Volume 13: Tales From the Sanctioned Brothel: Part I: The Painted Boy
Chapter 1
Prologue: Pictures of You
Summer, year 347 (about a year after the main action of “A Serviceable Boy,” and a year before its epilogue)
“Pictures of me?” Tilrey asked.Fir Councillor Arvan Saldegren rubbed his hands together nervously. “I should have mentioned it earlier, I know. But I only just got Verán’s permission.”What about mine? Tilrey’s permission didn’t matter, of course, but he couldn’t pretend to be fine with this. For once in his life, he was having a hard time not yelling at an Upstart: What the fuck were you thinking?He felt betrayed by Vanya Saldegren, who was probably his favorite Councillor after Gersha, if he really had to pick one. They’d been having a perfectly fine evening, relaxing in the living room with tea and sap and little cod dumplings, when Vanya announced out of the blue that he had a “photographer” waiting outside in the driver’s apartment. To take pictures of Tilrey, which Vanya wanted as “keepsakes.”“You could’ve warned me, Fir.” Tilrey tried to modulate his voice, but the usual deference wasn’t coming. “These photos—I assume I’ll be naked in them? I mean, that’s the point, right?”“Oh dear.” Saldegren’s dark eyes looked mournful. “I guess it never occurred to me it would bother you so much.”Because I’m a kettle boy. Because I’m naked for you all the time. Rage choked Tilrey, and for a moment he could only twist his hands in his lap, because if he opened his mouth he would say something unacceptable.“Rishka. Sweetheart. Look at me.” Saldegren touched his cheek. “We’ve known each other for nearly six years. I’d never hurt you.”Tilrey stared at the floor. “I don’t think you understand, Fir.”“The woman I got is a professional—I’m told she shoots half the streams they make in the Outer Ring. She’ll be quick and discreet, I promise.”As if that was what Tilrey cared about. “The photographer isn’t the point,” he said.“What is, then? I promise you, no one will see the finished pictures but me—and Verán, of course. Naturally he asked for copies; that’s his right. But they won’t be shared around. Is that what you’re worried about?”Now, at last, Tilrey raised his eyes. Saldegren was a big man, doughy and paunchy and handsome in the face, with smooth brown skin, jet-black hair, and long-lashed, expressive eyes. He looked genuinely distressed, as if it hurt him to see Tilrey upset. Why were Upstarts so thick sometimes?“There’s nothing you can do about this now, Fir.” He emphasized each word. “You put the idea in Verán’s head. He’ll want those pictures. But if you’d asked me first, I’d have told you there’s no way to stop photos from being shared.”“There most certainly are ways.” Saldegren spoke with the condescension of someone who effortlessly accessed info-nets every day, sometimes every hour, while Tilrey wasn’t even supposed to know how to use a network portal. “I assure you, my files are secure.”“What about Verán? What about the people he sends the files to, and the ones they send them to? When people start sharing something, it doesn’t stop, Fir. I may not know anything about your networks, but I’ve seen the end result.”A few years ago, Lus, one of the other kettle boys, had allowed photos to be made of him. Months later, Tilrey had been sitting between Lus and Bror in the Café when a teenage schoolgirl crept up to them, red-faced, and asked Lus to autograph the print-out she clutched in her sweaty fingers.There Lus was in the picture, stretched out winsomely on a Councillor’s bed, naked as the day he was born. When he asked where the girl had procured his image, she contemplated the floorboards and said, “My whole dorm has it. I think Bronia got it off her dad’s terminal.”“And why on earth do you want me to sign it?” Lus pursued.The girl went redder. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “I wish I could watch you in streams.”Lus found the whole incident hilarious. He signed the picture, Your secret sweetheart when you’re old enough, Lusha.But after the girl retreated, Bror said with surprising sternness, “I never let a camera near me. When I’m forty-five with kids her age, I don’t want Strutters passing around pictures of my cock.”Now shame thickened Tilrey’s voice. “No matter how secure a network is, nothing ever goes away. I may not know much, Fir, but I know that.”“Tilrey, please.” Saldegren was wringing his hands.“I’ve never known you to be so modest.”“It’s not a question of modesty, it’s a question of . . . having my own life. Do you think I want someone waving these photos in my face when I’m old?”“Would that be so bad? To be reminded of how lovely you were at twenty-four?”Saldegren colored as he said it. That must be what the man wanted, Tilrey realized with a chill between his shoulder blades—to keep a permanent record of the Tilrey he knew now. Twenty years into the future, Saldegren could still wank off to images of a doe-eyed, compliant boy who would never grow old or ugly or opinionated.It made so much sense, when you thought about it, that Tilrey was stunned no man had ever demanded this from him before. Even Malsha, who delighted in tormenting him, never thought to capture his likeness.It was no good protesting once Verán was involved. Though Tilrey had lived with Gersha for the past year, the Island majority leader still considered him the party’s possession, and Verán took pride in showing off that possession in various ways, most of them more intrusive than photography. If Tilrey said no to this, Verán might simply arrange a photo session of his own with an audience of leering Island Councillors.And if Gersha happened to be present? Verán delighted in embarrassing his younger colleague, and Gersha would be so outraged by Tilrey’s humiliation, so sad.“Fine.” Tilrey rose so quickly that Saldegren flinched. “Fetch your photographer, Fir. But first, I have two conditions.”“Anything, love.” Saldegren’s hand hovered above Tilrey’s shoulder as if he thought it might be slapped away.“First, don’t stay to watch. Just me and the photographer. Second, don’t show the pictures to Fir Gádden.”“But Gersha might want—”Tilrey turned his face to stone. “Trust me. I can’t control what Fir Verán might do, but please don’t show Gersha. For all our sakes. Ever.”He waited alone in Saldegren’s bedroom. Though it was nearly nine, the sun was still well above the horizon, clouds diffusing the light. A pewter glow spilled through the wide window and across the white carpet, backlighting a few lazy snowflakes.Tilrey had stripped immediately and wrapped himself in one of Saldegren’s lightweight white robes. He wasn’t exactly a blushing virgin, as Saldegren had pointed out, but this photographer was a Drudge like him, and he’d be damned if he’d undress for her.The people who made entertainment streams were low-rationed and generally regarded as only a step up from whores—indeed, many of the actors were moonlighting whores with regular postings at the Sanctioned. So he and the photographer were in the same business of providing pleasure, Tilrey supposed, though he generally catered to high Upstarts and she to weary factory workers.When the door clicked open, he didn’t look away from the window.