Chapter 15: Best-Laid Plans — The Key of Oslov

Volume 15: Tales From the Sanctioned Brothel: Part 2: The Lure

Chapter 15 Best-Laid Plans

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

“Ceill?” Gersha cracked open the door. “I wasn’t sure if you were home yet.”Ceill was sprawled on his bed scrolling through his latest crop of photos, deciding which to save and print. He fought an impulse to hide the camera; that would just tell his dad something was up. “I’ve been home a while,” he said casually.He didn’t mention why he hadn’t come to say hello: Gersha and Tilrey had been arguing in the other room. Ceill hadn’t heard much, because neither was a shouter, but Gersha’s snippiness and Tilrey’s cold annoyance were hard to miss. It gave him an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.“Did you take more photos? Can I see?” Gersha came over, beaming with childish excitement.Ceill quickly closed the folder he’d been examining and scrolled to one that didn’t hold any images from the Brothel. Why did his dad have to be so damn involved with everything he did? Or maybe Gersha feared he’d heard the argument and was doing his best to pretend nothing was wrong.He clicked through innocuous images of snowy buildings—studies in light and shadow, he hoped, though these days he had little light to work with. Gersha watched over his shoulder, exclaiming at practically every image: “Oh, that’s nice! The way light hits the side of the Records building, it looks like water flowing down. You see such fascinating things, Ceill.”If you only knew. “These are all muddy. I’ll get better shots when the sun comes back.”“No doubt!” Gersha sat down on the bed, signaling that he hadn’t come just to admire Ceill’s hobby. “How’s that engineering review going? Want me to test you on the parts of an HV system?”“I did that with Claes last period. A thousand times.” Verdant green hells with burbling brooks, Ceill had never wanted to be done with anything like he wanted to be done with the E-Squareds. He didn’t need to know the parts of an HV system any more than he really needed to know how to write code. From what he could tell, the whole battery of tests was based on what some stuck-up elites a century ago had considered essential knowledge for other stuck-up elites, mixed with practical skills so they could kid themselves into thinking the average person could survive any disaster and rebuild Oslov from scratch.Ceill didn’t want to survive a disaster and rebuild Oslov from scratch. “I’m studying, Dad,” he said glumly. “I know what happens next month.”“Ah. Of course.” Gersha looked unhappy, too, perhaps nostalgic for the days when Ceill would willingly sit through hours of tutoring to make his father proud.Ceill still wanted to make Gersha proud. He was just tired of all the things that mattered being things he sucked at, while the things he enjoyed and was good at—skiing, climbing, photography, writing streams, keeping secrets—had no bearing on his future at all.“I meant to ask,” Gersha said, “are you free for dinner next third-day? We’re working on getting Councillor Akeina’s support for a very important bill.”Ceill went cold at the thought of Ludo’s Councillor mother. “Will her family come?”“No, no.” Gersha spoke with such strained assurance that Ceill was suddenly sure he and Tilrey had been arguing about Councillor Akeina. “She and her husband don’t get on, it seems. But she expressed a desire to meet you.” He got up. “Tilrey talks so much about you at the office, you see.”Ceill didn’t believe for a second that was the reason. Fir’n Akeina was probably curious about the rumored misbirth and eager to see if he favored Tilrey as much as people said. His dads often complained that the Sector ran on gossip.And now, because they needed a vote, they were serving him up as gossip fodder. No, thanks. He was about to refuse to show up for dinner when he abruptly remembered something more important than his pride: what Akeina’s husband, Councillor Lindthardt, had done to Stefan.“Dad,” he said, “is there a way to help somebody who’s been posted against their will?”Gersha looked troubled. “It’s always possible to appeal a posting. But when it’s done with the intention of shirking work, the appeal’s less likely to be successful. Why? Are you worried about—”“No, not me!” How on earth could he frame this? “It’s somebody from my school, a boy who was Notified last year, I think. He’s a Laborer, and he was working in the Sector and made a Councillor angry, and . . .” An idea came. “His younger brother’s a friend of mine. This boy, the older brother—the Councillor had him posted to the Sanctioned Brothel without his consent. That shouldn’t happen, should it?”Gersha looked distinctly pained now. “It certainly shouldn’t,” he said, emphasizing each word. “But have you spoken with the older brother yourself, to make sure he didn’t want to be posted to the Brothel? Or only to the younger one?”Ceill hung his head. He couldn’t admit he’d been to the Brothel. “The younger one. But why would my friend lie about that?”“I’m not suggesting he’s lying. Not at all.” His father looked more and more uncomfortable. “But sometimes these families of Reddan Laborers are very proud, and they may not want their name associated with . . . well, that. Anyway, to bring an appeal, you would need a sworn statement from the complainant himself.”Ceill could imagine how scathingly Stefan would react to a request for a “sworn statement.” He had no trust in the system, and who could blame him?But his lie had given him an idea. Maybe Stefan did have family members who would have some sway over him. “I’ll tell my friend that,” he said. “If there was a sworn statement, would you be able to help? You or Tilrey?”Gersha paused in the doorway. “I hope we would, Ceill. I’m glad you have friends from different backgrounds, and I’m glad you’re concerned about this. It—I—” He dropped his eyes. “When I was your age, it would never have occurred to me that the posting system could be misused or abused. I’m glad you’re able to think for yourself.”From long experience with Gersha, Ceill could hear a but coming. “But . . .?”“But when Councillors are involved, things can be delicate.” Gersha sighed. “Tilrey can explain better than I can. Maybe we can talk about it next third-day, after our guest leaves—you’ll be there, won’t you?”Now it was Ceill’s turn to sigh. “Okay.”*

