrests, impose curfews and rationing and movement restrictions that apply to all the Levels but the highest. They—we—do all that, and suddenly your average Drudge or low Upstart gets seriously pissed off. Ready for change.”Tilrey was not surprised by Besha’s grasp of crowd psychology. “That’s the gist.”There were other factors in play, too, things he couldn’t discuss with Besha yet or possibly ever. The internal dissensions that rippled through the armed forces, turning officers and rank-and-file soldiers toward Dissidence. The Southern Hearth.Initially, Irin and Hulda had explained to Tilrey, the True Hearth had hoped to siphon away enough workers to the secret Harbourer settlement to cause a shortage that would give it bargaining power with the government. But there were two problems with that plan. First, the government didn’t bargain with Laborers. And second, people liked living in the south. Almost no one who migrated there had the slightest desire to return to Oslov. Many of the Southern Hearthers, especially the younger ones, just wanted to try their chances outside the wall.“What if more Oslovs knew what life in Harbour is like?” Irin had asked Tilrey. “You’ve been there. I haven’t, but I’ve heard the stories. Don’t you think we’d all want to leave?”“Are you saying you want to encourage mass migration?” Much as Tilrey missed the warmth of the south, he had doubts about the idea.“It’s a tool,” Irin said. “We’ve got stream makers on our side. They have footage we’ve smuggled out of the Southern Hearth. If they can edit it into something enticing, and we can hack the entertainment feed at just the right moment—” He shrugged. “Well, like I say, it would be a tool. One we’d use with great care, because we could probably only use it once.”“You don’t seem to like the idea, Tilrey,” Hulda said.Tilrey struggled to figure out how to phrase it. For most Oslovs—people like Besha—Harbourers were abstractions, not people. “Our weapons could conquer and subjugate Harbour, yes,” he began.“They certainly could,” Irin broke in with a keenness that made Tilrey wonder if Ranek Egil had told him about the fate of Michigan.He didn’t like that tone at all. “But is that really what we want? To be an empire? We’ve seen what happened to the world-spanning empires of the Tangle. Can’t we work out our own problems where we are instead of transporting them to someone else’s country?”Irin and Hulda looked at each other. “First things first,” Hulda said. “But we’ll return to this topic, believe me, Tilrey. I’m interested in your firsthand insights.”No, Tilrey wouldn’t remind Besha about the wild card of Harbour. He could only hope to teach Irin and Hulda not to share that contemptuous disregard for anyone outside Oslov’s borders.“Hmm,” Besha said now. “It’s a workable plan, I guess, but you’re forgetting who controls the missiles. A couple of strikes on Thurskein and—” He mimed an explosion with both hands. “Your family’s there, right?”Our weapons have too much power, Tilrey thought, not for the first time, but he didn’t take the bait. “You’d know all about launching missiles, I suppose.”Besha grimaced. “I opened one tiny backdoor, back when I had access, at Malsha’s request. Well, actually, I hired a hacker to do it. The Island party had it closed after the unauthorized strike, and then they strengthened the security protocols.”“There may be other backdoors in the system.” Tilrey tried to sound like someone idly speculating. “Ones we can exploit.”Besha laughed; he was getting more sapped by the minute. “Who’s going to exploit them? You? I can think of one particular backdoor I’d like to exploit right now,” he added, slurring a little as he threw an arm over Tilrey’s shoulder.Same old Besha. Tilrey didn’t remove the arm, but he didn’t let his body melt into Besha’s, either. “So you’ll make the commitment the Hearth requires? Your military contacts? Once you do that, you know, they’ll have the goods on you. You won’t be able to back out.”“You already have even worse goods on me.” Besha nuzzled him. “I was doomed the day I met you.”Tilrey didn’t relax. “And vice versa, maybe. Tell me, were you recently discussing me and my shirker connections with some pretty young thing at the Sanctioned?”Besha went abruptly still, then pulled away, not meeting Tilrey’s eyes. “That little bitch. I swear I didn’t tell her anything, not really, but she kept asking me what was wrong. She was reporting to them?”“Apparently. But how did my name even come up?”Besha’s face was flaming red. “Don’t laugh, but it seems I sometimes . . . invoke your name when I reach the height of passion. She asked who you were, and I told her you were an old lover I was concerned about because of your recent life choices. That’s all.”Against his will, Tilrey found himself feeling a little sorry for Besha. He reached out and traced one of the man’s sparse, mousy brows. “Well, you won’t make that mistake again. Maybe I should find you a trustworthy boy to keep you happy. Someone who looks just like me, only younger.”The instant the bantering words were out, he thought of Ceill and wished he hadn’t. Not him. No one will ever do that to him.Besha groaned as if he were in pain, then clasped Tilrey’s hand against his breast. “No one looks just like you. Or if they do, they’re not you and they don’t interest me.”Tilrey did laugh then, but gently. Sometimes he had to marvel at the way Besha’s mind worked. “I’m past thirty. Am I really that enticing to you?”