“Very nice,” a breathless voice said. “We’ll start with you right there, in the sun. Could you give me some help first, though?”She was a wiry little woman in her fifties, staggering under the weight of a large nylon case and an assortment of metal poles. Tilrey relieved her of both—a light load for him—and leaned them against the bed. “Do you want me to set them up?”“No, that’s fine, lad. I can handle the rest.” She knelt to unzip the case. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”“Not long.”“Good.” She paused in her unpacking to stick out a hand. “Ilskund, Karina. I didn’t catch your name?”“I don’t think my name is essential here.” Green hells, he sounded as cold and snide as Malsha. Gersha would have been shocked.Karina withdrew her hand. “Suit yourself—though it might be easier if I knew what to call you. I’ll be a moment setting up, and then we can start.”Tilrey returned to the window. The view was nothing special—other people’s windows, and between them an alley offering a distant glimpse of the jet-black monoliths of the Sector. The light blued as the sun fell. He kept expecting the snow to thicken or stop, but no, just sparse, dry flakes filtering down. This hour caught between day and dusk made him ache with loneliness, remembering the white nights he’d spent with Gersha in the Southern Range.Don’t be an idiot. He would see Gersha tomorrow morning. Normally by this time he would be on his knees sucking Saldegren’s cock, doing his job and keeping all thoughts of Gersha properly compartmentalized. But everything was wrong tonight; everything was off. It was the photographer’s fault.“We’re almost ready. Would you mind taking a few pulls of this?”She was holding out a flask. “What’s that?” he asked.“To help you relax.” Karina’s skinny face wasn’t memorable, but her heavy-lidded eyes had a compelling glint to them, a watchfulness. “Nothing heavy—just comfrey tea, honey, and a third of a V of sap.”“I don’t need that.” The tie of Tilrey’s robe had loosened. He gave it a tug and let the garment fall open, standing tall and rolling back his shoulders to show her what she had to work with. “Ready.”Karina didn’t seem to register his display. “I know this isn’t easy. But when you’re tense, it shows in the final product.”“I’m not tense.” Maybe this woman had seen enough cocks not to care about one more, but he felt stupid. He grabbed her flask and took a careful sip. “I just want this over with.”“And that’s what the camera picks up—your impatience. Would you mind drinking a little more of that, just as a favor to me?”It felt strange to be asked politely instead of ordered—almost like being with Gersha. Maybe that was why Tilrey kept drinking, noting how his nervous system reacted to the modest concentration of sap in the mixture. Experience had taught him exactly how much he could take. When he handed the flask back, he was a little fuzzy-headed, but still in control.“Would you mind if I touched your face?” Karina asked in that same courteous way. “Just so I can get a better look at you?”He slumped against the windowframe so she could take his face lightly between her hands—hand-knitted half-gloves, cold fingertips—and peer into it. “Look away from me. Around the room.”He looked. She’d set up several shiny discs on poles, angled to reflect the daylight. There were a few long-necked lights, too, plugged into outlets but not turned on.“Do I need makeup?” He carried around a tube of tinted cream he’d started using when he lived with Magistrate Linden, to cover the bruises.“No.” Karina released him. “It wouldn’t be an improvement. Could you stand the way you were before, by the window? Looking out, showing me your profile?”Tilrey tried to find the pose again, but it felt unnatural. “I don’t want to do this,” he muttered, the sap loosening his inhibitions. “I told the Fir. It was his idea.”“It always is, isn’t it?” Karina didn’t seem perturbed. “What were you thinking of earlier, when you were looking out the window? Could you think of it again?”Images and sensations flooded back before Tilrey could stop them. Gersha’s white throat, bared as he arched his back in ecstasy. Black lashes on pale cheeks. A warm arm around Tilrey’s shoulders, pulling him close. A tenor voice with the slightest tremor: I love you.“Oh good. Very good. If you could stay like that.”Her camera made little whirring sounds. Tilrey could see it from the corner of his eye: a black cube blinking at him. His throat tightened. He didn’t want to think about Gersha when he was in Saldegren’s bedchamber, didn’t want to pollute Gersha that way.“Relax.” Still the soothing tone. “There’s nothing to worry about. You can’t do anything wrong.”No? “All of this is wrong,” he said, clenching jaw and fists at once. “You think this is what I want from life? To be wank material for every Upstart in Redda for the next few decades?”A soft snort of laughter. “That many for that long, wanking over you? You think a lot of yourself.”“I don’t mean that, it’s just—” But she had a point. “Okay, not every Upstart. But enough of them. I know how stuff gets passed around.”“Tilrey. I need you relaxed, remember?”He looked straight at her. “You do know my name.”“Fir Councillor mentioned it.” Karina lowered the camera so he could see the gray circles under her eyes. “Look, I know you’re not happy with this, but it’s my job and your job. And we have to do our jobs, don’t we?”He turned back to the window. The snow was still drifting. “So you’re not going to tell me the photo won’t get passed around? Like the Fir did?”The whir of the shutter answered for her.“Fuck it,” Tilrey muttered. The longer he stayed with Gersha, the more likely Gersha would see these pictures. He could already see Gersha’s pained face as he looked up from a message from Verán on his handheld: Why didn’t you tell me?“When people pass it around, it won’t be you anymore,” Karina said. “Not really.”“Who else would it be?” It’s not your fault, Gersha would be quick to assure Tilrey. But the pained expression would remain.“People will see whatever they choose to see in it. Fantasies. An ideal, maybe. The lover they dream of.” She lowered the camera and unscrewed the lens. “That’s good for the window. We’ll take the rest on the bed. Could you muss it up a little, then lie on top of the covers? Close the robe, but tie it loosely. You want to look like you’re napping after a bout of passion with your lover.”“Bout of passion, huh?” Tilrey went over and disarranged the bed while she moved the reflectors into new positions. “I thought we were doing our jobs.”