Volume 16: Tales From the Sanctioned Brothel: Part 3: The Chase
Chapter 1
A Day in the Life
27 February, Year 371
7:30
“Sweetheart.” Tilrey kissed Gersha on the cheek and sat down to eat the porridge and tea that waited on the table for him. Outside in the dark, sheets of snow battered the windows. Another winter day when the sun might never show its face.“You really should’ve slept in,” he reproached his husband. “Unless you’re planning to come to the office with me?”Gersha made a face. He was still in his bathrobe, which answered Tilrey’s question. “I’ve got all kinds of data to crunch, and I’m waiting for a transmission. You know I like to be here for them.”“Of course.” It had taken Gersha years to build the proper equipment and set up his own relay stations in the Wastes so he could safely receive transmissions from Ranek and the others in Harbour.Those transmissions were invaluable, and Tilrey hated to be a nag. But a Councillor did need to show his face in the Council occasionally. “You remember tomorrow is the presentation to Int/Sec, though?” he said. “I can do the bulk of the talking, but you’ll need to at least introduce me.”“Of course! I’ll be there.”Gersha looked as relieved to be let off the hook for today as Ceill did whenever school was canceled. That reminded Tilrey—he hadn’t seen their son since Ceill took the quants portion of the E-Squareds. Hadn’t gotten a read on him. “How’s the lad? Did you see him last night?”Gersha had prepared breakfast for Tilrey but none for himself. He watched Tilrey eat with hungry eyes, as if to soak him up. “Ceillsha and I had dinner together. He’s fine.”The attention was disconcerting. Was Tilrey really that seldom at home? “He didn’t seem nervous?” he asked.The corner of Gersha’s mouth flickered. “I think the one who’s most nervous about his test results is you. I understand!” he added as Tilrey started to speak. “Of course you care a lot. So do I. But you can wait, can’t you, Rishka? You aren’t going to try to go through back-channels?”“No.” Tilrey’s jaw felt tight as a vise. “And do what, anyway? You think I’d try to alter his scores?”Gersha shook his head too quickly. “Of course not. Just check on them.”And what would be wrong with that? Gersha was already committing high treason; his insistence on following the rules of the educational system was as absurd as it was endearing. But Tilrey didn’t feel like arguing. “I’m not sure why you think I’d do that.”“You mentioned something about seeing Besha today.”“I see him all the time. Anyway,” Tilrey added, trying to turn it into a joke, “with the sorts of nonsense Besha gets up to, he’d consider hacking Notifications way beneath him.”He realized he’d said the wrong thing when Gersha didn’t smile. “We promised each other we wouldn’t interfere,” his husband said solemnly.You’re being ridiculous. But Gersha wanted to believe they were on a different ethical level from someone like Besha; you couldn’t fault him for that. Tilrey looked his husband straight in the eye. “And I won’t.”
11:04
Besha was eating a golden-green pear, the juice dripping down his chin. “This is amazing,” he said with his mouth full, holding out a slice to Tilrey.Tilrey shook his head. All he could see were the glossy photos spread out on the desk between them. Besha had found them on the network—no point in asking where or how—and kindly printed them out for him.Tilrey’s throat tightened as he shuffled the pics into a stack, counting as he went—fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Just like the series the Brothel photographer had shot of him when he was twenty-four years old.The setting and poses were almost identical, too. But these photos were recent, and the boy depicted in them had dark hair, a slight frame, and a bronze complexion. His brown eyes were sad and soulful when he slouched before the window, and hazy with lust when he lay naked on the bed. It was a very good impersonation.Tilrey realized his hands were shaking and let the photos fall. “This is deliberate,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Whoever took them wants to send us a message.”Besha barked with incredulous laughter. “I get why you’re pissed off, but those other pics have been circulating for decades. They’re perennially popular, shall we say. Whoever shot these was just copycatting. They may not even know who you are.”“I still want to know who’s responsible.” Did he sound angry? He mustn’t—not even with Besha. It would make him look weak.He turned the photos over so he didn’t have to look at the damned soulful-eyed boy anymore. Someone had made a cruel parody of something he already wanted to forget. He’d paid dearly for those unguarded moments with a photographer. Decades of seeing knowing smirks on the faces of Upstarts, sometimes ones far too young to have known him in those days.If only there were a way to vaporize the images, both originals and imitations. Only Gersha should ever have seen those parts of him.“Oh, I’ll find out who’s responsible.” Besha stuffed the last of the imported Harbourer fruit into his mouth, looking devilish. “It can’t hurt me to make a visit to the Brothel. Maybe I’ll have a go at the boy in the pics and ask him all about it.” His grin faded as he saw the look on Tilrey’s face. “What? What’d I say? He doesn’t even look like you.”“That’s not the point. So he’s in the Sanctioned?” Sibylla Ilskund was Tilrey’s best connection to the place now that Hulda was too sick for their regular meetings. Good thing he was seeing her today.Besha stared like he’d said something stupid. “Course he is. You’ve seen that same boy in the stream, right?”“What stream?”“Green hells, Rishka, where’ve you been the past year? Their Ways Parted is only all the kids are talking about. It’s about a blue-tagged Upstart boy who sells his body. Edgy stuff.”Tilrey didn’t want to think about Lowered Upstarts. “Whoever or whatever he is, the boy in the photos isn’t responsible for them,” he said severely. “I’m guessing he’s just a pawn. I don’t want you fucking him.”“Fine, fine!” Besha widened his eyes in unconvincing innocence. “You do like giving orders, don’t you?” The innocence became a mild leer. “Good thing I like taking them from you.”“We need to find you a kettle boy,” Tilrey said in his driest way. “Your desires clearly haven’t dimmed with age.” He couldn’t remember the last time they’d fucked. Besha’s come-ons were a tired joke at this point. They both knew Tilrey’s attentions were better spent on Davita, who was well positioned to become General Magistrate once their Peninsula Coalition finally obtained a majority, and on Vreya Akeina.But that apparently didn’t stop Besha from being wistful for the old days.“Oh, it’s all about me being a dirty old man, is it?” Besha put on an exaggerated pout. “Admit it, Tilrey—you want me to have a nice piece to help you advance our agenda with the swing voters.”Tilrey shrugged. “That too.”“But then you suggest these boys who’re perfectly ordinary. To win over a timid Island swinger, you need better than ordinary. Not just pretty, either. A good Councillor’s piece needs to be stunning or virginal, preferably both.”“I’ll keep working my contacts in Thurskein.” Certain negotiations just worked better with a kettle boy. Tilrey knew that better than most people, which was why, yes, he’d been the first to suggest it. Some unsavory things you couldn’t avoid.“I refuse,” he added pointedly, “to use any form of coercion. But I’ll handle that. On second thought, I’ll handle the issue of the photos, too—just not right off. I’m reporting on the Bettevy garrison to Int/Sec tomorrow and on the trading situation to Food on seventh-day; I don’t need any distractions. Don’t take any action without my say-so.”“Aye aye, Captain.” Besha’s grin showed too many teeth. “Are you going to chat up Vreya Akeina tonight, to make sure she gets her cronies to listen properly in the committee meeting and not heckle you?”“I’m not worried about a few geriatric hecklers.”“But she’ll be happy to help, won’t she? She always comes out glowing from your little meetings.”Tilrey did not take the bait. “She is helpful,” he said and rose to return to Gersha’s office. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for another meeting.”