“I wish you weren’t.” Besha rolled his eyes tragically to the ceiling. “But I understand. I was an idiot. It won’t happen again.”Tilrey let Besha stroke his hand. “Now we’re all on the same side, there’s no damage done. Don’t take it out on the girl, please—it’s not her fault. Just be more careful next time.”“Oh, I know. Idiot,” Besha murmured to himself, pressing their palms together.“I’m curious, though,” Tilrey couldn’t resist adding, “what about her reminds you of me?”Besha examined the ceiling. His eyes actually looked moist. “Promise not to laugh anymore.”“I won’t.” He didn’t want to fuck Besha tonight, and he wouldn’t, but it felt good to be wanted, to have people infatuated with him. It felt safe, like coming home, even if it wasn’t a home he’d chosen. And, with Gersha busy mooning over the new baby, it felt particularly good and safe right now.“She’s so wild and innocent, this girl,” Besha said dreamily. “The way you used to seem to me. Her hands are so clever. I think she might break my heart.”Tilrey allowed himself to tease, falling into the rhythm of their old relationship. “I thought I already broke it, Fir.”“The way you broke Vera Linnett’s?”“I . . . what?”Besha looked straight at him, his eyes cold now. “I may be stupid sometimes, but I’m not that stupid. You and Vera were fucking—you told me so before you left for Harbour. And I don’t see Gersha climbing in that bed, ever.”Tilrey knew he should try to control the damage. But he was tired, so tired that all he could say was “You do like to know things, don’t you?”Besha winked. “It’s quite a tall tale you’ve concocted. I’ll enjoy spreading it around and making it as unflattering to that prick Tollsha Linden as possible.”“I didn’t concoct anything this time.” Green hells, he hoped Besha stayed discreet. “Gersha did.”“Clever Gersha, then.” Besha raised Tilrey’s hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “Your dirty deceitfulness must be rubbing off on him. But we’re comrades now, aren’t we? We keep each other’s secrets.”“You’re not telling me something,” Hulda Dartán said.Irin turned from the cutting board, where his aunt had surprised him in the midst of chopping greens. A giant pot steamed on the burner, with another of rice nearby.“I tell you everything.” He shot her a snide glance and returned to his work.Hulda moved into his line of vision. She always draped herself in voluminous sweaters or shawls, impersonating a frail old lady of delicate constitution, but her nephew knew she was no such thing. “You suspect someone,” she said. “Someone in particular.”Even now, she could always read him, but that didn’t mean he was going to tell her. The two of them had an iron-clad division of labor: While Hulda ran the Brothel, dealt with Upstart patrons, and presented an unimpeachable front, Irin worked the staff for intel behind the scenes. That way, if some whore decided to play both sides and report him to Int/Sec, his aunt would remain untouched.“It’s someone I’ve been cultivating as an asset,” he conceded, “but they’re twitchy. I need time to draw them out. To be sure.”He packed his gaze with silent reproach. I’m only trying to protect you.Hulda arched a brow. “And when will you be sure, my lad? When do I get to meet this little infiltrator?”“No need to draw hasty conclusions, Aunt. Tsk, tsk. How many times have you accused me of being rash?”He held her gaze. She didn’t blink. “This could change everything, Irin. Don’t toy with me. If you think you’ve found a Resurgent, I want to be involved as soon as possible.”Maybe she suspected the truth—that he wasn’t just protecting her this time. Whatever was going to happen with Einara, Irin wanted to control it.His aunt might still be formidable, but she was in her seventies. Sooner or later, she’d have to hand over the reins of leadership. If there really were a Harbourer poem that you could plug into a terminal and bring Redda to its knees, he would discover it first. His future depended on it.And so he let the smirk slide off his face, feigning sheepishness. “It’s only a hunch right now, and you know how often my hunches don’t pan out. I shouldn’t have told you.”He would summon Einara this very night. The girl was clearly skilled at concealing her feelings, but Irin would cut through all that play-acting like a hot knife through butter. Many whores had compromising secrets. She wouldn’t be the first he had reduced to breathy, helpless tears.She would tell him everything, and he would bring it to Hulda like a trophy, a proof that he was ready to take over.“Well, then. Do the legwork before you jump to conclusions.” His aunt patted his arm in a way that felt equally encouraging and dismissive. “I await your report.”

