Chapter 20: Winners — The Key of Oslov

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

Chapter 20 Winners

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

October, Year 372

“ID card,” barked the red-jerkined military constable posted outside Lisha Lindtmerán’s quarters.Tilrey handed over his paper ID. He allowed the back of his hand to be scanned. He moved over to the wall, where a second soldier waved a metal detector and patted him down for good measure.This was the sixth checkpoint where he’d endured this procedure since arriving in Thurskein an hour ago. Sector Six was no longer the drab but free-wheeling place where he’d grown up.It was the thirteenth month of a second-degree security lockdown. Soldiers in rust-red jerkins stood at every intersection, high-capacity rifles slung over their shoulders, watching the crowds for suspicious activity. Instead of shouting and pushing in the hallways and cafs, people whispered and shuffled.Besides a nightly curfew, a strict schedule had been imposed on every resident of Sector Six: no more informal gatherings in teahouses or pubs, no kids sneaking off into the Basement or the rafters to make out. People trod an approved route from the factory floor to meals to bed with expressions that were impenetrable in their stoicism.Tilrey had once heard an Upstart say that Laborers in the factory cities “don’t feel things the way we do.” Maybe he’d witnessed this mute endurance of an occupied people and mistaken it for indifference.Even Lisha wore an iron mask. When the soldiers finally opened the door and let Tilrey inside, she nodded to each of them in turn, not yet acknowledging him.“Two hours,” the military constable said and shut the door.When they were alone, a little moan escaped Lisha. The mask crumbled, and she rushed to her son and threw her arms around him.Tilrey hugged her tight, tears stinging his eyes. They’d spoken on the phone three times—monitored, of course—but it was a full year since he’d been allowed to see her in person.He could have strangled Niko Karishkov with his own hands, but at this point he was almost angrier at the elusive Aleks. Where was he? If the idiot would just stop playing at being a rebel leader and surrender himself to his loving father, all of this would end.When they separated, tears were streaming down both their cheeks. Tilrey hadn’t seen his mother cry this way for more than twenty years—since his first trip home to Thurskein from Redda, when she visited him in the cell where Supervisor Fernei had put him, and he explained why he’d been so afraid to face her again.He handed her a handkerchief. She wiped her face, smiling through her tears. “Where’s my stiff upper lip now? Even when your father died, I only cried where I was sure no one would see me.”As she spoke, her eyes flickered toward a far corner of the room. Tilrey took this to mean the apartment was surveilled, as he’d expected.She returned the handkerchief, and he wiped his own face. They’d have to watch their words. “As if I’d think any less of you for crying!”“Oh, I’m just a foolish old woman.” Lisha ushered him to a seat on the sofa. “And look at you, a big strong man weeping like a child. I’ll make some tea to fortify us. Greens, too, for old times’ sake—how would that be?”Tilrey sat down. Her dry self-deprecation nearly made his tears flow again, but he bit the inside of his cheek. “Thank you.”Watching Lisha bustle around the kitchenette, washing and boiling greens the way she had for him ever since he could remember, he reminded himself that his mother was nearing eighty. She might be hale and mobile and an expert at hiding her age, but she should probably have retired from the taxing Supervisor position years ago.She’d stayed on because of the True Hearth. And now, thanks to Karishkov, she had responsibilities that would have put an impossible strain on someone half her age.Damn that Einara. She’d claimed she could find Aleks or neutralize Karishkov or both, but in a year’s time she’d done neither.He tried to keep his tone cheerful as he answered his mother’s questions. “Gersha’s fine! Always obsessed with his gadgets. And Ceill—I think he’s grown another three inches since you saw him. He’s blossoming at University—loves his coursework. He misses you.”