Feb. 5. Resort trailhead. Dusk. News to brief you on.

All Bors Dartán’s messages were terse and uninformative. When Valgund found this one in the hollow of the gnarled pine on Kvesh Knoll—their securest means of communication—he wasn’t sure what to expect. Five ten-days had passed since their last meeting, with no word.On the appointed day at the appointed time, he did his morning rounds as usual and met his strange friend at the trailhead closest to the resort complex.Bors’s face was glowing, not just from the bitter cold, while his overall demeanor was even twitchier than usual. They didn’t embrace—not that Valgund expected to—but they did clasp both hands, their eyes meeting.Neither spoke. Bors hitched a shoulder toward the trail as if to say, Come on, we can’t talk here. Valgund followed him into the woods, amused by this typical air of secrecy.They hiked at least ten minutes through the sharp blue dusk before Bors finally spoke, ushering Valgund onto a narrow branching trail. “We’re meeting them on Veildda Point.”“Meeting who?” During Bors’s long midwinter absence, Valgund had secured a supply of Rhizoctonia muirthorni and read up on the process of injecting trees with fungal solutions, distracting himself pleasantly with his little project. He’d also done some thinking—okay, some fantasizing—about his friend. He had a hunch that, for all his bossiness, Bors might like someone else to take charge in bed, and the thought was oddly exciting.Even now, as they walked, Valgund imagined how the spy might look with his skinny neck bared and his eyes slitted in ecstasy. Those eyes were almost blue in certain lights. Long ago, before he decided to take the security of the Republic on his shoulders, Bors might even have been a handsome boy.But Valgund couldn’t let himself get carried away with fantasies. The more practical problem of Bors’s phantom—or non-existent?—allies remained.The near-dark couldn’t conceal the excited glitter of Bors’s eyes. “You’ll see!” he said. Then, as if he lacked the strength to keep Valgund in suspense a second longer, he hissed, “Northmen!”Bors had enlisted the fucking Northmen? Valgund felt a little dizzy. As they climbed the steep path to Veildda Point, clinging to trees for support, he tried to ask questions. But Bors just kept saying infuriatingly, “We’re almost there!”Sure enough, they soon emerged into a tiny clearing, a dimple in the slope, where someone had built a neat, round snow shelter in the Outer fashion. A thread of smoke unfurled from the hole at the top.A form solidified among the trees to their right—a burly woman with a silver braid dangling to her waist. Over her shoulder she carried what looked like a homemade bow and a quiver of arrows. “Here for the hunting party?” she asked in a Thurskein accent, sneering a little.Glancing at Bors, Valgund understood why. Taken by surprise, the spy had adopted a comical defensive posture. A moment later, though, Bors drew himself up proudly and said, “The game is on the run today, sister.”The woman tipped her head toward the shelter. Valgund looked to Bors for guidance. Were they really going blind into close quarters with an unknown number of Free Northmen?Apparently so. With no further hesitation, Bors bent to crawl through the shelter’s low opening. Steeling himself, Valgund followed him.Lawless or not, the Northmen wouldn’t hurt him, he told himself. When Bors first questioned him, Valgund had said the Northmen took no notice of him, but actually he assumed they were as aware of his presence in the woods as he was of theirs. If they were smart, they knew he could have reported them long ago.Inside the shelter, a woman and three men—one of them more of a boy—sat shoulder to shoulder around the smoldering fire. The other woman had stayed outside, presumably as a sentry.“Welcome,” said the man in the center. He was clean-shaven, with lips that formed a pleasant smile and compelling dark eyes that scrutinized them, not smiling at all.“Aleks Snowblind,” Bors said, sitting down on his haunches. His eyes glowed again, now with an odd wistfulness, as if the Northman were a long-lost lover. “My name is Bors.”