Chapter 11: Being Useful — The Key of Oslov

Volume 16: Tales From the Sanctioned Brothel: Part 3: The Chase

Chapter 11 Being Useful

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Janta’s father was not pleased.He sat at the foot of Janta’s new bed, cracking walnuts open against the frame and scooping out the meat. “I tried to keep you safe,” he said. “I kept you away from Redda, and here you are, right in the thick of it.”“I wasn’t so safe in the Basement,” Janta pointed out.His dad ignored this. “This Tilrey Bronn—I don’t trust him. But in the end he’s just another Oslov; the woman is the one you need to watch out for. The ice queen.”Janta knew he meant Einara. “Tell me about her. If you’re from Harbour, is she from there, too?”But he’d forgotten his father hated discussing his origins. “I am not! From Harbour!” the man cried, his face distorting with fear and rage. “Where’d you even hear that name?”“Tilrey said—”“Don’t listen to him!” The vision hurled a nut at Janta. “I’m from here! So are you! Repeat it after me!”A second walnut hit Janta right between the eyes; he blinked, though it wasn’t real and didn’t hurt. “You’re from here,” he repeated dutifully. “I’m from here.”“Never speak my language,” his father hissed at him. Then his voice rose to a roaring crescendo like the wind in the Wastes: “Never tell them how I sang you to sleep, never let them know, never give us away, blend in, blend in, blend in—”Janta woke up all at once, sweating and shaking, and lay very still. It was just a dream.Gingerly, he examined his still-unfamiliar surroundings. This was the little room that Tilrey had given him all to himself, so clean and white, with twilight coming through the skylight and the bed set back in an alcove that made him feel like a fox in a safe den and—wait, who was that? The tall figure standing by the door and staring down at him?Not his father. A real, living person. Janta drew the covers up to his chin and scuttled back against the wall, his breath coming in terrified gasps.The figure backed away, too. “It’s okay!” it said in a deep voice. “I mean, I’m sorry! This used to be my room. I didn’t know anybody was in here.”It looked and sounded like Tilrey, but the energy was completely different—younger and more straightforward. None of those onionlike layers of truth and falsity.Now Janta felt silly for being scared. It was just the strain of yesterday, first the lockdown and then the plane and then the flood of newness and a whole vast city still bearing down on him with its unfamiliar hums and whines and whirs.“Don’t go!” he said. “You just scared me for a second.”This had to be Tilrey’s son—or rather, Admin Vera Linnett’s son. Janta had never met him, but he’d heard Aleks and the other Northmen discussing him because he’d done part of his schooling in Thurskein. Most of them rolled their eyes and said the boy was “slumming” when he came to the Basement. But Aleks said he had a “good heart,” and Aleks would know.“I shouldn’t have come in.” Tilrey’s son shook his head. Despite Janta’s attempt to reassure him, his signal staticked with anxiety. “I seriously didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just looking for a book I left under the bed.”The boy was an Upstart. He’d just heard Janta’s accent, which made even some Skeinshaka cringe. He should have been barking orders at Janta, but instead he was apologizing.“You can go ahead and get the book, Fir,” Janta said with exaggerated meekness, remembering his manners. He had to get better at lying and pretending; Tilrey seemed to expect him to know how to do those things.“Are you sure?”He nodded energetically.“Mind if I turn on the light, then?”Janta shook his head. Tilrey’s son hit the switch by the door, and he blinked in the sudden brightness—so much sparkling white, everywhere!—and pressed his knees to his chest as the other boy knelt to look under the bed.“I’m Ceill, by the way,” the boy said. He seemed painfully uncomfortable with the whole situation. “The Councillor’s my dad. I’m mostly at University these days. You’re from Thurskein, aren’t you?”“Yeah. I mean, yes, Fir.” Janta resolved not to mention Aleks this time. He’d realized belatedly that bringing him up with Einara might not have been a good idea.Tilrey wanted to control what he said and didn’t say, and Janta suspected Tilrey wouldn’t want him meeting Ceill at all. Since he couldn’t avoid it, though, he should probably offer a plausible explanation.“I’m going to be a kettle boy,” he said. “That’s why Fir Bronn brought me to Redda.”When Ceill straightened up, book in hand, his jaw was tight. His signal oscillated wildly as if something had knocked him off his axis. “Really?” he said.Maybe Janta had made another mistake. “I think so,” he said, treading cautiously. “I haven’t met Fir Councillor yet, but he must want a boy for . . . . you know. And for the tea ceremony stuff. I mean, Fir Bronn’s older now. They all want somebody young, right?”He stopped when he saw the flush of rage on Ceill’s face, then added hurriedly, “I’m eighteen, and I don’t mind.”Ceill looked like he was trying to find words and failing, and this was all too complicated for Janta. Ceill had called himself the Councillor’s son, so maybe he was offended on the man’s behalf. But why? Weren’t kettle boys just accepted as something normal here?“I’ve done it all before,” Janta babbled on. “I like it, even. A lot! I like old men.” This wasn’t true—sex was like a blizzard he’d plodded through and endured—but he needed to pluck the horrified look off the young Upstart’s face.Ceill didn’t look reassured, so Janta continued: “I’m not actually a real person! I don’t have an ID chip, so I’m nothing, not even a Drudge, not officially. My parents were outlaws. Things don’t hurt me that would hurt you.”Ceill’s hands had fisted at his sides. “Nobody here would do that to you,” he said at last, emphasizing each word. “My father—Gersha—would never. He’s not like that.”This was certainly not like the Brothel, where beautiful Stefan just assumed Janta would be sleeping with the Councillor. Ceill was beautiful, too, though, in a whole different way—like a younger Tilrey, like the fierce spring sun. He warmed Janta’s core and muddled his head, which was probably why Janta kept saying such stupid things.“Maybe the Councillor will give me to others, then,” he said humbly. “I’m sure there’s a use for me. My brain’s mainly useful in the network, but my body can be useful anywhere. Tilrey won’t let me near the network. But he says he wants me to notice things about people for him.”“Notice things.” Ceill’s frown was still deep; it didn’t look right on his strong, proud features. “Did he mention anything about other Councillors? Fir Linbeck, maybe?” He said the name as if it made him queasy.Janta shook his head. He wanted to calm Ceill’s chaotic signal, but how could he when he didn’t know why the young Fir was so upset? “You don’t need to worry,” he said, grabbing at straws. “If it’s a secret that you’re really Tilrey’s son, I won’t tell anyone.”“It’s not a secret.” But Ceill had winced as if it were. “Anyway, I’m not ‘really’ anything,” he said in a thick voice. “They’re both my dads. And when Gersha finds out you’re here, and why, he’s not going to be happy.”