“I miss him.” Lisha swirled oil and vinegar into the greens. “How is his friend Britta doing?”Ceill had had a friend named Britta when he was younger. But now, in the code they’d agreed to use whenever they were under surveillance, it meant the population of the Southern Hearth.“Oh, Britta’s doing well,” Tilrey said. “She’s filled out very nicely.” Meaning that the Southern Hearth wasn’t starving in the absence of supplies from Thurskein. With the help of his contacts in the Harbourer garrison, the Hearthers who were already living secretly in Bettevy had found new suppliers for their friends and relations in the settlement hidden across the lake.Lisha set the greens on the table. The kettle whistled, and she ran to catch it. “That’s good to hear. And Dalbert?” Meaning Duke Dalziel of Bettevy. “He was courting Britta, wasn’t he?”“Oh, that’s proceeding just fine. No friction between those two.”They went on in this vein, eating and drinking, Tilrey updating her on everything he knew about the progress of their plans. Then he asked the non-coded question he’d been putting off: “And how is Dal?”Lisha’s face froze. “Will you be seeing her on this trip?”“I could only get authorization to see you. Anyway, when our two hours are up, I have to fly straight back to Redda—it’s Election Day.”His mother shrugged as if a Council election meant nothing to her. Why should it? Councillors were elected by Upstarts. Skeinshaka voted only for the members of certain committees in their home sectors, none of which had any real power.“Perhaps it’s for the best,” she said in a low voice. “Dal’s been . . . depressed. Finding out that your life partner wasn’t who you thought she was—that’s not easy to bounce back from.”Tilrey’s breath caught. Dal and Lourisa had been coconspirators and partners in the Hearth as in everything else. But, for the invisible listeners, they had to pretend that Lourisa had taken advantage of Dal’s trust to plot against the Republic.“I feel for her,” he said. I hope she doesn’t blame me. Maybe she should. “She’s still at home, though? Not in detention again?”Lisha nodded, but the weight didn’t lift from Tilrey’s heart. When he did see Dal, he would have to explain that Karishkov had imposed the lockdown at least partly to pay him back.Dal had always accepted the parts of Tilrey’s life she didn’t understand. The genteel power plays of the Council, the Reddan accent, the promiscuity—she’d made fun of him, but she hadn’t really judged. This time she might not be so forgiving, especially when he told her he’d turned Karishkov into an enemy partly just to see if he could.“I miss Dal so much,” he said. Unwelcome images flashed through his mind: Davita Lindblom’s office, where he would join her tonight to await the election results. Davita turning and casually instructing him to rub her back. What would Dal say if she could see how unthinkingly he obeyed? “Whenever I was off course, she set me straight.”Long fingers stroked his wrist. “Doesn’t Gersha do that for you now?”“Oh, yes.” Tilrey clasped his mother’s hand. Even now, he was performing for the watchers, and he hated it. “The Councillor always steers me right. He’s a brilliant man and a patriot,” he said, tears rising again because he wished Gersha could be here, too. But they’d agreed that a Councillor visiting the locked-down sector would raise red flags.Lisha didn’t need him to say any of that aloud. “Send Fir Councillor my love. I hope to see him and Ceill soon.”And then, under her breath, “We all have perfect confidence in you.” When Tilrey’s flight landed, it was already nearly six in the evening. He took a shuttle directly to Government Sector, where the Councillors and their staffers had formed nervous, whispering clumps around the offices of their respective party leaders.He thought he might have to fight his way into Davita’s office. Young aides blocked the doorway, hunched over their handhelds as they followed the election results in real time.When they spotted him, though, they parted to let him pass. One young man leered knowingly, but a glance from Tilrey wiped the look off his face.In the antechamber, Peninsula Coalition Councillors occupied every available surface—the secretary’s vacant desk, the windowsill, even the floor. Their formal robes of office made a strange contrast with their sprawling limbs. Some, seeking an outlet for the mounting stress, were passing around