Volume 16: Tales From the Sanctioned Brothel: Part 3: The Chase
Chapter 9
Mano a Mano
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Year 348
It was a free-night like so many others. Tilrey pretended to be halfway to passed out, his head drooping on Majority Leader Verán’s shoulder, while around him the inner circle of Island Councillors ate salty snacks and drank liquor and vial after vial of sap. They’d gotten bored with political talk and even gossip, and now they were ranking all of the kettle boys on a twenty-point scale.“No, no, you’re getting it wrong!” That was Besha, his voice shrilling as his blood alcohol rose. “It’s five points for looks, five for skill, five for enthusiasm, five for creativity. And Bror definitely beats Ansha at creativity.”Ansha was right there, sitting on Gourmanian’s lap with glazed eyes and a fixed smile. Tilrey couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.Gersha was not there, and for that he was grateful as Verán’s arm tightened around his waist. These intimate gatherings could get rowdy, and his best defense was to appear more sapped than he was. That meant being limp and compliant in ways he didn’t want his lover to see.No matter how out of it he seemed, though, he was always listening.“Shush, darling.” That was Davita Lindblom, the only woman in attendance. “The last category isn’t creativity. It’s obedience.”“What?!” Besha cried. “Obedience is boring!”“You would say that,” Zenteivva said archly. Like most of Verán’s inner circle, he was always finding subtle ways to remind Besha that he was a little hanger-on with an obscure name and pathetic test scores. “So,” he continued in a bored drawl, “that’s twelve points for Lus, fourteen for Bror, sixteen for Ansha. What about Nettsha?”Even with his own eyes closed, Tilrey could feel theirs turning to examine him. He made a token effort to raise his head, then let it slump back on Verán’s shoulder. The less he reacted, the less pleasure they took in needling him.Laughter rippled around the group—fond from some, malicious from others. “Poor child,” Zenteivva said. “I don’t think he’ll get any points for enthusiasm.”“Throw him a few bonus ones for beauty, though,” Besha said. “Really, in his case, that could be half the score.”More laughter. “You were always his biggest fan,” Gourmanian said. “I’d give him 4.5 for skill, though. He’s really quite good when he’s able to keep his eyes open.”“No fractional scores!”They went on, bantering and bickering with the lazy ease of powerful men who had all had him and therefore were confident they knew everything there was to know about him. Tilrey stopped listening. He went to a place in his head where it was Gersha he was leaning on, Gersha who was stroking his hair in a proud, possessive way. Mmmm, Fir. That’s nice.Then someone said, “What about his obedience?”It was a deep, sulky voice that had barely been heard this evening—the voice of Niko Karishkov.All of a sudden, Tilrey was wide awake.He’d often wondered if Karishkov knew who had really forced him into withdrawing his candidacy for the chair of the Int/Sec committee. Technically, Besha had done the blackmailing, and Gersha had planted the hidden camera, so Karishkov probably saw one of them as the mastermind. But he had to know it all hinged on intelligence that could only come from Tilrey.He was the one who’d been in Karishkov’s villa to witness the man’s tender attentions to a Laborer woman and a child who was a ringer for Karishkov. After that awkward encounter, he and Karishkov had even had something approaching a real conversation.The Councillor had opened up to Tilrey about his affection for the child’s mother, and Tilrey had promised discretion, as he always did. Then he’d told the secret to the very people who considered Karishkov an enemy.He knew the kettle boy’s code of discretion was something Upstarts had created for their own convenience, yet when he thought about breaking that code, it pained him. He’d done it for Gersha, and there’d been plenty of evidence that Karishkov would steer the committee in the wrong direction. But still: If I were him, I would despise me.Though he didn’t visibly react, he listened closely as the Councillors squabbled over the point Karishkov had posed. Predictably, Besha and Gourmanian argued that Tilrey’s obedience was exemplary. Zenteivva took a contrarian point of view: “Passivity and obedience aren’t the same.”“Very true. And being sapped to the gills isn’t the same as being cooperative,” Verán quavered.“Have you ever known him to be insolent?” Davita Lindblom asked. She’d perfected a warm, supportive manner that Tilrey suspected was just as fake as his own blankness.“In his own mulish way? Yes.”“Stubbornness isn’t insolence,” Gourmanian said. “You have to separate states from acts. Obedience is a voluntary gift from inferior to superior; insolence is a deliberate provocation. Myself, I find the boy very obedient with the right handling.”“I like a little spice of insolence,” Besha complained. “Obedience is overrated.”Karishkov’s voice cut through them again, dry and cold and unamused: “Test him.”“What?”A throaty laugh came from Davita. “A test of obedience. Ooh, that sounds fun.”“Yes. Yes.” Verán pushed Tilrey away, forcing him to sit up and open his eyes. “What should we make him do?”Without hesitation, Karishkov said, “Stand and strip for us.”Verán chuckled. “Like the day we went down to Int/Sec to take possession of him. Remember?”Tilrey’s breath caught. Had Karishkov been there that day? He’d been locked up in the dark for who knew how long, answering questions about Malsha, when the Islanders trooped in. They laughed as he backed away from them, covering his eyes against the blinding light. Verán and Besha were there, definitely, but he could never remember who else.“To the victor belong the spoils!” Besha cried in a nervous, giddy way. It was what Verán had said that day—and for months afterward, to justify everything they did to their new kettle boy.“Pleasant memories.” Verán gave Tilrey a push. “Didn’t you hear Niko? Get up and strip, lad—if you can stay on your feet.”Tilrey briefly considered pretending he couldn’t. But no, it wasn’t worth making a fuss over.He rose from the sofa and turned to look Karishkov in the eye. Without breaking the gaze, he toed off his indoor boots and unclasped his tunic. Shrugged it off his shoulders.They’d all seen him naked before. If Niko wanted to humiliate him, to punish him, he’d have to come up with something better. Something truly painful or mortifying, more than even Gourmanian could devise—and Tilrey could already tell that erotic punishment wasn’t Niko’s specialty. Or if it was, Niko would want to do it with that Skeinsha woman of his, since he seemed to have no interest in boys.Tilrey tugged his shirt over his head. Stepped out of his trousers, folding each garment as he went. When he grabbed the waistband of the briefs, Niko looked away.So the man didn’t want to see this after all? Didn’t find it satisfying? Maybe he’d hoped to see Tilrey flinch and tear up, full of outraged pride. He had no idea what he was dealing with.Tilrey finished undressing. He stood there with his shoulders back and his arms at his sides, his gaze still fixed on Karishkov with a defiance that he knew the others wouldn’t even notice, until they told him to put his clothes back on.