“He won’t?” If Gersha was the Councillor, this was bad news. Without realizing it, Janta had crept away from Ceill’s anger; his back was tight against the wall again. “Will he send me back?” he asked in a low voice. “Or to Int/Sec? Will he hurt Tilrey?”“No!” Ceill’s signal spiked on the word; he looked like he wanted to throw something at Janta. But he only stood still, clearly trying to regain his self-control.Janta braced himself. He was no good in a fight, but he could endure a lot without reacting.When Ceill spoke again, though, he sounded almost as calm as Tilrey. Each word had a false lightness to it. “I’m going to talk to Gersha, because I have to. But nobody’s going to hurt you or send you away. Or hurt Tilrey. We’re not like that here. Okay?”Pity. He pities me. Here at last was something Janta was familiar with, though he would never understand why well-meaning people took that tone with him. There was no reason to feel sorry for him; he was just different. At least Einara seemed to grasp that; she’d only been curious.“Okay, Fir,” he repeated obediently.Ceill backed toward the door. “I’ll be back soon, okay? Are you hungry or anything?”Janta shook his head. The whole conversation had been exhausting; the gravity of sleep pulled him back into his nest of blankets. “Just tired,” he confessed.“Of course! I’m so sorry for waking you!” The room went dim again; the door hissed and clicked. Like a dream, the radiant boy was gone.When Ceill came into the kitchen, Gersha gave a start. “I thought you were at school till tonight.”Then he saw the raw expression on his son’s face, and he put down the knife he’d been using to chop an apple and gave Ceill his full attention. “What’s wrong?”Maybe Ceill had somehow found out about the lockdown. They’d agreed last night to tell him together, tonight when he came over for dinner—carefully, so he wouldn’t panic and do something reckless like try to run off to Thurskein to save his grandmother.But Tilrey was still sleeping off the strain of yesterday, which left Gersha to handle this alone. “Are you all right?” he pressed on warily. “Did something happen?”Ceill held up a book, his frown deepening. “I was in my room just now. For this.”He’s upset about a book. An assignment. Gersha went weak with relief. “Oh?”Ceill’s frown deepened. “You must know he’s in there.”This was getting strange again. “He who?”“The kid! The Skeinsha!”“In your room? There’s someone in your room?”“He says Tilrey brought him here to be a kettle boy!”An ungainly mass of words flooded out of Ceill, making very little sense. Something about Int/Sec and tea ceremonies and how the boy was no older than he was, and how could Tilrey even consider it? Ceill knew perfectly well how some Councillors were, the ugly things they did, but how?Gersha raised a hand to stop him. “You misunderstood, clearly.”If Tilrey had brought a boy from Thurskein, he was probably a refugee of some sort. “I should see for myself,” Gersha added, taking a step toward the spare room, feeling both relieved that Ceill didn’t know the truth (yet) and ashamed of keeping him in the dark.Their son deserved to be aware of the genuine peril that his grandmother and his Auntie Dal and his mother’s partner were in. He deserved to know he’d never see his Auntie Lourisa again. But he was so volatile.Ceill blocked the door to the room, his eyes glittering the way they always did when he was fired up about some injustice. “Don’t go in now—he’s sleeping. I already woke him, and he looked wiped out, poor kid. But you need to talk to Tilrey right now.”“Your dad’s sleeping.” And Gersha didn’t want to wake him. The two of them had been up till early morning, Gersha holding Tilrey and stroking his hair and trying desperately to make him stop rehashing his conversation with Karishkov and all the mistakes he thought he’d made. He kept insisting this was all his fault, and Gersha had to remind him that Lisha, Dal, and Lourisa had been part of the True Hearth long before he joined them.“But you,” Tilrey had said, clinging to Gersha like a child. “You never wanted this.”“Not at the beginning, no, but things change.” They’d been over this so many times. “Anyway, does Karishkov even suspect me of being involved? I thought he called you an ‘ambitious boy’ and accused you of taking advantage of my naïveté.”“Yeah.” Tilrey sighed. “He’s like the rest of them, thinking I’m just out for myself and you’re my dupe.”“But that’s what we want him to think. He puts everything in a frame of reference he understands. He knows people are escaping from Thurskein, but he still doesn’t have the slightest inkling where they’re going, does he?”“I don’t think he even cares; it’s all just ‘shirking’ to him. Once people leave Oslov, they might as well not exist.”Karishkov knew so little, then. So far, no overeager Int/Sec analyst had intercepted Gersha’s transmissions to Harbour; no disgruntled soldier had betrayed the True Hearthers in the garrison there. “We still have the advantage of surprise,” Gersha pointed out.“For now. But how many more people might have to die for it?”When Tilrey fell into dark thoughts, it was hard to pull him out. Gersha tried to focus on all the promising transmissions he’d received. But his voice faltered, because the stakes had risen. He couldn’t stop imagining Lourisa’s last moments, wondering if he would have what it took to swallow a cyanide capsule.He wondered if Tilrey was exploring the same hypothetical. He, no doubt, would swallow the pill without hesitation. And the more Gersha thought about that, the tighter he clutched his husband to his breast.Now he could barely keep his eyes open, much less worry about the occupant of the spare room. But he forced himself to soothe Ceill the way he’d tried to soothe the boy’s father. “Don’t you have class now, Ceillsha? I’ll deal with this. I promise.”Ceill didn’t look soothed. “A ten-day or so ago, I had to get something from the kitchen while Dad and Councillor Linbeck were having tea. I heard them joking about finding a kettle boy. The Councillor was being gross about it, and Dad just nodded and smiled and laughed.”There was a reason they’d mostly kept Ceill and Besha apart. Though he was an exemplary dad to his own children, and had always treated Ceill with kindness and respect, the man didn’t have much of a filter. Sometimes Gersha couldn’t help worrying that one day, now his son was older, he might catch Besha leering at him.He sighed. “Tilrey plays a part when he talks with people like Councillor Linbeck. It’s just politics. We’ve discussed that.”“You don’t have to explain politics to me, Dad. I’ve been through school, and that’s basically the same. But Tilrey didn’t sound like he was playing a part. He called the Councillor Besha, not Fir.”“We have a history with Besha. It’s complicated.” Perhaps their son was finally old enough to understand that complicatedness, but Gersha wasn’t going to be the one to explain.Ceill’s gaze pinned his father. “I get it. Tilrey doesn’t have to play a part with Besha because Besha’s still totally in love with him. Or in lust, anyway.”“I have no idea what you—”But Ceill barged on: “I know you try to hide these things from me, but I have eyes. Half the people he manipulates he’s actually seducing, isn’t he? Or he has seduced them. Or he’s dangling the possibility of seducing them. It’s just how he operates.”