vials and flasks. Others were huddled up, their murmuring consultations broken by occasional nervous laughter.Tilrey had seen many Election Days. He’d never seen students on the night before Notification, but he imagined they weren’t unlike this. Councillors had a way of reverting to adolescent unruliness when their political futures were at stake.He scanned the room for Niko Karishkov. But before he could spot the gaunt form, Besha grabbed him by the sleeve and steered him to the closed door of the inner office. “Where the hell have you been? She’s been asking for you.”He shoved Tilrey into Davita’s inner sanctum and slammed the door behind them. “I’ve got him, darling—finally!”“Lovely,” Davita said without looking up. Like everyone else, she was glued to a handheld.Crooking a finger at Tilrey, she said, “There are seven minutes and forty seconds left to vote, and after that it should take 120 seconds for the final tally. We’re currently at an aggregate of approximately 16 percent for the Mainland, 42.1 percent for the Island, 41.9 percent for us. Control of the Republic for the next two to ten years is on the line. Rub my back, please.”Tilrey didn’t need to be told what was at stake. With the Island Councillors out of power, the Peninsula could easily end the Thurskein lockdown, if Karishkov would only cooperate. They could ramp up the trade with Harbour—and Redda’s dependence on it. They could appoint a better ambassador to Bettevy. They could pass much-needed reforms.And, if all of those things worked, they’d be ready to make a bold move to dismantle the system, with or without Davita’s approval. There would be no more lockdowns, no more indefinite detentions of people without charges.Without a word, he slipped behind Davita’s chair and began rubbing her back, digging his fingertips in hard. Over his shoulder to Besha, he mouthed Sap.Besha’s eyes flicked to Davita. He shook his head, reminding Tilrey that Davita wouldn’t allow her control to slip until she was certain of victory.“No,” Tilrey said under his breath. “Me.”Catching on, Besha offered a vial, indicating that Tilrey should take only a little. Tilrey dipped a finger in, licked it, and returned both hands to Davita’s shoulders.“Mmmm.” Davita relaxed under his ministrations, though her eyes stayed on the handheld. “41.98 percent now. Latecomers to the polls. Good. Yes. Where were you this whole time, Rishka?”“Seeing my mother in ’Skein.” Tilrey kneaded her neck muscles. The dip of sap was spreading through his head, making everything fuzzy and pleasant. “They’re still under lockdown. When I got the authorization at the last minute, I had to go.”“You’re such a devoted son.” If Davita understood what it meant to be a Laborer under lockdown, her voice betrayed no awareness of it. “It’s sweet. But you’re needed here.”“I’ll be at the party tonight.” Tilrey let his lips graze her pinned-up braids, knowing Besha wouldn’t mind. Another dip, and he might be able to forget what he’d seen in ’Skein, at least for tonight.“That’s assuming we’ll be celebrating. Bit premature for that.” Davita’s shoulders tightened. “Still closing the gap, though. We’re nearly at 42.”“Of course we’ll be celebrating! I ordered the food!” Besha’s nasal voice betrayed his nerves. “Where’s Gersha?”“You know how he is about crowds. Tonight—”“Stop talking about tonight, both of you! It’s unlucky!” Davita’s jaw was clenched, her eyes narrowed on the screen. “Green hills and valleys. Powers that be. We’re just two thousandths of a point away.”It sounded like an invocation, Tilrey thought. Davita’s ancestors had prayed to the Spark just as his own had, whether she wanted to admit it or not.“Programmers always go to the polls late,” Besha said. “Hreiska is their candidate, and they’re pushing her over.”