“And passion’s never part of your job?” She tilted her head, watching as he stretched out and adjusted his robe to offer just a peek of thigh. When he propped himself on one elbow, she said, “You look like you’re posing. Tell me, isn’t there a single Councillor you prefer to the others? One who makes your blood race?”Tilrey hoped she couldn’t see the flush in his cheeks. “Is that what you ask the whores from the Sanctioned when you aim your camera at them? Whether they feel sentimental about any of their patrons?”“Fuck sentimentality. I don’t mean that.”He rolled his eyes. “Enlighten me.”“I’m talking about that waterlogged feeling you get when you’ve been rubbed all the right ways by someone you like. When you’re beautifully sated and almost ready for a second round.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, peered through the viewfinder, then stood up again. “I need you to lounge the way you would if you were dozing off a mind-blowing orgasm. And think about the person who gave it to you.”“I don’t have mind-blowing orgasms.” He hated her for making him think about things that had no place here. He sounded prim and awful, but he didn’t care. “I give them. That’s what I’m for.”“If that’s true, it sounds very sad.” She circled the bed, trying another angle. “When I look at you, I don’t see an object for other people’s pleasure. I see someone who thinks and feels. Surely someone else sees that, too?”Again that warmth in his face. Gersha’s firm hand on his cock. Flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes. Gersha’s voice raised, telling him to come. Gersha’s wet mouth—Shit. He tugged the robe over his swelling cock, mortified. Had she seen? But no, she was busy adjusting a reflector.If he had to do this, he would think about after instead of during. Waiting in bed for Gersha to return, his whole body heavy with satisfaction, his eyelids drooping. Knowing it was only the afternoon of a long vacation day, and they had the whole night ahead of them.The shutter whirred. “That’s more like it,” Karina said in the soft, coaxing voice she’d used earlier. “Turn toward me, but keep your eyes open just a slit? Yes. Yes. Now roll on your back and let the robe fall open. But not on purpose—you’re not performing. You’re just napping and waiting for . . . him? Her? Whoever it is, you don’t need to pose for them. They like you just as you are.”The simple, pedestrian phrase made Tilrey blush again with surprising force. Does anyone really like me as I am? Even Gersha? To cover up the stab of feeling, he said, “I still don’t understand what you meant before. When you said the pictures wouldn’t be me.”“Could you find a more natural way to put your arms? They’re too stiff at your sides.” She was moving around the bed, the camera clicking and whirring at intervals. “You still won’t understand if I explain it, because none of us really do. I’m not just capturing pieces of reality in this camera. I’m making art.”Art. Tilrey had heard Malsha use the word, often to translate something in a Harbourer text. It was for decoration, not information. “Like the roof of the foyer in the Lounge. With the Feudal designs.” It had never occurred to him to think of a photograph that way. “But photos show reality.”“Do they?” She was kneeling beside the bed, angling the camera up at him. “Try your arms above your head—but natural, like you’re stretching.”He stretched, and she nodded in his peripheral vision. “Good. Considering how easily we make and share images, it’s bizarre how little respect we have for them. My mentor used to say most people can’t wrap their brains around the difference between an ID photo and a work of art.”Was there a difference? “Photos are for documentation and surveillance,” Tilrey pointed out. “I mean, unless they’re like these, for people to jerk off to.”“Right, right. Government surveillance and cheap wank material. But believe me, images can be something else, something better, and our senses know it. Our bodies know.”Her voice throbbed as the camera whirred again. “Head toward me—not quite that much. Better. Now open your eyes, but don’t look at me. Look toward the window. You’re waiting for him. He’s coming.”Tilrey’s cock was still just hard enough to be a pleasant weight between his legs. He let his thighs fall open and gazed off toward the window—here I am, take me as you like. He imagined Gersha’s warm breath on his neck, Gersha’s half-clothed body lowering itself on top of him. Kisses on his collarbone, teeth briefly catching his nipple.And before he knew what he was doing, he was arching his back and offering his throat to receive the kisses, letting his head fall back. Presenting himself for the taking.Click. Whir. Tilrey froze up. His arm was cramping, and he didn’t like what he’d just shown her.But her voice wasn’t any different when she asked him to roll over on his front and push the robe aside, baring his ass.Well, that was predictable. At least his face wasn’t in these shots, so he could clench his jaw all he liked as she instructed him first to lie naturally, then to raise his hips.A few more clicks and whirs, and then he heard the clinking of moving equipment again. “Where do you want me now?” he asked, rolling over.Karina was folding up one of the reflector stands. “Wherever you like. We’re done.”“We’re done?” Tilrey sat up. This was all he’d wanted, but somehow it felt premature. “Are you sure you got what you needed? What the Fir wants?”The photographer tucked the metal stand into her bag with deft, practiced movements. “I’m sure.”“And was it art?” He yanked his robe closed and tied it, suddenly mortified by the arousal he’d experienced earlier. “Or just cheap wank material?”She shrugged. She wasn’t looking at him anymore, as if her eyes were weary of him. “Sometimes the difference is in the eye of the beholder. But when you look at the final product, I hope you’ll see a little of what I saw.”“And what’s that?” He felt stupid asking.Karina hoisted the poles over her shoulder. In the doorway, she said, “A young man full of love and restless energy. Who is going to learn to use both one day.”“Was that so bad?” Saldegren asked. He was on top of Tilrey, face to face, taking the first shallow, considerate strokes inside him.The Councillor paused to gather his breath, then thrust in again with a soft moan. “She seems—oh, green hills and valleys—good at what she does. They say there’s only one master photographer in every generation. That person trains a sole apprentice. Fuck, that’s good. I’m not hurting you, am I?”Tilrey knew how to pretend for Saldegren—raise his hips, close his eyes, bare his throat the way he’d done for the photographer. This time he didn’t do any of it, just kept his gaze upward and his face calm. “No, Fir. Totally fine.”“You’re still angry at me, aren’t you?” Halfway inside him, Saldegren reached for Tilrey’s cock, and Tilrey had to squelch an impulse to slap the man’s hand away. “I wish you’d trust me, love. No one, no one outside Verán’s circle will see those pics.”