12:46
Lunch was a rushed picnic of seaweed rice cakes and tea that Tilrey ate perched on a wide ledge in one of the tunnels that stretched under the Library. It wasn’t exactly picturesque, but it was a safe place to meet his dining companion, Sibylla Ilskund, who briefed him on Hulda Dartán’s progress toward death.“No more than a ten-day,” Sibylla said, her face somber. “Maybe a lot less. She’s been cheating death for the past six months, the doctors say.”Tilrey had never developed much affection for the Brothel director, a woman who’d overseen one of the darkest episodes in his early life without blinking. But she’d been a steadfast ally for eighteen years, gathering useful intelligence from her staff, and for that alone he would miss her. Seeing her decline, too, had made him more conscious that he was edging toward his own old age.When he was younger, he’d avoided mirrors because they reminded him he was desired. Now he avoided them because they showed him someone who was no longer desirable—in his own judicious view, anyway, though Gersha insisted otherwise.So did Vreya Akeina—but never mind her.“What about Hulda’s replacement?” he asked. “What do you know about her?”Sibylla said, “She’s an Outer by birth, a little younger than you. Pretty. They say that when she first came to the Brothel, she was so traumatized she didn’t speak.”“Trafficked?”“Probably. Hulda never trusted her enough to let her sit in on our meetings, but she wouldn’t tell me why.”That wouldn’t do. They needed trustworthy eyes inside the Brothel. “Talk to Hulda again,” Tilrey said, hardening his voice. “We need to know why she didn’t take the girl into her confidence. If she’s on her way out, she’s got no reason to withhold the information but sheer obstinacy.”Sibylla looked uneasy. “The girl’s her lover. She might just want to keep her out of the danger that comes with consorting with us.”Maybe she thought he was being too harsh on a dying woman. Too bad—sometimes you had to be harsh, and Hulda was being stubborn on purpose. “Then she should name a different replacement,” he said. “Remind her how many seats the Coalition has on the Bureau of Diversions. We could defund the Brothel if we chose.”But Hulda wouldn’t care what happened to the Brothel at this point. She had no reason to care about anything in this life that he knew of—great-nieces and -nephews, perhaps? Her replacement? But those were just guesses. Any threat Tilrey made would be bluffing. He cleared his throat. “Tell her I can tell when she’s keeping secrets from me. And she has no reason to keep this one anymore, if she ever did.”He added a smile to the words, but Sibylla didn’t smile back. She edged away from him, dropping her eyes. “I’ll do my best with Hulda. Look, I talked to my friend like you asked. In the Ed Bureau.”Tilrey’s breath caught, but he kept his face still. The glasses he wore these days were useful for screening his expression, creating distracting reflections. “And?”“And . . . yes.” Her bottom lip caught between her teeth.He fought the urge to snap at her. “Yes what? You have a number? Tell me.”Above them, an old fluorescent strip hissed and flickered. Sibylla raised her eyes. “What are you going to do if it’s not a good enough number? Pull strings?”That’s my business. Ceill’s my son. It was one thing for Gersha to expect Tilrey to sit idly by and accept the possibility that Ceill might be Lowered. A high Upstart could be forgiven for having his head in the clouds. But Sibylla should understand. Her own branch of the family had fallen from Upstart status just a few generations ago; she knew how little these decisions could hinge on. “Just tell me, lass.”Sibylla said a number. Her voice was so flat that it took Tilrey a moment to absorb it, but then his heart leapt. “That’s good! I mean, not great, but good enough. Close to my own quant score.”He almost laughed with relief. He hadn’t realized till this instant just how frightened he’d been that Ceill had botched the test out of sheer pig-headed rebelliousness.He would never forgive himself if Ceill were Lowered—because, yes, it would be his fault. With all the advantages of education and patronage and nepotism, the only things that could defeat Ceill were bad genes and perversity. The bad genes would come from the Laborer side, obviously, and the perversity—well, that would be an upbringing issue.Maybe, by being too strict, he’d driven the kid toward dangerous influences like Aleks Snowblind. Or maybe it was the other way around: By openly doubting the wisdom of meritocracy, he and Gersha had convinced Ceill there was no point in excelling at all.But none of that had happened. Ceill had pulled through. Tilrey felt lightheaded; he wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. “No, this is good. Well above the cutoff for a Linnett or Gádden. We’ve got nothing to worry about.”Sibylla was eyeing him sarcastically. “So, no strings to be pulled after all?”Her tone nearly ruined Tilrey’s mood—but no, no one could do that now. His son was going to be a fucking Strutter. “You’d want the same for your kid,” he said.She shrugged. “If it was an option, maybe. Doesn’t it kind of bug you to know that if you didn’t have an Upstart willing to pose as his dad, your son wouldn’t stand a chance?”“Gersha isn’t posing. He raised Ceill more than I did.” But he saw her larger point. “Of course I want the system to change. There should be no legacy Upstarts, maybe no Upstarts at all. But that’s a long game, and this is the world we’re living in now.”“Congratulations to you, then.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.Fine. She could think he was a hypocrite; he wasn’t going to beg for her approval. “Thanks.” He sharpened his tone, all business again. “Now, don’t forget what you’re going to ask Hulda. We need to pin her down on this before she drops dead.”
16:03
Tilrey was snatching a tea break between two sessions when someone tapped on the office door. Wishing he had a secretary to deal with callers and nearly forgetting that he was himself the secretary, he opened up.Councillor Angar Gourmanian stood outside, wearing his robe of office and looking uncomfortable. “Is Gersha here, lad?”“No, Fir.” Tilrey ushered the man inside, found him a chair, and closed the door. He remembered now that Gourmanian had sent Gersha a ping this morning that he’d ignored, and another one a few days ago. Such messages, of course, came straight to him; Gersha had no interest in them.In years past, Tilrey would have remained standing as a sign of respect. Now he sat down and swung his desk chair around to face Gourmanian. “Councillor Gádden is indisposed. He’ll be in tomorrow, but I can convey a message to him.”Gourmanian looked pained. He still had the shock of black hair that had once made him handsome, though it was mostly gray now. His face had swelled in some places and caved in others, the eyes peering plaintively from dark hollows. “He’s ignoring me,” he said. “Isn’t he?”It was time to put on a sweet, soothing voice and be the kettle boy that Gourmanian remembered from more than twenty years ago. In those days, the two of them had played games with dominance and submission that Tilrey sometimes enjoyed, but now he was very much not in the mood. “I don’t think so, Fir. You know how Gersha can get wrapped up in his research.”“It’s not that,” Gourmanian fretted. “Davita’s told him not to speak to me, hasn’t she? Silly cow.”Twenty years ago, in his prime, Gourmanian had been Ludovic Verán’s lieutenant in the Island Party and an up-and-comer. Now he was a sad old man whose ideological waverings and disputes with other Islanders had sent him into the arms of the Peninsula Coalition, where Davita Lindblom barely tolerated him as an ally. She’d confided in Tilrey that, when she was still at University, Gourmanian had made comments about her body that he considered appreciative and she did not appreciate. Davita never took open offense to such conduct, but she also never forgave or forgot.Tilrey wondered if Gourmanian remembered ogling her. Probably not; most people who did such things never second-guessed their own behavior. “Fir’n Lindblom doesn’t give Fir Gádden orders,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “Certainly not about whom he speaks to.”“Well, he’s not answering my messages. What if I drop in on him this evening?”When would the man take a hint that Gersha wasn’t the one he needed? “He’s having a quiet evening with his son,” Tilrey lied.Gourmanian sighed gustily and fixed his glittering gaze on Tilrey. “Fine, boy. You can bring him a message.” He made an impatient gesture at the desk. “Take notes, at least!”Tilrey had no need to take notes, but he made a show of fetching a pad and pen. The charade of Upstart and Laborer, Councillor and secretary, was so tiring.At least he’d guessed enough about why Gourmanian was here to keep the conversation brief. “Councillor Lindblom tells me, Fir, that you want your niece to stand for election next cycle in R-8 Med on a Coalition platform.”The Councillor frowned, though he had to know that Tilrey and Davita were close confidants. “What else did she tell you? That she was abominably rude and wouldn’t give me even five minutes of her day?”“Fir’n Lindblom has many demands on her time, Fir.” Tilrey didn’t bother to soften his voice. “If you like, I can appeal to her directly, but she’ll need a good reason to support your niece. Perhaps it’s time to start working on some of your obstructionist old friends in the Island Party.”Gourmanian started to protest. Tilrey raised a hand, silencing the old man. “You promised to deliver Zenteivva’s vote to us, Fir. Last I checked, that hasn’t happened.”The Councillor stared at him, chewing his lip in a way that said, The nerve of you. “I tried. Zenteivva won’t sign anything that involves sending more personnel south.”“We can’t take that out of the bill, Fir. But we’ve already decreased the commitment of troops, and if you show Councillor Zenteivva the latest research, you can soothe his fears about a migration of skilled Oslovs to Harbour . . .”They haggled back and forth for a few minutes, until Gourmanian promised to talk to Zenteivva and two of his other old cronies if Tilrey would arrange a half-hour meeting between Davita Lindblom and his niece.This was an instance, Tilrey noted to himself, when it would have been useful to have a kettle boy at one’s disposal. Sex would have smoothed over Gourmanian’s humiliation at having to petition Davita this way. Later, the Councillor would have been able to offer the boy to his friends as a way to ensure their cooperation, with Besha serving as facilitator.He needed to get on finding someone, whether he liked it or not.A little miffed, but apparently satisfied with the result of his errand, Gourmanian rose and shook out the sleeves of his robe. “Davita’s a tough customer. If you think of it, remind her she’s the one who wants to get more women elected to the Council. She may have her own reasons for disliking me, but she shouldn’t take it out on my niece.”Green hells, these petitioners were boring. So many egos to coddle. “Fir’n Lindblom doesn’t dislike you. She just wants you to bring more value to our Coalition, Fir.”Gourmanian’s eyes narrowed. “Our Coalition? When are you seeing her next, anyway?”A polite shrug. None of your business.“Does she still tie you up, lad? Whip you a bit? I know you like that. Or are you finally getting too old for her lash?”He wants to crush me. He wants blood. Tilrey noted dispassionately how something leapt up inside him, eager to counterattack and grind the arrogant old fool into dust. How nice it would feel to rub his nose in his own powerlessness.There was no need for violence, though, or for any untoward behavior. Beyond the taunts, Gourmanian had no ammunition against them. Everyone knew about Davita’s proclivities, and everyone knew what Tilrey had been.Tilrey looked straight back, letting his legs sprawl open a bit. “I didn’t realize you were jealous, Fir. That was so long ago.”“I’ll always be yours, Fir. Those were your exact words, weren’t they, darling? Our last time.”Were they? It was strange how often his past bed partners remembered him saying and doing things he’d completely forgotten. Things he’d been happy to forget.“Whores say a lot of things, Fir Councillor,” Tilrey said, getting up to escort the Councillor to the door.