“Yes. Yes!” Davita straightened and inadvertently pushed Tilrey away, her feet drumming under the desk as she failed to contain her excitement. “We’re up, now we just have to hold it. It’ll be close . . .”Tilrey eyed her handheld. Two minutes left, and the Peninsula tally was still rising. The room spun around him, everything narrowing to the screen in Davita’s hand.Another Council election would be held in two years, but if they won now, it was unlikely to upset their majority. Upstart voters were conservative and change-averse. Their trust had to be won over years, and they rarely took the risk of putting a new party in power more than once a decade.Davita had won their trust, it seemed. If only they knew how much change her party might bring.She reached for Tilrey’s hand and clasped it, hers damp and trembling. Had he ever known her to tremble before, except in the throes of orgasm?With his free hand, he reached for Besha, who offered his sweaty grip obligingly. They stood that way, a human chain, watching the clock count down the last minute and a half.They were holding.They were up a little. Now down a little!The clock had stopped running. Tilrey’s vision blurred; he couldn’t read the number. Didn’t dare.Outside the door, yells and cheers erupted.“We did it!”“Peninsula takes it!”Tilrey was crying for the second time today, but these tears weren’t the same. He blinked them back and read the screen. 42.9 percent. A narrow margin, but they’d won.Hammering on the door. “Lindblom! Davita! Come out here!”Davita didn’t speak or move. Dropping Tilrey’s hand, Besha tugged her to her feet and gave her a long, intimate kiss.He turned to Tilrey, one arm still around Davita, and kissed him with the same passion, tongue sliding down his throat in the usual sly way. Tilrey opened to him. It felt good to release the tension, and Besha’s mouth tasted comfortingly familiar—like sap.Then Davita was kissing him, the three of them united by one embrace. “The General Magistrate,” Besha kept saying in a dazed way. “My wife, the General Magistrate.”Tilrey nuzzled against Davita, but his head was beginning to clear. He wished he had more sap. There wasn’t enough sap at the party, either.Vials were going around, but only five or six of them, and it wouldn’t do to deprive the Councillors. Sitting on the white couch beside the new General Magistrate, listening to the hum of mutual congratulations, Tilrey cursed himself for having forgotten to pick up Gersha’s sap ration while he was in the Sector.He nodded and smiled at Councillor Lindthardt, who was babbling tipsily about some crony he wanted to recommend for an Admin position. The older man didn’t seem the least bothered that Tilrey was sleeping with his wife—who was, after all, a member of the other party. The losing party.“Send her dossier over, Fir,” Tilrey said automatically; he could conduct these conversations in his sleep. “Fir Gádden”—meaning I—“will review it and pass it on.”Sap rations were two vials smaller than they’d been six months ago, and no one had explained why. He’d have to ask Davita or someone in the Bureau of Diversions.“Lovely.” Bending over the couch, Lindthardt flicked a lock of hair playfully out of Tilrey’s eyes. “Remember Verán’s Election Night parties? Those were some wild times, back when we were young.”Tilrey didn’t react to the touch. When the man’s hand withdrew, he edged just barely away. “I’m surprised you remember those nights, Fir.”“Ha ha! Good point. I could drink twice my weight back then. Speaking of which—” And Lindthardt turned, mercifully, to accost a friend who was elbowing past him with a bottle.Tilrey turned away. Just like that wretched Lindthardt to bring up the past.When he was young, under Verán’s leadership, the Island Party cut loose on Election Nights. Verán was fond of recreating a Feudal fertility ritual called the Spring Fling, only with his kettle boy in place of the traditional virgin girl.“Allies need something to bond them,” the old man used to say in his world-weary way. “A pretty boy does just fine.”It was bad enough having to endure that. But the one time Gersha witnessed part of the “celebration”—a chill moved over Tilrey’s shoulders at the memory.He was grateful that this party was comparatively staid and sober—“boring,” he’d overheard the younger Councillors calling it. The harsh lights had been dimmed, but otherwise the sitting room looked as it always did, pallid and sterile. Davita kept her colorful Harbourer fabrics and knickknacks hidden in her bedroom.Davita’s pretty young secretary was pouring the tea and flirting with the female guests and a few of the male ones. Occasionally Davita reached for the young woman and stroked her cheek or hair, casually showing off her possession to everyone.Later tonight, she might send the girl to some swing voter’s bed to coax him or her back into the fold. Ten years ago, she’d often still done the same to Tilrey, and he’d done more than cooperate; he’d strategized these exchanges of favors with her. But he was a little old now to serve as an enticement—except to Vreya Akeina, apparently. And to Davita herself.She’d insisted that Tilrey and Besha flank her on the couch, saying, “You’ve earned it.” But maybe their coveted positions only signified that they were her possessions, too.While Davita was busy talking to Councillor Lindahl, Tilrey stretched a hand across her to Besha. “Another dip?”Besha handed over a vial. “Why can’t you take Gersha’s? I’m running short.”