September, Year 371
Tilrey didn’t seat himself. Respectful manners were still deeply ingrained in him. He waited until Karishkov pointed at a chair facing the desk, then lowered himself into it.The single yellow lamp showed him fragments of Director Gelmedyn’s office: shiny woodwork, dark video monitors, and bookshelves full of bound volumes that rose to the lofty ceiling. A ladder and an iron catwalk offered access to the higher levels. It was an office that evoked the era of Whyberg, designed to strike reverence and fear into wayward employees.That must suit Karishkov’s current purposes just fine.The Councillor leaned back in Gelmedyn’s chair, fingers tapping the desk. “Don’t pretend you came here on Gersha’s behalf,” he said conversationally. “And none of your bowing and scraping and Fir Councillor this or that. We both know what you are.”Tilrey tried to gather his wits. Does he know everything? Karishkov was still an Islander, and hence outside the sphere of his or Davita’s influence. The only leverage he had against this man was the secret that he, Gersha, and Besha had been keeping for a quarter-century.“And what am I exactly, Fir?” he asked calmly.Karishkov made a dismissive noise. His fingers crept across the desk toward a handheld, but he didn’t pick it up.“A clever climber who’s taken advantage of a weak man,” he said. “You think I don’t know your type? Or that you can fool me by playing dumb? I’m not a coddled elite who assumes he’ll be deferred to, like that poor fool Verán. I spent years undercover in Thurskein dealing with people just like you—Laborers who never learned to bow their heads to us. I know just how little you think of meritocracy and how much you think of yourself.Tilrey opened his mouth to demur, but Karishkov plowed on: “I don’t judge you for that. It’s not your fault you were raised in a city where social relations are profoundly out of wack. The blame belongs to whoever brought you to Redda to make trouble.”“With all due respect, Fir, you seem to be assuming—”Karishkov raised an admonitory hand. “As I said, I don’t judge you for being a clever, ambitious boy. We all have to look out for ourselves. I don’t even blame you for identifying my weakness and using it against me. I would have done the same in your place. It shows merit.”Am I supposed to be flattered? But Tilrey kept his mouth shut. He needed to know where this was going.Again Karishkov’s fingers danced over the dark handheld as if he wanted to wake it. Then he raised his head and looked directly at Tilrey. “I do judge you because you’re very possibly a shirker. Anyway, your mother’s a shirker; I’m sure of that.”The room was a bottomless pit spiraling into darkness. Tilrey’s heartbeat echoed and distended. Reflexively he slipped a hand behind his back and dug two nails deep into the palm.Pain helped him focus—still, always. Pain was a friend.The voice that emerged from him was undisturbed. “Why would you say such a thing, Fir?”“Your mother—Lindtmerán, Angelika, Supervisor of Sector Six of Thurskein—selected a certain Lourisa Beishoft to oversee her Records office.” Karishkov sounded distracted now, as if he’d rehearsed his attack but took no relish in it. “This Beishoft has been falsifying demographic data for virtually her entire tenure. During that time, nearly seven hundred people have simply vanished from the sector. Vanished. We have reason to believe most of them were smuggled on cargo flights carrying sap and other goods to Harbour.”Fuck. Someone in Thurskein, or several someones, had been tipping off Int/Sec. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but why the lack of advance warning?At least the Southern Hearth was fully populated, and the plan for Harbour was close to completion. He just had to find a way to hold off Karishkov until then. The man could easily have had him arrested already. If they were sitting here talking instead, there was a reason.Then he replayed Karishkov’s words in his head, hearing them like a friend and not like a strategist, and his stomach lurched. Lourisa—they must have her in custody. Maybe Dal, too. Mom. If he was going to do anything for them, though, he needed to keep his head. He couldn’t let himself slip into terror.“That’s shocking, Fir,” he said, renewing the pressure of nails into palm. “I imagine you have this Beishoft in custody?”“Oh, we do. Or we did.” Karishkov examined his own nails. He must have some inkling of the impact of his words on Tilrey, but it didn’t seem to improve his mood. “Unfortunately, the Beishoft woman was prepared with a cyanide capsule, so she was of no use to us. We’re questioning her associates now.”Tilrey’s clenched hand lost its grip. Shadows filled his vision, and his head spun.