“I’m sure.” Tilrey shifted irritably, feeling a cramp in his thigh coming on. Saldegren was so heavy. “I’m ready, Fir. Would you please go ahead and enjoy yourself?”“I hate when you get like this. It’s like you’re trying to punish me.” But Saldegren’s cock had its own view of the situation, and soon he was bracing himself on his elbows and rutting hard and fast into Tilrey with no thought for anyone’s pleasure but his own.Tilrey breathed through it and stared up at the canopy. Outside, it was blue dusk now, as close to night as it would get at this season.He wondered if everybody who ended up seeing the photos would fantasize about possessing his body the way Saldegren was right now. Or would some viewers see something different, possibly even what Karina claimed to see?A young man full of love and restless energy. He wasn’t a man, just a boy who wasn’t even sure what love was. And learn to use both one day—she sounded like one of those fortune tellers who lurked in the Outer Ring, preying on superstitious Laborers.Still.Tilrey hoped Gersha would never see the photos. At the same time, just a bit, he hoped Gersha would.*
Year 354 (present day)
“Well?” the Brothel director asked. “What do you think?”Einara gazed at the tablet screen. A young man in bed, head thrown back and robe open just enough to expose a muscled chest and thigh. It looked like one of the posed shots the director kept for each member of her stable, the gallery from which Upstart patrons chose their pleasures.But this boy didn’t work here; she’d never seen him before. And there was something a little too abandoned in his expression, something dangerous. She imagined him rearing up off the bed and striding over to take her by the shoulders, letting the robe fall as he came. How his eyes would blaze. How tight and warm his grip would be.It was strange to feel a flicker of attraction for anyone. She didn’t let it show on her face. “I don’t know him, Fir’n. Is he in streams?”Hulda chuckled. “No. This is the one I told you about. Councillor Linbeck’s little friend—our vital and dangerous ally.”“Him? Tilrey Bronn?” Einara tried to reconcile what she was seeing with what Hulda had told her about Councillor Gádden’s secretary. A bright young man who’d been to Harbour and spoke the language. He was the one who’d discovered the existence of people like her, Harbourers sent to infiltrate Oslov. So he was also the danger that Hulda protected Einara from, the reason she had to do (or appear to do) everything Hulda said.She’d imagined Tilrey Bronn a little like her trainer, Artur, beady-eyed and intense. Nothing like this. “He looks like a whore,” she said. “He is a whore, isn’t he?”“He spent years as a kettle boy, the bed partner of two General Magistrates. The photos are from that time.” Hulda sank down on the couch beside Einara and tipped the younger woman’s chin up. “How do you think he charmed Linbeck?” A stroke on the cheek. “Pretty and deadly, much like yourself.”Einara cast her eyes down, but she didn’t pull away. “When will I meet him?” The thought gave her a small, exquisite shiver down her spine. Anyone who could splay himself out that way for a lover and then engineer power plays in the Council was versatile indeed. And skilled in pretending, though probably not as skilled as herself.Hulda plucked the tablet from her hand. “Not any time soon, my love. I’m showing you so you know what we have to work with—or against. I see Bronn now and then, but those are exclusive meetings, not for you.”“Why do I need to know what he looks like, then?” Einara tried not to let the disappointment show. Try as she would, she couldn’t help fantasizing about going places and meeting new people. She’d been cooped up in this building for years, forbidden even to step outside, right smack in the middle of a city that she’d only seen once briefly from the window of a mag-car.Hulda’s finger traced the seam of Einara’s lips. “I’m old, sweet girl. If I happened to die unexpectedly, you might need to take my place. Which means you’d need to deal directly with Tilrey Bronn, which means you should be able to recognize him.”Einara opened her lips and sucked on the finger automatically. Take my place. It was the first time Hulda had so strongly suggested she might be grooming Einara as her successor, both at the Brothel and in the True Hearth.Einara’s breathing quickened. In the several months since Irin Dartán’s death—or disappearance, as it was still officially considered—she’d been seeing fewer patrons and spending more time with Hulda, sucking up the woman’s knowledge. Making herself indispensable in every way she could. But Hulda was so cautious and close-mouthed that it was hard to tell when you were winning her trust.After Hulda removed the finger, she said, “I can’t meet Secretary Bronn until you die, then?”The old woman laughed, stroking Einara’s hair back from her forehead. “You sound eager for that to happen. Do you really think running this place is so easy?”Another rush of elation, but Einara didn’t let it show. “I didn’t mean anything like that, Fir’n. I’m curious about Bronn, that’s all.”“Understandably. But he works in the light, clearing a path for us in the Council. High Upstarts trust him. Too much contact with any of us, down here in our dark and sordid depths, would endanger that trust.”Einara couldn’t repress a snort. “Sordid depths? Looking at that picture, I don’t see how his work’s much different from ours.”“You’re not wrong.” The director’s voice was growing lower, more intimate. “His tools are similar. But it’s best not to draw his Upstart friends’ attention to that likeness. They believe in clear boundaries—Strutter versus Drudge, the Brothel versus the world beyond the Brothel. They think by limiting our movements they can keep their own weaknesses safe inside the cordon, too.”“I have so much to learn from you, Fir’n,” Einara murmured submissively. It was true, but she learned fast. If Tilrey Bronn had changed his fate, she could, too.Hulda’s small, hooded eyes bored into hers. “Don’t give me your fake humility, girl. You haven’t even passed your first real test yet.”Einara reached for Hulda’s hand. Caressed it, brought it to her lips. “Maybe that’s because you haven’t told me what the test is.”“Oh, we’re getting to that.” The woman drew in her breath. “Those eyes of yours. You are the very devil sometimes.”“Am I?” Einara asked innocently, her hand creeping under Hulda’s robe.The whole time she thought of the golden boy spread out on the bed, looking so eager to be touched and probably feeling nothing. If he could seize power by the neck and throttle it and make it his, then so could she.
Summer, year 347 (about a year after the main action of “A Serviceable Boy,” and a year before its epilogue)
“Pictures of me?” Tilrey asked.