“That is not how he operates,” Gersha snapped. He didn’t want these words to be in Ceill’s mouth, true or not. “Your father is a natural when it comes to politics. A—”“A genius. I know.” Ceill didn’t sound sarcastic. His face was sad. He stepped closer and said, “I’m not ashamed of him, Dad. You use the tools you have, right? And not everybody is born with the kind of tools you and I were lucky enough to get.”Gersha opened his mouth to say something about merit being more important than inherited privilege. Nothing came out.“But because Tilrey’s so used to doing things that way, because he assumes it’s just what you do, he might not think twice about using somebody else as a tool, too,” Ceill said, his face darkening. “See what I mean?”Gersha wished he didn’t see. Maybe Ceill was simply being unfair to Tilrey again. It was unfair to imagine that Tilrey would ever do to someone else what had been done to him.And yet. Gersha had served tea to Tilrey and Besha. He’d heard the way they bantered together. Not like Verán and his cronies in the old days, never like that, but not entirely unlike that, either.No. He wrapped an arm around his son—so much taller than he was now—and steered him toward the coldroom. “I promise you, there will never be a kettle boy in this house, even temporarily. Now, why don’t you get to campus before the professor notices you’re gone? We’ll talk tonight.”Janta woke again to a piercing tone that he heard not so much with his ears as with his whole body. It vibrated in his molars, sending delicate threads of pain through his gums. It itched in the soles of his feet.Radio waves. He always knew when there was a government facility transmitting nearby, and Aleks and the Northmen had learned to be grateful for his tips.But what or who was transmitting here? He rolled out of bed and gave his head a good shake, trying to jar the sound loose. Sometimes it was just his imagination, or a faraway signal that he could block out.The tone persisted, but now he could perceive other sounds through it—voices outside the door, arguing. Tilrey and someone else.“You didn’t think you should tell me?”“Last night?” A pause. “I knew I probably should.”“I understand. But now our son thinks—”“Ceill’s just confused. I never . . .”The rest was a mumble that Janta couldn’t catch; his actual ears were frustratingly limited. All he knew was that someone, probably the Councillor, was attacking the only protector he currently had in the world. And it had something to do with Ceill’s visit.He padded barefoot across the carpet and threw open the door. “Are you talking about me?”Both men went quiet, staring at him. Tilrey’s face was gaunt and shadowed. His signal roiled like the ocean. The other man was smaller, with sea-green eyes, and he emitted a signal that made Janta feel as if he were running his palm across a nubbly cloth. It was an energy that smoothed out his own roughness, accompanied by a faint thrill of static electricity. Though he didn’t dare move, he wanted to be closer to that signal. It reminded him of something, though he wasn’t sure what.Tilrey ushered him into the white sitting room. “Gersha, this is Janta. Janta, this is Fir Councillor, but you can call him Gersha the way I do. He’ll be upset if you don’t.”This was the fearsome Councillor? The smaller man clasped Janta’s hand like an equal. Up close, his eyes were uneasy, and his signal jittered, but it still had that texture that made Janta feel as if he were wrapping himself in a favorite blanket.This man wouldn’t hurt Tilrey. When Ceill said the Councillor was “not going to be happy,” he hadn’t meant what Janta feared.“You two are bonded,” Janta said. “Like my parents. They weren’t married, but they were married.”The two men exchanged a glance. Tilrey said, “Janta notices things.”“I see that.” Gersha released Janta’s hand and stepped back. “Tilrey told me why you had to leave Thurskein. I’m sorry.”“I’m not.” Janta cocked his head. The high-pitched tone continued, and he was almost sure it came from inside the apartment—down that hall. “Where are you transmitting to? It sounds long-range.”Gersha gave a little start. “You can hear that?”“It woke me. It’s been at least ten minutes—is it going to end soon?”“Yes.” Gersha’s wide eyes moved to Tilrey. “Did you happen to mention any transmissions to him?”Tilrey looked just as surprised. “Of course not, and I didn’t even know you were transmitting right now. I can’t hear it.”“Neither can I.” Gersha turned to Janta again. “Do you often hear things like that? Electromagnetic signals?”His tone had gone very quiet, as if Janta were a piece of delicate machinery he might break if he shouted. No pity in it, though, which Janta appreciated.“Every node sounds a certain way when it connects to a larger net,” he said, feeling a little bolder. “It’s like two singers that have to harmonize.” Remembering what Tilrey had said about helping himself to food, he wandered past them into the kitchen. “I’m hungry, Fir. Is there porridge?”“Let me make you some.” Gersha took hold of Janta’s shoulders, once again as if he were afraid of breaking him, and led him back to the couch. “Sit down. Really—you’re the guest. How long have you been able to hear that kind of thing?”Janta sat down. “Always.”“He’s one of a kind,” Tilrey said, sounding almost proud. “According to Mal, he can’t read, but he can somehow hack the simple networks they have in Thurskein.”“I’ve heard of kids learning to code before they could read. But those were Upstarts whose parents had network access. How did he—”“I can actually read,” Janta interrupted. He didn’t like it when people called him illiterate just because he couldn’t read actual books, which he didn’t need to do to learn things. “Well, I’m not good at sounding out the big words. But I know all the ones I need to tell a node or a net what to do.”Gersha was staring at him. His signal still had that pleasantly rumpled quality—complex without concealment—but it was cresting higher. “And what do you tell networks to do?”“Gersha.” Tilrey had gone into the kitchen and was opening cupboards. “The kid’s already been through a month of interrogation.”But Janta kept talking. Like Aleks, Gersha made him feel comfortable showing off a little. “Lots of things,” he said. “I turn lights and cameras on and off. Unlock doors. Reprogram sensors to work with anybody’s ID chip. Once I switched off an electric fence so my friends could climb over.” He shut his mouth tight then, because he should’ve known better than to blab about the Northmen and the Sweetbush.Luckily, Gersha didn’t ask for details. “I’ve heard of people like you,” he said. “Self-taught hackers, naturals, people with eidetic memories and abilities that seem impossible. Have you been tested yet?”“Tested?” Aleks and his friends talked about tests sometimes, but only real people took them. “I don’t think so.”From the kitchen, Tilrey said, “I don’t think he’s been to school, love. I told you, he’s not a citizen.”