“First names only, eh? That suits us.” Aleks’s eyes moved to Valgund. “And you?”“Gunsha.” The nickname sounded a little less obviously high-Upstart.“He’s the botanist,” Bors said, sounding a little breathless. “I’m the security expert.”Aleks arched a brow. Valgund suspected he knew very well that Bors was Int/Sec. “This is Lasha,” he said, indicating a red-bearded man to his right, “and Bronia”—a keen-eyed, broad-shouldered woman—“and Janta”—the one who barely looked out of his teens. “Einara tells me we have a plan to discuss, involving some ailing trees.”“If Einara trusts you, then we trust you,” Bors said in his stiff way. He still seemed awed just to be talking to the Northmen’s leader, leaving Valgund unsure whether to be jealous or amused.“Trust comes with fellowship,” Aleks said noncommittally. “We’re here to listen.”Bors slid off his backpack and unzipped it. “Before we decide who’ll play what role, I want to show you some surveillance photos of—”He broke off as, seemingly from nowhere, Lasha produced a long knife. Bronia had a pistol. Both were trained steadily on Bors. Valgund’s breath froze in his throat as he, like Bors, went statue-still.“My people can be jumpy,” Aleks said in a friendly way. “Be kind enough to hand me that so they don’t get the wrong idea.”After a moment, Bors handed over the pack, scowling. “Don’t touch my handheld.”“I wouldn’t dream of it, Fir.” A sweet smile. “Now, what am I looking for? Photos, you say?” Aleks pulled out the stiff printouts and examined them. “I see. Very nice, but they’re night shots. You do realize we’ll have to see the site for ourselves before we plan an infiltration?”“I have a plan.” Bors sounded exasperated.Valgund touched his friend’s arm, silently advising him to simmer down. “I’m the one who led Bors to the site,” he said, facing Aleks. “I can show you, too—tonight, if you like. But first we should go over a few basics. It’s in the twelfth mountain quadrant, accessible only by helicopter. The helipad’s just outside the enclosure, which has an alarmed fence maybe ten meters high and four guard towers, one at each corner.”As he spoke, he reached over and pointed out each feature on the photo in Aleks’s hand. The Northmen bent close over the fire to see better, murmuring to one another.“Janta can disable the fence,” Lasha said with a wink at the youth. “Anything with wires, he can knock out. The bigger problem is the surveillance.”“I’ll handle that.” Bors said grandly. “I have a device.”“He has a scrambler,” Valgund explained. “Government-issue.”The Northmen looked impressed. “We’ll still need to distract the guards on the side where we breach the fence,” Bronia said. “Can’t have them checking their monitors and seeing a scrambled feed.”They were all silent for a moment, watching the embers glow as they contemplated the problem. Then Lasha said, “Twelfth quadrant is right next door to the air guard base. If they process the sap on-site, they probably bring it to the base for distribution. They wouldn’t want to fly the cargo any farther—too obvious.”“Must be a shit job,” Bronia said, “being out there in the middle of nowhere. A trip to the base would be like a vacation.”“And that’s where the Sweetbush staff finds their amusements, their R-and-R.” Aleks snapped his fingers. “Their whores. There’s quite a little brothel in the Outer village next to the base, if I remember correctly.”Bronia nodded. “Bers used to be stationed there. He knows all the good-time boys and girls.”Aleks’s eyes were sparkling at last. “When the guards get lonely in the Sweetbush, they probably invite company back from the base. Let’s find out who and when. With a little extra motivation for the ‘entertainment,’ we’ll make sure they keep the guards occupied.”Bors was looking uncomfortable. “You don’t really put that much trust in whores? I mean, no offense to them, but anyone who can be bought easily . . .”“These aren’t like your Reddan whores, my good Fir Int/Sec Agent.” Bors’s jaw clenched, and Aleks smiled that dimply smile again. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “Yes, of course I know who you work for. How else would you have access to a scrambler on government frequencies?”Bors glowered. “We’re here to do a job. Nothing else is relevant.”“You’re right about that.” Aleks’s eyes moved around the circle. Lasha, who looked ready to go for his weapon again if Bors presented a threat, visibly relaxed when he met his leader’s gaze.“Anyway, as I was saying, these aren’t Reddan whores,” Aleks said. “They’re Skeinshaka and Outers, and some of them have had friends and family and lovers murdered by the Republic.” He met Bors’s eyes. “Or did you forget the army straight-up kills Outers who don’t comply with its relocation plans? Really, working in Int/Sec, I feel like you should know these things.”“Violence is used as a last resort,” Bors said in a thick voice. “Anyway, Outers who choose to live in a state of savagery pose a threat to civilization.”“Have you ever even met one of these so-called savages?”“We give them chances to assimilate. Always.” But Bors looked as if he were walking on ice that had just cracked under him.Valgund caught his friend’s elbow again. Stroking it to quell Bors’s trembling, he said, “This doesn’t seem like the time or place to air our political disagreements. We agree on injecting the trees, I think, and we trust you to find a distraction for the guards. Shall we go see the site now?”The Northmen all looked eager to get out of the smoky shelter. But they waited for Aleks’s nod before cramming themselves out the door.“Walk ahead with me,” Aleks said to Valgund once they were outside. With a subtle tilt of his head—Valgund barely caught it—he ordered Lasha and Bronia to flank Bors.Bors looked unhappy with the arrangement, but they were outnumbered. Valgund did his best to calm him with a glance. Then he led the way through the snowy darkness toward the trail that would take them up Mount Eisha to the lookout point.“I know you,” Aleks said as they navigated the steep path between icy crags, a tunnel of spruce hiding the sky. “You live in Fir Councillor Gádden’s villa. Fir’n Admin Linnett is your sister.”Fear closed Valgund’s throat—he’d figured they were watching him, but not quite that closely. He managed to ask in a steady voice, “You followed me?”“Anyone we see in the woods regularly, we know who they are. And we have our connections in ’Skein.”Intuition told Valgund who the main connection was. “Mal Sollentaal.” Over lazy fireside conversations at Vera’s house, Mal had hinted more than once that he moved like a spy among all strata of the city, reporting back to Tilrey’s mother. Apparently he’d been helpful to Aleks, too. “I suppose he told you I have a history of anti-government resentment.”The Northman smiled blandly, neither confirming nor denying. “I’m not worried about your loyalties, Fir Linnett—excuse me, Gunsha, if that’s what you prefer. You may not be one of us, but I know you walk a different path from the rest of your family.”“I’m loyal to these woods,” Valgund blurted out. “I love my family, but institutions like the Republic—well, I don’t have much use for them. They treat this whole mountain range like a resource to exploit.”He would have felt silly admitting this to Bors. But Aleks nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world to pay allegiance to trees. “Your friend, though,” he said. “I’ve been told by his allies in Redda that I can trust him, but I have to wonder about his motivation. Was he passed over for promotion at Int/Sec?”Valgund remembered all the times he’d asked himself the same question. In his artless way, though, without spelling it out, Bors had given him all the answer he needed.“My friend loves the Republic like his own mother,” he told Aleks. “Probably more than his own mother, actually. I took some time to trust him, too, but I haven’t regretted it.”“Does he know what we stand for?”“Bors’s business is to know things.” Valgund let a smile spread over his face. “He was born a Laborer, Aleks. They taught him to hate himself, and he tried diligently, but he never entirely learned how. He’s secretly convinced he knows what’s best for all of us. And he loves the Republic so much he wants to save it from itself.”