Fir Councillor Arvan Saldegren rubbed his hands together nervously. “I should have mentioned it earlier, I know. But I only just got Verán’s permission.”
What about mine? Tilrey’s permission didn’t matter, of course, but he couldn’t pretend to be fine with this. For once in his life, he was having a hard time not yelling at an Upstart: What the fuck were you thinking?
He felt betrayed by Vanya Saldegren, who was probably his favorite Councillor after Gersha, if he really had to pick one. They’d been having a perfectly fine evening, relaxing in the living room with tea and sap and little cod dumplings, when Vanya announced out of the blue that he had a “photographer” waiting outside in the driver’s apartment. To take pictures of Tilrey, which Vanya wanted as “keepsakes.”
“You could’ve warned me, Fir.” Tilrey tried to modulate his voice, but the usual deference wasn’t coming. “These photos—I assume I’ll be naked in them? I mean, that’s the point, right?”
“Oh dear.” Saldegren’s dark eyes looked mournful. “I guess it never occurred to me it would bother you so much.”
Because I’m a kettle boy. Because I’m naked for you all the time. Rage choked Tilrey, and for a moment he could only twist his hands in his lap, because if he opened his mouth he would say something unacceptable.
“Rishka. Sweetheart. Look at me.” Saldegren touched his cheek. “We’ve known each other for nearly six years. I’d never hurt you.”
Tilrey stared at the floor. “I don’t think you understand, Fir.”
“The woman I got is a professional—I’m told she shoots half the streams they make in the Outer Ring. She’ll be quick and discreet, I promise.”
As if that was what Tilrey cared about. “The photographer isn’t the point,” he said.
“What is, then? I promise you, no one will see the finished pictures but me—and Verán, of course. Naturally he asked for copies; that’s his right. But they won’t be shared around. Is that what you’re worried about?”
Now, at last, Tilrey raised his eyes. Saldegren was a big man, doughy and paunchy and handsome in the face, with smooth brown skin, jet-black hair, and long-lashed, expressive eyes. He looked genuinely distressed, as if it hurt him to see Tilrey upset. Why were Upstarts so thick sometimes?
“There’s nothing you can do about this now, Fir.” He emphasized each word. “You put the idea in Verán’s head. He’ll want those pictures. But if you’d asked me first, I’d have told you there’s no way to stop photos from being shared.”
“There most certainly are ways.” Saldegren spoke with the condescension of someone who effortlessly accessed info-nets every day, sometimes every hour, while Tilrey wasn’t even supposed to know how to use a network portal. “I assure you, my files are secure.”
“What about Verán? What about the people he sends the files to, and the ones they send them to? When people start sharing something, it doesn’t stop, Fir. I may not know anything about your networks, but I’ve seen the end result.”
A few years ago, Lus, one of the other kettle boys, had allowed photos to be made of him. Months later, Tilrey had been sitting between Lus and Bror in the Café when a teenage schoolgirl crept up to them, red-faced, and asked Lus to autograph the print-out she clutched in her sweaty fingers.
There Lus was in the picture, stretched out winsomely on a Councillor’s bed, naked as the day he was born. When he asked where the girl had procured his image, she contemplated the floorboards and said, “My whole dorm has it. I think Bronia got it off her dad’s terminal.”
“And why on earth do you want me to sign it?” Lus pursued.
The girl went redder. “You’re beautiful,” she whispered. “I wish I could watch you in streams.”
Lus found the whole incident hilarious. He signed the picture, Your secret sweetheart when you’re old enough, Lusha.
But after the girl retreated, Bror said with surprising sternness, “I never let a camera near me. When I’m forty-five with kids her age, I don’t want Strutters passing around pictures of my cock.”
Now shame thickened Tilrey’s voice. “No matter how secure a network is, nothing ever goes away. I may not know much, Fir, but I know that.”
“Tilrey, please.” Saldegren was wringing his hands.“I’ve never known you to be so modest.”
“It’s not a question of modesty, it’s a question of . . . having my own life. Do you think I want someone waving these photos in my face when I’m old?”
“Would that be so bad? To be reminded of how lovely you were at twenty-four?”
Saldegren colored as he said it. That must be what the man wanted, Tilrey realized with a chill between his shoulder blades—to keep a permanent record of the Tilrey he knew now. Twenty years into the future, Saldegren could still wank off to images of a doe-eyed, compliant boy who would never grow old or ugly or opinionated.
It made so much sense, when you thought about it, that Tilrey was stunned no man had ever demanded this from him before. Even Malsha, who delighted in tormenting him, never thought to capture his likeness.
It was no good protesting once Verán was involved. Though Tilrey had lived with Gersha for the past year, the Island majority leader still considered him the party’s possession, and Verán took pride in showing off that possession in various ways, most of them more intrusive than photography. If Tilrey said no to this, Verán might simply arrange a photo session of his own with an audience of leering Island Councillors.
And if Gersha happened to be present? Verán delighted in embarrassing his younger colleague, and Gersha would be so outraged by Tilrey’s humiliation, so sad.
“Fine.” Tilrey rose so quickly that Saldegren flinched. “Fetch your photographer, Fir. But first, I have two conditions.”
“Anything, love.” Saldegren’s hand hovered above Tilrey’s shoulder as if he thought it might be slapped away.
“First, don’t stay to watch. Just me and the photographer. Second, don’t show the pictures to Fir Gádden.”
“But Gersha might want—”
Tilrey turned his face to stone. “Trust me. I can’t control what Fir Verán might do, but please don’t show Gersha. For all our sakes. Ever.”
He waited alone in Saldegren’s bedroom. Though it was nearly nine, the sun was still well above the horizon, clouds diffusing the light. A pewter glow spilled through the wide window and across the white carpet, backlighting a few lazy snowflakes.
Tilrey had stripped immediately and wrapped himself in one of Saldegren’s lightweight white robes. He wasn’t exactly a blushing virgin, as Saldegren had pointed out, but this photographer was a Drudge like him, and he’d be damned if he’d undress for her.
The people who made entertainment streams were low-rationed and generally regarded as only a step up from whores—indeed, many of the actors were moonlighting whores with regular postings at the Sanctioned. So he and the photographer were in the same business of providing pleasure, Tilrey supposed, though he generally catered to high Upstarts and she to weary factory workers.