Irin Dartán inclined his head to one side, his expression as unforgivingly blank as a snowfield. “Ranek Egil briefed me, yes. But I want you to tell the whole mess in your own words, my friend.”

The cold of the Sanctioned Brothel’s basement pressed around them as Tilrey told the story as economically as possible. When he described Bors Dartán’s disastrous report to Gersha, Irin broke the chilly silence with a chuckle. “Oh yes, dear cousin Bors. He’s been such a little gadfly ever since he was Raised. Would you believe he tried to enlist me in proving your shirker activities?”

Tilrey did not smile. He was still ashamed of how he’d miscalculated by deciding to have some cruel fun with Bors Dartán—a part of the story he kept to himself. “Well, your cousin didn’t do the damage he hoped. Gersha’s with us now, body and soul. I can vouch for him.”

“No surprise there. He adores you, and apparently vice versa. Unless this whole business with Vera Linnett changes that?” Irin waved lazy fingers in the air. “You must have been a very naughty boy to drive that man into a woman’s arms.”

So Gersha’s absurd tale was catching on. Tilrey didn’t contradict it. “We worked everything out in Harbour,” he said, stone-faced. “The marriage is just for the kid’s sake. Vera knows nothing.”

“Good. Egil and Celinda Valde vouch for your Councillor, too. Clearly you’ve worked some sort of witchcraft on him.” Another dip of the finger in the vial. “But Linbeck, that little mercenary? How did he find out?”

Irin’s expression darkened as Tilrey related how Gersha’s slip of the tongue had set Besha on the path to Bors Dartán’s report. “But I never gave Besha your name—any name. How did you know he knew?”

“I know everything that happens in this establishment, and as you must know, men can be terribly indiscreet with their favorite bedmates. But that’s not the important thing. How are you keeping Linbeck quiet? Just with your sweet affection?”

He’s trying to minimize me. To remind me my career as a spy started with conversations overheard in Councillors’ beds. Tilrey steadied his breathing and reminded himself what Artur had said about being a leader. “Not solely, no,” he said. “What I have on Besha isn’t germane to our business here. What matters is that I believe he’s willing to work for us eyes open, taking orders from me. That’s actually one of the reasons I’ve been trying to get an audience with you. I want to manage him with your cooperation.”

Irin exchanged a glance with Sibylla. “I don’t mean to contradict you, Tilrey, but Councillors don’t take orders from secretaries. Ranek swears up and down that Gersha’s a man of principle, and I trust you to manage him. But Linbeck’s a different matter. He’s out for no one but himself.”

“Believe me, I know. But I have Besha under control.” Tilrey tried to sound confident. “And we can offer him incentives. He’s genuinely unhappy with the status quo. All he wants in return for his ongoing cooperation are a few absurdly small favors—and some insight into your long-term goals.” He emphasized the last words.

“That’s rather a lot,” Irin said. “How do we know he’s not going to take his ‘insight’ straight to Int/Sec?”

“Besha’s not stupid.” It was time to get to the meat of the matter. “Personally, I’d like some insight into our goals, too. But you haven’t allowed me that, Irin. Lately, you haven’t even allowed me near you.”

Sibylla said, “That was for your own protection.”