“Ceill?” Gersha cracked open the door. “I wasn’t sure if you were home yet.”

Ceill was sprawled on his bed scrolling through his latest crop of photos, deciding which to save and print. He fought an impulse to hide the camera; that would just tell his dad something was up. “I’ve been home a while,” he said casually.

He didn’t mention why he hadn’t come to say hello: Gersha and Tilrey had been arguing in the other room. Ceill hadn’t heard much, because neither was a shouter, but Gersha’s snippiness and Tilrey’s cold annoyance were hard to miss. It gave him an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach.

“Did you take more photos? Can I see?” Gersha came over, beaming with childish excitement.

Ceill quickly closed the folder he’d been examining and scrolled to one that didn’t hold any images from the Brothel. Why did his dad have to be so damn involved with everything he did? Or maybe Gersha feared he’d heard the argument and was doing his best to pretend nothing was wrong.

He clicked through innocuous images of snowy buildings—studies in light and shadow, he hoped, though these days he had little light to work with. Gersha watched over his shoulder, exclaiming at practically every image: “Oh, that’s nice! The way light hits the side of the Records building, it looks like water flowing down. You see such fascinating things, Ceill.”

If you only knew. “These are all muddy. I’ll get better shots when the sun comes back.”

“No doubt!” Gersha sat down on the bed, signaling that he hadn’t come just to admire Ceill’s hobby. “How’s that engineering review going? Want me to test you on the parts of an HV system?”

“I did that with Claes last period. A thousand times.” Verdant green hells with burbling brooks, Ceill had never wanted to be done with anything like he wanted to be done with the E-Squareds. He didn’t need to know the parts of an HV system any more than he really needed to know how to write code. From what he could tell, the whole battery of tests was based on what some stuck-up elites a century ago had considered essential knowledge for other stuck-up elites, mixed with practical skills so they could kid themselves into thinking the average person could survive any disaster and rebuild Oslov from scratch.

Ceill didn’t want to survive a disaster and rebuild Oslov from scratch. “I’m studying, Dad,” he said glumly. “I know what happens next month.”

“Ah. Of course.” Gersha looked unhappy, too, perhaps nostalgic for the days when Ceill would willingly sit through hours of tutoring to make his father proud.

Ceill still wanted to make Gersha proud. He was just tired of all the things that mattered being things he sucked at, while the things he enjoyed and was good at—skiing, climbing, photography, writing streams, keeping secrets—had no bearing on his future at all.

“I meant to ask,” Gersha said, “are you free for dinner next third-day? We’re working on getting Councillor Akeina’s support for a very important bill.”

Ceill went cold at the thought of Ludo’s Councillor mother. “Will her family come?”

“No, no.” Gersha spoke with such strained assurance that Ceill was suddenly sure he and Tilrey had been arguing about Councillor Akeina. “She and her husband don’t get on, it seems. But she expressed a desire to meet you.” He got up. “Tilrey talks so much about you at the office, you see.”

Ceill didn’t believe for a second that was the reason. Fir’n Akeina was probably curious about the rumored misbirth and eager to see if he favored Tilrey as much as people said. His dads often complained that the Sector ran on gossip.

And now, because they needed a vote, they were serving him up as gossip fodder. No, thanks. He was about to refuse to show up for dinner when he abruptly remembered something more important than his pride: what Akeina’s husband, Councillor Lindthardt, had done to Stefan.

“Dad,” he said, “is there a way to help somebody who’s been posted against their will?”

Gersha looked troubled. “It’s always possible to appeal a posting. But when it’s done with the intention of shirking work, the appeal’s less likely to be successful. Why? Are you worried about—”

“No, not me!” How on earth could he frame this? “It’s somebody from my school, a boy who was Notified last year, I think. He’s a Laborer, and he was working in the Sector and made a Councillor angry, and . . .” An idea came. “His younger brother’s a friend of mine. This boy, the older brother—the Councillor had him posted to the Sanctioned Brothel without his consent. That shouldn’t happen, should it?”

Gersha looked distinctly pained now. “It certainly shouldn’t,” he said, emphasizing each word. “But have you spoken with the older brother yourself, to make sure he didn’t want to be posted to the Brothel? Or only to the younger one?”

Ceill hung his head. He couldn’t admit he’d been to the Brothel. “The younger one. But why would my friend lie about that?”

“I’m not suggesting he’s lying. Not at all.” His father looked more and more uncomfortable. “But sometimes these families of Reddan Laborers are very proud, and they may not want their name associated with . . . well, that. Anyway, to bring an appeal, you would need a sworn statement from the complainant himself.”

