Chapter 26: The Smokehole — The Key of Oslov

Volume 11: Crosscurrents and Consequences

Chapter 26 The Smokehole

Chapter Notes

I’ve been planning this chapter since the beginning; I hope it works. And yep, this is the chapter that the graphic violence warning refers to, so please exercise caution! Thank you for following me through this story; we’re just a few chapters from the end now.

Chapter Notes

The message came in a rice cake that was delivered to Einara’s door. “Compliments of the cook,” the scut-boy said and dashed off again.When Einara bit into the cake, she found a crisp curl of paper: Spoke to ambassador’s boy. Tonight, midnight. Basement. So Irin hadn’t just been humoring her last time they talked. He wanted information enough to offer some in return. As Einara tore the message into tiny pieces and flushed it, her heart thudded with mingled dread and anticipation. What did the “ambassador’s boy” know about the attack on Michigan? Apparently something so sensitive they needed to discuss it downstairs in the musty basement, where Upstart patrons never ventured.Her two appointments of the evening passed in a blur. Yes, Fir. Of course, Fir. That feels so good, Fir. Yes, very big, Fir. Brothel staffers were strictly ranked by the level of patrons they attracted, from the high-volume lads at the bottom to the “jewels” at the top, who saw almost exclusively Councillors. Einara was not a jewel—no girl was—but her patrons were powerful enough to command her attention for several hours at a time and sometimes whole nights.Many of those patrons, like Councillor Linbeck, expected her to cater to their vanities and loneliness as well as their lusts. She didn’t enjoy that, but anything was better than accommodating a slew of faceless men every night.When she was finally free, near midnight, she showered and twisted up her hair. She’d never joined the staffers who smoked in the basement, but she’d heard them say it was freezing down there. Having no outdoor privileges and hence no outdoor coat, she wrapped herself in two thick fleece jackets.She knew the way—down a narrow stairway from the storeroom behind the kitchen. At this time of night, no one was around, but she checked first before gliding silently past counters and kettles, then among shelves and pallets.The stairs were pitch-dark, and she couldn’t find a light switch, so she clung to the cold concrete wall and felt her way along. With each step, the temperature seemed to drop a degree. It was a relief to turn a corner and catch a glimmer of light from below.The basement was much bigger than she’d imagined, so big she couldn’t see the far wall. The ceiling, supported by massive arches, vanished into darkness. Einara threaded her way carefully among crates and barrels taller than she was, heading for the light and a small, dark silhouette.A cluster of furniture had been arranged there, an improvised living room. As Einara reached it, Irin sat up on a shabby sofa and cocked his head. “You’re late.”“I couldn’t find the light, Fir.” She sat on the opposite end of the sofa. From here, maybe fifteen meters away, she could see the side wall of the basement and the unearthly glow of the smokehole. She wondered if being in that snow cave, buried way below the street, would feel like being outdoors. Like being free.Of course, in Oslov, freedom could be terrifying. What was it people were always saying here? Guerdenmuirth áth tauga, “idleness is death,” and one of their words for death meant “freezing.”Irin held out a vial. “Have a nip?”“No thanks, Fir.”He dribbled sap into his own palm—only a few drops, Einara noticed—and licked it. “You never accept sap, do you, Einara? Are you afraid it won’t agree with your constitution?”The words sent alarm bells ringing through Einara’s head. Never drink sap, the Colonel’s trainers had warned her. You won’t process it as easily as Oslovs do. It wasn’t easy to refuse sap when Upstarts offered it, but the few times she’d drunk as much as a half-vial, she’d been violently sick afterward.She blinked blandly at him. “I like to keep my head clear so I can do my duties.”“An admirable goal.” Irin leaned back against a threadbare cushion. He gave off a studied air of indifference, but there was tension in his shoulders. “You certainly kept your wits about you with Councillor Linbeck. I’m much obliged to you for drawing him out.”The ambassador. What about the ambassador? “Thanks, Fir. I did my best. I hope it was useful.”“Oh yes,” Irin said. “But you didn’t have such a clear head last time we talked, did you? When you started ranting about Oslov bombs falling on Harbour?”Einara’s throat cinched tight. The light above her was glaring, the shadows hungry. If the ambassador’s boy hadn’t confirmed her story, then why was she here? “It was only a rumor I heard in the Wastes, Fir. My friend said—”“Of course, your friend.” Irin’s eyes were cold slits. “Tell me, sweetheart, did your friend come from Michigan?”Einara went hot all over, then cold. But her training held. “Michigan?” she heard her own voice asking politely, mangling the word with Oslov pronunciation. “What’s that?”His eyes didn’t release her. “I have friends in Harbour. They tell me your story of a wayward missile is true.”Of course it was true. And Irin knew because he wasn’t the loyal little Brothel flunkie he pretended to be—he had “friends in Harbour,” spies. She’d suspected as much. “What else do they say?