“Poor Besha.” Tilrey poured a puddle of sap into his palm and returned the vial.Besha scowled suspiciously. “And since when are you so deep into it?”Before Tilrey could answer or drink the dose, he felt a familiar soft grip on his shoulder. Closing his fist to hide the sap, he turned to face his husband.“Sweetheart.” Gersha bent to be heard over the chatter. “I don’t think I can take any more of this. Would you mind too much if I . . .?”“Course not, love.” Had Gersha seen him taking Besha’s vial? He hoped not. “Go along home; I’ll make your excuses. See you as soon as I can.”Gersha shot a glance at Davita—still busy talking up that old ass Lindahl—and then kissed Tilrey on the forehead. “Should I wait up for you?”“Don’t bother, love. Might be a while.”When Gersha was safely out of the room, Tilrey licked the sap from his hand.Besha gave him a wink. “On the sly, eh? I know how that goes.”“No, you don’t. We don’t have secrets from each other the way you do.” Now Tilrey thought about it, he didn’t know why he’d hidden what he was doing. Everyone drank sap at parties. Gersha would have thought nothing of it.It was Besha’s fault. He soiled the most innocent actions with his own corruption.Tilrey rose from the couch, the sap giving him a head rush. The room was stifling. He couldn’t sit between these two pampered Upstarts and listen to another second of self-congratulation.“I need some air,” he told Besha, heading for the coldroom.The door sealed behind him, drowning out the party’s noise. Feeling the sap, Tilrey grabbed his coat, thrust his feet into outdoor boots, and plowed outdoors through the second sealed door.Ah, that’s more like it. It was so cold his fingertips were already going numb, and he wouldn’t stay more than a few minutes. But he was alone under the blazing stars.He sucked in a breath of frigid air, his head buzzing, and gazed at the city’s twinkling towers. Why hadn’t he left with Gersha? Davita might want him sitting beside her, but she didn’t really need him tonight. By the time the party ended, she would be too exhausted for play.“Nice out here, isn’t it?”Tilrey turned to find an Upstart boy who looked no older than Ceill. Suppressing his irritation, he said, “So it is, Fir.”The boy raised a crude tin pipe to his mouth and took a puff of whatever illicit stimulant kids smoked these days. He was tall, long-faced, and handsome in a painfully clean-cut way, with sandy hair spilling from under his parka hood. “You won’t tell?” he asked with a shy smile.“Of course not.” Tilrey made for the door. The last thing he felt like being right now was deferential. “Better be getting in before I freeze, Fir.”The boy pocketed the pipe in a flash and opened the door for him. “Please, call me Detmer,” he said, following Tilrey back inside. “Or Mershka. I’m just here as my cousin István’s aide.”The unusual name rang a bell. “Majority Leader Verán had a younger brother named Detmer.”He saw the family resemblance now, even before Detmer said, “I was named for my great-uncle. Visha Verán was my grandpa. May his last moment be bright,” he added as if in afterthought. “And you—I know who you are.”I imagine you do. But there was nothing suggestive or malicious about the boy’s grin. He held out a hand for Tilrey’s coat and hung it up before taking off his own.“You must be surprised, huh?” he said. “The Veráns have always been Islanders. But I really believe in the whole Peninsula platform—how we shouldn’t make ourselves an island in the world. Your speeches are really powerful,” Detmer added, dropping his eyes. “I mean, Councillor Lindblom’s are good, too, but yours—you make me feel how we need to change.”Tilrey’s throat closed. Visha Verán had called him “slow” and maintained he wasn’t good for much besides sucking cock. Was the man’s direct descendant mocking him?