“Then he should be given citizenship and tested. So his talents can be used.”Tilrey laughed. “In whose ideal world? Whyberg’s Oslov that never existed?”Gersha’s eyes shifted to Janta again. More tentatively, he asked, “Do you want to be an Oslov?”Aleks and his friends sometimes argued about whether they considered themselves Oslovs and whether any part of Oslov was worth saving. Janta had never understood. The place where you were born and raised was the place you belonged to. “I’m a Skeinsha,” he said with a shrug. “Whether I have a chip in my hand or not.”“I suppose so. But if you had that chip in your hand, if you’d been to school—well, we’re supposed to test you young, then Notify you. So you can use your rare skills to contribute to society. That’s how meritocracy is supposed to work.”Gersha sounded pained, as if a loved one had failed him, but also as if the failure was expected. Janta wished he could reassure him.“I’d like to contribute,” he offered.“Gersha, sweetheart,” Tilrey said, putting a kettle on the stove, “there’s no way in hell this boy would ever be Raised. I’m not sure he even knows what Notification is.”Gersha turned from one of them to the other, his signal still distressed. “Why did you bring him here?” he asked Tilrey. “Do you want me to test him? Train him?”“I hadn’t thought about that, to be honest.” Tilrey stood in the doorway with a tray of dishes. “Mal thought I shouldn’t let Int/Sec get him, given what he might know about us and the Northmen. I agreed. But in terms of his future, I don’t know. Our Coalition does need a kettle boy, as Besha’s constantly reminding me. And this one is of age.”Gersha looked horrified. “So Ceill didn’t misunderstand?”A disturbance was passing between them, loosening their bond, like a raven flying low and flapping its great wings. A chill ran over Janta’s shoulders.Tilrey didn’t meet Gersha’s eyes. “The kid’s done that kind of work before, probably in far less comfortable circumstances. I don’t love the idea either, but . . . it wouldn’t kill him.”Gersha released his breath in a hiss. “There are many ways to hurt someone short of killing them.”“Getting hurt is part of life. For some of us.” When Tilrey looked at Janta again, his eyes were guarded, but his signal was soaring with agitation. “I don’t know, Janta. What do you think?”This was a dilemma. Gersha clearly wanted Janta to say no, he wouldn’t dream of being a kettle boy, while Tilrey was prompting a yes. Janta didn’t want the dark-winged raven to take up permanent residence here. The argument he’d heard through the door had sent waves of strife all over the apartment.“I can do it,” he assured Gersha. “It’s easy. You just have to lie there, mostly.”Gersha’s look of horror deepened. Ceill had been right about his disapproval, just not in the way Janta thought.“That is not going to happen,” he said, raising damp eyes to Tilrey. “And don’t you dare tell me I’m being squeamish.”“I didn’t tell you that.”“You didn’t have to. We both know I’ve lived a sheltered life. But I understand that sometimes you have to offer incentives to get things done in politics, and some of those incentives are sexual, and some people are very adept at providing sexual incentives. Fine. You still can’t look at this boy and tell me you’d send him to Besha’s bed.”“I’m of age,” Janta pointed out.But all of Gersha’s attention was focused on Tilrey, who said in a tense voice, “You saw me at eighteen.”“What are you saying?”“Was I so different?” Tilrey indicated Janta with his head. “Because you suspect he’s some sort of prodigy? Someone who should have been an Upstart? Does that make it different for him than it would be for an ordinary Skeinsha?”“No! I would never have sent you to Besha’s bed either, or anyone’s. If I could have helped you—” Gersha broke off, then said softly, “You know that.”“You’re a scrupulously moral person, Gersha. For your class, anyway. Others weren’t.”Tilrey looked at Janta, and now there was something very unlike pity in his eyes. Something almost envious. “Look,” he said to Gersha, “I agree with you. The last thing I want is to use him that way. But if we did—well, with his perceptiveness, there’s a lot he could discover for us about our allies. Things we couldn’t learn otherwise.”Gersha sat down beside Janta with a soft groan. He ran his hands through his tangled curls. “You can rationalize it all day, love. But that life wasn’t right for you.”“It was useful for us both, though. And I came out okay, didn’t I?”“You did.” Gersha’s jaw tightened. “I know everything you’ve done for me, love. Everything you’ve sacrificed. And I know I’ve always had the luxury of delicate sensibilities, and I know that is a luxury. But none of it gives you the right to use someone else the way you were used. Do you understand?”Tilrey set the tray down on the table. Very softly, he said, “Remember back when you wanted to get me away from Verán, love? And he told you to find my replacement? I don’t remember you having quite so many scruples then.”“No!” Gersha’s voice was so raw it made Janta flinch. “No, I had no scruples when I wanted to stop people from hurting you. Because I love you.” His energy spiked, then settled. He’d found his still point, his constant. “And anyway, we’re not back then. We have the luxury of choices now. Pimping him out is wrong, and you know it.”The silence that followed was tight-packed kindling, smoking and ready to combust. It hurt Janta’s head, and he closed his eyes and folded his arms over them the way a bird folds its wings to sleep, trying to shut it all out—the high-pitched transmission, the roiling anger, the sparkling whiteness of the room. His cell in Thurskein didn’t seem so bad now.Gradually he became aware of pressure on his shoulder. A hand. “Is this okay?” a worried voice asked. “Are you okay?”That rumpled vibration again. Janta leaned into the touch. “Noisy,” he said.Then, all of a sudden, the high-pitched tone was gone. The transmission must have ended. He sucked in a great breath and let it out, feeling the contents of his head expand again. “It’s over. Good.”Gersha’s hand rubbed his shoulder in tentative circles. “Next time I’ll tell you before one starts, okay?”“Okay.”In the other room, the kettle whistled. That made Janta tense again, but he relaxed when the air rippled with steam. He lowered his arms and opened his eyes to see Tilrey putting a kettle and a bowl of porridge on the table. “Thank you,” he said.Tilrey sat down on the opposite couch, just looking at him.Had Gersha won the argument, then? Maybe Janta needed to explain better why there should be no argument. He said, “You’re both right. My brain is different from other people’s, but my body isn’t. That’s why it’s okay to use my body. I really won’t mind.”Tilrey let out a long breath. “It’s not okay,” he said, shifting his eyes from Janta to Gersha. “You’re right, love. But maybe we can still use him to sound people out—Besha in particular.”“Just not in the bedroom,” Gersha said.“No. In the living room. It won’t hurt him to learn to serve tea.”Gersha asked Janta, “Would you like to do that? And maybe . . . also show me what you can do on the network? I’d like to see you at work. ”All Janta really heard was Show me what you can do on the network. His fingers itched, yearning for a keyboard. He wanted so desperately to step through the portal that he could sense nearby and go, go, go.“Yeah, Fir,” he said. “I’d like that a lot.”At last, Gersha smiled—a wonderful smile. “Maybe there are a few things we could teach each other.”