Ceill could imagine how scathingly Stefan would react to a request for a “sworn statement.” He had no trust in the system, and who could blame him?

But his lie had given him an idea. Maybe Stefan did have family members who would have some sway over him. “I’ll tell my friend that,” he said. “If there was a sworn statement, would you be able to help? You or Tilrey?”

Gersha paused in the doorway. “I hope we would, Ceill. I’m glad you have friends from different backgrounds, and I’m glad you’re concerned about this. It—I—” He dropped his eyes. “When I was your age, it would never have occurred to me that the posting system could be misused or abused. I’m glad you’re able to think for yourself.”

From long experience with Gersha, Ceill could hear a but coming. “But . . .?”

“But when Councillors are involved, things can be delicate.” Gersha sighed. “Tilrey can explain better than I can. Maybe we can talk about it next third-day, after our guest leaves—you’ll be there, won’t you?”

Now it was Ceill’s turn to sigh. “Okay.”

Feb. 5. Resort trailhead. Dusk. News to brief you on.

On the appointed day at the appointed time, he did his morning rounds as usual and met his strange friend at the trailhead closest to the resort complex.

Bors’s face was glowing, not just from the bitter cold, while his overall demeanor was even twitchier than usual. They didn’t embrace—not that Valgund expected to—but they did clasp both hands, their eyes meeting.

Neither spoke. Bors hitched a shoulder toward the trail as if to say, Come on, we can’t talk here. Valgund followed him into the woods, amused by this typical air of secrecy.

They hiked at least ten minutes through the sharp blue dusk before Bors finally spoke, ushering Valgund onto a narrow branching trail. “We’re meeting them on Veildda Point.”

“Meeting who?” During Bors’s long midwinter absence, Valgund had secured a supply of Rhizoctonia muirthorni and read up on the process of injecting trees with fungal solutions, distracting himself pleasantly with his little project. He’d also done some thinking—okay, some fantasizing—about his friend. He had a hunch that, for all his bossiness, Bors might like someone else to take charge in bed, and the thought was oddly exciting.

Even now, as they walked, Valgund imagined how the spy might look with his skinny neck bared and his eyes slitted in ecstasy. Those eyes were almost blue in certain lights. Long ago, before he decided to take the security of the Republic on his shoulders, Bors might even have been a handsome boy.

But Valgund couldn’t let himself get carried away with fantasies. The more practical problem of Bors’s phantom—or non-existent?—allies remained.

The near-dark couldn’t conceal the excited glitter of Bors’s eyes. “You’ll see!” he said. Then, as if he lacked the strength to keep Valgund in suspense a second longer, he hissed, “Northmen!”

Bors had enlisted the fucking Northmen? Valgund felt a little dizzy. As they climbed the steep path to Veildda Point, clinging to trees for support, he tried to ask questions. But Bors just kept saying infuriatingly, “We’re almost there!”

Sure enough, they soon emerged into a tiny clearing, a dimple in the slope, where someone had built a neat, round snow shelter in the Outer fashion. A thread of smoke unfurled from the hole at the top.

A form solidified among the trees to their right—a burly woman with a silver braid dangling to her waist. Over her shoulder she carried what looked like a homemade bow and a quiver of arrows. “Here for the hunting party?” she asked in a Thurskein accent, sneering a little.

Glancing at Bors, Valgund understood why. Taken by surprise, the spy had adopted a comical defensive posture. A moment later, though, Bors drew himself up proudly and said, “The game is on the run today, sister.”

The woman tipped her head toward the shelter. Valgund looked to Bors for guidance. Were they really going blind into close quarters with an unknown number of Free Northmen?

Apparently so. With no further hesitation, Bors bent to crawl through the shelter’s low opening. Steeling himself, Valgund followed him.

Lawless or not, the Northmen wouldn’t hurt him, he told himself. When Bors first questioned him, Valgund had said the Northmen took no notice of him, but actually he assumed they were as aware of his presence in the woods as he was of theirs. If they were smart, they knew he could have reported them long ago.

Inside the shelter, a woman and three men—one of them more of a boy—sat shoulder to shoulder around the smoldering fire. The other woman had stayed outside, presumably as a sentry.

“Welcome,” said the man in the center. He was clean-shaven, with lips that formed a pleasant smile and compelling dark eyes that scrutinized them, not smiling at all.