Irin shot her a glance. “Tilrey knows that. He’s not stupid, either—are you, Rishka?” He swiveled his head to capture Tilrey’s gaze. “What you are is good at seizing the initiative but bad at following orders. I’m still trying to decide if that balances out in your favor.”

His eyes narrowed as he spoke, the sharp features becoming sinister. For the first time, it occurred to Tilrey that he might have walked into a trap. No one else knew he was here. If Irin thought he represented a genuine threat, there were ways to dispose of him down here in the dark.

Calm. Breathe. They needed him. “One of my ‘initiatives’ was to secure the opening of a garrison in Harbour. You’ll have the opportunity to staff it with soldiers handpicked for loyalty to you.”

Irin arched a brow. “Fair enough. But, to be frank with you, we’re still struggling to recruit in the armed forces.”

“Maybe soldiers like to know where their orders are coming from.” Tilrey glanced between them. Was it time to bring out the heavy artillery? “I’m happy to tell you why I traveled north and what I learned there. But first I need to know whose orders I’m following and where all these orders are leading. Without that—” He shrugged. “I might as well be stumbling around in the dark.”

Irin said, “You aren’t ready to know.”

But a new voice, close by and oddly muffled, contradicted him: “The boy’s right.”

A harsh grating of steel against concrete made Tilrey swing toward the pillar. A panel had sprung open there, revealing an alcove just large enough to conceal someone. A hunched form pushed it from the inside, panting, and stepped out onto the floor.

“For green’s sake,” Irin said. “This wasn’t the plan.”

“I want to speak to him face to face.” The newcomer was slight and further shrunken by age, with a wide-jawed, bulbous-eyed face that reminded Tilrey of the small amphibians he’d seen croaking in puddles in Harbour. She reminded him of something else, too, that made his stomach twist queasily, but he wasn’t sure what.

With a dignity that belied her appearance, she walked over to examine him. “Do you remember me, lad? From that night?”

Her throaty, jaded voice brought it all back in a flood. Blood rushed to Tilrey’s head, making his vision swim. That night.

He saw an old woman rising from a desk to look him up and down, her only reaction a raised brow. Oh yes, he’ll do. Then she was scribbling in a ledger. Turning to a cabinet behind her, bringing out folded clothes. Irin—where you are, Irin? Get this one showered and changed for me. Give his fancy clothes back to the Fir’s driver. I think we can put him in Hall C with the birthday party.

Tilrey dug nails into his palms. That night was twelve years gone, and he wouldn’t let its filthy, suffocating tide pull him under. He would not panic. He would breathe.

When he spoke, he sounded calm. “You managed the officers’ club when Irin worked there. When I . . . was there. You’re his aunt, aren’t you?” He turned to Irin. “This is your leader? Someone who arranges gang rapes on a professional basis?”

Irin flinched at that, but the old woman smiled. “Hulda Dartán,” she said, extending a withered hand. “My title these days is director of the Sanctioned Brothel. We try not to host rapes between these walls if we can help it.”

Tilrey kept his hands at his sides. “I wonder how hard you really try.”

Irin was fidgeting. “We can’t squabble over ancient history, Tilrey. Whoever checked you into that hellhole, an Upstart sent you there to crush your spirit. Upstarts put us all there. Upstarts built the brothels in the first place, for their needs.” He gestured wildly into the dark. “We’re all the same. We all have the same cause. I’m not sure you grasp that.”

“Irin. Enough.” Hulda turned to Tilrey again. “You know, when we first met, I didn’t think you’d last long. I’ve seen other lads who were trafficked or forced into the life. They usually end up drowning themselves in sap so they won’t have to feel anything.”

“I’m still here. I don’t need your compliments.”

“I imagine not. But what do you need, Tilrey? Or what do you want?” She peered at him through the half-light. “Whatever it is, I suppose you’re used to getting it with that pretty face and heroic physique of yours—and those shining eyes and clever words, too. Oh yes.” A glance at Irin. “I see why you keep him at a distance, nephew. He looks like he should be playing your role.”

Irin’s laugh sounded strangled. “I’m not jealous of him.”

“I didn’t say you were. But he cuts a nice figure, doesn’t he? People would trust him who wouldn’t trust you or me.”