Janta’s father was not pleased.

He sat at the foot of Janta’s new bed, cracking walnuts open against the frame and scooping out the meat. “I tried to keep you safe,” he said. “I kept you away from Redda, and here you are, right in the thick of it.”

“I wasn’t so safe in the Basement,” Janta pointed out.

His dad ignored this. “This Tilrey Bronn—I don’t trust him. But in the end he’s just another Oslov; the woman is the one you need to watch out for. The ice queen.”

Janta knew he meant Einara. “Tell me about her. If you’re from Harbour, is she from there, too?”

But he’d forgotten his father hated discussing his origins. “I am not! From Harbour!” the man cried, his face distorting with fear and rage. “Where’d you even hear that name?”

“Tilrey said—”

“Don’t listen to him!” The vision hurled a nut at Janta. “I’m from here! So are you! Repeat it after me!”

A second walnut hit Janta right between the eyes; he blinked, though it wasn’t real and didn’t hurt. “You’re from here,” he repeated dutifully. “I’m from here.”

“Never speak my language,” his father hissed at him. Then his voice rose to a roaring crescendo like the wind in the Wastes: “Never tell them how I sang you to sleep, never let them know, never give us away, blend in, blend in, blend in—”

Janta woke up all at once, sweating and shaking, and lay very still. It was just a dream.

Gingerly, he examined his still-unfamiliar surroundings. This was the little room that Tilrey had given him all to himself, so clean and white, with twilight coming through the skylight and the bed set back in an alcove that made him feel like a fox in a safe den and—wait, who was that? The tall figure standing by the door and staring down at him?

Not his father. A real, living person. Janta drew the covers up to his chin and scuttled back against the wall, his breath coming in terrified gasps.

The figure backed away, too. “It’s okay!” it said in a deep voice. “I mean, I’m sorry! This used to be my room. I didn’t know anybody was in here.”

It looked and sounded like Tilrey, but the energy was completely different—younger and more straightforward. None of those onionlike layers of truth and falsity.

Now Janta felt silly for being scared. It was just the strain of yesterday, first the lockdown and then the plane and then the flood of newness and a whole vast city still bearing down on him with its unfamiliar hums and whines and whirs.

“Don’t go!” he said. “You just scared me for a second.”

This had to be Tilrey’s son—or rather, Admin Vera Linnett’s son. Janta had never met him, but he’d heard Aleks and the other Northmen discussing him because he’d done part of his schooling in Thurskein. Most of them rolled their eyes and said the boy was “slumming” when he came to the Basement. But Aleks said he had a “good heart,” and Aleks would know.

“I shouldn’t have come in.” Tilrey’s son shook his head. Despite Janta’s attempt to reassure him, his signal staticked with anxiety. “I seriously didn’t mean to disturb you. I was just looking for a book I left under the bed.”

The boy was an Upstart. He’d just heard Janta’s accent, which made even some Skeinshaka cringe. He should have been barking orders at Janta, but instead he was apologizing.

“You can go ahead and get the book, Fir,” Janta said with exaggerated meekness, remembering his manners. He had to get better at lying and pretending; Tilrey seemed to expect him to know how to do those things.

“Are you sure?”

He nodded energetically.

“Mind if I turn on the light, then?”

Janta shook his head. Tilrey’s son hit the switch by the door, and he blinked in the sudden brightness—so much sparkling white, everywhere!—and pressed his knees to his chest as the other boy knelt to look under the bed.

“I’m Ceill, by the way,” the boy said. He seemed painfully uncomfortable with the whole situation. “The Councillor’s my dad. I’m mostly at University these days. You’re from Thurskein, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes, Fir.” Janta resolved not to mention Aleks this time. He’d realized belatedly that bringing him up with Einara might not have been a good idea.

Tilrey wanted to control what he said and didn’t say, and Janta suspected Tilrey wouldn’t want him meeting Ceill at all. Since he couldn’t avoid it, though, he should probably offer a plausible explanation.

“I’m going to be a kettle boy,” he said. “That’s why Fir Bronn brought me to Redda.”

When Ceill straightened up, book in hand, his jaw was tight. His signal oscillated wildly as if something had knocked him off his axis. “Really?” he said.

Maybe Janta had made another mistake. “I think so,” he said, treading cautiously. “I haven’t met Fir Councillor yet, but he must want a boy for . . . . you know. And for the tea ceremony stuff. I mean, Fir Bronn’s older now. They all want somebody young, right?”

He stopped when he saw the flush of rage on Ceill’s face, then added hurriedly, “I’m eighteen, and I don’t mind.”

Ceill looked like he was trying to find words and failing, and this was all too complicated for Janta. Ceill had called himself the Councillor’s son, so maybe he was offended on the man’s behalf. But why? Weren’t kettle boys just accepted as something normal here?

“I’ve done it all before,” Janta babbled on. “I like it, even. A lot! I like old men.” This wasn’t true—sex was like a blizzard he’d plodded through and endured—but he needed to pluck the horrified look off the young Upstart’s face.

Ceill didn’t look reassured, so Janta continued: “I’m not actually a real person! I don’t have an ID chip, so I’m nothing, not even a Drudge, not officially. My parents were outlaws. Things don’t hurt me that would hurt you.”

Ceill’s hands had fisted at his sides. “Nobody here would do that to you,” he said at last, emphasizing each word. “My father—Gersha—would never. He’s not like that.”

This was certainly not like the Brothel, where beautiful Stefan just assumed Janta would be sleeping with the Councillor. Ceill was beautiful, too, though, in a whole different way—like a younger Tilrey, like the fierce spring sun. He warmed Janta’s core and muddled his head, which was probably why Janta kept saying such stupid things.

“Maybe the Councillor will give me to others, then,” he said humbly. “I’m sure there’s a use for me. My brain’s mainly useful in the network, but my body can be useful anywhere. Tilrey won’t let me near the network. But he says he wants me to notice things about people for him.”

“Notice things.” Ceill’s frown was still deep; it didn’t look right on his strong, proud features. “Did he mention anything about other Councillors? Fir Linbeck, maybe?” He said the name as if it made him queasy.

Janta shook his head. He wanted to calm Ceill’s chaotic signal, but how could he when he didn’t know why the young Fir was so upset? “You don’t need to worry,” he said, grabbing at straws. “If it’s a secret that you’re really Tilrey’s son, I won’t tell anyone.”

“It’s not a secret.” But Ceill had winced as if it were. “Anyway, I’m not ‘really’ anything,” he said in a thick voice. “They’re both my dads. And when Gersha finds out you’re here, and why, he’s not going to be happy.”

“He won’t?” If Gersha was the Councillor, this was bad news. Without realizing it, Janta had crept away from Ceill’s anger; his back was tight against the wall again. “Will he send me back?” he asked in a low voice. “Or to Int/Sec? Will he hurt Tilrey?”

“No!” Ceill’s signal spiked on the word; he looked like he wanted to throw something at Janta. But he only stood still, clearly trying to regain his self-control.

Janta braced himself. He was no good in a fight, but he could endure a lot without reacting.

