Volume 1: A Serviceable Boy
Chapter 2
Warmed Up
The boy slept through Gersha’s alarm.He rested supine on Gersha’s bed, half covered by the duvet, oddly formal in his shirt and trousers. His torso was lean overall, but shoulders, biceps, and pectorals bulged through the synthetic fabric like armor. His face looked even younger now, less guarded—a schoolboy sleeping through a test.Next time, Gersha would tell him expressly to remove his clothes. Not for Gersha’s pleasure, but for the boy’s own comfort.Hypocrite. Gersha flushed at the memory of the pleasure he’d had last night. He hadn’t meant to, but—well, the boy was so insistent. So assured.It couldn’t hurt to take a little pleasure, could it? He hadn’t made himself vulnerable. Hadn’t blurted out any secrets.The boy mumbled something and opened his eyes. “Fir?”Gersha backed away, trying to pretend he hadn’t been staring. He’d already showered and was fully dressed, the white Councillor’s robe swirling behind him.“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Sleep as long as you want; Bosh will bring you home.”The boy sat up and stretched, a leisurely movement that hiked up his shirt to expose the lattice of taut muscle on his abdomen. “Thank you for last night, Fir,” he said huskily.Gersha felt his breath hitch. He left the room without another word.“So,” Verán asked later that day, as they recessed and gathered on the benches around the tea dispenser in the echoing marble hall. “How’d you like my gift?”Gersha had been dreading the question. He smiled cryptically and spoke the line he had scripted for himself: “He’s everything you said and more.”“You don’t sound enthusiastic.”How did one enthuse without embarrassing oneself? “You were right,” Gersha said, dropping his voice. “About his . . . mouth.”Verán raised his cup. “What did I tell you? So, do you want to be the caretaker of our lovely piece?”The crudeness of the term crushed something inside Gersha, but he said stiffly, “I would be honored.”It was what he’d already resolved to say. For the boy’s sake, for the sake of his career and his family. Not for his own.Across the hall, no more than five yards away, the General Magistrate of Oslov, Edmond Linden, held court on a bench between two smiling sycophants. He was one of those old men who appear to be regressing to infancy, his head a boulder balanced on a pudgy body, his skin fresh as a baby’s, his voice barking and peremptory.That man had left bruises on Tilrey. Remembering the boy asleep in his bed, Gersha felt his initial disgust turn to anger. Why would anyone—Verán bent to whisper in his ear. “If you happen to talk to Besha, keep it quiet for now, eh?”“Why?”Gersha followed the older Councillor’s gaze over to one of the junior Councillors who were listening reverently to Linden. Arvan Linbeck, known as Besha, was a spindly young man with a long, sly face and watery blue eyes. A political prodigy, he’d been Gersha’s schoolmate and had two years superiority over him in the Council. The sight of his false, facile smile always made something go cold in Gersha’s chest.“He’s going to be furious I didn’t choose him,” Verán explained.“Why didn’t you choose him?” Besha was Verán’s protégé and reveled in the complex webs of allegiance that Gersha had no patience for; it would have made perfect sense for him to take charge of the kettle boy.Verán cackled. “Have you seen the way Besha looks at the boy? No restraint. If he got a chance, he’d eat him alive.”Gersha stared into his tea, trying to think about the decryption he’d been supervising for Int/Sec. Anything to distract himself from a sudden mental image of Besha with his head thrown back, Tilrey’s mouth attached to his cock.Besha was a runt; Tilrey could practically shrug him off. But he wouldn’t. He’d go down on his knees for him, like he’d done for Gersha, and smile the whole time. And then roll over, and keep smiling.If Gersha took on the task of being Tilrey’s caretaker, he’d have to deliver him to such men twice or three times a week. And he, like Tilrey, would have to smile politely the whole time. Both of them serviceable in their own ways.His gaze moved from Linden’s self-satisfied face to Besha’s attentive, clever one. So many different kinds of hunger, so many ways to feel unsafe.“So you don’t worry that I’ll eat the boy alive,” he said.Verán laughed outright. “Gersha, your middle name is restraint.”“How’d it go last night?”Jorning, the Magistrate’s driver, had a habit of slipping into Tilrey’s room without knocking. Tilrey liked his privacy, but he didn’t object, because the driver had intervened in more than a few beatings that threatened to go off the rails.