“Because he looks like an Upstart,” Sibylla said. Her voice was lazy, but her gaze, as she turned it on Tilrey, conveyed something like hate. “People trust Strutters and want them to lead. Even Drudges do. It’s not a conscious thing. We’ve all been brainwashed.”

Hulda said, “I trust no one, lass. Not even my family. That’s how I’ve survived.” She shot another meaningful glance at Irin before turning to Tilrey. “So if you’re hoping to charm me, young man, think again. You’re in over your head—anyone can see that. That said, I know what a corruptible little rodent Councillor Linbeck is. I’ve heard how he ran that weapons depot in the Wastes. When I learned of his election, I practically expected the Council Chamber to collapse on his head in protest.”

Tilrey enjoyed the mental image. “It probably should have.”

“Should have collapsed on all of them,” Irin muttered.

Hulda’s smile was cold. “So yes, I believe you can manage Linbeck. He wouldn’t have kept quiet this long if you didn’t have a dagger at his throat. Tell him I’ll grant these ‘absurdly small favors’ he wants—if he’ll connect me with his equally corrupt friends in the military. It doesn’t seem like too much to ask.”

Tilrey realized he’d been holding his breath and released it. For the first time, he felt himself in the presence of someone who might actually bring down the Republic of Oslov. There was no rhetoric, idealism, or petty resentment in Hulda, only a bone-deep cynicism that reminded him of Malsha Linnett.

If the reminder was disturbing, it was reassuring, too. Malsha was the one who had taught him about power. On some level, he didn’t trust anyone who claimed to want anything else.

“I’ll give Linbeck the message,” he said. “But you already know what I want. I want to know the big picture.”

Hulda stared straight at him. Though her eyes were pits of darkness, he felt their force like tractor beams. “First, tell me what else you want out of this, lad. Tell me why you’re here.”

What did he want? Tilrey thought he knew. But as he thought backward—the Southern Hearth, his fight with Gersha, his realization that Dal was a Dissident, his meetings with Egil, the terrifying darkness of the Int/Sec cell—he realized how many of his choices had been forced.

He believed in reforming the system, but he didn’t crave destruction or chaos, or even revenge. He was happiest when he could make tea and discuss Tangle books with Gersha. Free or not, his life was good.

Now Ceill existed, though. That did change things.

“I have a son.” There was no need to offer specifics—he could easily have a bastard somewhere, or a dozen. “I don’t want him ever to be what I was. I don’t want him bought and sold. And . . . I don’t want him to treat people like tools or chattel, either.” This part was harder to voice. It made him feel as earnest and naïve as Vera. “I don’t want him to live in a world where those things happen. Does that sound absurd to you?”

He half expected Hulda to say yes, there was no society without some form of exploitation. But she just kept looking at him. “Does it sound absurd to you?”

“I don’t know.” He dropped his eyes, not wanting to see Irin’s or Sibylla’s expression.

“It’s your answer that matters, young man. I’m unlikely to live to see the dawn of a new Oslov.” Hulda waved away her nephew’s objection. “You know it’s true, Irin. I’ve spent my life digging like an industrious little mole under the foundations of the old Oslov, trying to topple it, but we’re still not that close. So rebuilding it will be your responsibility, you young people. Think long and hard about what you want to see in its place. Will I share our plans with you, such as they are? Yes.”

Irin asked, “You’re sure about this?”

Again Hulda waved him away. “He’s earned that much. Plans are only plans, and ours are hardly set in granite. Now, tell me, Tilrey, what were you and your Councillor doing in the north?”

Her eyes swung back to him, all the mercilessness of the Wastes in them, and this time Tilrey knew he would tell.

Hulda, Irin, and Sibylla listened first with skepticism, then with mounting interest, as he told them about the Resurgent sleeper agents who were armed with codes that just might bring Redda to its knees.

“I’ve heard rumors about backdoor codes that could take apart the city’s whole infrastructure,” Irin said. His vial was empty by that point, and he couldn’t seem to control his nerves, jiggling a knee and biting ragged nails. “But Harbourers aren’t hackers. Hell, they don’t even have electricity.”

“And we Drudges aren’t supposed to use electronics for anything but basic data entry,” Hulda pointed out. “But some of us teach ourselves to code, don’t we? Some of us even hack into the main networks.”