When Ceill spoke again, though, he sounded almost as calm as Tilrey. Each word had a false lightness to it. “I’m going to talk to Gersha, because I have to. But nobody’s going to hurt you or send you away. Or hurt Tilrey. We’re not like that here. Okay?”

Pity. He pities me. Here at last was something Janta was familiar with, though he would never understand why well-meaning people took that tone with him. There was no reason to feel sorry for him; he was just different. At least Einara seemed to grasp that; she’d only been curious.

“Okay, Fir,” he repeated obediently.

Ceill backed toward the door. “I’ll be back soon, okay? Are you hungry or anything?”

Janta shook his head. The whole conversation had been exhausting; the gravity of sleep pulled him back into his nest of blankets. “Just tired,” he confessed.

“Of course! I’m so sorry for waking you!” The room went dim again; the door hissed and clicked. Like a dream, the radiant boy was gone.

When Ceill came into the kitchen, Gersha gave a start. “I thought you were at school till tonight.”

Then he saw the raw expression on his son’s face, and he put down the knife he’d been using to chop an apple and gave Ceill his full attention. “What’s wrong?”

Maybe Ceill had somehow found out about the lockdown. They’d agreed last night to tell him together, tonight when he came over for dinner—carefully, so he wouldn’t panic and do something reckless like try to run off to Thurskein to save his grandmother.

But Tilrey was still sleeping off the strain of yesterday, which left Gersha to handle this alone. “Are you all right?” he pressed on warily. “Did something happen?”

Ceill held up a book, his frown deepening. “I was in my room just now. For this.”

He’s upset about a book. An assignment. Gersha went weak with relief. “Oh?”

Ceill’s frown deepened. “You must know he’s in there.”

This was getting strange again. “He who?”

“The kid! The Skeinsha!”

“In your room? There’s someone in your room?”

“He says Tilrey brought him here to be a kettle boy!”

An ungainly mass of words flooded out of Ceill, making very little sense. Something about Int/Sec and tea ceremonies and how the boy was no older than he was, and how could Tilrey even consider it? Ceill knew perfectly well how some Councillors were, the ugly things they did, but how?

Gersha raised a hand to stop him. “You misunderstood, clearly.”

If Tilrey had brought a boy from Thurskein, he was probably a refugee of some sort. “I should see for myself,” Gersha added, taking a step toward the spare room, feeling both relieved that Ceill didn’t know the truth (yet) and ashamed of keeping him in the dark.

Their son deserved to be aware of the genuine peril that his grandmother and his Auntie Dal and his mother’s partner were in. He deserved to know he’d never see his Auntie Lourisa again. But he was so volatile.

Ceill blocked the door to the room, his eyes glittering the way they always did when he was fired up about some injustice. “Don’t go in now—he’s sleeping. I already woke him, and he looked wiped out, poor kid. But you need to talk to Tilrey right now.”

“Your dad’s sleeping.” And Gersha didn’t want to wake him. The two of them had been up till early morning, Gersha holding Tilrey and stroking his hair and trying desperately to make him stop rehashing his conversation with Karishkov and all the mistakes he thought he’d made. He kept insisting this was all his fault, and Gersha had to remind him that Lisha, Dal, and Lourisa had been part of the True Hearth long before he joined them.

“But you,” Tilrey had said, clinging to Gersha like a child. “You never wanted this.”

“Not at the beginning, no, but things change.” They’d been over this so many times. “Anyway, does Karishkov even suspect me of being involved? I thought he called you an ‘ambitious boy’ and accused you of taking advantage of my naïveté.”

“Yeah.” Tilrey sighed. “He’s like the rest of them, thinking I’m just out for myself and you’re my dupe.”

“But that’s what we want him to think. He puts everything in a frame of reference he understands. He knows people are escaping from Thurskein, but he still doesn’t have the slightest inkling where they’re going, does he?”

“I don’t think he even cares; it’s all just ‘shirking’ to him. Once people leave Oslov, they might as well not exist.”

Karishkov knew so little, then. So far, no overeager Int/Sec analyst had intercepted Gersha’s transmissions to Harbour; no disgruntled soldier had betrayed the True Hearthers in the garrison there. “We still have the advantage of surprise,” Gersha pointed out.

“For now. But how many more people might have to die for it?”

When Tilrey fell into dark thoughts, it was hard to pull him out. Gersha tried to focus on all the promising transmissions he’d received. But his voice faltered, because the stakes had risen. He couldn’t stop imagining Lourisa’s last moments, wondering if he would have what it took to swallow a cyanide capsule.

He wondered if Tilrey was exploring the same hypothetical. He, no doubt, would swallow the pill without hesitation. And the more Gersha thought about that, the tighter he clutched his husband to his breast.

Now he could barely keep his eyes open, much less worry about the occupant of the spare room. But he forced himself to soothe Ceill the way he’d tried to soothe the boy’s father. “Don’t you have class now, Ceillsha? I’ll deal with this. I promise.”

Ceill didn’t look soothed. “A ten-day or so ago, I had to get something from the kitchen while Dad and Councillor Linbeck were having tea. I heard them joking about finding a kettle boy. The Councillor was being gross about it, and Dad just nodded and smiled and laughed.”

There was a reason they’d mostly kept Ceill and Besha apart. Though he was an exemplary dad to his own children, and had always treated Ceill with kindness and respect, the man didn’t have much of a filter. Sometimes Gersha couldn’t help worrying that one day, now his son was older, he might catch Besha leering at him.

He sighed. “Tilrey plays a part when he talks with people like Councillor Linbeck. It’s just politics. We’ve discussed that.”

“You don’t have to explain politics to me, Dad. I’ve been through school, and that’s basically the same. But Tilrey didn’t sound like he was playing a part. He called the Councillor Besha, not Fir.”

“We have a history with Besha. It’s complicated.” Perhaps their son was finally old enough to understand that complicatedness, but Gersha wasn’t going to be the one to explain.

Ceill’s gaze pinned his father. “I get it. Tilrey doesn’t have to play a part with Besha because Besha’s still totally in love with him. Or in lust, anyway.”

“I have no idea what you—”

But Ceill barged on: “I know you try to hide these things from me, but I have eyes. Half the people he manipulates he’s actually seducing, isn’t he? Or he has seduced them. Or he’s dangling the possibility of seducing them. It’s just how he operates.”

“That is not how he operates,” Gersha snapped. He didn’t want these words to be in Ceill’s mouth, true or not. “Your father is a natural when it comes to politics. A—”

“A genius. I know.” Ceill didn’t sound sarcastic. His face was sad. He stepped closer and said, “I’m not ashamed of him, Dad. You use the tools you have, right? And not everybody is born with the kind of tools you and I were lucky enough to get.”

Gersha opened his mouth to say something about merit being more important than inherited privilege. Nothing came out.