18:58
Vreya Akeina did not want to talk about making sure her Island colleagues behaved themselves at tomorrow’s committee meeting. She was all hands and eager lips.She’d sent her secretary home early, but she didn’t want to fuck him up against the wall of her tiny closet again—that had been a one-time impulse, apparently. She just wanted to kiss and neck and rub against him, to be a naughty girl on the brink of getting caught.So they fooled around on her desk for a while, after which she followed him into the antechamber and kept fooling around while Tilrey explained patiently what he needed from her tomorrow.“I will, I will.” She pressed her face to his chest. “You know, though, Karl István can’t stand you. Sometimes I think he thinks you’re a shirker and I’m going to end up like my poor brother.”“Why would he—”“He doesn’t really think that,” Vreya assured him. “He’s just protective. Not that I’d care at this point if you were a shirker! If I have to die like Fredrich—” she sighed, shuddering dramatically, and flung her arms around him, one hand slipping under his jerkin— “I’d rather it be because of you.”Tilrey was used to this sort of talk. Noticing that the door to the corridor was ajar, he batted her hand away. “I should go, Fir’n. Gersha’s expecting me home.”“Of course.” Vreya looked mournful, but she didn’t unloop her arms from his waist. “You mustn’t keep Gersha waiting. I hate to think of him sitting alone at home.”“He’s a big boy.” Tilrey pushed down his impatience with her. It was good, really, that she understood his absolute loyalty to Gersha. He’d made that clear from the beginning, not long after he initiated the flirting by sending her a smoldering glance across the Council chamber.Vreya had to be managed somehow. Back then, she was stirring up all kinds of trouble, complaining to the other Councillors that Tilrey was overstepping the bounds of his role as Gersha’s proxy. She was young for a Councillor and starry-eyed, from a good family that had suffered a terrible loss due to what she called “moral muddiness and Level mixing,” and the older Island Councillors had a soft spot for her. They considered her scruples gauche, but they didn’t ignore them. For a month or so, it looked likely she’d succeed at banning Tilrey from the Council floor.Tilrey went to Davita for help in persuading Vreya he was harmless. But Davita had a different idea.“Vreya’s bugged by you because she doesn’t understand you, and because she desperately wants you in her sad, lonely bed,” she said. “Start coming on to her, nice and subtle. See what happens.”“Come on to her? She’d have me brought up on charges.”A low laugh. “Can’t you tell when someone’s attracted to you, darling, after all this time? Vreya’s always had trouble expressing her emotions. Be gentle, be subtle, but be clear. She’ll change her tune.”Tilrey hadn’t believed it. But Davita was right. When he gave Vreya the eye—just once, carefully—she glared so fiercely he was cowed. The next day, though, she cornered him in Gersha’s antechamber and demanded that he come home with her — “At once, tonight!”When he demurred, she said, “Don’t lie, you want me desperately! You’ve always wanted me, you mad thing, just the way I want you!”From that first night, he already knew Vreya better than she knew herself. Down deep, she was like Vera Linnett or her brother Fredrich—a repressed romantic in a family and milieu that had no use for anything but logic.Reading her cues, he crafted a version of reality she would accept: His love for Gersha was pure and true and motivated his every action, but sometimes he liked having passionate, dirty sex with her. Gersha understood the need to share him and nobly accepted it. Could she?Vreya could. These days she seemed almost more invested in the narrative of Tilrey’s great romance with Gersha than he was himself. (Love was one thing, and it ran deep in him, but all the bric-a-brac of romance had never been his domain.)“I just hate to think of Gersha being sad,” Vreya said now, “knowing you’re with me. The way you two are together—it’s inspiring. He adores you, it’s obvious, and you’re both so good with Ceill. Can I come to dinner again soon?”“We’d be happy to have you.” Not. At all. Their home was a fragile ecosystem. Ceill had been miserable last time Vreya came to dinner, and Gersha had sulked for days. Maybe he could put her off.Vreya sighed. “You don’t know how lucky you are to have known love. The kind that manifests in a lasting bond, a home.”He gave her a teasing nuzzle. “You’re still young, Fir’n. Things change.”“Ha! I have a son about to be Notified and a husband and daughter who won’t speak to me. No, I don’t think about that kind of love, not for myself. It’s enough to admire you and Gersha from afar.”Tilrey gave her a deep kiss even as he detached his body from hers. “I like admiring you close-up, Fir’n.”“Stop it, Rishka! You’re absolutely wicked.”“Oh, I am.” He held her at arm’s length. “So, can you promise me you’ll speak to István and Veisha tomorrow before the meeting? Ask them to cut out the hostile interruptions?”“I’ll make sure they hold their tongues, but sweetheart, don’t worry about it. You always present things so beautifully to the committee.”“How I express myself isn’t the problem.” Remembering how she used to be his chief heckler, he had to marvel a little at her lack of self-awareness. Her prejudice against mouthy Laborers was probably still intact, even if she’d made an exception for him.With a sigh, he tried to impress on her the importance of letting “Gersha’s words” be heard. She only tugged him closer, like a little girl about to be deprived of a favorite toy. “C’mere.”“I have to go, Fir’n.”“Just for a second.”Two more kisses and a whispered promise to meet next eighth-day, and Tilrey was free. He escaped from her office down the corridor, surprised by how quickly his annoyance turned to something like guilt.An unpleasant, squishy emotion. That was what Malsha Linnett called it. Empathy is delicious, he said once, but guilt curdles in the stomach. When you need to take advantage of someone, enjoy the one without feeling the other.Was Tilrey taking advantage of Vreya Akeina? He supposed so. But he could live with that, and at least he hadn’t lied to her—well, except about being expected at home now. Gersha wouldn’t look for him until eight or nine.Back in the office, he was distracting himself by going over tomorrow’s presentation when he heard feet shuffle outside.Not again. Thinking he wouldn’t be bothered at this hour, he’d left the door ajar.He got up and opened it wide. But there was no troublesome Councillor there, only a uniformed schoolboy no older than Ceill. “Oh, hello,” Tilrey said, relieved. “Can I help you, young Fir?”The boy stared at him, his face nervous and furious at once. He was physically unprepossessing, but clearly the spawn of Upstarts, with black brows that had a familiar haughty slant to them. To make his curiosity less obvious, Tilrey snagged his useless glasses from the desk and put them on.The boy said, “Do you even know who I am?”Combined with the brows, the drawling voice was a dead giveaway. It matched a certain black-browed young man who had subjected Tilrey to several evenings of athletic sex, then married Vreya Akeina for her connections and left her romantic soul desperately needy.“I think perhaps you’re Fir Councillor Lindthardt’s son,” Tilrey said. “You favor him.”The boy swallowed. A muscle bounced in his jaw as he stepped in and closed the door. “I go to school with Ceill. Your son.”Tilrey managed not to flinch, though the word did make his breath catch. These days, the truth was visible to anyone who’d had a chance to compare him, Ceill, and Gersha.But most people—all the way up to Councillors—had the sense not to say anything out loud. Even Vreya pretended to think Ceill was Gersha’s biological son.They were so close to Ceill’s Notification. What was Lindthardt and Vreya’s brat stirring up, and why? Maybe he knew about Tilrey and his mother. Maybe he’d even caught a glimpse of them just now—a nasty thought.The kid hunched his shoulders, looking torn between attack and flight. “I thought,” he said, “you might want to know where Ceillsha goes when he sneaks out of the house.”