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager. “Who sent the missile?”“Not so fast, little one.” He adjusted a pillow beneath the small of his back as if they were making idle chit-chat. “Time for you to answer a question for me. How did you know about this attack that the leaders of our Republic managed to keep a secret for the past ten years?”“I already told you, Fir. I had a friend from Harbour in the Wastes. She lost her whole family when the bomb fell.”“What’s your friend’s name?”“Rose Carew.” She plucked it from memory, a childhood friend.“Where in the Wastes can I find her?”“You can’t. We were in a village called Inkhul, but your troops raided it. They set fire to Rose’s house. She didn’t get out.”She stopped short because it was plain from Irin’s face that he didn’t believe a word. And if he did make inquiries in Inkhul, they would only confirm him in his disbelief.A stone sank in her gut as he said, almost gentle now, “You’ve nothing to fear from being honest with me. No one’s going to hurt you here.”No one must ever know you’re not an Oslov. The rule had been drilled into Einara’s head for years. Die rather than reveal yourself.“Honest, Fir?” Her voice still sounded so innocent, as if she had no idea what he was talking about. But her limbs kept coming loose from their joints and floating away—her left arm up near the ceiling, her right leg under the couch. Her heart beat madly, yet she couldn’t use the adrenaline to pull herself together. There was no her anymore, just mangled pieces.Like a severed head that can still blink and frown, her brain remained operational, reminding her of the pin holding her hair. It was as long as her forefinger and sharp, without a safety catch. If she drove it into her own carotid, aiming just right, she might bleed out in seconds.Piercing arteries with sharp objects and crushing windpipes with garrotes had been part of their training. Einara had slit the throat of a man condemned for treason, then held him while he thrashed his way into the peace of death. But could she turn the techniques on herself?Killing was hard. She’d tried to think of her four victims as straw-stuffed dummies, as hogs ready for slaughter, but she couldn’t forget the way they looked at her. Two never quite seemed to grasp what was happening, but the other two did. The struggle, the fear, and then the eyes glazed with helpless acceptance. Oslovs believed your last moment was the one you relived for eternity.“You’re playing dumb,” Irin said. “What did I tell you about that?”He rose and paced the length of the sofa. In the instant when he swung around, Einara tugged out the pin. Hair settled on her neck like a velvet curtain—such a silly little comfort, her long, lush hair. Had she pinned it up and taken it down for the last time?She hid the sharp object in her right palm. You know what you must do. You know. You know.“I don’t know what you mean, Fir,” she said, pulse booming in her ears.Irin turned on his heel and bore down on her. “The longer you pretend, the harder you make things for yourself. I know what you are, child. I know the Colonel sent you. And I know what she sent you to do.”His face was inches from hers, and Einara cringed back, reacting at last. Her heart beat so loudly, her limbs ice. How did he know? How could he know? Surely Artur Threindal hadn’t betrayed his trainees? She thought he cared about her, but no Oslov could be trusted. They were hard and cold as the north. Heartless.She would try one last time to convince this man before she made her sacrifice. “Whatever you think about me, you’re wrong. I don’t understand anything you’re saying.”“No? Do you understand this?”He spoke the last sentence in heavily accented Harbourer. Einara trembled all over, tears springing to her eyes. You know what you must do. “Please, Fir,” she said in Oslov. “You’re scaring me.”But she was just buying time, because he knew. He knew everything, and he’d probably told other Oslovs about her, and that meant she had to die. The trainers had been very clear on this point. If you remain alive long enough for interrogation, you doom us all.Inside Einara was an angry little girl screaming and pounding her fists bloody: Not fair! I’m not ready! But her sister hadn’t been ready, either.Irin seemed at ease now, so horribly at ease. He sat down, closer than before, and bent to speak into her ear like a lover. “There’s no need for theatrics. I told you already, no one’s going to hurt you as long as you cooperate. I think you know what that means.”She shook her head by rote. Why had she ever asked him about Michigan? That had sealed her fate. She couldn’t confess, because there was no script for confession. All she could do was repeat the same old lies: “No one sent me here. I’m not a spy. I swear to you.”Irin didn’t even do her the courtesy of pretending to listen anymore. “We can work together. I think my people and yours have a common cause—the downfall of the Republic. All I need from you are the backdoor passwords. The ‘verses.’ Isn’t that what you call them?”Our greatest secret. Our only weapon. You must never tell. The whole vast basement was pulsing—bigger, smaller, bigger, smaller, as if she were trapped inside a panicked, overburdened heart. Any moment the muscle would seize up. The blood would stop pumping. She would freeze to death. She would explode.Irin snapped his fingers in front of her nose. “Are you hearing me, love? The verses. Colonel Thibault doesn’t care about you. She’s abandoned you.”I know that. Einara hadn’t believed in the Colonel since she was a child. The woman had used her and thrown her away.“I know you’re frightened, but you can work with us. I promise.”He had no power to promise that. In a distant way, Einara remembered Artur’s advice to forget the mission and spend her life as an Oslov. She’d had her own plan, too, to forget the mission and focus on revenge.How absurd. There was only the mission, only the training. Nothing else had ever mattered. If she told Irin the verses, if she admitted she wasn’t an Oslov, the Colonel would have her skinned and gutted and hung upside down in the capital square. That was the fate of traitors; she’d seen it with her own eyes.Or perhaps the Oslovs—government, rebels, it didn’t matter—would target the Colonel’s capital and burn everything to radioactive ash. Then they would overrun Harbour, and Einara would spend the rest of her life in one of their sterile cells, begging for death. There was no scenario in which giving up the verses led to anything else.Only one choice, and it was time. She poked the tip of the hairpin into her palm, steadying herself, and let a childish sob escape her. “All right, Fir. Please, don’t hurt me. All right.”The sob did its work. Irin’s shoulders untensed as he prepared for her to betray everything her life stood for. He fished in his pocket and tugged out a tissue.Einara got a firm grip on the hairpin. Now.As Irin offered her the tissue, she seized hold of his wrist with her free hand and twisted, pulling him tight against her. She drove the pin into the tender, pulsing spot where his jaw met his neck. And out, and in again. Again.Thin streams of blood spurted from the wound like water from the fountain in the capital square. She had just enough presence of mind to realize she must keep it off the sofa. She drew the flailing man to her breast like an infant and wrapped her outer fleece around his head, half smothering him in it, using it to soak up the blood. Then she eased them both onto the bare floor.He was still struggling, or maybe just spasming. His hands grasped at her arms, her clothes, but didn’t hold on. At first he made no sound; then came a harsh, liquid gasping at regular intervals. He was choking on his own blood.She closed her eyes and held him to her breast and whispered, “Die. Please die.”By the time he stopped twitching, by the time she was sure, her whole front and hands and face were sticky with the warmth that flowed from him. The air was rank with iron and shit—death evacuated the bowels. At least she knew what to expect.Just please not on the sofa. Upholstery would stain, and if she had to get rid of it, people would notice.Though she hadn’t been conscious of making plans, Einara already knew what she would do. She couldn’t bury the body under the concrete floor. Just beyond the wall, though, was a natural refrigerator—the snow cave. Even in summer, the giant drifts between skyscrapers never melted, sheltered from the force of the arctic sun.She closed her eyes and allowed herself, for an instant, to face the truth. She had disobeyed orders and killed a man, very likely for nothing.It should have been her body that was limp and cooling on the concrete floor, but the little girl inside her had refused death. And that fierce little girl, she knew, would get her through the hours of hard work to come.First she removed her blood-caked outer fleece and wrapped it around the dead man like a shroud, tying it fast with the sleeves. Then the second fleece. Shivering in her thin shirt, she went to the heavy garage door and tugged and tugged until it squealed open.Frigid air rushed in, every breath a stab in her lungs. At least the snow cave was sheltered from the vicious winds above. Her eyes teared as she grabbed Irin’s feet and dragged him toward the garage door.Slight as he was, she had to pause several times to rest, her eyes tearing. Hours seemed to pass before she got him outside and over the ice-crusted snow to the far end of the small enclosure. And then it was time to dig.No gloves, so she used her bare hands, crouched on her knees beside the dead man. Her fingertips went numb instantly, but adrenaline kept her moving. She dug through the icy crust, scooping out a new tunnel in the packed snow, large enough for a grave.With any luck, the body would freeze solid before anyone came out for a morning smoke break. Barring a freak thaw, there would be no smell. Still, she dug deeper and deeper until she could barely feel her hands. Then she pulled and pushed and tugged the body into her tunnel, folding it to make it fit.She couldn’t close up the hole yet without risking frostbite, so she retreated inside, sealed the garage door, and began mechanically rubbing her hands together. Sometimes she heard a distant keening that probably came from her own throat.