“But because Tilrey’s so used to doing things that way, because he assumes it’s just what you do, he might not think twice about using somebody else as a tool, too,” Ceill said, his face darkening. “See what I mean?”

Gersha wished he didn’t see. Maybe Ceill was simply being unfair to Tilrey again. It was unfair to imagine that Tilrey would ever do to someone else what had been done to him.

And yet. Gersha had served tea to Tilrey and Besha. He’d heard the way they bantered together. Not like Verán and his cronies in the old days, never like that, but not entirely unlike that, either.

No. He wrapped an arm around his son—so much taller than he was now—and steered him toward the coldroom. “I promise you, there will never be a kettle boy in this house, even temporarily. Now, why don’t you get to campus before the professor notices you’re gone? We’ll talk tonight.”

Janta woke again to a piercing tone that he heard not so much with his ears as with his whole body. It vibrated in his molars, sending delicate threads of pain through his gums. It itched in the soles of his feet.

Radio waves. He always knew when there was a government facility transmitting nearby, and Aleks and the Northmen had learned to be grateful for his tips.

But what or who was transmitting here? He rolled out of bed and gave his head a good shake, trying to jar the sound loose. Sometimes it was just his imagination, or a faraway signal that he could block out.

The tone persisted, but now he could perceive other sounds through it—voices outside the door, arguing. Tilrey and someone else.

“You didn’t think you should tell me?”

“Last night?” A pause. “I knew I probably should.”

“I understand. But now our son thinks—”

“Ceill’s just confused. I never . . .”

The rest was a mumble that Janta couldn’t catch; his actual ears were frustratingly limited. All he knew was that someone, probably the Councillor, was attacking the only protector he currently had in the world. And it had something to do with Ceill’s visit.

He padded barefoot across the carpet and threw open the door. “Are you talking about me?”

Both men went quiet, staring at him. Tilrey’s face was gaunt and shadowed. His signal roiled like the ocean. The other man was smaller, with sea-green eyes, and he emitted a signal that made Janta feel as if he were running his palm across a nubbly cloth. It was an energy that smoothed out his own roughness, accompanied by a faint thrill of static electricity. Though he didn’t dare move, he wanted to be closer to that signal. It reminded him of something, though he wasn’t sure what.

Tilrey ushered him into the white sitting room. “Gersha, this is Janta. Janta, this is Fir Councillor, but you can call him Gersha the way I do. He’ll be upset if you don’t.”

This was the fearsome Councillor? The smaller man clasped Janta’s hand like an equal. Up close, his eyes were uneasy, and his signal jittered, but it still had that texture that made Janta feel as if he were wrapping himself in a favorite blanket.

This man wouldn’t hurt Tilrey. When Ceill said the Councillor was “not going to be happy,” he hadn’t meant what Janta feared.

“You two are bonded,” Janta said. “Like my parents. They weren’t married, but they were married.”

The two men exchanged a glance. Tilrey said, “Janta notices things.”

“I see that.” Gersha released Janta’s hand and stepped back. “Tilrey told me why you had to leave Thurskein. I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” Janta cocked his head. The high-pitched tone continued, and he was almost sure it came from inside the apartment—down that hall. “Where are you transmitting to? It sounds long-range.”

Gersha gave a little start. “You can hear that?”

“It woke me. It’s been at least ten minutes—is it going to end soon?”

“Yes.” Gersha’s wide eyes moved to Tilrey. “Did you happen to mention any transmissions to him?”

Tilrey looked just as surprised. “Of course not, and I didn’t even know you were transmitting right now. I can’t hear it.”

“Neither can I.” Gersha turned to Janta again. “Do you often hear things like that? Electromagnetic signals?”

His tone had gone very quiet, as if Janta were a piece of delicate machinery he might break if he shouted. No pity in it, though, which Janta appreciated.

“Every node sounds a certain way when it connects to a larger net,” he said, feeling a little bolder. “It’s like two singers that have to harmonize.” Remembering what Tilrey had said about helping himself to food, he wandered past them into the kitchen. “I’m hungry, Fir. Is there porridge?”

“Let me make you some.” Gersha took hold of Janta’s shoulders, once again as if he were afraid of breaking him, and led him back to the couch. “Sit down. Really—you’re the guest. How long have you been able to hear that kind of thing?”

Janta sat down. “Always.”

“He’s one of a kind,” Tilrey said, sounding almost proud. “According to Mal, he can’t read, but he can somehow hack the simple networks they have in Thurskein.”

“I’ve heard of kids learning to code before they could read. But those were Upstarts whose parents had network access. How did he—”

“I can actually read,” Janta interrupted. He didn’t like it when people called him illiterate just because he couldn’t read actual books, which he didn’t need to do to learn things. “Well, I’m not good at sounding out the big words. But I know all the ones I need to tell a node or a net what to do.”

Gersha was staring at him. His signal still had that pleasantly rumpled quality—complex without concealment—but it was cresting higher. “And what do you tell networks to do?”

“Gersha.” Tilrey had gone into the kitchen and was opening cupboards. “The kid’s already been through a month of interrogation.”

But Janta kept talking. Like Aleks, Gersha made him feel comfortable showing off a little. “Lots of things,” he said. “I turn lights and cameras on and off. Unlock doors. Reprogram sensors to work with anybody’s ID chip. Once I switched off an electric fence so my friends could climb over.” He shut his mouth tight then, because he should’ve known better than to blab about the Northmen and the Sweetbush.

Luckily, Gersha didn’t ask for details. “I’ve heard of people like you,” he said. “Self-taught hackers, naturals, people with eidetic memories and abilities that seem impossible. Have you been tested yet?”

“Tested?” Aleks and his friends talked about tests sometimes, but only real people took them. “I don’t think so.”

From the kitchen, Tilrey said, “I don’t think he’s been to school, love. I told you, he’s not a citizen.”

“Then he should be given citizenship and tested. So his talents can be used.”

Tilrey laughed. “In whose ideal world? Whyberg’s Oslov that never existed?”

Gersha’s eyes shifted to Janta again. More tentatively, he asked, “Do you want to be an Oslov?”

Aleks and his friends sometimes argued about whether they considered themselves Oslovs and whether any part of Oslov was worth saving. Janta had never understood. The place where you were born and raised was the place you belonged to. “I’m a Skeinsha,” he said with a shrug. “Whether I have a chip in my hand or not.”

“I suppose so. But if you had that chip in your hand, if you’d been to school—well, we’re supposed to test you young, then Notify you. So you can use your rare skills to contribute to society. That’s how meritocracy is supposed to work.”

Gersha sounded pained, as if a loved one had failed him, but also as if the failure was expected. Janta wished he could reassure him.

“I’d like to contribute,” he offered.