Stirring up shit, all right.
Tilrey asked casually, “Does he sneak out of the house?” He’d caught Ceill with the Free Northmen in Thurskein over the holidays, but he thought he’d put an end to that. And where would Ceill go in Redda?Red-faced, the boy spat it all out: “He goes to the Sanctioned Brothel. He sneaks in the back way. He has friends there—streammakers. They let him in. He’s in love with the boy who plays Darius in Their Ways Parted, and he stays till morning and comes out stinking of liquor.”The same stream Besha had mentioned. The one with the boy who’d impersonated Tilrey in those damn photos. It must be a coincidence, but it didn’t feel like one.He heard his own voice ask, “You know all this how, young Fir?”When the little Lindthardt/Akeina finally met Tilrey’s eyes, his own gaze was hateful. Defiant. “That’s my business. Not surprised, huh? Maybe he told you. Maybe you don’t even care—why would you, with your past?”The insult slid off, but Tilrey wouldn’t forget it. He was like Davita that way. “I can’t help wondering why you came to inform me, young Fir,” he said, calm as ever. “What’s your interest in all this?”The boy’s face was slick with sweat. He was half turned on his heel, primed to flee. “I just thought you should know.”The kid looked ready to piss himself—maybe he had a sense of the influence Tilrey could wield. Feeling more powerful than he had yet today, Tilrey took a step and another step toward the boy, looming over him.“And there’s something you should know, young Fir,” he said without raising his voice. “I don’t have any quarrel with you, and I hope you don’t with me. But if you try to interfere with Ceill’s Notification—if you try to interfere with Ceill again in any way, ever—I will make your life very difficult. Believe me, I can.”The boy stared, frozen and white-faced.Again Tilrey wondered if the kid knew about him and Vreya, and his stomach curdled. But his gaze didn’t waver. “Is that understood?”
20:52
When Tilrey needed to think something out, he rode the tram to the end of the line and back. He liked to tour the whole city, from the granite monuments of the Core to the sandstone cornices of Upstart buildings to the dreary, functional Laborer high-rises to the drafty warehouses and snow-swept vistas of the Outer Ring. No matter how many times he took the same route, he always saw something new.When he was Ceill’s age, Malsha used to drive him out to the edge of the city to see the sunset. Never forget that we live under a vast sky, the Magistrate would say. And the sky was impressive, even if it made Tilrey feel more trapped than ever.Since it was midwinter, there was no sunset to see this late. Nothing but great dark buildings speared by halogen lights. But the rhythm of the trip was still soothing, and by the time Tilrey returned to Ring One and his home stop, he knew what he’d do next—or not do.Ceill was a legal adult, but he was also still very much a volatile adolescent. If Tilrey scolded him or even grilled him to see if he’d really been frequenting the Brothel, he might do something rash. And now, while the Notification board was considering his future, was the exact wrong time for that.Too many bright, thoughtful young Upstarts self-destructed once they grasped the contradictions of their sheltered little world. Tilrey thought of Ceill’s uncle, Valgund, getting himself stuck in moral rehab. Then there was poor Adelbert Verán, who’d tried to get himself Lowered so he could act in streams. Maybe that world of illusion had seduced Ceill, too.But Ceill had taken his tests, and he had applied to University, and now they all just had to hang on a few ten-days for him to be Raised. Better not to say anything. Once his future was assured, the kid could make as many rebellious gestures as he liked.Not telling Gersha would be tough. But Gersha, so discreet most of the time, was terrible at keeping secrets from the people he loved. He would tip off Ceill one way or another—even just with gloomy silence—and the damage would be done.No, Tilrey would keep this to himself. A month and a half until Notification Day might seem endless, but he knew exactly how to use the time.At home, he tiptoed past the half-open bedroom door and settled himself at the computer in the study. He woke it with Gersha’s password and went straight to the Universal Personnel Database, where he found the roster of Brothel staff.Asking Sibylla to lean on Hulda wasn’t enough anymore. He needed a source inside the Sanctioned, someone more mobile and cooperative than poor Hulda could be at this point. Someone who could tell him if Ceill was a regular guest there.Most of the names were unknown to him, but when he saw the name of the Brothel steward, Jan-Andreas Heis, he grinned jaggedly. There we go.After all these years, poor old Ansha had washed up in the Sanctioned. Maybe he enjoyed supervising the young whores, ordering them around the way Upstarts had ordered him around when he and Tilrey were kettle boys together.Ansha had always been fixated on Tilrey—too friendly, in a way that barely concealed anger and envy. He might not want to talk, but a little persuasion should do the trick. A regular supply of sap. A shiny new posting for a family member. Easy.The door hissed open. Tilrey hid the window he’d been looking at.“Hello, love,” he said, raising his chin for Gersha’s kiss. “Sorry I didn’t come to you right away. I had to check on something.”“No worries. I’ve eaten, but I can heat you up some rice and veg.”“I’m fine.” Tilrey pulled Gersha into his lap and tugged teasingly at the belt of his robe. “Please tell me you put on proper clothes at some point in the day.”“Why? I thought I was supposed to be an invalid.” Gersha nuzzled his cheek. “All right, yes, I did put on proper clothes, but one day I may not bother. You need a shave.”It felt good to be back with someone he didn’t have to pretend with—even if he did have to pretend, just a little. Just for now. “Transmission go through?” he asked.Gersha nodded. His black hair had gone almost as gray as Gourmanian’s, but it was still thick and soft, and Tilrey liked the steely edge on it. “Good news,” he said. “They’re a month into the second wave of migration, and it seems to have gone smoothly. Thirty-one Southern Hearthers are living in Bettevy now, blending in with the natives, right under our ambassador’s nose.”That was something, Tilrey supposed. But they had a long way to go before enough defected Oslovs would be living covertly in Bettevy to overwhelm the government forces and take the city and its riches hostage. Even with Duke Dalziel’s help, that was a tall order.They needed the Harbourer trade for leverage against the traditionalist bent of the Council, though. Sooner or later, reform would spur a reaction, and the high-risk power play of taking over Bettevy might be all they had.At least they were proceeding slowly, spacing out the migration of Oslovs from the Dissident city over a decade. “How well are they blending in?” he asked. “That’s what concerns me. If a soldier happens to hear one of the newcomers speaking Oslov, or even Harbourer with an Oslov accent . . .”“Our troops aren’t that fluent.” Sprawled on Tilrey’s lap, Gersha reached up to stroke his cheek soothingly. “Anyway, most of the garrison is in our pocket. We’ve laid the groundwork for this, Rishka.”“I know.” Tilrey trusted Ranek Egil and Celinda Valde and the others, he did, but it frustrated him to have their fates depend on things happening thousands of miles away. Things he couldn’t control. He would brief Mirella Tunstadt on the transmission tomorrow, if he had time after all those committee meetings.“I’m glad you got through,” he said, burying his hands in Gersha’s curls. “Having a direct line of communication—it’s amazing, Gersha. You’re amazing.”“You don’t have to keep saying that, love.” Gersha tucked his head under Tilrey’s chin and curled up contentedly. “We make an okay team.”“We do, don’t we?” He kissed the top of Gersha’s head. “I’m done here—the rest of the evening’s for you. Ceill’s in the dorm tonight?”Gersha nodded.Tilrey sighed with relief, but lightly enough that Gersha wouldn’t notice. The dorm monitors were strict. For tonight, at least, their son wouldn’t get himself in any more trouble at the Sanctioned Brothel.“Maybe tonight’s our night to go wild,” he said. “Screw all over the house in a dozen new positions.”Gersha laughed delightedly, but he looked almost as tired as Tilrey felt. He reared up, kissed Tilrey on the forehead, and slid off his lap. “Or maybe we should just run ourselves a nice bath. You can tell me all about your day.”
27 February, Year 371
7:30
“Sweetheart.” Tilrey kissed Gersha on the cheek and sat down to eat the porridge and tea that waited on the table for him. Outside in the dark, sheets of snow battered the windows. Another winter day when the sun might never show its face.