Lourisa.
He saw her serving him greens at a family dinner while Dal nagged her to leave some for herself. Teasing Ceill about his growth spurt. Perched in the rafters above the factory floor with him and Pers and Dal, long ago on their first meeting. Quiet, competent Lourisa—less fiery than Dal, but every bit as determined and defiant. Her clever accounting had allowed her to disappear hundreds of people, sending them to an arguably better life in the Southern Hearth.She was gone now. Erased from the world. Dal might never recover from the loss of her partner, assuming she survived Int/Sec herself.The earth was shaking. No, he was; he wouldn’t be able to speak without showing it.And then another part of him took over and said almost levelly, “Forgive me, Fir. Lourisa Beishoft was a friend.”“I’m well aware.” There was a certain grim satisfaction in Karishkov’s voice. “The life partner of your dearest childhood companion, am I right? There’s no need to upset yourself about Magdalena Arno. She’s in custody, of course, but in Thurskein. Not here—not yet.”Fuck. How many years had Karishkov worked behind the scenes for this moment? Tilrey’s gut was twisting itself in knots, but somewhere in a clear, cold part of his head, he knew Int/Sec hadn’t just now found all this out. Director Gelmedyn was in Karishkov’s pocket, and Karishkov had delayed the crackdown until—what? Why now?“My mother?” he asked, forcing himself to meet the man’s eyes. Not her. Please.A shrug. “Your mother’s been clever. Very careful to keep her hands clean. But the mere fact that she let Beishoft run her Records office is incriminating. If I choose, I could have her in a cell on my fourth level at a moment’s notice.”Tilrey swallowed so his voice wouldn’t come out cracked. “You haven’t reported this yet. Externally. To the Council.”It wasn’t a question. As long as the Thurskein lockdown remained an internal Int/Sec matter, Karishkov had nearly unlimited jurisdiction. Once the Council was involved, things could develop quickly, and perhaps catastrophically. The disappearance of seven hundred people from a Laborer city was exactly the sort of thing that made Councillors panic and order mass exiles and draconian new regulations.“Reports to the Council can take a while to compose. One wants to be comprehensive.” Karishkov snapped his fingers, his eyes glittering through the dimness, to tell Tilrey how quickly he could actually file the report if he chose. “When I do so, whether I do so, depends on you.”So it came down to this. Decades ago, back in the days when Tilrey had little to lose, he’d found a point of leverage and twisted Karishkov’s arm behind his back. Now Karishkov was telling him that turnabout was fair play.What had Tilrey even wanted back then? To make Gersha happy? To prove to himself he could wield a measure of power? Now, weighed against the lives of his mother and Dal and Mal and Lourisa—Lourisa, he’d have to tell Gersha and Ceill she was gone—their power play seemed petty. Foolish.But he’d chosen to play this game, and it was too late to bow out. Anyway, Karishkov had to have a better motive. Revenge didn’t seem like his style.He kept his gaze steady on the Councillor. He asked, “What do you want?”Karishkov rose restlessly and perched on the edge of the desk, the handheld clamped between his palms. “Let’s keep this short, lad. I have things to do. I can see for myself that the Island Party is a lost cause, and the Peninsula will gain a majority at the next election. I don’t intend to be a rat on that sinking ship. But if I’m going to defect to your Coalition, I want to do so in a position of power. And Davita Lindblom won’t even give me a meeting, which I suspect has something to do with your influence.”Or with your own sparkling personality. Though he maintained his hold on Int/Sec, Karishkov had been sidelined in the Council ever since his failed bid for committee chair. For Davita, who’d never much respected or liked him, he was a figure of fun—“that wretched, gloomy spy.”Tilrey inclined his head as if to take the entire responsibility for Karishkov’s disfavor. “I can talk to her, Fir.”“Oh, I imagine you can.”Tilrey barely even registered the Councillor’s leer. He was used to those. “I’ll remind Fir’n Councillor Lindblom of the importance of domestic security and of your invaluable expertise in the matter.”Karishkov’s chin jutted upward. “That’s not all. Albertine Linnett is finally going to retire, from what I’ve heard. I want to replace her as the committee chair.”Shit. The plan had been to make Besha the Int/Sec committee chair. He wouldn’t be happy.But: Mom, Dal, Mal, my whole sector of Thurskein. Too many innocent people. Tilrey sighed. He would tell Davita something, use all his skills to convince her that Karishkov was actually the best choice for the chair. “I’ll do my best, Fir.”“You’ll do better than your best. You’ll get it done.” Karishkov’s tall form loomed over him, blocking the light. “I want that meeting with Lindblom within the ten-day.”“Within the month.” Something was nagging at him. “I can’t do miracles.”“Your mother—”“Your son, Fir.” Tilrey rose to his feet. Karishkov was tall, but he was still slightly taller.