It should be me. It should be me.

She was saved from those spiraling thoughts by the urgent need to clean up the blood on the floor. To her relief, there wasn’t much, and she’d managed to keep it off the sofa cushions. She found rags and even a filthy sink. The pin—where was the pin? Oh yes. Still in his neck.If Irin had told other people about her, then she would be suspected as soon as they realized he’d disappeared. By killing him instead of herself, she’d simply delayed the inevitable and taken him down with her.Did he deserve that? No. She felt nothing about him except sadness that his last moment had been one of surprise and terror.And still the night didn’t end. Warmed by her cleaning duties, she yanked on the garage door and stumbled outside again. She knelt beside her tunnel and scooped up snow, which she piled on top of the body and patted firm. Pile and pat, pile and pat. Over and over.In a low, cracked voice, she recited the old Oslov prayer for the dead that Artur had taught her. She couldn’t remember the rites of her own people anymore, the ones the priest had recited at her mother and sister’s funeral. Oslov had taken over her brain, Oslov and the mission and the training. “Rot he shall not,” she whispered. “Frozen in the last breath, breath turned to ice, eyes turned toward the stars.”The words ran together. “I should have died,” she breathed into the hole, imagining that he’d appreciate this last gift of the confession he’d wanted from her. “Me, not you. I am the spy. I am the rot in the apple.”She couldn’t see the hump of the corpse in the gloom anymore. The hole was almost filled, the wall of the cave rebuilt. Irin would rest snug in his nest of snow and ice until they found him—if they ever did.Einara patted the wall smooth. She gathered handfuls of smoke-flecked snow from the neighboring walls to camouflage the disruption. Not a splash of red anywhere. She would have to go to Wardrobe and beg for more fleeces, say that hers had been stolen from the caf. She would be reprimanded and have her privileges docked.But she was alive.As she closed the garage door a last time and returned to the basement, a bizarre, blissful weightlessness took hold of her. Maybe this was the euphoria that people experienced right before hypothermia killed them. Maybe it was madness. No matter.She was alive, breathing and panting and shivering as she climbed the stairs. This time she navigated in the dark without trouble, as if she’d grown eyes like a cat’s. Maybe she could see through walls now. Maybe she could do anything.In the kitchen, she paused to wash her hands and choose a small paring knife from the butcher’s block, which she tucked into her waistband. She would keep it on her from now on: a contingency plan.She wouldn’t let herself be taken alive, but until they came for her she would savor every instant. Being alive had never felt so good.