“They aren’t my speeches,” he said. “They’re Fir Councillor Gádden’s. I just deliver them.”“Yes, but you do that so well.” The boy edged closer to Tilrey, eyes glittering in the coldroom’s dim light. “Would you like some?” he asked, holding out a vial of sap.Tilrey did want it, but he shook his head. “Isn’t your family upset by your working for a Peninsula Councillor?”“Oh, they gave up on me long ago.” Detmer took another step, backing Tilrey against the wall. “I was a Hargist back at Uni, so I’m an incorrigible disappointment. Working for any Councillor is better than they expected from me.”As he spoke, he reached over in a businesslike way and placed his hand on Tilrey’s groin, gently but effectively cupping his cock. “There are some things I’m pretty good at, though. I could show you.”Tilrey stood stock still, taken off guard. A sexual advance was nothing new, but this type of advance was. The boy’s whole tone and posture were deferential, not demanding. He was offering himself.A Verán. To him. Was the boy mad?The worst thing was, he was hardening under the touch. And the boy, realizing it, was starting to rub him. His touch was clever; he’d done this before.Tilrey stepped backward, extricating himself as tactfully as he could. “I think you’ve made a mistake, lad . . . Fir Verán. You do realize what I am?”“That you’re a Laborer? Levels are just formalities for people like us.” The boy smiled winningly. “All I know is, you’re in Fir’n Lindblom’s office all the time. You’ve got her ear.”Levels are just formalities? Was that what rebellious Strutter kids were telling each other these days? Tilrey wished Visha Verán could have risen from the dead to see this.Detmer wasn’t done. He dropped to his knees in front of Tilrey and looked up through his lashes. “Look, this is gonna sound really crass, but—I want to stand for Councillor before I’m thirty-five. It’s a tradition in my family. And I know I won’t get there without some help.”Tilrey swallowed, trying not to look at the boy’s eyes, at his mouth. Detmer must be a spy of some sort. That was the only plausible explanation. But which of his enemies would be foolish enough to expect him to take sexual favors from a Verán?“I thought your family had written you off,” he said.“They’ll come around once I’m elected. I believe in serving the Republic any way I can, and believe me, I can.”He made another tactful grab for Tilrey’s groin, but Tilrey stepped out of range. “How old are you, anyway?”The boy dimpled at him. “Twenty-six.”Not a child, then. A very attractive Verán with a distinct resemblance to his tyrannical grandfather, offering himself up as a prize, with or without a motive beyond the one he’d already confessed to.Tilrey slipped his coat from the peg and used it to hide the arousal he couldn’t seem to repress.“Do you even know,” he asked in his severest tone, “that I was your grandfather’s kettle boy? His piece? Can you imagine what he’d say if he could see you begging to suck my cock?”That got through to Detmer. He scrambled to his feet. “I’m not begging. Anyway, that was, like, thirty years ago. Nobody remembers.”“You only think that because you’re a child.”Detmer’s eyes ran up and down Tilrey. “All I know is, I watch and listen, and I see everybody in the Coalition taking their orders from you. Even my cousin. Everybody but Lindblom. I want to prove to you I’m worthy of moving up. For my intellectual merit, of course. But also, well . . .” A naughty grin. “There are all kinds of merit.”Tilrey could say yes. Nothing was stopping him. No one could punish him now.A cold triumph made him lightheaded, and he wanted to say yes. But he pulled on his coat. “Even if I wanted to, this isn’t the time or place. I have to go.”The boy made no effort to stop him from unsealing the outer door. “Maybe another time?”Yes. No. Without a word, Tilrey stepped outside, directly into the wind, and yanked the door shut behind him.Gersha had taken the car home. He walked without thinking—through Davita’s garage to the stairs that led down, flight after flight after flight, into the Underground City.He needed to walk. He needed to sober up. It didn’t occur to him until he was passing the lighted windows of the Café that he wasn’t going home, as he’d thought. He was going to the Brothel.