“Gersha, sweetheart,” Tilrey said, putting a kettle on the stove, “there’s no way in hell this boy would ever be Raised. I’m not sure he even knows what Notification is.”

Gersha turned from one of them to the other, his signal still distressed. “Why did you bring him here?” he asked Tilrey. “Do you want me to test him? Train him?”

“I hadn’t thought about that, to be honest.” Tilrey stood in the doorway with a tray of dishes. “Mal thought I shouldn’t let Int/Sec get him, given what he might know about us and the Northmen. I agreed. But in terms of his future, I don’t know. Our Coalition does need a kettle boy, as Besha’s constantly reminding me. And this one is of age.”

Gersha looked horrified. “So Ceill didn’t misunderstand?”

A disturbance was passing between them, loosening their bond, like a raven flying low and flapping its great wings. A chill ran over Janta’s shoulders.

Tilrey didn’t meet Gersha’s eyes. “The kid’s done that kind of work before, probably in far less comfortable circumstances. I don’t love the idea either, but . . . it wouldn’t kill him.”

Gersha released his breath in a hiss. “There are many ways to hurt someone short of killing them.”

“Getting hurt is part of life. For some of us.” When Tilrey looked at Janta again, his eyes were guarded, but his signal was soaring with agitation. “I don’t know, Janta. What do you think?”

This was a dilemma. Gersha clearly wanted Janta to say no, he wouldn’t dream of being a kettle boy, while Tilrey was prompting a yes. Janta didn’t want the dark-winged raven to take up permanent residence here. The argument he’d heard through the door had sent waves of strife all over the apartment.

“I can do it,” he assured Gersha. “It’s easy. You just have to lie there, mostly.”

Gersha’s look of horror deepened. Ceill had been right about his disapproval, just not in the way Janta thought.

“That is not going to happen,” he said, raising damp eyes to Tilrey. “And don’t you dare tell me I’m being squeamish.”

“I didn’t tell you that.”

“You didn’t have to. We both know I’ve lived a sheltered life. But I understand that sometimes you have to offer incentives to get things done in politics, and some of those incentives are sexual, and some people are very adept at providing sexual incentives. Fine. You still can’t look at this boy and tell me you’d send him to Besha’s bed.”

“I’m of age,” Janta pointed out.

But all of Gersha’s attention was focused on Tilrey, who said in a tense voice, “You saw me at eighteen.”

“What are you saying?”

“Was I so different?” Tilrey indicated Janta with his head. “Because you suspect he’s some sort of prodigy? Someone who should have been an Upstart? Does that make it different for him than it would be for an ordinary Skeinsha?”

“No! I would never have sent you to Besha’s bed either, or anyone’s. If I could have helped you—” Gersha broke off, then said softly, “You know that.”

“You’re a scrupulously moral person, Gersha. For your class, anyway. Others weren’t.”

Tilrey looked at Janta, and now there was something very unlike pity in his eyes. Something almost envious. “Look,” he said to Gersha, “I agree with you. The last thing I want is to use him that way. But if we did—well, with his perceptiveness, there’s a lot he could discover for us about our allies. Things we couldn’t learn otherwise.”

Gersha sat down beside Janta with a soft groan. He ran his hands through his tangled curls. “You can rationalize it all day, love. But that life wasn’t right for you.”

“It was useful for us both, though. And I came out okay, didn’t I?”

“You did.” Gersha’s jaw tightened. “I know everything you’ve done for me, love. Everything you’ve sacrificed. And I know I’ve always had the luxury of delicate sensibilities, and I know that is a luxury. But none of it gives you the right to use someone else the way you were used. Do you understand?”

Tilrey set the tray down on the table. Very softly, he said, “Remember back when you wanted to get me away from Verán, love? And he told you to find my replacement? I don’t remember you having quite so many scruples then.”

“No!” Gersha’s voice was so raw it made Janta flinch. “No, I had no scruples when I wanted to stop people from hurting you. Because I love you.” His energy spiked, then settled. He’d found his still point, his constant. “And anyway, we’re not back then. We have the luxury of choices now. Pimping him out is wrong, and you know it.”

The silence that followed was tight-packed kindling, smoking and ready to combust. It hurt Janta’s head, and he closed his eyes and folded his arms over them the way a bird folds its wings to sleep, trying to shut it all out—the high-pitched transmission, the roiling anger, the sparkling whiteness of the room. His cell in Thurskein didn’t seem so bad now.

Gradually he became aware of pressure on his shoulder. A hand. “Is this okay?” a worried voice asked. “Are you okay?”

That rumpled vibration again. Janta leaned into the touch. “Noisy,” he said.

Then, all of a sudden, the high-pitched tone was gone. The transmission must have ended. He sucked in a great breath and let it out, feeling the contents of his head expand again. “It’s over. Good.”

Gersha’s hand rubbed his shoulder in tentative circles. “Next time I’ll tell you before one starts, okay?”

“Okay.”

In the other room, the kettle whistled. That made Janta tense again, but he relaxed when the air rippled with steam. He lowered his arms and opened his eyes to see Tilrey putting a kettle and a bowl of porridge on the table. “Thank you,” he said.

Tilrey sat down on the opposite couch, just looking at him.

Had Gersha won the argument, then? Maybe Janta needed to explain better why there should be no argument. He said, “You’re both right. My brain is different from other people’s, but my body isn’t. That’s why it’s okay to use my body. I really won’t mind.”

Tilrey let out a long breath. “It’s not okay,” he said, shifting his eyes from Janta to Gersha. “You’re right, love. But maybe we can still use him to sound people out—Besha in particular.”

“Just not in the bedroom,” Gersha said.

“No. In the living room. It won’t hurt him to learn to serve tea.”

Gersha asked Janta, “Would you like to do that? And maybe . . . also show me what you can do on the network? I’d like to see you at work. ”

All Janta really heard was Show me what you can do on the network. His fingers itched, yearning for a keyboard. He wanted so desperately to step through the portal that he could sense nearby and go, go, go.

“Yeah, Fir,” he said. “I’d like that a lot.”

At last, Gersha smiled—a wonderful smile. “Maybe there are a few things we could teach each other.”

Chapter End Notes

This was a tough chapter to write! So much dark stuff to rehash between Gersha, Tilrey, and Ceill. From here, the story starts jumping forward in time—it’ll cover about three years in all—but we’ll check in soon to see how Janta is faring. Many special thanks to Fair_Feather_Friend for the excellent crackfic ideas that I may have stolen for canon. :)Thank you so much for reading, kudo-ing, commenting—all of it matters a lot to me!! <3

Chapter End Notes

Many special thanks to Fair_Feather_Friend for the excellent crackfic ideas that I may have stolen for canon. :)

Thank you so much for reading, kudo-ing, commenting—all of it matters a lot to me!! <3