The message came in a rice cake that was delivered to Einara’s door. “Compliments of the cook,” the scut-boy said and dashed off again.

When Einara bit into the cake, she found a crisp curl of paper: Spoke to ambassador’s boy. Tonight, midnight. Basement.

So Irin hadn’t just been humoring her last time they talked. He wanted information enough to offer some in return. As Einara tore the message into tiny pieces and flushed it, her heart thudded with mingled dread and anticipation. What did the “ambassador’s boy” know about the attack on Michigan? Apparently something so sensitive they needed to discuss it downstairs in the musty basement, where Upstart patrons never ventured.

Her two appointments of the evening passed in a blur. Yes, Fir. Of course, Fir. That feels so good, Fir. Yes, very big, Fir. Brothel staffers were strictly ranked by the level of patrons they attracted, from the high-volume lads at the bottom to the “jewels” at the top, who saw almost exclusively Councillors. Einara was not a jewel—no girl was—but her patrons were powerful enough to command her attention for several hours at a time and sometimes whole nights.

Many of those patrons, like Councillor Linbeck, expected her to cater to their vanities and loneliness as well as their lusts. She didn’t enjoy that, but anything was better than accommodating a slew of faceless men every night.

When she was finally free, near midnight, she showered and twisted up her hair. She’d never joined the staffers who smoked in the basement, but she’d heard them say it was freezing down there. Having no outdoor privileges and hence no outdoor coat, she wrapped herself in two thick fleece jackets.

She knew the way—down a narrow stairway from the storeroom behind the kitchen. At this time of night, no one was around, but she checked first before gliding silently past counters and kettles, then among shelves and pallets.

The stairs were pitch-dark, and she couldn’t find a light switch, so she clung to the cold concrete wall and felt her way along. With each step, the temperature seemed to drop a degree. It was a relief to turn a corner and catch a glimmer of light from below.

The basement was much bigger than she’d imagined, so big she couldn’t see the far wall. The ceiling, supported by massive arches, vanished into darkness. Einara threaded her way carefully among crates and barrels taller than she was, heading for the light and a small, dark silhouette.

A cluster of furniture had been arranged there, an improvised living room. As Einara reached it, Irin sat up on a shabby sofa and cocked his head. “You’re late.”

“I couldn’t find the light, Fir.” She sat on the opposite end of the sofa. From here, maybe fifteen meters away, she could see the side wall of the basement and the unearthly glow of the smokehole. She wondered if being in that snow cave, buried way below the street, would feel like being outdoors. Like being free.

Of course, in Oslov, freedom could be terrifying. What was it people were always saying here? Guerdenmuirth áth tauga, “idleness is death,” and one of their words for death meant “freezing.”

Irin held out a vial. “Have a nip?”

“No thanks, Fir.”

He dribbled sap into his own palm—only a few drops, Einara noticed—and licked it. “You never accept sap, do you, Einara? Are you afraid it won’t agree with your constitution?”

The words sent alarm bells ringing through Einara’s head. Never drink sap, the Colonel’s trainers had warned her. You won’t process it as easily as Oslovs do. It wasn’t easy to refuse sap when Upstarts offered it, but the few times she’d drunk as much as a half-vial, she’d been violently sick afterward.

She blinked blandly at him. “I like to keep my head clear so I can do my duties.”

“An admirable goal.” Irin leaned back against a threadbare cushion. He gave off a studied air of indifference, but there was tension in his shoulders. “You certainly kept your wits about you with Councillor Linbeck. I’m much obliged to you for drawing him out.”

The ambassador. What about the ambassador? “Thanks, Fir. I did my best. I hope it was useful.”

“Oh yes,” Irin said. “But you didn’t have such a clear head last time we talked, did you? When you started ranting about Oslov bombs falling on Harbour?”