“I have two daughters with my wife. No son.” Karishkov bit off the words savagely as if saying them loudly enough could make them true.Something was coming clear in Tilrey’s head. “You’ve known about the exodus from Sector Six for years, haven’t you? Maybe decades. Your double agents are no fools—you trained them yourself. You passed them all your inside knowledge from those years when you were living undercover with Skeinshaka and romancing a woman and secretly fathering her son.”“I told you—”“But you did nothing. You didn’t act to stop the emigration from Sector Six because you couldn’t lock down the sector without catching Aleks and his Northmen in your net. Because you wanted to protect him, you countenanced and even enabled a breach of the Republic’s security.”“You can’t prove a thing.” Karishkov’s words were a snarl. “You’re in no position to threaten me.”“And that’s lucky for you, isn’t it, Fir?” Tilrey could feel Karishkov bunching his shoulders, itching to hit someone. He didn’t back away. “I couldn’t help noticing that you didn’t lock down the sector until the very day before the Northmen planned to stage a massive workers’ strike. Once Aleks took that very public step, you would have lost your power to protect him. Chances are, he’d have been exiled.”“He could still be exiled.” Each word was something foul that Karishkov spat out. Clearly he was done with his denials. “Unlike your mother, my Lesta barely bothers covering his tracks. He seems to have a death wish.”Lesta. Tilrey remembered Karishkov using that nickname for Aleks long ago in the vacation villa—the fond voice, the obvious love. The man would never have left his son to take his chances during a lockdown, even a lockdown that he controlled.“So you put him out of harm’s way,” he said. “Spirited him out of the city, or made sure he wasn’t there when you swooped in—I don’t know which. But I know Aleks Snowblind isn’t facing consequences right now. Not like my family and friends are.”Karishkov’s expression of quiet fury told him he was right. “What the fuck do you know about consequences?”“I know you might face them if anyone told the Council the full story of what you have and haven’t been doing in Sector Six, and why.”For a moment, they locked eyes, Karishkov’s burning with concentrated rage. Then he dropped the gaze, his whole body going slack against the desk. He reached blindly for the handheld and checked something on the screen.Whatever he found, it didn’t satisfy him. The device slipped from his fingers and thudded on the desk. When he spoke again, his voice was thin and strained. “Do you know where he is?”“Aleks?” Tilrey felt tempted to give Karishkov a primer on the long-standing rivalry between the True Hearth and the Northmen. But he couldn’t very well do that without proclaiming his own allegiance, so he said, “My sources in Thurskein are good, but not that good. I expect he’s out in the woods somewhere.”“How helpful of you.” Behind the sarcasm, Karishkov’s voice had thickened with misery. This moment was giving him no rush of triumph; he wouldn’t have a moment’s rest till he knew where Aleks was and whether he was safe.I would be the same. Tilrey thought of Lourisa and swallowed hard, reminding himself Ceill was safe at University. He was an Upstart. No one could hurt him now.“Nothing you’ve said changes your guilt,” Karishkov said in that heavy voice. “Or your situation. I can extend this lockdown as long as I want, Tilrey. I own you now.”He didn’t bother to say what they both knew. Davita would listen if Tilrey told her how Karishkov had shielded Aleks, and she might even care. But the information that Tilrey himself was a shirker far outweighed all that. The word of a Councillor of the Republic would always outweigh the word of an ex-kettle boy.Karishkov had been playing fast and loose with his authority, and sooner or later Tilrey might find a way to topple him from his perch. But not today. Not with everything in the balance.“You’ll have your meeting with Lindblom within the month, Fir,” he said. “From now on, I’ll be your biggest champion. In return, you won’t take my mother into custody. You’ll release Magdalena Arno. Mal Sollentaal, too, if you have him.”Karishkov’s expression darkened. His fingers twitched as if the handheld demanded his attention. “That’s a tall order. Arno oversees the cargo port. She put those people on the planes.”And your son is still out there. Somewhere. If Tilrey could find Aleks, he would have his leverage again.“Misplace some evidence, then,” he said. “Falsify reports. Whatever it takes.”Karishkov sighed. “Fine. Arno’s free. But the sector stays occupied.”Which meant Dal’s situation could change on a second’s notice. Tilrey lowered his head, telling himself he’d won a victory even if it didn’t feel that way.(Lourisa. Did Dal know yet?)He clenched a fist, willing the weakness away. There’d be time enough to mourn later. Einara had some kind of communications with Aleks; maybe she could help.He said, “We have a deal, Fir.”
Year 348
It was a free-night like so many others. Tilrey pretended to be halfway to passed out, his head drooping on Majority Leader Verán’s shoulder, while around him the inner circle of Island Councillors ate salty snacks and drank liquor and vial after vial of sap. They’d gotten bored with political talk and even gossip, and now they were ranking all of the kettle boys on a twenty-point scale.