When the door clicked open, he didn’t look away from the window.
“Very nice,” a breathless voice said. “We’ll start with you right there, in the sun. Could you give me some help first, though?”
She was a wiry little woman in her fifties, staggering under the weight of a large nylon case and an assortment of metal poles. Tilrey relieved her of both—a light load for him—and leaned them against the bed. “Do you want me to set them up?”
“No, that’s fine, lad. I can handle the rest.” She knelt to unzip the case. “Hope you haven’t been waiting long.”
“Not long.”
“Good.” She paused in her unpacking to stick out a hand. “Ilskund, Karina. I didn’t catch your name?”
“I don’t think my name is essential here.” Green hells, he sounded as cold and snide as Malsha. Gersha would have been shocked.
Karina withdrew her hand. “Suit yourself—though it might be easier if I knew what to call you. I’ll be a moment setting up, and then we can start.”
Tilrey returned to the window. The view was nothing special—other people’s windows, and between them an alley offering a distant glimpse of the jet-black monoliths of the Sector. The light blued as the sun fell. He kept expecting the snow to thicken or stop, but no, just sparse, dry flakes filtering down. This hour caught between day and dusk made him ache with loneliness, remembering the white nights he’d spent with Gersha in the Southern Range.
Don’t be an idiot. He would see Gersha tomorrow morning. Normally by this time he would be on his knees sucking Saldegren’s cock, doing his job and keeping all thoughts of Gersha properly compartmentalized. But everything was wrong tonight; everything was off. It was the photographer’s fault.
“We’re almost ready. Would you mind taking a few pulls of this?”
She was holding out a flask. “What’s that?” he asked.
“To help you relax.” Karina’s skinny face wasn’t memorable, but her heavy-lidded eyes had a compelling glint to them, a watchfulness. “Nothing heavy—just comfrey tea, honey, and a third of a V of sap.”
“I don’t need that.” The tie of Tilrey’s robe had loosened. He gave it a tug and let the garment fall open, standing tall and rolling back his shoulders to show her what she had to work with. “Ready.”
Karina didn’t seem to register his display. “I know this isn’t easy. But when you’re tense, it shows in the final product.”
“I’m not tense.” Maybe this woman had seen enough cocks not to care about one more, but he felt stupid. He grabbed her flask and took a careful sip. “I just want this over with.”
“And that’s what the camera picks up—your impatience. Would you mind drinking a little more of that, just as a favor to me?”
It felt strange to be asked politely instead of ordered—almost like being with Gersha. Maybe that was why Tilrey kept drinking, noting how his nervous system reacted to the modest concentration of sap in the mixture. Experience had taught him exactly how much he could take. When he handed the flask back, he was a little fuzzy-headed, but still in control.
“Would you mind if I touched your face?” Karina asked in that same courteous way. “Just so I can get a better look at you?”
He slumped against the windowframe so she could take his face lightly between her hands—hand-knitted half-gloves, cold fingertips—and peer into it. “Look away from me. Around the room.”
He looked. She’d set up several shiny discs on poles, angled to reflect the daylight. There were a few long-necked lights, too, plugged into outlets but not turned on.
“Do I need makeup?” He carried around a tube of tinted cream he’d started using when he lived with Magistrate Linden, to cover the bruises.
“No.” Karina released him. “It wouldn’t be an improvement. Could you stand the way you were before, by the window? Looking out, showing me your profile?”
Tilrey tried to find the pose again, but it felt unnatural. “I don’t want to do this,” he muttered, the sap loosening his inhibitions. “I told the Fir. It was his idea.”
“It always is, isn’t it?” Karina didn’t seem perturbed. “What were you thinking of earlier, when you were looking out the window? Could you think of it again?”
Images and sensations flooded back before Tilrey could stop them. Gersha’s white throat, bared as he arched his back in ecstasy. Black lashes on pale cheeks. A warm arm around Tilrey’s shoulders, pulling him close. A tenor voice with the slightest tremor: I love you.
“Oh good. Very good. If you could stay like that.”
Her camera made little whirring sounds. Tilrey could see it from the corner of his eye: a black cube blinking at him. His throat tightened. He didn’t want to think about Gersha when he was in Saldegren’s bedchamber, didn’t want to pollute Gersha that way.
“Relax.” Still the soothing tone. “There’s nothing to worry about. You can’t do anything wrong.”
No? “All of this is wrong,” he said, clenching jaw and fists at once. “You think this is what I want from life? To be wank material for every Upstart in Redda for the next few decades?”
A soft snort of laughter. “That many for that long, wanking over you? You think a lot of yourself.”
“I don’t mean that, it’s just—” But she had a point. “Okay, not every Upstart. But enough of them. I know how stuff gets passed around.”
“Tilrey. I need you relaxed, remember?”
He looked straight at her. “You do know my name.”
“Fir Councillor mentioned it.” Karina lowered the camera so he could see the gray circles under her eyes. “Look, I know you’re not happy with this, but it’s my job and your job. And we have to do our jobs, don’t we?”
He turned back to the window. The snow was still drifting. “So you’re not going to tell me the photo won’t get passed around? Like the Fir did?”
The whir of the shutter answered for her.
“Fuck it,” Tilrey muttered. The longer he stayed with Gersha, the more likely Gersha would see these pictures. He could already see Gersha’s pained face as he looked up from a message from Verán on his handheld: Why didn’t you tell me?
“When people pass it around, it won’t be you anymore,” Karina said. “Not really.”
“Who else would it be?” It’s not your fault, Gersha would be quick to assure Tilrey. But the pained expression would remain.
“People will see whatever they choose to see in it. Fantasies. An ideal, maybe. The lover they dream of.” She lowered the camera and unscrewed the lens. “That’s good for the window. We’ll take the rest on the bed. Could you muss it up a little, then lie on top of the covers? Close the robe, but tie it loosely. You want to look like you’re napping after a bout of passion with your lover.”
“Bout of passion, huh?” Tilrey went over and disarranged the bed while she moved the reflectors into new positions. “I thought we were doing our jobs.”