“You really should’ve slept in,” he reproached his husband. “Unless you’re planning to come to the office with me?”
Gersha made a face. He was still in his bathrobe, which answered Tilrey’s question. “I’ve got all kinds of data to crunch, and I’m waiting for a transmission. You know I like to be here for them.”
“Of course.” It had taken Gersha years to build the proper equipment and set up his own relay stations in the Wastes so he could safely receive transmissions from Ranek and the others in Harbour.
Those transmissions were invaluable, and Tilrey hated to be a nag. But a Councillor did need to show his face in the Council occasionally. “You remember tomorrow is the presentation to Int/Sec, though?” he said. “I can do the bulk of the talking, but you’ll need to at least introduce me.”
“Of course! I’ll be there.”
Gersha looked as relieved to be let off the hook for today as Ceill did whenever school was canceled. That reminded Tilrey—he hadn’t seen their son since Ceill took the quants portion of the E-Squareds. Hadn’t gotten a read on him. “How’s the lad? Did you see him last night?”
Gersha had prepared breakfast for Tilrey but none for himself. He watched Tilrey eat with hungry eyes, as if to soak him up. “Ceillsha and I had dinner together. He’s fine.”
The attention was disconcerting. Was Tilrey really that seldom at home? “He didn’t seem nervous?” he asked.
The corner of Gersha’s mouth flickered. “I think the one who’s most nervous about his test results is you. I understand!” he added as Tilrey started to speak. “Of course you care a lot. So do I. But you can wait, can’t you, Rishka? You aren’t going to try to go through back-channels?”
“No.” Tilrey’s jaw felt tight as a vise. “And do what, anyway? You think I’d try to alter his scores?”
Gersha shook his head too quickly. “Of course not. Just check on them.”
And what would be wrong with that? Gersha was already committing high treason; his insistence on following the rules of the educational system was as absurd as it was endearing. But Tilrey didn’t feel like arguing. “I’m not sure why you think I’d do that.”
“You mentioned something about seeing Besha today.”
“I see him all the time. Anyway,” Tilrey added, trying to turn it into a joke, “with the sorts of nonsense Besha gets up to, he’d consider hacking Notifications way beneath him.”
He realized he’d said the wrong thing when Gersha didn’t smile. “We promised each other we wouldn’t interfere,” his husband said solemnly.
You’re being ridiculous. But Gersha wanted to believe they were on a different ethical level from someone like Besha; you couldn’t fault him for that. Tilrey looked his husband straight in the eye. “And I won’t.”
11:04
Besha was eating a golden-green pear, the juice dripping down his chin. “This is amazing,” he said with his mouth full, holding out a slice to Tilrey.
Tilrey shook his head. All he could see were the glossy photos spread out on the desk between them. Besha had found them on the network—no point in asking where or how—and kindly printed them out for him.
Tilrey’s throat tightened as he shuffled the pics into a stack, counting as he went—fifteen, sixteen, seventeen. Just like the series the Brothel photographer had shot of him when he was twenty-four years old.
The setting and poses were almost identical, too. But these photos were recent, and the boy depicted in them had dark hair, a slight frame, and a bronze complexion. His brown eyes were sad and soulful when he slouched before the window, and hazy with lust when he lay naked on the bed. It was a very good impersonation.
Tilrey realized his hands were shaking and let the photos fall. “This is deliberate,” he said, keeping his voice even. “Whoever took them wants to send us a message.”
Besha barked with incredulous laughter. “I get why you’re pissed off, but those other pics have been circulating for decades. They’re perennially popular, shall we say. Whoever shot these was just copycatting. They may not even know who you are.”
“I still want to know who’s responsible.” Did he sound angry? He mustn’t—not even with Besha. It would make him look weak.
He turned the photos over so he didn’t have to look at the damned soulful-eyed boy anymore. Someone had made a cruel parody of something he already wanted to forget. He’d paid dearly for those unguarded moments with a photographer. Decades of seeing knowing smirks on the faces of Upstarts, sometimes ones far too young to have known him in those days.
If only there were a way to vaporize the images, both originals and imitations. Only Gersha should ever have seen those parts of him.
“Oh, I’ll find out who’s responsible.” Besha stuffed the last of the imported Harbourer fruit into his mouth, looking devilish. “It can’t hurt me to make a visit to the Brothel. Maybe I’ll have a go at the boy in the pics and ask him all about it.” His grin faded as he saw the look on Tilrey’s face. “What? What’d I say? He doesn’t even look like you.”
“That’s not the point. So he’s in the Sanctioned?” Sibylla Ilskund was Tilrey’s best connection to the place now that Hulda was too sick for their regular meetings. Good thing he was seeing her today.
Besha stared like he’d said something stupid. “Course he is. You’ve seen that same boy in the stream, right?”
“What stream?”
“Green hells, Rishka, where’ve you been the past year? Their Ways Parted is only all the kids are talking about. It’s about a blue-tagged Upstart boy who sells his body. Edgy stuff.”
Tilrey didn’t want to think about Lowered Upstarts. “Whoever or whatever he is, the boy in the photos isn’t responsible for them,” he said severely. “I’m guessing he’s just a pawn. I don’t want you fucking him.”
“Fine, fine!” Besha widened his eyes in unconvincing innocence. “You do like giving orders, don’t you?” The innocence became a mild leer. “Good thing I like taking them from you.”
“We need to find you a kettle boy,” Tilrey said in his driest way. “Your desires clearly haven’t dimmed with age.” He couldn’t remember the last time they’d fucked. Besha’s come-ons were a tired joke at this point. They both knew Tilrey’s attentions were better spent on Davita, who was well positioned to become General Magistrate once their Peninsula Coalition finally obtained a majority, and on Vreya Akeina.
But that apparently didn’t stop Besha from being wistful for the old days.
“Oh, it’s all about me being a dirty old man, is it?” Besha put on an exaggerated pout. “Admit it, Tilrey—you want me to have a nice piece to help you advance our agenda with the swing voters.”
Tilrey shrugged. “That too.”
“But then you suggest these boys who’re perfectly ordinary. To win over a timid Island swinger, you need better than ordinary. Not just pretty, either. A good Councillor’s piece needs to be stunning or virginal, preferably both.”
“I’ll keep working my contacts in Thurskein.” Certain negotiations just worked better with a kettle boy. Tilrey knew that better than most people, which was why, yes, he’d been the first to suggest it. Some unsavory things you couldn’t avoid.
“I refuse,” he added pointedly, “to use any form of coercion. But I’ll handle that. On second thought, I’ll handle the issue of the photos, too—just not right off. I’m reporting on the Bettevy garrison to Int/Sec tomorrow and on the trading situation to Food on seventh-day; I don’t need any distractions. Don’t take any action without my say-so.”
“Aye aye, Captain.” Besha’s grin showed too many teeth. “Are you going to chat up Vreya Akeina tonight, to make sure she gets her cronies to listen properly in the committee meeting and not heckle you?”
“I’m not worried about a few geriatric hecklers.”
“But she’ll be happy to help, won’t she? She always comes out glowing from your little meetings.”
Tilrey did not take the bait. “She is helpful,” he said and rose to return to Gersha’s office. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m late for another meeting.”
12:46
Lunch was a rushed picnic of seaweed rice cakes and tea that Tilrey ate perched on a wide ledge in one of the tunnels that stretched under the Library. It wasn’t exactly picturesque, but it was a safe place to meet his dining companion, Sibylla Ilskund, who briefed him on Hulda Dartán’s progress toward death.
“No more than a ten-day,” Sibylla said, her face somber. “Maybe a lot less. She’s been cheating death for the past six months, the doctors say.”
Tilrey had never developed much affection for the Brothel director, a woman who’d overseen one of the darkest episodes in his early life without blinking. But she’d been a steadfast ally for eighteen years, gathering useful intelligence from her staff, and for that alone he would miss her. Seeing her decline, too, had made him more conscious that he was edging toward his own old age.
When he was younger, he’d avoided mirrors because they reminded him he was desired. Now he avoided them because they showed him someone who was no longer desirable—in his own judicious view, anyway, though Gersha insisted otherwise.
So did Vreya Akeina—but never mind her.
“What about Hulda’s replacement?” he asked. “What do you know about her?”
Sibylla said, “She’s an Outer by birth, a little younger than you. Pretty. They say that when she first came to the Brothel, she was so traumatized she didn’t speak.”
“Trafficked?”