“No, no, you’re getting it wrong!” That was Besha, his voice shrilling as his blood alcohol rose. “It’s five points for looks, five for skill, five for enthusiasm, five for creativity. And Bror definitely beats Ansha at creativity.”
Ansha was right there, sitting on Gourmanian’s lap with glazed eyes and a fixed smile. Tilrey couldn’t help feeling sorry for him.
Gersha was not there, and for that he was grateful as Verán’s arm tightened around his waist. These intimate gatherings could get rowdy, and his best defense was to appear more sapped than he was. That meant being limp and compliant in ways he didn’t want his lover to see.
No matter how out of it he seemed, though, he was always listening.
“Shush, darling.” That was Davita Lindblom, the only woman in attendance. “The last category isn’t creativity. It’s obedience.”
“What?!” Besha cried. “Obedience is boring!”
“You would say that,” Zenteivva said archly. Like most of Verán’s inner circle, he was always finding subtle ways to remind Besha that he was a little hanger-on with an obscure name and pathetic test scores. “So,” he continued in a bored drawl, “that’s twelve points for Lus, fourteen for Bror, sixteen for Ansha. What about Nettsha?”
Even with his own eyes closed, Tilrey could feel theirs turning to examine him. He made a token effort to raise his head, then let it slump back on Verán’s shoulder. The less he reacted, the less pleasure they took in needling him.
Laughter rippled around the group—fond from some, malicious from others. “Poor child,” Zenteivva said. “I don’t think he’ll get any points for enthusiasm.”
“Throw him a few bonus ones for beauty, though,” Besha said. “Really, in his case, that could be half the score.”
More laughter. “You were always his biggest fan,” Gourmanian said. “I’d give him 4.5 for skill, though. He’s really quite good when he’s able to keep his eyes open.”
“No fractional scores!”
They went on, bantering and bickering with the lazy ease of powerful men who had all had him and therefore were confident they knew everything there was to know about him. Tilrey stopped listening. He went to a place in his head where it was Gersha he was leaning on, Gersha who was stroking his hair in a proud, possessive way. Mmmm, Fir. That’s nice.
Then someone said, “What about his obedience?”
It was a deep, sulky voice that had barely been heard this evening—the voice of Niko Karishkov.
All of a sudden, Tilrey was wide awake.
He’d often wondered if Karishkov knew who had really forced him into withdrawing his candidacy for the chair of the Int/Sec committee. Technically, Besha had done the blackmailing, and Gersha had planted the hidden camera, so Karishkov probably saw one of them as the mastermind. But he had to know it all hinged on intelligence that could only come from Tilrey.
He was the one who’d been in Karishkov’s villa to witness the man’s tender attentions to a Laborer woman and a child who was a ringer for Karishkov. After that awkward encounter, he and Karishkov had even had something approaching a real conversation.
The Councillor had opened up to Tilrey about his affection for the child’s mother, and Tilrey had promised discretion, as he always did. Then he’d told the secret to the very people who considered Karishkov an enemy.
He knew the kettle boy’s code of discretion was something Upstarts had created for their own convenience, yet when he thought about breaking that code, it pained him. He’d done it for Gersha, and there’d been plenty of evidence that Karishkov would steer the committee in the wrong direction. But still: If I were him, I would despise me.
Though he didn’t visibly react, he listened closely as the Councillors squabbled over the point Karishkov had posed. Predictably, Besha and Gourmanian argued that Tilrey’s obedience was exemplary. Zenteivva took a contrarian point of view: “Passivity and obedience aren’t the same.”
“Very true. And being sapped to the gills isn’t the same as being cooperative,” Verán quavered.
“Have you ever known him to be insolent?” Davita Lindblom asked. She’d perfected a warm, supportive manner that Tilrey suspected was just as fake as his own blankness.
“In his own mulish way? Yes.”
“Stubbornness isn’t insolence,” Gourmanian said. “You have to separate states from acts. Obedience is a voluntary gift from inferior to superior; insolence is a deliberate provocation. Myself, I find the boy very obedient with the right handling.”
“I like a little spice of insolence,” Besha complained. “Obedience is overrated.”
Karishkov’s voice cut through them again, dry and cold and unamused: “Test him.”
“What?”
A throaty laugh came from Davita. “A test of obedience. Ooh, that sounds fun.”
“Yes. Yes.” Verán pushed Tilrey away, forcing him to sit up and open his eyes. “What should we make him do?”
Without hesitation, Karishkov said, “Stand and strip for us.”
Verán chuckled. “Like the day we went down to Int/Sec to take possession of him. Remember?”
Tilrey’s breath caught. Had Karishkov been there that day? He’d been locked up in the dark for who knew how long, answering questions about Malsha, when the Islanders trooped in. They laughed as he backed away from them, covering his eyes against the blinding light. Verán and Besha were there, definitely, but he could never remember who else.
“To the victor belong the spoils!” Besha cried in a nervous, giddy way. It was what Verán had said that day—and for months afterward, to justify everything they did to their new kettle boy.
“Pleasant memories.” Verán gave Tilrey a push. “Didn’t you hear Niko? Get up and strip, lad—if you can stay on your feet.”