Einara’s throat cinched tight. The light above her was glaring, the shadows hungry. If the ambassador’s boy hadn’t confirmed her story, then why was she here? “It was only a rumor I heard in the Wastes, Fir. My friend said—”

“Of course, your friend.” Irin’s eyes were cold slits. “Tell me, sweetheart, did your friend come from Michigan?”

Einara went hot all over, then cold. But her training held. “Michigan?” she heard her own voice asking politely, mangling the word with Oslov pronunciation. “What’s that?”

His eyes didn’t release her. “I have friends in Harbour. They tell me your story of a wayward missile is true.”

Of course it was true. And Irin knew because he wasn’t the loyal little Brothel flunkie he pretended to be—he had “friends in Harbour,” spies. She’d suspected as much. “What else do they say?” she asked, trying not to sound too eager. “Who sent the missile?”

“Not so fast, little one.” He adjusted a pillow beneath the small of his back as if they were making idle chit-chat. “Time for you to answer a question for me. How did you know about this attack that the leaders of our Republic managed to keep a secret for the past ten years?”

“I already told you, Fir. I had a friend from Harbour in the Wastes. She lost her whole family when the bomb fell.”

“What’s your friend’s name?”

“Rose Carew.” She plucked it from memory, a childhood friend.

“Where in the Wastes can I find her?”

“You can’t. We were in a village called Inkhul, but your troops raided it. They set fire to Rose’s house. She didn’t get out.”

She stopped short because it was plain from Irin’s face that he didn’t believe a word. And if he did make inquiries in Inkhul, they would only confirm him in his disbelief.

A stone sank in her gut as he said, almost gentle now, “You’ve nothing to fear from being honest with me. No one’s going to hurt you here.”

No one must ever know you’re not an Oslov. The rule had been drilled into Einara’s head for years. Die rather than reveal yourself.

“Honest, Fir?” Her voice still sounded so innocent, as if she had no idea what he was talking about. But her limbs kept coming loose from their joints and floating away—her left arm up near the ceiling, her right leg under the couch. Her heart beat madly, yet she couldn’t use the adrenaline to pull herself together. There was no her anymore, just mangled pieces.

Like a severed head that can still blink and frown, her brain remained operational, reminding her of the pin holding her hair. It was as long as her forefinger and sharp, without a safety catch. If she drove it into her own carotid, aiming just right, she might bleed out in seconds.

Piercing arteries with sharp objects and crushing windpipes with garrotes had been part of their training. Einara had slit the throat of a man condemned for treason, then held him while he thrashed his way into the peace of death. But could she turn the techniques on herself?

Killing was hard. She’d tried to think of her four victims as straw-stuffed dummies, as hogs ready for slaughter, but she couldn’t forget the way they looked at her. Two never quite seemed to grasp what was happening, but the other two did. The struggle, the fear, and then the eyes glazed with helpless acceptance. Oslovs believed your last moment was the one you relived for eternity.

“You’re playing dumb,” Irin said. “What did I tell you about that?”

He rose and paced the length of the sofa. In the instant when he swung around, Einara tugged out the pin. Hair settled on her neck like a velvet curtain—such a silly little comfort, her long, lush hair. Had she pinned it up and taken it down for the last time?

She hid the sharp object in her right palm. You know what you must do. You know. You know.

“I don’t know what you mean, Fir,” she said, pulse booming in her ears.

Irin turned on his heel and bore down on her. “The longer you pretend, the harder you make things for yourself. I know what you are, child. I know the Colonel sent you. And I know what she sent you to do.”

His face was inches from hers, and Einara cringed back, reacting at last. Her heart beat so loudly, her limbs ice. How did he know? How could he know? Surely Artur Threindal hadn’t betrayed his trainees? She thought he cared about her, but no Oslov could be trusted. They were hard and cold as the north. Heartless.

She would try one last time to convince this man before she made her sacrifice. “Whatever you think about me, you’re wrong. I don’t understand anything you’re saying.”

“No? Do you understand this?”