“Aleks Snowblind,” Bors said, sitting down on his haunches. His eyes glowed again, now with an odd wistfulness, as if the Northman were a long-lost lover. “My name is Bors.”

“First names only, eh? That suits us.” Aleks’s eyes moved to Valgund. “And you?”

“Gunsha.” The nickname sounded a little less obviously high-Upstart.

“He’s the botanist,” Bors said, sounding a little breathless. “I’m the security expert.”

Aleks arched a brow. Valgund suspected he knew very well that Bors was Int/Sec. “This is Lasha,” he said, indicating a red-bearded man to his right, “and Bronia”—a keen-eyed, broad-shouldered woman—“and Janta”—the one who barely looked out of his teens. “Einara tells me we have a plan to discuss, involving some ailing trees.”

“If Einara trusts you, then we trust you,” Bors said in his stiff way. He still seemed awed just to be talking to the Northmen’s leader, leaving Valgund unsure whether to be jealous or amused.

“Trust comes with fellowship,” Aleks said noncommittally. “We’re here to listen.”

Bors slid off his backpack and unzipped it. “Before we decide who’ll play what role, I want to show you some surveillance photos of—”

He broke off as, seemingly from nowhere, Lasha produced a long knife. Bronia had a pistol. Both were trained steadily on Bors. Valgund’s breath froze in his throat as he, like Bors, went statue-still.

“My people can be jumpy,” Aleks said in a friendly way. “Be kind enough to hand me that so they don’t get the wrong idea.”

After a moment, Bors handed over the pack, scowling. “Don’t touch my handheld.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it, Fir.” A sweet smile. “Now, what am I looking for? Photos, you say?” Aleks pulled out the stiff printouts and examined them. “I see. Very nice, but they’re night shots. You do realize we’ll have to see the site for ourselves before we plan an infiltration?”

“I have a plan.” Bors sounded exasperated.

Valgund touched his friend’s arm, silently advising him to simmer down. “I’m the one who led Bors to the site,” he said, facing Aleks. “I can show you, too—tonight, if you like. But first we should go over a few basics. It’s in the twelfth mountain quadrant, accessible only by helicopter. The helipad’s just outside the enclosure, which has an alarmed fence maybe ten meters high and four guard towers, one at each corner.”

As he spoke, he reached over and pointed out each feature on the photo in Aleks’s hand. The Northmen bent close over the fire to see better, murmuring to one another.

“Janta can disable the fence,” Lasha said with a wink at the youth. “Anything with wires, he can knock out. The bigger problem is the surveillance.”

“I’ll handle that.” Bors said grandly. “I have a device.”

“He has a scrambler,” Valgund explained. “Government-issue.”

The Northmen looked impressed. “We’ll still need to distract the guards on the side where we breach the fence,” Bronia said. “Can’t have them checking their monitors and seeing a scrambled feed.”

They were all silent for a moment, watching the embers glow as they contemplated the problem. Then Lasha said, “Twelfth quadrant is right next door to the air guard base. If they process the sap on-site, they probably bring it to the base for distribution. They wouldn’t want to fly the cargo any farther—too obvious.”

“Must be a shit job,” Bronia said, “being out there in the middle of nowhere. A trip to the base would be like a vacation.”

“And that’s where the Sweetbush staff finds their amusements, their R-and-R.” Aleks snapped his fingers. “Their whores. There’s quite a little brothel in the Outer village next to the base, if I remember correctly.”

Bronia nodded. “Bers used to be stationed there. He knows all the good-time boys and girls.”

Aleks’s eyes were sparkling at last. “When the guards get lonely in the Sweetbush, they probably invite company back from the base. Let’s find out who and when. With a little extra motivation for the ‘entertainment,’ we’ll make sure they keep the guards occupied.”

Bors was looking uncomfortable. “You don’t really put that much trust in whores? I mean, no offense to them, but anyone who can be bought easily . . .”

“These aren’t like your Reddan whores, my good Fir Int/Sec Agent.” Bors’s jaw clenched, and Aleks smiled that dimply smile again. He seemed to be enjoying himself. “Yes, of course I know who you work for. How else would you have access to a scrambler on government frequencies?”

Bors glowered. “We’re here to do a job. Nothing else is relevant.”