Tilrey briefly considered pretending he couldn’t. But no, it wasn’t worth making a fuss over.
He rose from the sofa and turned to look Karishkov in the eye. Without breaking the gaze, he toed off his indoor boots and unclasped his tunic. Shrugged it off his shoulders.
They’d all seen him naked before. If Niko wanted to humiliate him, to punish him, he’d have to come up with something better. Something truly painful or mortifying, more than even Gourmanian could devise—and Tilrey could already tell that erotic punishment wasn’t Niko’s specialty. Or if it was, Niko would want to do it with that Skeinsha woman of his, since he seemed to have no interest in boys.
Tilrey tugged his shirt over his head. Stepped out of his trousers, folding each garment as he went. When he grabbed the waistband of the briefs, Niko looked away.
So the man didn’t want to see this after all? Didn’t find it satisfying? Maybe he’d hoped to see Tilrey flinch and tear up, full of outraged pride. He had no idea what he was dealing with.
Tilrey finished undressing. He stood there with his shoulders back and his arms at his sides, his gaze still fixed on Karishkov with a defiance that he knew the others wouldn’t even notice, until they told him to put his clothes back on.
September, Year 371
Tilrey didn’t seat himself. Respectful manners were still deeply ingrained in him. He waited until Karishkov pointed at a chair facing the desk, then lowered himself into it.
The single yellow lamp showed him fragments of Director Gelmedyn’s office: shiny woodwork, dark video monitors, and bookshelves full of bound volumes that rose to the lofty ceiling. A ladder and an iron catwalk offered access to the higher levels. It was an office that evoked the era of Whyberg, designed to strike reverence and fear into wayward employees.
That must suit Karishkov’s current purposes just fine.
The Councillor leaned back in Gelmedyn’s chair, fingers tapping the desk. “Don’t pretend you came here on Gersha’s behalf,” he said conversationally. “And none of your bowing and scraping and Fir Councillor this or that. We both know what you are.”
Tilrey tried to gather his wits. Does he know everything? Karishkov was still an Islander, and hence outside the sphere of his or Davita’s influence. The only leverage he had against this man was the secret that he, Gersha, and Besha had been keeping for a quarter-century.
“And what am I exactly, Fir?” he asked calmly.
Karishkov made a dismissive noise. His fingers crept across the desk toward a handheld, but he didn’t pick it up.
“A clever climber who’s taken advantage of a weak man,” he said. “You think I don’t know your type? Or that you can fool me by playing dumb? I’m not a coddled elite who assumes he’ll be deferred to, like that poor fool Verán. I spent years undercover in Thurskein dealing with people just like you—Laborers who never learned to bow their heads to us. I know just how little you think of meritocracy and how much you think of yourself.
Tilrey opened his mouth to demur, but Karishkov plowed on: “I don’t judge you for that. It’s not your fault you were raised in a city where social relations are profoundly out of wack. The blame belongs to whoever brought you to Redda to make trouble.”
“With all due respect, Fir, you seem to be assuming—”
Karishkov raised an admonitory hand. “As I said, I don’t judge you for being a clever, ambitious boy. We all have to look out for ourselves. I don’t even blame you for identifying my weakness and using it against me. I would have done the same in your place. It shows merit.”
Am I supposed to be flattered? But Tilrey kept his mouth shut. He needed to know where this was going.
Again Karishkov’s fingers danced over the dark handheld as if he wanted to wake it. Then he raised his head and looked directly at Tilrey. “I do judge you because you’re very possibly a shirker. Anyway, your mother’s a shirker; I’m sure of that.”
The room was a bottomless pit spiraling into darkness. Tilrey’s heartbeat echoed and distended. Reflexively he slipped a hand behind his back and dug two nails deep into the palm.
Pain helped him focus—still, always. Pain was a friend.
The voice that emerged from him was undisturbed. “Why would you say such a thing, Fir?”
“Your mother—Lindtmerán, Angelika, Supervisor of Sector Six of Thurskein—selected a certain Lourisa Beishoft to oversee her Records office.” Karishkov sounded distracted now, as if he’d rehearsed his attack but took no relish in it. “This Beishoft has been falsifying demographic data for virtually her entire tenure. During that time, nearly seven hundred people have simply vanished from the sector. Vanished. We have reason to believe most of them were smuggled on cargo flights carrying sap and other goods to Harbour.”
Fuck. Someone in Thurskein, or several someones, had been tipping off Int/Sec. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but why the lack of advance warning?
At least the Southern Hearth was fully populated, and the plan for Harbour was close to completion. He just had to find a way to hold off Karishkov until then. The man could easily have had him arrested already. If they were sitting here talking instead, there was a reason.
Then he replayed Karishkov’s words in his head, hearing them like a friend and not like a strategist, and his stomach lurched. Lourisa—they must have her in custody. Maybe Dal, too. Mom. If he was going to do anything for them, though, he needed to keep his head. He couldn’t let himself slip into terror.
“That’s shocking, Fir,” he said, renewing the pressure of nails into palm. “I imagine you have this Beishoft in custody?”