He spoke the last sentence in heavily accented Harbourer. Einara trembled all over, tears springing to her eyes. You know what you must do. “Please, Fir,” she said in Oslov. “You’re scaring me.”

But she was just buying time, because he knew. He knew everything, and he’d probably told other Oslovs about her, and that meant she had to die. The trainers had been very clear on this point. If you remain alive long enough for interrogation, you doom us all.

Inside Einara was an angry little girl screaming and pounding her fists bloody: Not fair! I’m not ready! But her sister hadn’t been ready, either.

Irin seemed at ease now, so horribly at ease. He sat down, closer than before, and bent to speak into her ear like a lover. “There’s no need for theatrics. I told you already, no one’s going to hurt you as long as you cooperate. I think you know what that means.”

She shook her head by rote. Why had she ever asked him about Michigan? That had sealed her fate. She couldn’t confess, because there was no script for confession. All she could do was repeat the same old lies: “No one sent me here. I’m not a spy. I swear to you.”

Irin didn’t even do her the courtesy of pretending to listen anymore. “We can work together. I think my people and yours have a common cause—the downfall of the Republic. All I need from you are the backdoor passwords. The ‘verses.’ Isn’t that what you call them?”

Our greatest secret. Our only weapon. You must never tell. The whole vast basement was pulsing—bigger, smaller, bigger, smaller, as if she were trapped inside a panicked, overburdened heart. Any moment the muscle would seize up. The blood would stop pumping. She would freeze to death. She would explode.

Irin snapped his fingers in front of her nose. “Are you hearing me, love? The verses. Colonel Thibault doesn’t care about you. She’s abandoned you.”

I know that. Einara hadn’t believed in the Colonel since she was a child. The woman had used her and thrown her away.

“I know you’re frightened, but you can work with us. I promise.”

He had no power to promise that. In a distant way, Einara remembered Artur’s advice to forget the mission and spend her life as an Oslov. She’d had her own plan, too, to forget the mission and focus on revenge.

How absurd. There was only the mission, only the training. Nothing else had ever mattered. If she told Irin the verses, if she admitted she wasn’t an Oslov, the Colonel would have her skinned and gutted and hung upside down in the capital square. That was the fate of traitors; she’d seen it with her own eyes.

Or perhaps the Oslovs—government, rebels, it didn’t matter—would target the Colonel’s capital and burn everything to radioactive ash. Then they would overrun Harbour, and Einara would spend the rest of her life in one of their sterile cells, begging for death. There was no scenario in which giving up the verses led to anything else.

Only one choice, and it was time. She poked the tip of the hairpin into her palm, steadying herself, and let a childish sob escape her. “All right, Fir. Please, don’t hurt me. All right.”

The sob did its work. Irin’s shoulders untensed as he prepared for her to betray everything her life stood for. He fished in his pocket and tugged out a tissue.

Einara got a firm grip on the hairpin. Now.

As Irin offered her the tissue, she seized hold of his wrist with her free hand and twisted, pulling him tight against her. She drove the pin into the tender, pulsing spot where his jaw met his neck. And out, and in again. Again.

Thin streams of blood spurted from the wound like water from the fountain in the capital square. She had just enough presence of mind to realize she must keep it off the sofa. She drew the flailing man to her breast like an infant and wrapped her outer fleece around his head, half smothering him in it, using it to soak up the blood. Then she eased them both onto the bare floor.

He was still struggling, or maybe just spasming. His hands grasped at her arms, her clothes, but didn’t hold on. At first he made no sound; then came a harsh, liquid gasping at regular intervals. He was choking on his own blood.

She closed her eyes and held him to her breast and whispered, “Die. Please die.”

By the time he stopped twitching, by the time she was sure, her whole front and hands and face were sticky with the warmth that flowed from him. The air was rank with iron and shit—death evacuated the bowels. At least she knew what to expect.

Just please not on the sofa. Upholstery would stain, and if she had to get rid of it, people would notice.