October, Year 372

“ID card,” barked the red-jerkined military constable posted outside Lisha Lindtmerán’s quarters.

Tilrey handed over his paper ID. He allowed the back of his hand to be scanned. He moved over to the wall, where a second soldier waved a metal detector and patted him down for good measure.

This was the sixth checkpoint where he’d endured this procedure since arriving in Thurskein an hour ago. Sector Six was no longer the drab but free-wheeling place where he’d grown up.

It was the thirteenth month of a second-degree security lockdown. Soldiers in rust-red jerkins stood at every intersection, high-capacity rifles slung over their shoulders, watching the crowds for suspicious activity. Instead of shouting and pushing in the hallways and cafs, people whispered and shuffled.

Besides a nightly curfew, a strict schedule had been imposed on every resident of Sector Six: no more informal gatherings in teahouses or pubs, no kids sneaking off into the Basement or the rafters to make out. People trod an approved route from the factory floor to meals to bed with expressions that were impenetrable in their stoicism.

Tilrey had once heard an Upstart say that Laborers in the factory cities “don’t feel things the way we do.” Maybe he’d witnessed this mute endurance of an occupied people and mistaken it for indifference.

Even Lisha wore an iron mask. When the soldiers finally opened the door and let Tilrey inside, she nodded to each of them in turn, not yet acknowledging him.

“Two hours,” the military constable said and shut the door.

When they were alone, a little moan escaped Lisha. The mask crumbled, and she rushed to her son and threw her arms around him.

Tilrey hugged her tight, tears stinging his eyes. They’d spoken on the phone three times—monitored, of course—but it was a full year since he’d been allowed to see her in person.

He could have strangled Niko Karishkov with his own hands, but at this point he was almost angrier at the elusive Aleks. Where was he? If the idiot would just stop playing at being a rebel leader and surrender himself to his loving father, all of this would end.

When they separated, tears were streaming down both their cheeks. Tilrey hadn’t seen his mother cry this way for more than twenty years—since his first trip home to Thurskein from Redda, when she visited him in the cell where Supervisor Fernei had put him, and he explained why he’d been so afraid to face her again.

He handed her a handkerchief. She wiped her face, smiling through her tears. “Where’s my stiff upper lip now? Even when your father died, I only cried where I was sure no one would see me.”

As she spoke, her eyes flickered toward a far corner of the room. Tilrey took this to mean the apartment was surveilled, as he’d expected.

She returned the handkerchief, and he wiped his own face. They’d have to watch their words. “As if I’d think any less of you for crying!”

“Oh, I’m just a foolish old woman.” Lisha ushered him to a seat on the sofa. “And look at you, a big strong man weeping like a child. I’ll make some tea to fortify us. Greens, too, for old times’ sake—how would that be?”

Tilrey sat down. Her dry self-deprecation nearly made his tears flow again, but he bit the inside of his cheek. “Thank you.”

Watching Lisha bustle around the kitchenette, washing and boiling greens the way she had for him ever since he could remember, he reminded himself that his mother was nearing eighty. She might be hale and mobile and an expert at hiding her age, but she should probably have retired from the taxing Supervisor position years ago.

She’d stayed on because of the True Hearth. And now, thanks to Karishkov, she had responsibilities that would have put an impossible strain on someone half her age.

Damn that Einara. She’d claimed she could find Aleks or neutralize Karishkov or both, but in a year’s time she’d done neither.

He tried to keep his tone cheerful as he answered his mother’s questions. “Gersha’s fine! Always obsessed with his gadgets. And Ceill—I think he’s grown another three inches since you saw him. He’s blossoming at University—loves his coursework. He misses you.”

“I miss him.” Lisha swirled oil and vinegar into the greens. “How is his friend Britta doing?”

Ceill had had a friend named Britta when he was younger. But now, in the code they’d agreed to use whenever they were under surveillance, it meant the population of the Southern Hearth.

“Oh, Britta’s doing well,” Tilrey said. “She’s filled out very nicely.” Meaning that the Southern Hearth wasn’t starving in the absence of supplies from Thurskein. With the help of his contacts in the Harbourer garrison, the Hearthers who were already living secretly in Bettevy had found new suppliers for their friends and relations in the settlement hidden across the lake.

Lisha set the greens on the table. The kettle whistled, and she ran to catch it. “That’s good to hear. And Dalbert?” Meaning Duke Dalziel of Bettevy. “He was courting Britta, wasn’t he?”

“Oh, that’s proceeding just fine. No friction between those two.”

They went on in this vein, eating and drinking, Tilrey updating her on everything he knew about the progress of their plans. Then he asked the non-coded question he’d been putting off: “And how is Dal?”

Lisha’s face froze. “Will you be seeing her on this trip?”

“I could only get authorization to see you. Anyway, when our two hours are up, I have to fly straight back to Redda—it’s Election Day.”

His mother shrugged as if a Council election meant nothing to her. Why should it? Councillors were elected by Upstarts. Skeinshaka voted only for the members of certain committees in their home sectors, none of which had any real power.