“And passion’s never part of your job?” She tilted her head, watching as he stretched out and adjusted his robe to offer just a peek of thigh. When he propped himself on one elbow, she said, “You look like you’re posing. Tell me, isn’t there a single Councillor you prefer to the others? One who makes your blood race?”
Tilrey hoped she couldn’t see the flush in his cheeks. “Is that what you ask the whores from the Sanctioned when you aim your camera at them? Whether they feel sentimental about any of their patrons?”
“Fuck sentimentality. I don’t mean that.”
He rolled his eyes. “Enlighten me.”
“I’m talking about that waterlogged feeling you get when you’ve been rubbed all the right ways by someone you like. When you’re beautifully sated and almost ready for a second round.” She sat down on the edge of the bed, peered through the viewfinder, then stood up again. “I need you to lounge the way you would if you were dozing off a mind-blowing orgasm. And think about the person who gave it to you.”
“I don’t have mind-blowing orgasms.” He hated her for making him think about things that had no place here. He sounded prim and awful, but he didn’t care. “I give them. That’s what I’m for.”
“If that’s true, it sounds very sad.” She circled the bed, trying another angle. “When I look at you, I don’t see an object for other people’s pleasure. I see someone who thinks and feels. Surely someone else sees that, too?”
Again that warmth in his face. Gersha’s firm hand on his cock. Flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes. Gersha’s voice raised, telling him to come. Gersha’s wet mouth—
Shit. He tugged the robe over his swelling cock, mortified. Had she seen? But no, she was busy adjusting a reflector.
If he had to do this, he would think about after instead of during. Waiting in bed for Gersha to return, his whole body heavy with satisfaction, his eyelids drooping. Knowing it was only the afternoon of a long vacation day, and they had the whole night ahead of them.
The shutter whirred. “That’s more like it,” Karina said in the soft, coaxing voice she’d used earlier. “Turn toward me, but keep your eyes open just a slit? Yes. Yes. Now roll on your back and let the robe fall open. But not on purpose—you’re not performing. You’re just napping and waiting for . . . him? Her? Whoever it is, you don’t need to pose for them. They like you just as you are.”
The simple, pedestrian phrase made Tilrey blush again with surprising force. Does anyone really like me as I am? Even Gersha? To cover up the stab of feeling, he said, “I still don’t understand what you meant before. When you said the pictures wouldn’t be me.”
“Could you find a more natural way to put your arms? They’re too stiff at your sides.” She was moving around the bed, the camera clicking and whirring at intervals. “You still won’t understand if I explain it, because none of us really do. I’m not just capturing pieces of reality in this camera. I’m making art.”
Art. Tilrey had heard Malsha use the word, often to translate something in a Harbourer text. It was for decoration, not information. “Like the roof of the foyer in the Lounge. With the Feudal designs.” It had never occurred to him to think of a photograph that way. “But photos show reality.”
“Do they?” She was kneeling beside the bed, angling the camera up at him. “Try your arms above your head—but natural, like you’re stretching.”
He stretched, and she nodded in his peripheral vision. “Good. Considering how easily we make and share images, it’s bizarre how little respect we have for them. My mentor used to say most people can’t wrap their brains around the difference between an ID photo and a work of art.”
Was there a difference? “Photos are for documentation and surveillance,” Tilrey pointed out. “I mean, unless they’re like these, for people to jerk off to.”
“Right, right. Government surveillance and cheap wank material. But believe me, images can be something else, something better, and our senses know it. Our bodies know.”
Her voice throbbed as the camera whirred again. “Head toward me—not quite that much. Better. Now open your eyes, but don’t look at me. Look toward the window. You’re waiting for him. He’s coming.”
Tilrey’s cock was still just hard enough to be a pleasant weight between his legs. He let his thighs fall open and gazed off toward the window—here I am, take me as you like. He imagined Gersha’s warm breath on his neck, Gersha’s half-clothed body lowering itself on top of him. Kisses on his collarbone, teeth briefly catching his nipple.
And before he knew what he was doing, he was arching his back and offering his throat to receive the kisses, letting his head fall back. Presenting himself for the taking.
Click. Whir. Tilrey froze up. His arm was cramping, and he didn’t like what he’d just shown her.
But her voice wasn’t any different when she asked him to roll over on his front and push the robe aside, baring his ass.
Well, that was predictable. At least his face wasn’t in these shots, so he could clench his jaw all he liked as she instructed him first to lie naturally, then to raise his hips.
A few more clicks and whirs, and then he heard the clinking of moving equipment again. “Where do you want me now?” he asked, rolling over.
Karina was folding up one of the reflector stands. “Wherever you like. We’re done.”
“We’re done?” Tilrey sat up. This was all he’d wanted, but somehow it felt premature. “Are you sure you got what you needed? What the Fir wants?”
The photographer tucked the metal stand into her bag with deft, practiced movements. “I’m sure.”
“And was it art?” He yanked his robe closed and tied it, suddenly mortified by the arousal he’d experienced earlier. “Or just cheap wank material?”
She shrugged. She wasn’t looking at him anymore, as if her eyes were weary of him. “Sometimes the difference is in the eye of the beholder. But when you look at the final product, I hope you’ll see a little of what I saw.”
“And what’s that?” He felt stupid asking.
Karina hoisted the poles over her shoulder. In the doorway, she said, “A young man full of love and restless energy. Who is going to learn to use both one day.”
“Was that so bad?” Saldegren asked. He was on top of Tilrey, face to face, taking the first shallow, considerate strokes inside him.
The Councillor paused to gather his breath, then thrust in again with a soft moan. “She seems—oh, green hills and valleys—good at what she does. They say there’s only one master photographer in every generation. That person trains a sole apprentice. Fuck, that’s good. I’m not hurting you, am I?”
Tilrey knew how to pretend for Saldegren—raise his hips, close his eyes, bare his throat the way he’d done for the photographer. This time he didn’t do any of it, just kept his gaze upward and his face calm. “No, Fir. Totally fine.”