“Not bad.” He closed the Tangle book he was balancing on his knee. “Verán was right—Councillor Gádden’s ice cold. But I warmed him up a bit.”Jorning sniggered appreciatively. “Bet you did.” Then his face went serious. “The Fir buzzed me. He wants me to pack up your stuff.”Something leapt in Tilrey’s chest. Hope? Dread? He wasn’t sure anymore. “So it’s happening. I’m out of here.”Fourteen months in the Magistrate’s apartment. Fourteen months of struggling to please a strange, finicky, half-senile Upstart. Fourteen months of learning to enjoy the release that came with pain.He might even miss it.The driver’s face had crumpled. Poor Jorning, wearing all his emotions up front.Tilrey dropped his book, rose, and twined his arm companionably around the other Laborer’s waist. “Will you miss me?”Jorning sucked in his breath, his cock going hard against Tilrey’s hip. He didn’t turn it into an embrace, though, because they both knew Tilrey would never do anything but tease him when they weren’t putting on a show in the Magistrate’s bedroom.That was how Jorning stopped the beatings. If the Magistrate couldn’t have blood and bruises when he was in his worst moods, he would accept a display of humiliation. They’d learned to oblige him—Jorning playing the brute, Tilrey his victim. Just roles.“Guess I fucking will,” Jorning said with a soft burr in his voice.They were both native Thurskein boys. Tilrey had arrived with that same accent, but within a year he was speaking like a Reddan.He gave the driver’s cock a sly stroke, because he was leaving and why not? “Miss you, too. Would’ve been hell here without your ugly mug to cheer me up.”Jorning elbowed him playfully—then gasped as Tilrey’s hand tightened. “You don’t have to do that.”“I want to.”Did he? All he knew was that he liked the helpless, gaping expression on men’s faces when they came.After a short and visible inner struggle, Jorning batted Tilrey’s hand away. “Nah, not now. Make me miss you worse.”“Have it your way.”“It’s better like this,” Jorning said, looking miserable. “Better for you, I mean, lad. This new Councillor, he’s not rough, right?”Tilrey grinned at the idea. “The worst thing Fir Gádden could do is lecture me to death.”
The boy slept through Gersha’s alarm.
He rested supine on Gersha’s bed, half covered by the duvet, oddly formal in his shirt and trousers. His torso was lean overall, but shoulders, biceps, and pectorals bulged through the synthetic fabric like armor. His face looked even younger now, less guarded—a schoolboy sleeping through a test.
Next time, Gersha would tell him expressly to remove his clothes. Not for Gersha’s pleasure, but for the boy’s own comfort.
Hypocrite. Gersha flushed at the memory of the pleasure he’d had last night. He hadn’t meant to, but—well, the boy was so insistent. So assured.
It couldn’t hurt to take a little pleasure, could it? He hadn’t made himself vulnerable. Hadn’t blurted out any secrets.
The boy mumbled something and opened his eyes. “Fir?”
Gersha backed away, trying to pretend he hadn’t been staring. He’d already showered and was fully dressed, the white Councillor’s robe swirling behind him.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you. Sleep as long as you want; Bosh will bring you home.”
The boy sat up and stretched, a leisurely movement that hiked up his shirt to expose the lattice of taut muscle on his abdomen. “Thank you for last night, Fir,” he said huskily.
Gersha felt his breath hitch. He left the room without another word.
“So,” Verán asked later that day, as they recessed and gathered on the benches around the tea dispenser in the echoing marble hall. “How’d you like my gift?”
Gersha had been dreading the question. He smiled cryptically and spoke the line he had scripted for himself: “He’s everything you said and more.”
“You don’t sound enthusiastic.”
How did one enthuse without embarrassing oneself? “You were right,” Gersha said, dropping his voice. “About his . . . mouth.”
Verán raised his cup. “What did I tell you? So, do you want to be the caretaker of our lovely piece?”
The crudeness of the term crushed something inside Gersha, but he said stiffly, “I would be honored.”
It was what he’d already resolved to say. For the boy’s sake, for the sake of his career and his family. Not for his own.
Across the hall, no more than five yards away, the General Magistrate of Oslov, Edmond Linden, held court on a bench between two smiling sycophants. He was one of those old men who appear to be regressing to infancy, his head a boulder balanced on a pudgy body, his skin fresh as a baby’s, his voice barking and peremptory.