“Probably. Hulda never trusted her enough to let her sit in on our meetings, but she wouldn’t tell me why.”
That wouldn’t do. They needed trustworthy eyes inside the Brothel. “Talk to Hulda again,” Tilrey said, hardening his voice. “We need to know why she didn’t take the girl into her confidence. If she’s on her way out, she’s got no reason to withhold the information but sheer obstinacy.”
Sibylla looked uneasy. “The girl’s her lover. She might just want to keep her out of the danger that comes with consorting with us.”
Maybe she thought he was being too harsh on a dying woman. Too bad—sometimes you had to be harsh, and Hulda was being stubborn on purpose. “Then she should name a different replacement,” he said. “Remind her how many seats the Coalition has on the Bureau of Diversions. We could defund the Brothel if we chose.”
But Hulda wouldn’t care what happened to the Brothel at this point. She had no reason to care about anything in this life that he knew of—great-nieces and -nephews, perhaps? Her replacement? But those were just guesses. Any threat Tilrey made would be bluffing. He cleared his throat. “Tell her I can tell when she’s keeping secrets from me. And she has no reason to keep this one anymore, if she ever did.”
He added a smile to the words, but Sibylla didn’t smile back. She edged away from him, dropping her eyes. “I’ll do my best with Hulda. Look, I talked to my friend like you asked. In the Ed Bureau.”
Tilrey’s breath caught, but he kept his face still. The glasses he wore these days were useful for screening his expression, creating distracting reflections. “And?”
“And . . . yes.” Her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
He fought the urge to snap at her. “Yes what? You have a number? Tell me.”
Above them, an old fluorescent strip hissed and flickered. Sibylla raised her eyes. “What are you going to do if it’s not a good enough number? Pull strings?”
That’s my business. Ceill’s my son. It was one thing for Gersha to expect Tilrey to sit idly by and accept the possibility that Ceill might be Lowered. A high Upstart could be forgiven for having his head in the clouds. But Sibylla should understand. Her own branch of the family had fallen from Upstart status just a few generations ago; she knew how little these decisions could hinge on. “Just tell me, lass.”
Sibylla said a number. Her voice was so flat that it took Tilrey a moment to absorb it, but then his heart leapt. “That’s good! I mean, not great, but good enough. Close to my own quant score.”
He almost laughed with relief. He hadn’t realized till this instant just how frightened he’d been that Ceill had botched the test out of sheer pig-headed rebelliousness.
He would never forgive himself if Ceill were Lowered—because, yes, it would be his fault. With all the advantages of education and patronage and nepotism, the only things that could defeat Ceill were bad genes and perversity. The bad genes would come from the Laborer side, obviously, and the perversity—well, that would be an upbringing issue.
Maybe, by being too strict, he’d driven the kid toward dangerous influences like Aleks Snowblind. Or maybe it was the other way around: By openly doubting the wisdom of meritocracy, he and Gersha had convinced Ceill there was no point in excelling at all.
But none of that had happened. Ceill had pulled through. Tilrey felt lightheaded; he wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. “No, this is good. Well above the cutoff for a Linnett or Gádden. We’ve got nothing to worry about.”
Sibylla was eyeing him sarcastically. “So, no strings to be pulled after all?”
Her tone nearly ruined Tilrey’s mood—but no, no one could do that now. His son was going to be a fucking Strutter. “You’d want the same for your kid,” he said.
She shrugged. “If it was an option, maybe. Doesn’t it kind of bug you to know that if you didn’t have an Upstart willing to pose as his dad, your son wouldn’t stand a chance?”
“Gersha isn’t posing. He raised Ceill more than I did.” But he saw her larger point. “Of course I want the system to change. There should be no legacy Upstarts, maybe no Upstarts at all. But that’s a long game, and this is the world we’re living in now.”
“Congratulations to you, then.” She wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Fine. She could think he was a hypocrite; he wasn’t going to beg for her approval. “Thanks.” He sharpened his tone, all business again. “Now, don’t forget what you’re going to ask Hulda. We need to pin her down on this before she drops dead.”
16:03
Tilrey was snatching a tea break between two sessions when someone tapped on the office door. Wishing he had a secretary to deal with callers and nearly forgetting that he was himself the secretary, he opened up.
Councillor Angar Gourmanian stood outside, wearing his robe of office and looking uncomfortable. “Is Gersha here, lad?”
“No, Fir.” Tilrey ushered the man inside, found him a chair, and closed the door. He remembered now that Gourmanian had sent Gersha a ping this morning that he’d ignored, and another one a few days ago. Such messages, of course, came straight to him; Gersha had no interest in them.
In years past, Tilrey would have remained standing as a sign of respect. Now he sat down and swung his desk chair around to face Gourmanian. “Councillor Gádden is indisposed. He’ll be in tomorrow, but I can convey a message to him.”
Gourmanian looked pained. He still had the shock of black hair that had once made him handsome, though it was mostly gray now. His face had swelled in some places and caved in others, the eyes peering plaintively from dark hollows. “He’s ignoring me,” he said. “Isn’t he?”
It was time to put on a sweet, soothing voice and be the kettle boy that Gourmanian remembered from more than twenty years ago. In those days, the two of them had played games with dominance and submission that Tilrey sometimes enjoyed, but now he was very much not in the mood. “I don’t think so, Fir. You know how Gersha can get wrapped up in his research.”
“It’s not that,” Gourmanian fretted. “Davita’s told him not to speak to me, hasn’t she? Silly cow.”
Twenty years ago, in his prime, Gourmanian had been Ludovic Verán’s lieutenant in the Island Party and an up-and-comer. Now he was a sad old man whose ideological waverings and disputes with other Islanders had sent him into the arms of the Peninsula Coalition, where Davita Lindblom barely tolerated him as an ally. She’d confided in Tilrey that, when she was still at University, Gourmanian had made comments about her body that he considered appreciative and she did not appreciate. Davita never took open offense to such conduct, but she also never forgave or forgot.
Tilrey wondered if Gourmanian remembered ogling her. Probably not; most people who did such things never second-guessed their own behavior. “Fir’n Lindblom doesn’t give Fir Gádden orders,” he said, smiling pleasantly. “Certainly not about whom he speaks to.”
“Well, he’s not answering my messages. What if I drop in on him this evening?”
When would the man take a hint that Gersha wasn’t the one he needed? “He’s having a quiet evening with his son,” Tilrey lied.
Gourmanian sighed gustily and fixed his glittering gaze on Tilrey. “Fine, boy. You can bring him a message.” He made an impatient gesture at the desk. “Take notes, at least!”
Tilrey had no need to take notes, but he made a show of fetching a pad and pen. The charade of Upstart and Laborer, Councillor and secretary, was so tiring.
At least he’d guessed enough about why Gourmanian was here to keep the conversation brief. “Councillor Lindblom tells me, Fir, that you want your niece to stand for election next cycle in R-8 Med on a Coalition platform.”
The Councillor frowned, though he had to know that Tilrey and Davita were close confidants. “What else did she tell you? That she was abominably rude and wouldn’t give me even five minutes of her day?”
“Fir’n Lindblom has many demands on her time, Fir.” Tilrey didn’t bother to soften his voice. “If you like, I can appeal to her directly, but she’ll need a good reason to support your niece. Perhaps it’s time to start working on some of your obstructionist old friends in the Island Party.”
Gourmanian started to protest. Tilrey raised a hand, silencing the old man. “You promised to deliver Zenteivva’s vote to us, Fir. Last I checked, that hasn’t happened.”
The Councillor stared at him, chewing his lip in a way that said, The nerve of you. “I tried. Zenteivva won’t sign anything that involves sending more personnel south.”
“We can’t take that out of the bill, Fir. But we’ve already decreased the commitment of troops, and if you show Councillor Zenteivva the latest research, you can soothe his fears about a migration of skilled Oslovs to Harbour . . .”
They haggled back and forth for a few minutes, until Gourmanian promised to talk to Zenteivva and two of his other old cronies if Tilrey would arrange a half-hour meeting between Davita Lindblom and his niece.
This was an instance, Tilrey noted to himself, when it would have been useful to have a kettle boy at one’s disposal. Sex would have smoothed over Gourmanian’s humiliation at having to petition Davita this way. Later, the Councillor would have been able to offer the boy to his friends as a way to ensure their cooperation, with Besha serving as facilitator.
He needed to get on finding someone, whether he liked it or not.