“Oh, we do. Or we did.” Karishkov examined his own nails. He must have some inkling of the impact of his words on Tilrey, but it didn’t seem to improve his mood. “Unfortunately, the Beishoft woman was prepared with a cyanide capsule, so she was of no use to us. We’re questioning her associates now.”
Tilrey’s clenched hand lost its grip. Shadows filled his vision, and his head spun.
Lourisa.
He saw her serving him greens at a family dinner while Dal nagged her to leave some for herself. Teasing Ceill about his growth spurt. Perched in the rafters above the factory floor with him and Pers and Dal, long ago on their first meeting. Quiet, competent Lourisa—less fiery than Dal, but every bit as determined and defiant. Her clever accounting had allowed her to disappear hundreds of people, sending them to an arguably better life in the Southern Hearth.
She was gone now. Erased from the world. Dal might never recover from the loss of her partner, assuming she survived Int/Sec herself.
The earth was shaking. No, he was; he wouldn’t be able to speak without showing it.
And then another part of him took over and said almost levelly, “Forgive me, Fir. Lourisa Beishoft was a friend.”
“I’m well aware.” There was a certain grim satisfaction in Karishkov’s voice. “The life partner of your dearest childhood companion, am I right? There’s no need to upset yourself about Magdalena Arno. She’s in custody, of course, but in Thurskein. Not here—not yet.”
Fuck. How many years had Karishkov worked behind the scenes for this moment? Tilrey’s gut was twisting itself in knots, but somewhere in a clear, cold part of his head, he knew Int/Sec hadn’t just now found all this out. Director Gelmedyn was in Karishkov’s pocket, and Karishkov had delayed the crackdown until—what? Why now?
“My mother?” he asked, forcing himself to meet the man’s eyes. Not her. Please.
A shrug. “Your mother’s been clever. Very careful to keep her hands clean. But the mere fact that she let Beishoft run her Records office is incriminating. If I choose, I could have her in a cell on my fourth level at a moment’s notice.”
Tilrey swallowed so his voice wouldn’t come out cracked. “You haven’t reported this yet. Externally. To the Council.”
It wasn’t a question. As long as the Thurskein lockdown remained an internal Int/Sec matter, Karishkov had nearly unlimited jurisdiction. Once the Council was involved, things could develop quickly, and perhaps catastrophically. The disappearance of seven hundred people from a Laborer city was exactly the sort of thing that made Councillors panic and order mass exiles and draconian new regulations.
“Reports to the Council can take a while to compose. One wants to be comprehensive.” Karishkov snapped his fingers, his eyes glittering through the dimness, to tell Tilrey how quickly he could actually file the report if he chose. “When I do so, whether I do so, depends on you.”
So it came down to this. Decades ago, back in the days when Tilrey had little to lose, he’d found a point of leverage and twisted Karishkov’s arm behind his back. Now Karishkov was telling him that turnabout was fair play.
What had Tilrey even wanted back then? To make Gersha happy? To prove to himself he could wield a measure of power? Now, weighed against the lives of his mother and Dal and Mal and Lourisa—Lourisa, he’d have to tell Gersha and Ceill she was gone—their power play seemed petty. Foolish.
But he’d chosen to play this game, and it was too late to bow out. Anyway, Karishkov had to have a better motive. Revenge didn’t seem like his style.
He kept his gaze steady on the Councillor. He asked, “What do you want?”
Karishkov rose restlessly and perched on the edge of the desk, the handheld clamped between his palms. “Let’s keep this short, lad. I have things to do. I can see for myself that the Island Party is a lost cause, and the Peninsula will gain a majority at the next election. I don’t intend to be a rat on that sinking ship. But if I’m going to defect to your Coalition, I want to do so in a position of power. And Davita Lindblom won’t even give me a meeting, which I suspect has something to do with your influence.”
Or with your own sparkling personality. Though he maintained his hold on Int/Sec, Karishkov had been sidelined in the Council ever since his failed bid for committee chair. For Davita, who’d never much respected or liked him, he was a figure of fun—“that wretched, gloomy spy.”
Tilrey inclined his head as if to take the entire responsibility for Karishkov’s disfavor. “I can talk to her, Fir.”
“Oh, I imagine you can.”
Tilrey barely even registered the Councillor’s leer. He was used to those. “I’ll remind Fir’n Councillor Lindblom of the importance of domestic security and of your invaluable expertise in the matter.”
Karishkov’s chin jutted upward. “That’s not all. Albertine Linnett is finally going to retire, from what I’ve heard. I want to replace her as the committee chair.”
Shit. The plan had been to make Besha the Int/Sec committee chair. He wouldn’t be happy.
But: Mom, Dal, Mal, my whole sector of Thurskein. Too many innocent people. Tilrey sighed. He would tell Davita something, use all his skills to convince her that Karishkov was actually the best choice for the chair. “I’ll do my best, Fir.”
“You’ll do better than your best. You’ll get it done.” Karishkov’s tall form loomed over him, blocking the light. “I want that meeting with Lindblom within the ten-day.”
“Within the month.” Something was nagging at him. “I can’t do miracles.”