“So maybe these Resurgents aren’t totally clueless. But whatever intel they have, it could be decades or even centuries out of date.”

True enough. But the possibility was there. “Artur said these infiltrators were instructed to seduce and whore their way into Redda,” Tilrey said. “Which means that, if any made it, they could be right here in your brothel.”

Hulda seemed to take the possibility seriously. “A fair percentage of our staff aren’t born Oslov citizens. We’ll look at them closely.”

“No one jumps to mind?”

Aunt and nephew exchanged a glance. “Not at the moment,” Irin said, still fidgeting.

“But you will look?”

Hulda said, “I don’t particularly like it when my whores keep secrets from me, but it wouldn’t be the first time. You’ve brought us something of great potential value, Tilrey. Now, let’s discuss the big picture, as you put it.”

“So?” Besha couldn’t seem to stop fidgeting, his socked feet drawn up under him on the couch. “What did they tell you? What are their plans?”

“What do you think?” Tilrey asked.

They were sharing a vial of sap mixed into a pot of tea in Besha’s living room, lit by a single lamp on the end-table. Snow battered the great black bare windows in torrents and swirls that hid the city from view.

“How should I know?” Besha swung his feet to the floor, irritated. “Are they planning a general strike? Because the last one was nearly sixty years ago, and these days the workers just aren’t miserable enough. We give them their pubs and their games and their streaming dramas and porn, and they seem perfectly happy—well, except for the occasional malcontents.”

Tilrey was struck by how similarly Besha’s and Hulda’s minds worked. What she had told him was nearly identical. “That’s right,” he said, trying to remember her wording. “Every Oslov is ensured a basic level of wellbeing, and we’ve been taught that any dissatisfaction with our lot could get us tossed out into the cold.” He gestured at the window, the storm. “We’ve never experienced a greater degree of freedom. Most of us don’t miss it.”

“Huh.” Besha propped his elbows on his knees. “So the shirkers’ plan is to give up?”

Tilrey ignored that. “You can’t overthrow a society like Oslov, so instead, you undermine it. You begin with reform within the system. Within the Council. You start ironing out the differences between the Levels, eliminating the corruption and abuses of power, bringing things closer to how Whyberg actually intended. But reform . . .”

“Reform eventually provokes a reaction,” Besha said. “Upstarts get insecure, make new laws, and consolidate their power. That’s how it always works—in cycles. Which is why nothing ever changes.”

Again, Hulda had said almost the same thing. “That’s why we need to provoke a bigger reaction,” Tilrey said. “A draconian one. First come the modest reforms, to get people used to greater freedom. Then . . .”

“Then you stage some kind of protest or revolutionary action.” Besha was nodding excitedly. “Something that scares the fuck out of Upstarts. The Council blames the reforms. They decide it’s time to crack down. They bring in troops, make arrests, impose curfews and rationing and movement restrictions that apply to all the Levels but the highest. They—we—do all that, and suddenly your average Drudge or low Upstart gets seriously pissed off. Ready for change.”

Tilrey was not surprised by Besha’s grasp of crowd psychology. “That’s the gist.”

There were other factors in play, too, things he couldn’t discuss with Besha yet or possibly ever. The internal dissensions that rippled through the armed forces, turning officers and rank-and-file soldiers toward Dissidence. The Southern Hearth.

Initially, Irin and Hulda had explained to Tilrey, the True Hearth had hoped to siphon away enough workers to the secret Harbourer settlement to cause a shortage that would give it bargaining power with the government. But there were two problems with that plan. First, the government didn’t bargain with Laborers. And second, people liked living in the south. Almost no one who migrated there had the slightest desire to return to Oslov. Many of the Southern Hearthers, especially the younger ones, just wanted to try their chances outside the wall.

“What if more Oslovs knew what life in Harbour is like?” Irin had asked Tilrey. “You’ve been there. I haven’t, but I’ve heard the stories. Don’t you think we’d all want to leave?”

“Are you saying you want to encourage mass migration?” Much as Tilrey missed the warmth of the south, he had doubts about the idea.