A little miffed, but apparently satisfied with the result of his errand, Gourmanian rose and shook out the sleeves of his robe. “Davita’s a tough customer. If you think of it, remind her she’s the one who wants to get more women elected to the Council. She may have her own reasons for disliking me, but she shouldn’t take it out on my niece.”
Green hells, these petitioners were boring. So many egos to coddle. “Fir’n Lindblom doesn’t dislike you. She just wants you to bring more value to our Coalition, Fir.”
Gourmanian’s eyes narrowed. “Our Coalition? When are you seeing her next, anyway?”
A polite shrug. None of your business.
“Does she still tie you up, lad? Whip you a bit? I know you like that. Or are you finally getting too old for her lash?”
He wants to crush me. He wants blood. Tilrey noted dispassionately how something leapt up inside him, eager to counterattack and grind the arrogant old fool into dust. How nice it would feel to rub his nose in his own powerlessness.
There was no need for violence, though, or for any untoward behavior. Beyond the taunts, Gourmanian had no ammunition against them. Everyone knew about Davita’s proclivities, and everyone knew what Tilrey had been.
Tilrey looked straight back, letting his legs sprawl open a bit. “I didn’t realize you were jealous, Fir. That was so long ago.”
“I’ll always be yours, Fir. Those were your exact words, weren’t they, darling? Our last time.”
Were they? It was strange how often his past bed partners remembered him saying and doing things he’d completely forgotten. Things he’d been happy to forget.
“Whores say a lot of things, Fir Councillor,” Tilrey said, getting up to escort the Councillor to the door.
18:58
Vreya Akeina did not want to talk about making sure her Island colleagues behaved themselves at tomorrow’s committee meeting. She was all hands and eager lips.
She’d sent her secretary home early, but she didn’t want to fuck him up against the wall of her tiny closet again—that had been a one-time impulse, apparently. She just wanted to kiss and neck and rub against him, to be a naughty girl on the brink of getting caught.
So they fooled around on her desk for a while, after which she followed him into the antechamber and kept fooling around while Tilrey explained patiently what he needed from her tomorrow.
“I will, I will.” She pressed her face to his chest. “You know, though, Karl István can’t stand you. Sometimes I think he thinks you’re a shirker and I’m going to end up like my poor brother.”
“Why would he—”
“He doesn’t really think that,” Vreya assured him. “He’s just protective. Not that I’d care at this point if you were a shirker! If I have to die like Fredrich—” she sighed, shuddering dramatically, and flung her arms around him, one hand slipping under his jerkin— “I’d rather it be because of you.”
Tilrey was used to this sort of talk. Noticing that the door to the corridor was ajar, he batted her hand away. “I should go, Fir’n. Gersha’s expecting me home.”
“Of course.” Vreya looked mournful, but she didn’t unloop her arms from his waist. “You mustn’t keep Gersha waiting. I hate to think of him sitting alone at home.”
“He’s a big boy.” Tilrey pushed down his impatience with her. It was good, really, that she understood his absolute loyalty to Gersha. He’d made that clear from the beginning, not long after he initiated the flirting by sending her a smoldering glance across the Council chamber.
Vreya had to be managed somehow. Back then, she was stirring up all kinds of trouble, complaining to the other Councillors that Tilrey was overstepping the bounds of his role as Gersha’s proxy. She was young for a Councillor and starry-eyed, from a good family that had suffered a terrible loss due to what she called “moral muddiness and Level mixing,” and the older Island Councillors had a soft spot for her. They considered her scruples gauche, but they didn’t ignore them. For a month or so, it looked likely she’d succeed at banning Tilrey from the Council floor.
Tilrey went to Davita for help in persuading Vreya he was harmless. But Davita had a different idea.
“Vreya’s bugged by you because she doesn’t understand you, and because she desperately wants you in her sad, lonely bed,” she said. “Start coming on to her, nice and subtle. See what happens.”
“Come on to her? She’d have me brought up on charges.”
A low laugh. “Can’t you tell when someone’s attracted to you, darling, after all this time? Vreya’s always had trouble expressing her emotions. Be gentle, be subtle, but be clear. She’ll change her tune.”
Tilrey hadn’t believed it. But Davita was right. When he gave Vreya the eye—just once, carefully—she glared so fiercely he was cowed. The next day, though, she cornered him in Gersha’s antechamber and demanded that he come home with her — “At once, tonight!”
When he demurred, she said, “Don’t lie, you want me desperately! You’ve always wanted me, you mad thing, just the way I want you!”
From that first night, he already knew Vreya better than she knew herself. Down deep, she was like Vera Linnett or her brother Fredrich—a repressed romantic in a family and milieu that had no use for anything but logic.
Reading her cues, he crafted a version of reality she would accept: His love for Gersha was pure and true and motivated his every action, but sometimes he liked having passionate, dirty sex with her. Gersha understood the need to share him and nobly accepted it. Could she?
Vreya could. These days she seemed almost more invested in the narrative of Tilrey’s great romance with Gersha than he was himself. (Love was one thing, and it ran deep in him, but all the bric-a-brac of romance had never been his domain.)
“I just hate to think of Gersha being sad,” Vreya said now, “knowing you’re with me. The way you two are together—it’s inspiring. He adores you, it’s obvious, and you’re both so good with Ceill. Can I come to dinner again soon?”
“We’d be happy to have you.” Not. At all. Their home was a fragile ecosystem. Ceill had been miserable last time Vreya came to dinner, and Gersha had sulked for days. Maybe he could put her off.
Vreya sighed. “You don’t know how lucky you are to have known love. The kind that manifests in a lasting bond, a home.”
He gave her a teasing nuzzle. “You’re still young, Fir’n. Things change.”
“Ha! I have a son about to be Notified and a husband and daughter who won’t speak to me. No, I don’t think about that kind of love, not for myself. It’s enough to admire you and Gersha from afar.”
Tilrey gave her a deep kiss even as he detached his body from hers. “I like admiring you close-up, Fir’n.”
“Stop it, Rishka! You’re absolutely wicked.”
“Oh, I am.” He held her at arm’s length. “So, can you promise me you’ll speak to István and Veisha tomorrow before the meeting? Ask them to cut out the hostile interruptions?”
“I’ll make sure they hold their tongues, but sweetheart, don’t worry about it. You always present things so beautifully to the committee.”
“How I express myself isn’t the problem.” Remembering how she used to be his chief heckler, he had to marvel a little at her lack of self-awareness. Her prejudice against mouthy Laborers was probably still intact, even if she’d made an exception for him.
With a sigh, he tried to impress on her the importance of letting “Gersha’s words” be heard. She only tugged him closer, like a little girl about to be deprived of a favorite toy. “C’mere.”
“I have to go, Fir’n.”
“Just for a second.”
Two more kisses and a whispered promise to meet next eighth-day, and Tilrey was free. He escaped from her office down the corridor, surprised by how quickly his annoyance turned to something like guilt.
An unpleasant, squishy emotion. That was what Malsha Linnett called it. Empathy is delicious, he said once, but guilt curdles in the stomach. When you need to take advantage of someone, enjoy the one without feeling the other.
Was Tilrey taking advantage of Vreya Akeina? He supposed so. But he could live with that, and at least he hadn’t lied to her—well, except about being expected at home now. Gersha wouldn’t look for him until eight or nine.
Back in the office, he was distracting himself by going over tomorrow’s presentation when he heard feet shuffle outside.
Not again. Thinking he wouldn’t be bothered at this hour, he’d left the door ajar.
He got up and opened it wide. But there was no troublesome Councillor there, only a uniformed schoolboy no older than Ceill. “Oh, hello,” Tilrey said, relieved. “Can I help you, young Fir?”
The boy stared at him, his face nervous and furious at once. He was physically unprepossessing, but clearly the spawn of Upstarts, with black brows that had a familiar haughty slant to them. To make his curiosity less obvious, Tilrey snagged his useless glasses from the desk and put them on.
The boy said, “Do you even know who I am?”
Combined with the brows, the drawling voice was a dead giveaway. It matched a certain black-browed young man who had subjected Tilrey to several evenings of athletic sex, then married Vreya Akeina for her connections and left her romantic soul desperately needy.
“I think perhaps you’re Fir Councillor Lindthardt’s son,” Tilrey said. “You favor him.”
The boy swallowed. A muscle bounced in his jaw as he stepped in and closed the door. “I go to school with Ceill. Your son.”