“Your mother—”
“Your son, Fir.” Tilrey rose to his feet. Karishkov was tall, but he was still slightly taller.
“I have two daughters with my wife. No son.” Karishkov bit off the words savagely as if saying them loudly enough could make them true.
Something was coming clear in Tilrey’s head. “You’ve known about the exodus from Sector Six for years, haven’t you? Maybe decades. Your double agents are no fools—you trained them yourself. You passed them all your inside knowledge from those years when you were living undercover with Skeinshaka and romancing a woman and secretly fathering her son.”
“I told you—”
“But you did nothing. You didn’t act to stop the emigration from Sector Six because you couldn’t lock down the sector without catching Aleks and his Northmen in your net. Because you wanted to protect him, you countenanced and even enabled a breach of the Republic’s security.”
“You can’t prove a thing.” Karishkov’s words were a snarl. “You’re in no position to threaten me.”
“And that’s lucky for you, isn’t it, Fir?” Tilrey could feel Karishkov bunching his shoulders, itching to hit someone. He didn’t back away. “I couldn’t help noticing that you didn’t lock down the sector until the very day before the Northmen planned to stage a massive workers’ strike. Once Aleks took that very public step, you would have lost your power to protect him. Chances are, he’d have been exiled.”
“He could still be exiled.” Each word was something foul that Karishkov spat out. Clearly he was done with his denials. “Unlike your mother, my Lesta barely bothers covering his tracks. He seems to have a death wish.”
Lesta. Tilrey remembered Karishkov using that nickname for Aleks long ago in the vacation villa—the fond voice, the obvious love. The man would never have left his son to take his chances during a lockdown, even a lockdown that he controlled.
“So you put him out of harm’s way,” he said. “Spirited him out of the city, or made sure he wasn’t there when you swooped in—I don’t know which. But I know Aleks Snowblind isn’t facing consequences right now. Not like my family and friends are.”
Karishkov’s expression of quiet fury told him he was right. “What the fuck do you know about consequences?”
“I know you might face them if anyone told the Council the full story of what you have and haven’t been doing in Sector Six, and why.”
For a moment, they locked eyes, Karishkov’s burning with concentrated rage. Then he dropped the gaze, his whole body going slack against the desk. He reached blindly for the handheld and checked something on the screen.
Whatever he found, it didn’t satisfy him. The device slipped from his fingers and thudded on the desk. When he spoke again, his voice was thin and strained. “Do you know where he is?”
“Aleks?” Tilrey felt tempted to give Karishkov a primer on the long-standing rivalry between the True Hearth and the Northmen. But he couldn’t very well do that without proclaiming his own allegiance, so he said, “My sources in Thurskein are good, but not that good. I expect he’s out in the woods somewhere.”
“How helpful of you.” Behind the sarcasm, Karishkov’s voice had thickened with misery. This moment was giving him no rush of triumph; he wouldn’t have a moment’s rest till he knew where Aleks was and whether he was safe.
I would be the same. Tilrey thought of Lourisa and swallowed hard, reminding himself Ceill was safe at University. He was an Upstart. No one could hurt him now.
“Nothing you’ve said changes your guilt,” Karishkov said in that heavy voice. “Or your situation. I can extend this lockdown as long as I want, Tilrey. I own you now.”
He didn’t bother to say what they both knew. Davita would listen if Tilrey told her how Karishkov had shielded Aleks, and she might even care. But the information that Tilrey himself was a shirker far outweighed all that. The word of a Councillor of the Republic would always outweigh the word of an ex-kettle boy.
Karishkov had been playing fast and loose with his authority, and sooner or later Tilrey might find a way to topple him from his perch. But not today. Not with everything in the balance.
“You’ll have your meeting with Lindblom within the month, Fir,” he said. “From now on, I’ll be your biggest champion. In return, you won’t take my mother into custody. You’ll release Magdalena Arno. Mal Sollentaal, too, if you have him.”
Karishkov’s expression darkened. His fingers twitched as if the handheld demanded his attention. “That’s a tall order. Arno oversees the cargo port. She put those people on the planes.”
And your son is still out there. Somewhere. If Tilrey could find Aleks, he would have his leverage again.
“Misplace some evidence, then,” he said. “Falsify reports. Whatever it takes.”
Karishkov sighed. “Fine. Arno’s free. But the sector stays occupied.”
Which meant Dal’s situation could change on a second’s notice. Tilrey lowered his head, telling himself he’d won a victory even if it didn’t feel that way.
(Lourisa. Did Dal know yet?)
He clenched a fist, willing the weakness away. There’d be time enough to mourn later. Einara had some kind of communications with Aleks; maybe she could help.
He said, “We have a deal, Fir.”
Chapter End Notes
So, yeah. There’s the minor character death I tagged. Pour one out for poor Lourisa; the stakes had to get raised somehow. And thanks for reading! <3 <3
Chapter End Notes
So, yeah. There’s the minor character death I tagged. Pour one out for poor Lourisa; the stakes had to get raised somehow. And thanks for reading! <3 <3
So, yeah. There’s the minor character death I tagged. Pour one out for poor Lourisa; the stakes had to get raised somehow. And thanks for reading! <3 <3