That man had left bruises on Tilrey. Remembering the boy asleep in his bed, Gersha felt his initial disgust turn to anger. Why would anyone—
Verán bent to whisper in his ear. “If you happen to talk to Besha, keep it quiet for now, eh?”
“Why?”
Gersha followed the older Councillor’s gaze over to one of the junior Councillors who were listening reverently to Linden. Arvan Linbeck, known as Besha, was a spindly young man with a long, sly face and watery blue eyes. A political prodigy, he’d been Gersha’s schoolmate and had two years superiority over him in the Council. The sight of his false, facile smile always made something go cold in Gersha’s chest.
“He’s going to be furious I didn’t choose him,” Verán explained.
“Why didn’t you choose him?” Besha was Verán’s protégé and reveled in the complex webs of allegiance that Gersha had no patience for; it would have made perfect sense for him to take charge of the kettle boy.
Verán cackled. “Have you seen the way Besha looks at the boy? No restraint. If he got a chance, he’d eat him alive.”
Gersha stared into his tea, trying to think about the decryption he’d been supervising for Int/Sec. Anything to distract himself from a sudden mental image of Besha with his head thrown back, Tilrey’s mouth attached to his cock.
Besha was a runt; Tilrey could practically shrug him off. But he wouldn’t. He’d go down on his knees for him, like he’d done for Gersha, and smile the whole time. And then roll over, and keep smiling.
If Gersha took on the task of being Tilrey’s caretaker, he’d have to deliver him to such men twice or three times a week. And he, like Tilrey, would have to smile politely the whole time. Both of them serviceable in their own ways.
His gaze moved from Linden’s self-satisfied face to Besha’s attentive, clever one. So many different kinds of hunger, so many ways to feel unsafe.
“So you don’t worry that I’ll eat the boy alive,” he said.
Verán laughed outright. “Gersha, your middle name is restraint.”
“How’d it go last night?”
Jorning, the Magistrate’s driver, had a habit of slipping into Tilrey’s room without knocking. Tilrey liked his privacy, but he didn’t object, because the driver had intervened in more than a few beatings that threatened to go off the rails.
“Not bad.” He closed the Tangle book he was balancing on his knee. “Verán was right—Councillor Gádden’s ice cold. But I warmed him up a bit.”
Jorning sniggered appreciatively. “Bet you did.” Then his face went serious. “The Fir buzzed me. He wants me to pack up your stuff.”
Something leapt in Tilrey’s chest. Hope? Dread? He wasn’t sure anymore. “So it’s happening. I’m out of here.”
Fourteen months in the Magistrate’s apartment. Fourteen months of struggling to please a strange, finicky, half-senile Upstart. Fourteen months of learning to enjoy the release that came with pain.
He might even miss it.
The driver’s face had crumpled. Poor Jorning, wearing all his emotions up front.
Tilrey dropped his book, rose, and twined his arm companionably around the other Laborer’s waist. “Will you miss me?”
Jorning sucked in his breath, his cock going hard against Tilrey’s hip. He didn’t turn it into an embrace, though, because they both knew Tilrey would never do anything but tease him when they weren’t putting on a show in the Magistrate’s bedroom.
That was how Jorning stopped the beatings. If the Magistrate couldn’t have blood and bruises when he was in his worst moods, he would accept a display of humiliation. They’d learned to oblige him—Jorning playing the brute, Tilrey his victim. Just roles.
“Guess I fucking will,” Jorning said with a soft burr in his voice.
They were both native Thurskein boys. Tilrey had arrived with that same accent, but within a year he was speaking like a Reddan.
He gave the driver’s cock a sly stroke, because he was leaving and why not? “Miss you, too. Would’ve been hell here without your ugly mug to cheer me up.”
Jorning elbowed him playfully—then gasped as Tilrey’s hand tightened. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to.”
Did he? All he knew was that he liked the helpless, gaping expression on men’s faces when they came.
After a short and visible inner struggle, Jorning batted Tilrey’s hand away. “Nah, not now. Make me miss you worse.”
“Have it your way.”
“It’s better like this,” Jorning said, looking miserable. “Better for you, I mean, lad. This new Councillor, he’s not rough, right?”
Tilrey grinned at the idea. “The worst thing Fir Gádden could do is lecture me to death.”