“It’s a tool,” Irin said. “We’ve got stream makers on our side. They have footage we’ve smuggled out of the Southern Hearth. If they can edit it into something enticing, and we can hack the entertainment feed at just the right moment—” He shrugged. “Well, like I say, it would be a tool. One we’d use with great care, because we could probably only use it once.”

“You don’t seem to like the idea, Tilrey,” Hulda said.

Tilrey struggled to figure out how to phrase it. For most Oslovs—people like Besha—Harbourers were abstractions, not people. “Our weapons could conquer and subjugate Harbour, yes,” he began.

“They certainly could,” Irin broke in with a keenness that made Tilrey wonder if Ranek Egil had told him about the fate of Michigan.

He didn’t like that tone at all. “But is that really what we want? To be an empire? We’ve seen what happened to the world-spanning empires of the Tangle. Can’t we work out our own problems where we are instead of transporting them to someone else’s country?”

Irin and Hulda looked at each other. “First things first,” Hulda said. “But we’ll return to this topic, believe me, Tilrey. I’m interested in your firsthand insights.”

No, Tilrey wouldn’t remind Besha about the wild card of Harbour. He could only hope to teach Irin and Hulda not to share that contemptuous disregard for anyone outside Oslov’s borders.

“Hmm,” Besha said now. “It’s a workable plan, I guess, but you’re forgetting who controls the missiles. A couple of strikes on Thurskein and—” He mimed an explosion with both hands. “Your family’s there, right?”

Our weapons have too much power, Tilrey thought, not for the first time, but he didn’t take the bait. “You’d know all about launching missiles, I suppose.”

Besha grimaced. “I opened one tiny backdoor, back when I had access, at Malsha’s request. Well, actually, I hired a hacker to do it. The Island party had it closed after the unauthorized strike, and then they strengthened the security protocols.”

“There may be other backdoors in the system.” Tilrey tried to sound like someone idly speculating. “Ones we can exploit.”

Besha laughed; he was getting more sapped by the minute. “Who’s going to exploit them? You? I can think of one particular backdoor I’d like to exploit right now,” he added, slurring a little as he threw an arm over Tilrey’s shoulder.

Same old Besha. Tilrey didn’t remove the arm, but he didn’t let his body melt into Besha’s, either. “So you’ll make the commitment the Hearth requires? Your military contacts? Once you do that, you know, they’ll have the goods on you. You won’t be able to back out.”

“You already have even worse goods on me.” Besha nuzzled him. “I was doomed the day I met you.”

Tilrey didn’t relax. “And vice versa, maybe. Tell me, were you recently discussing me and my shirker connections with some pretty young thing at the Sanctioned?”

Besha went abruptly still, then pulled away, not meeting Tilrey’s eyes. “That little bitch. I swear I didn’t tell her anything, not really, but she kept asking me what was wrong. She was reporting to them?”

“Apparently. But how did my name even come up?”

Besha’s face was flaming red. “Don’t laugh, but it seems I sometimes . . . invoke your name when I reach the height of passion. She asked who you were, and I told her you were an old lover I was concerned about because of your recent life choices. That’s all.”

Against his will, Tilrey found himself feeling a little sorry for Besha. He reached out and traced one of the man’s sparse, mousy brows. “Well, you won’t make that mistake again. Maybe I should find you a trustworthy boy to keep you happy. Someone who looks just like me, only younger.”

The instant the bantering words were out, he thought of Ceill and wished he hadn’t. Not him. No one will ever do that to him.

Besha groaned as if he were in pain, then clasped Tilrey’s hand against his breast. “No one looks just like you. Or if they do, they’re not you and they don’t interest me.”

Tilrey did laugh then, but gently. Sometimes he had to marvel at the way Besha’s mind worked. “I’m past thirty. Am I really that enticing to you?”

“I wish you weren’t.” Besha rolled his eyes tragically to the ceiling. “But I understand. I was an idiot. It won’t happen again.”

Tilrey let Besha stroke his hand. “Now we’re all on the same side, there’s no damage done. Don’t take it out on the girl, please—it’s not her fault. Just be more careful next time.”

“Oh, I know. Idiot,” Besha murmured to himself, pressing their palms together.

“I’m curious, though,” Tilrey couldn’t resist adding, “what about her reminds you of me?”