Tilrey managed not to flinch, though the word did make his breath catch. These days, the truth was visible to anyone who’d had a chance to compare him, Ceill, and Gersha.
But most people—all the way up to Councillors—had the sense not to say anything out loud. Even Vreya pretended to think Ceill was Gersha’s biological son.
They were so close to Ceill’s Notification. What was Lindthardt and Vreya’s brat stirring up, and why? Maybe he knew about Tilrey and his mother. Maybe he’d even caught a glimpse of them just now—a nasty thought.
The kid hunched his shoulders, looking torn between attack and flight. “I thought,” he said, “you might want to know where Ceillsha goes when he sneaks out of the house.”
Stirring up shit, all right.
Tilrey asked casually, “Does he sneak out of the house?” He’d caught Ceill with the Free Northmen in Thurskein over the holidays, but he thought he’d put an end to that. And where would Ceill go in Redda?
Red-faced, the boy spat it all out: “He goes to the Sanctioned Brothel. He sneaks in the back way. He has friends there—streammakers. They let him in. He’s in love with the boy who plays Darius in Their Ways Parted, and he stays till morning and comes out stinking of liquor.”
The same stream Besha had mentioned. The one with the boy who’d impersonated Tilrey in those damn photos. It must be a coincidence, but it didn’t feel like one.
He heard his own voice ask, “You know all this how, young Fir?”
When the little Lindthardt/Akeina finally met Tilrey’s eyes, his own gaze was hateful. Defiant. “That’s my business. Not surprised, huh? Maybe he told you. Maybe you don’t even care—why would you, with your past?”
The insult slid off, but Tilrey wouldn’t forget it. He was like Davita that way. “I can’t help wondering why you came to inform me, young Fir,” he said, calm as ever. “What’s your interest in all this?”
The boy’s face was slick with sweat. He was half turned on his heel, primed to flee. “I just thought you should know.”
The kid looked ready to piss himself—maybe he had a sense of the influence Tilrey could wield. Feeling more powerful than he had yet today, Tilrey took a step and another step toward the boy, looming over him.
“And there’s something you should know, young Fir,” he said without raising his voice. “I don’t have any quarrel with you, and I hope you don’t with me. But if you try to interfere with Ceill’s Notification—if you try to interfere with Ceill again in any way, ever—I will make your life very difficult. Believe me, I can.”
The boy stared, frozen and white-faced.
Again Tilrey wondered if the kid knew about him and Vreya, and his stomach curdled. But his gaze didn’t waver. “Is that understood?”
20:52
When Tilrey needed to think something out, he rode the tram to the end of the line and back. He liked to tour the whole city, from the granite monuments of the Core to the sandstone cornices of Upstart buildings to the dreary, functional Laborer high-rises to the drafty warehouses and snow-swept vistas of the Outer Ring. No matter how many times he took the same route, he always saw something new.
When he was Ceill’s age, Malsha used to drive him out to the edge of the city to see the sunset. Never forget that we live under a vast sky, the Magistrate would say. And the sky was impressive, even if it made Tilrey feel more trapped than ever.
Since it was midwinter, there was no sunset to see this late. Nothing but great dark buildings speared by halogen lights. But the rhythm of the trip was still soothing, and by the time Tilrey returned to Ring One and his home stop, he knew what he’d do next—or not do.
Ceill was a legal adult, but he was also still very much a volatile adolescent. If Tilrey scolded him or even grilled him to see if he’d really been frequenting the Brothel, he might do something rash. And now, while the Notification board was considering his future, was the exact wrong time for that.
Too many bright, thoughtful young Upstarts self-destructed once they grasped the contradictions of their sheltered little world. Tilrey thought of Ceill’s uncle, Valgund, getting himself stuck in moral rehab. Then there was poor Adelbert Verán, who’d tried to get himself Lowered so he could act in streams. Maybe that world of illusion had seduced Ceill, too.
But Ceill had taken his tests, and he had applied to University, and now they all just had to hang on a few ten-days for him to be Raised. Better not to say anything. Once his future was assured, the kid could make as many rebellious gestures as he liked.
Not telling Gersha would be tough. But Gersha, so discreet most of the time, was terrible at keeping secrets from the people he loved. He would tip off Ceill one way or another—even just with gloomy silence—and the damage would be done.
No, Tilrey would keep this to himself. A month and a half until Notification Day might seem endless, but he knew exactly how to use the time.
At home, he tiptoed past the half-open bedroom door and settled himself at the computer in the study. He woke it with Gersha’s password and went straight to the Universal Personnel Database, where he found the roster of Brothel staff.
Asking Sibylla to lean on Hulda wasn’t enough anymore. He needed a source inside the Sanctioned, someone more mobile and cooperative than poor Hulda could be at this point. Someone who could tell him if Ceill was a regular guest there.
Most of the names were unknown to him, but when he saw the name of the Brothel steward, Jan-Andreas Heis, he grinned jaggedly. There we go.
After all these years, poor old Ansha had washed up in the Sanctioned. Maybe he enjoyed supervising the young whores, ordering them around the way Upstarts had ordered him around when he and Tilrey were kettle boys together.
Ansha had always been fixated on Tilrey—too friendly, in a way that barely concealed anger and envy. He might not want to talk, but a little persuasion should do the trick. A regular supply of sap. A shiny new posting for a family member. Easy.
The door hissed open. Tilrey hid the window he’d been looking at.
“Hello, love,” he said, raising his chin for Gersha’s kiss. “Sorry I didn’t come to you right away. I had to check on something.”
“No worries. I’ve eaten, but I can heat you up some rice and veg.”
“I’m fine.” Tilrey pulled Gersha into his lap and tugged teasingly at the belt of his robe. “Please tell me you put on proper clothes at some point in the day.”
“Why? I thought I was supposed to be an invalid.” Gersha nuzzled his cheek. “All right, yes, I did put on proper clothes, but one day I may not bother. You need a shave.”
It felt good to be back with someone he didn’t have to pretend with—even if he did have to pretend, just a little. Just for now. “Transmission go through?” he asked.
Gersha nodded. His black hair had gone almost as gray as Gourmanian’s, but it was still thick and soft, and Tilrey liked the steely edge on it. “Good news,” he said. “They’re a month into the second wave of migration, and it seems to have gone smoothly. Thirty-one Southern Hearthers are living in Bettevy now, blending in with the natives, right under our ambassador’s nose.”
That was something, Tilrey supposed. But they had a long way to go before enough defected Oslovs would be living covertly in Bettevy to overwhelm the government forces and take the city and its riches hostage. Even with Duke Dalziel’s help, that was a tall order.
They needed the Harbourer trade for leverage against the traditionalist bent of the Council, though. Sooner or later, reform would spur a reaction, and the high-risk power play of taking over Bettevy might be all they had.
At least they were proceeding slowly, spacing out the migration of Oslovs from the Dissident city over a decade. “How well are they blending in?” he asked. “That’s what concerns me. If a soldier happens to hear one of the newcomers speaking Oslov, or even Harbourer with an Oslov accent . . .”
“Our troops aren’t that fluent.” Sprawled on Tilrey’s lap, Gersha reached up to stroke his cheek soothingly. “Anyway, most of the garrison is in our pocket. We’ve laid the groundwork for this, Rishka.”
“I know.” Tilrey trusted Ranek Egil and Celinda Valde and the others, he did, but it frustrated him to have their fates depend on things happening thousands of miles away. Things he couldn’t control. He would brief Mirella Tunstadt on the transmission tomorrow, if he had time after all those committee meetings.
“I’m glad you got through,” he said, burying his hands in Gersha’s curls. “Having a direct line of communication—it’s amazing, Gersha. You’re amazing.”
“You don’t have to keep saying that, love.” Gersha tucked his head under Tilrey’s chin and curled up contentedly. “We make an okay team.”
“We do, don’t we?” He kissed the top of Gersha’s head. “I’m done here—the rest of the evening’s for you. Ceill’s in the dorm tonight?”
Gersha nodded.
Tilrey sighed with relief, but lightly enough that Gersha wouldn’t notice. The dorm monitors were strict. For tonight, at least, their son wouldn’t get himself in any more trouble at the Sanctioned Brothel.
“Maybe tonight’s our night to go wild,” he said. “Screw all over the house in a dozen new positions.”
Gersha laughed delightedly, but he looked almost as tired as Tilrey felt. He reared up, kissed Tilrey on the forehead, and slid off his lap. “Or maybe we should just run ourselves a nice bath. You can tell me all about your day.”