“You’re still angry at me, aren’t you?” Halfway inside him, Saldegren reached for Tilrey’s cock, and Tilrey had to squelch an impulse to slap the man’s hand away. “I wish you’d trust me, love. No one, no one outside Verán’s circle will see those pics.”
“I’m sure.” Tilrey shifted irritably, feeling a cramp in his thigh coming on. Saldegren was so heavy. “I’m ready, Fir. Would you please go ahead and enjoy yourself?”
“I hate when you get like this. It’s like you’re trying to punish me.” But Saldegren’s cock had its own view of the situation, and soon he was bracing himself on his elbows and rutting hard and fast into Tilrey with no thought for anyone’s pleasure but his own.
Tilrey breathed through it and stared up at the canopy. Outside, it was blue dusk now, as close to night as it would get at this season.
He wondered if everybody who ended up seeing the photos would fantasize about possessing his body the way Saldegren was right now. Or would some viewers see something different, possibly even what Karina claimed to see?
A young man full of love and restless energy. He wasn’t a man, just a boy who wasn’t even sure what love was. And learn to use both one day—she sounded like one of those fortune tellers who lurked in the Outer Ring, preying on superstitious Laborers.
Still.
Tilrey hoped Gersha would never see the photos. At the same time, just a bit, he hoped Gersha would.
Year 354 (present day)
“Well?” the Brothel director asked. “What do you think?”
Einara gazed at the tablet screen. A young man in bed, head thrown back and robe open just enough to expose a muscled chest and thigh. It looked like one of the posed shots the director kept for each member of her stable, the gallery from which Upstart patrons chose their pleasures.
But this boy didn’t work here; she’d never seen him before. And there was something a little too abandoned in his expression, something dangerous. She imagined him rearing up off the bed and striding over to take her by the shoulders, letting the robe fall as he came. How his eyes would blaze. How tight and warm his grip would be.
It was strange to feel a flicker of attraction for anyone. She didn’t let it show on her face. “I don’t know him, Fir’n. Is he in streams?”
Hulda chuckled. “No. This is the one I told you about. Councillor Linbeck’s little friend—our vital and dangerous ally.”
“Him? Tilrey Bronn?” Einara tried to reconcile what she was seeing with what Hulda had told her about Councillor Gádden’s secretary. A bright young man who’d been to Harbour and spoke the language. He was the one who’d discovered the existence of people like her, Harbourers sent to infiltrate Oslov. So he was also the danger that Hulda protected Einara from, the reason she had to do (or appear to do) everything Hulda said.
She’d imagined Tilrey Bronn a little like her trainer, Artur, beady-eyed and intense. Nothing like this. “He looks like a whore,” she said. “He is a whore, isn’t he?”
“He spent years as a kettle boy, the bed partner of two General Magistrates. The photos are from that time.” Hulda sank down on the couch beside Einara and tipped the younger woman’s chin up. “How do you think he charmed Linbeck?” A stroke on the cheek. “Pretty and deadly, much like yourself.”
Einara cast her eyes down, but she didn’t pull away. “When will I meet him?” The thought gave her a small, exquisite shiver down her spine. Anyone who could splay himself out that way for a lover and then engineer power plays in the Council was versatile indeed. And skilled in pretending, though probably not as skilled as herself.
Hulda plucked the tablet from her hand. “Not any time soon, my love. I’m showing you so you know what we have to work with—or against. I see Bronn now and then, but those are exclusive meetings, not for you.”
“Why do I need to know what he looks like, then?” Einara tried not to let the disappointment show. Try as she would, she couldn’t help fantasizing about going places and meeting new people. She’d been cooped up in this building for years, forbidden even to step outside, right smack in the middle of a city that she’d only seen once briefly from the window of a mag-car.
Hulda’s finger traced the seam of Einara’s lips. “I’m old, sweet girl. If I happened to die unexpectedly, you might need to take my place. Which means you’d need to deal directly with Tilrey Bronn, which means you should be able to recognize him.”
Einara opened her lips and sucked on the finger automatically. Take my place. It was the first time Hulda had so strongly suggested she might be grooming Einara as her successor, both at the Brothel and in the True Hearth.
Einara’s breathing quickened. In the several months since Irin Dartán’s death—or disappearance, as it was still officially considered—she’d been seeing fewer patrons and spending more time with Hulda, sucking up the woman’s knowledge. Making herself indispensable in every way she could. But Hulda was so cautious and close-mouthed that it was hard to tell when you were winning her trust.
After Hulda removed the finger, she said, “I can’t meet Secretary Bronn until you die, then?”
The old woman laughed, stroking Einara’s hair back from her forehead. “You sound eager for that to happen. Do you really think running this place is so easy?”
Another rush of elation, but Einara didn’t let it show. “I didn’t mean anything like that, Fir’n. I’m curious about Bronn, that’s all.”
“Understandably. But he works in the light, clearing a path for us in the Council. High Upstarts trust him. Too much contact with any of us, down here in our dark and sordid depths, would endanger that trust.”
Einara couldn’t repress a snort. “Sordid depths? Looking at that picture, I don’t see how his work’s much different from ours.”
“You’re not wrong.” The director’s voice was growing lower, more intimate. “His tools are similar. But it’s best not to draw his Upstart friends’ attention to that likeness. They believe in clear boundaries—Strutter versus Drudge, the Brothel versus the world beyond the Brothel. They think by limiting our movements they can keep their own weaknesses safe inside the cordon, too.”
“I have so much to learn from you, Fir’n,” Einara murmured submissively. It was true, but she learned fast. If Tilrey Bronn had changed his fate, she could, too.
Hulda’s small, hooded eyes bored into hers. “Don’t give me your fake humility, girl. You haven’t even passed your first real test yet.”
Einara reached for Hulda’s hand. Caressed it, brought it to her lips. “Maybe that’s because you haven’t told me what the test is.”
“Oh, we’re getting to that.” The woman drew in her breath. “Those eyes of yours. You are the very devil sometimes.”
“Am I?” Einara asked innocently, her hand creeping under Hulda’s robe.
The whole time she thought of the golden boy spread out on the bed, looking so eager to be touched and probably feeling nothing. If he could seize power by the neck and throttle it and make it his, then so could she.