Though she hadn’t been conscious of making plans, Einara already knew what she would do. She couldn’t bury the body under the concrete floor. Just beyond the wall, though, was a natural refrigerator—the snow cave. Even in summer, the giant drifts between skyscrapers never melted, sheltered from the force of the arctic sun.

She closed her eyes and allowed herself, for an instant, to face the truth. She had disobeyed orders and killed a man, very likely for nothing.

It should have been her body that was limp and cooling on the concrete floor, but the little girl inside her had refused death. And that fierce little girl, she knew, would get her through the hours of hard work to come.

First she removed her blood-caked outer fleece and wrapped it around the dead man like a shroud, tying it fast with the sleeves. Then the second fleece. Shivering in her thin shirt, she went to the heavy garage door and tugged and tugged until it squealed open.

Frigid air rushed in, every breath a stab in her lungs. At least the snow cave was sheltered from the vicious winds above. Her eyes teared as she grabbed Irin’s feet and dragged him toward the garage door.

Slight as he was, she had to pause several times to rest, her eyes tearing. Hours seemed to pass before she got him outside and over the ice-crusted snow to the far end of the small enclosure. And then it was time to dig.

No gloves, so she used her bare hands, crouched on her knees beside the dead man. Her fingertips went numb instantly, but adrenaline kept her moving. She dug through the icy crust, scooping out a new tunnel in the packed snow, large enough for a grave.

With any luck, the body would freeze solid before anyone came out for a morning smoke break. Barring a freak thaw, there would be no smell. Still, she dug deeper and deeper until she could barely feel her hands. Then she pulled and pushed and tugged the body into her tunnel, folding it to make it fit.

She couldn’t close up the hole yet without risking frostbite, so she retreated inside, sealed the garage door, and began mechanically rubbing her hands together. Sometimes she heard a distant keening that probably came from her own throat.

It should be me. It should be me.

If Irin had told other people about her, then she would be suspected as soon as they realized he’d disappeared. By killing him instead of herself, she’d simply delayed the inevitable and taken him down with her.

Did he deserve that? No. She felt nothing about him except sadness that his last moment had been one of surprise and terror.

And still the night didn’t end. Warmed by her cleaning duties, she yanked on the garage door and stumbled outside again. She knelt beside her tunnel and scooped up snow, which she piled on top of the body and patted firm. Pile and pat, pile and pat. Over and over.

In a low, cracked voice, she recited the old Oslov prayer for the dead that Artur had taught her. She couldn’t remember the rites of her own people anymore, the ones the priest had recited at her mother and sister’s funeral. Oslov had taken over her brain, Oslov and the mission and the training. “Rot he shall not,” she whispered. “Frozen in the last breath, breath turned to ice, eyes turned toward the stars.”

The words ran together. “I should have died,” she breathed into the hole, imagining that he’d appreciate this last gift of the confession he’d wanted from her. “Me, not you. I am the spy. I am the rot in the apple.”

She couldn’t see the hump of the corpse in the gloom anymore. The hole was almost filled, the wall of the cave rebuilt. Irin would rest snug in his nest of snow and ice until they found him—if they ever did.

Einara patted the wall smooth. She gathered handfuls of smoke-flecked snow from the neighboring walls to camouflage the disruption. Not a splash of red anywhere. She would have to go to Wardrobe and beg for more fleeces, say that hers had been stolen from the caf. She would be reprimanded and have her privileges docked.

But she was alive.

As she closed the garage door a last time and returned to the basement, a bizarre, blissful weightlessness took hold of her. Maybe this was the euphoria that people experienced right before hypothermia killed them. Maybe it was madness. No matter.

She was alive, breathing and panting and shivering as she climbed the stairs. This time she navigated in the dark without trouble, as if she’d grown eyes like a cat’s. Maybe she could see through walls now. Maybe she could do anything.

In the kitchen, she paused to wash her hands and choose a small paring knife from the butcher’s block, which she tucked into her waistband. She would keep it on her from now on: a contingency plan.

She wouldn’t let herself be taken alive, but until they came for her she would savor every instant. Being alive had never felt so good.