“You’re right about that.” Aleks’s eyes moved around the circle. Lasha, who looked ready to go for his weapon again if Bors presented a threat, visibly relaxed when he met his leader’s gaze.

“Anyway, as I was saying, these aren’t Reddan whores,” Aleks said. “They’re Skeinshaka and Outers, and some of them have had friends and family and lovers murdered by the Republic.” He met Bors’s eyes. “Or did you forget the army straight-up kills Outers who don’t comply with its relocation plans? Really, working in Int/Sec, I feel like you should know these things.”

“Violence is used as a last resort,” Bors said in a thick voice. “Anyway, Outers who choose to live in a state of savagery pose a threat to civilization.”

“Have you ever even met one of these so-called savages?”

“We give them chances to assimilate. Always.” But Bors looked as if he were walking on ice that had just cracked under him.

Valgund caught his friend’s elbow again. Stroking it to quell Bors’s trembling, he said, “This doesn’t seem like the time or place to air our political disagreements. We agree on injecting the trees, I think, and we trust you to find a distraction for the guards. Shall we go see the site now?”

The Northmen all looked eager to get out of the smoky shelter. But they waited for Aleks’s nod before cramming themselves out the door.

“Walk ahead with me,” Aleks said to Valgund once they were outside. With a subtle tilt of his head—Valgund barely caught it—he ordered Lasha and Bronia to flank Bors.

Bors looked unhappy with the arrangement, but they were outnumbered. Valgund did his best to calm him with a glance. Then he led the way through the snowy darkness toward the trail that would take them up Mount Eisha to the lookout point.

“I know you,” Aleks said as they navigated the steep path between icy crags, a tunnel of spruce hiding the sky. “You live in Fir Councillor Gádden’s villa. Fir’n Admin Linnett is your sister.”

Fear closed Valgund’s throat—he’d figured they were watching him, but not quite that closely. He managed to ask in a steady voice, “You followed me?”

“Anyone we see in the woods regularly, we know who they are. And we have our connections in ’Skein.”

Intuition told Valgund who the main connection was. “Mal Sollentaal.” Over lazy fireside conversations at Vera’s house, Mal had hinted more than once that he moved like a spy among all strata of the city, reporting back to Tilrey’s mother. Apparently he’d been helpful to Aleks, too. “I suppose he told you I have a history of anti-government resentment.”

The Northman smiled blandly, neither confirming nor denying. “I’m not worried about your loyalties, Fir Linnett—excuse me, Gunsha, if that’s what you prefer. You may not be one of us, but I know you walk a different path from the rest of your family.”

“I’m loyal to these woods,” Valgund blurted out. “I love my family, but institutions like the Republic—well, I don’t have much use for them. They treat this whole mountain range like a resource to exploit.”

He would have felt silly admitting this to Bors. But Aleks nodded as if it were the most natural thing in the world to pay allegiance to trees. “Your friend, though,” he said. “I’ve been told by his allies in Redda that I can trust him, but I have to wonder about his motivation. Was he passed over for promotion at Int/Sec?”

Valgund remembered all the times he’d asked himself the same question. In his artless way, though, without spelling it out, Bors had given him all the answer he needed.

“My friend loves the Republic like his own mother,” he told Aleks. “Probably more than his own mother, actually. I took some time to trust him, too, but I haven’t regretted it.”

“Does he know what we stand for?”

“Bors’s business is to know things.” Valgund let a smile spread over his face. “He was born a Laborer, Aleks. They taught him to hate himself, and he tried diligently, but he never entirely learned how. He’s secretly convinced he knows what’s best for all of us. And he loves the Republic so much he wants to save it from itself.”

Chapter End Notes

I’m currently drafting a huge, monster chapter, so the two chapters leading up to it may be a little short. Or maybe I’ll break up the huge chapter. Anyway, the climax and end are approaching, even if they’re taking their time.For consistency, I kept Tilrey and Gersha POV out of this story, focusing on Ceill instead as he comes into his own. But the next story will have a LOT of Tilrey POV, and I’m looking forward to getting back to him and their relationship. Thanks for reading! <3

Chapter End Notes

For consistency, I kept Tilrey and Gersha POV out of this story, focusing on Ceill instead as he comes into his own. But the next story will have a LOT of Tilrey POV, and I’m looking forward to getting back to him and their relationship. Thanks for reading! <3