Besha examined the ceiling. His eyes actually looked moist. “Promise not to laugh anymore.”

“I won’t.” He didn’t want to fuck Besha tonight, and he wouldn’t, but it felt good to be wanted, to have people infatuated with him. It felt safe, like coming home, even if it wasn’t a home he’d chosen. And, with Gersha busy mooning over the new baby, it felt particularly good and safe right now.

“She’s so wild and innocent, this girl,” Besha said dreamily. “The way you used to seem to me. Her hands are so clever. I think she might break my heart.”

Tilrey allowed himself to tease, falling into the rhythm of their old relationship. “I thought I already broke it, Fir.”

“The way you broke Vera Linnett’s?”

“I . . . what?”

Besha looked straight at him, his eyes cold now. “I may be stupid sometimes, but I’m not that stupid. You and Vera were fucking—you told me so before you left for Harbour. And I don’t see Gersha climbing in that bed, ever.”

Tilrey knew he should try to control the damage. But he was tired, so tired that all he could say was “You do like to know things, don’t you?”

Besha winked. “It’s quite a tall tale you’ve concocted. I’ll enjoy spreading it around and making it as unflattering to that prick Tollsha Linden as possible.”

“I didn’t concoct anything this time.” Green hells, he hoped Besha stayed discreet. “Gersha did.”

“Clever Gersha, then.” Besha raised Tilrey’s hand to his lips and kissed the knuckles. “Your dirty deceitfulness must be rubbing off on him. But we’re comrades now, aren’t we? We keep each other’s secrets.”

“You’re not telling me something,” Hulda Dartán said.

Irin turned from the cutting board, where his aunt had surprised him in the midst of chopping greens. A giant pot steamed on the burner, with another of rice nearby.

“I tell you everything.” He shot her a snide glance and returned to his work.

Hulda moved into his line of vision. She always draped herself in voluminous sweaters or shawls, impersonating a frail old lady of delicate constitution, but her nephew knew she was no such thing. “You suspect someone,” she said. “Someone in particular.”

Even now, she could always read him, but that didn’t mean he was going to tell her. The two of them had an iron-clad division of labor: While Hulda ran the Brothel, dealt with Upstart patrons, and presented an unimpeachable front, Irin worked the staff for intel behind the scenes. That way, if some whore decided to play both sides and report him to Int/Sec, his aunt would remain untouched.

“It’s someone I’ve been cultivating as an asset,” he conceded, “but they’re twitchy. I need time to draw them out. To be sure.”

He packed his gaze with silent reproach. I’m only trying to protect you.

Hulda arched a brow. “And when will you be sure, my lad? When do I get to meet this little infiltrator?”

“No need to draw hasty conclusions, Aunt. Tsk, tsk. How many times have you accused me of being rash?”

He held her gaze. She didn’t blink. “This could change everything, Irin. Don’t toy with me. If you think you’ve found a Resurgent, I want to be involved as soon as possible.”

Maybe she suspected the truth—that he wasn’t just protecting her this time. Whatever was going to happen with Einara, Irin wanted to control it.

His aunt might still be formidable, but she was in her seventies. Sooner or later, she’d have to hand over the reins of leadership. If there really were a Harbourer poem that you could plug into a terminal and bring Redda to its knees, he would discover it first. His future depended on it.

And so he let the smirk slide off his face, feigning sheepishness. “It’s only a hunch right now, and you know how often my hunches don’t pan out. I shouldn’t have told you.”

He would summon Einara this very night. The girl was clearly skilled at concealing her feelings, but Irin would cut through all that play-acting like a hot knife through butter. Many whores had compromising secrets. She wouldn’t be the first he had reduced to breathy, helpless tears.

She would tell him everything, and he would bring it to Hulda like a trophy, a proof that he was ready to take over.

“Well, then. Do the legwork before you jump to conclusions.” His aunt patted his arm in a way that felt equally encouraging and dismissive. “I await your report.”

Chapter End Notes

And this is when I realize the story is getting incredibly complicated and write a super-long chapter to get things more in order! Well, hopefully. :)

Chapter End Notes

And this is when I realize the story is getting incredibly complicated and write a super-long chapter to get things more in order! Well, hopefully. :)