“Perhaps it’s for the best,” she said in a low voice. “Dal’s been . . . depressed. Finding out that your life partner wasn’t who you thought she was—that’s not easy to bounce back from.”

Tilrey’s breath caught. Dal and Lourisa had been coconspirators and partners in the Hearth as in everything else. But, for the invisible listeners, they had to pretend that Lourisa had taken advantage of Dal’s trust to plot against the Republic.

“I feel for her,” he said. I hope she doesn’t blame me. Maybe she should. “She’s still at home, though? Not in detention again?”

Lisha nodded, but the weight didn’t lift from Tilrey’s heart. When he did see Dal, he would have to explain that Karishkov had imposed the lockdown at least partly to pay him back.

Dal had always accepted the parts of Tilrey’s life she didn’t understand. The genteel power plays of the Council, the Reddan accent, the promiscuity—she’d made fun of him, but she hadn’t really judged. This time she might not be so forgiving, especially when he told her he’d turned Karishkov into an enemy partly just to see if he could.

“I miss Dal so much,” he said. Unwelcome images flashed through his mind: Davita Lindblom’s office, where he would join her tonight to await the election results. Davita turning and casually instructing him to rub her back. What would Dal say if she could see how unthinkingly he obeyed? “Whenever I was off course, she set me straight.”

Long fingers stroked his wrist. “Doesn’t Gersha do that for you now?”

“Oh, yes.” Tilrey clasped his mother’s hand. Even now, he was performing for the watchers, and he hated it. “The Councillor always steers me right. He’s a brilliant man and a patriot,” he said, tears rising again because he wished Gersha could be here, too. But they’d agreed that a Councillor visiting the locked-down sector would raise red flags.

Lisha didn’t need him to say any of that aloud. “Send Fir Councillor my love. I hope to see him and Ceill soon.”

And then, under her breath, “We all have perfect confidence in you.”

When Tilrey’s flight landed, it was already nearly six in the evening. He took a shuttle directly to Government Sector, where the Councillors and their staffers had formed nervous, whispering clumps around the offices of their respective party leaders.

He thought he might have to fight his way into Davita’s office. Young aides blocked the doorway, hunched over their handhelds as they followed the election results in real time.

When they spotted him, though, they parted to let him pass. One young man leered knowingly, but a glance from Tilrey wiped the look off his face.

In the antechamber, Peninsula Coalition Councillors occupied every available surface—the secretary’s vacant desk, the windowsill, even the floor. Their formal robes of office made a strange contrast with their sprawling limbs. Some, seeking an outlet for the mounting stress, were passing around vials and flasks. Others were huddled up, their murmuring consultations broken by occasional nervous laughter.

Tilrey had seen many Election Days. He’d never seen students on the night before Notification, but he imagined they weren’t unlike this. Councillors had a way of reverting to adolescent unruliness when their political futures were at stake.

He scanned the room for Niko Karishkov. But before he could spot the gaunt form, Besha grabbed him by the sleeve and steered him to the closed door of the inner office. “Where the hell have you been? She’s been asking for you.”

He shoved Tilrey into Davita’s inner sanctum and slammed the door behind them. “I’ve got him, darling—finally!”

“Lovely,” Davita said without looking up. Like everyone else, she was glued to a handheld.

Crooking a finger at Tilrey, she said, “There are seven minutes and forty seconds left to vote, and after that it should take 120 seconds for the final tally. We’re currently at an aggregate of approximately 16 percent for the Mainland, 42.1 percent for the Island, 41.9 percent for us. Control of the Republic for the next two to ten years is on the line. Rub my back, please.”

Tilrey didn’t need to be told what was at stake. With the Island Councillors out of power, the Peninsula could easily end the Thurskein lockdown, if Karishkov would only cooperate. They could ramp up the trade with Harbour—and Redda’s dependence on it. They could appoint a better ambassador to Bettevy. They could pass much-needed reforms.

And, if all of those things worked, they’d be ready to make a bold move to dismantle the system, with or without Davita’s approval. There would be no more lockdowns, no more indefinite detentions of people without charges.

Without a word, he slipped behind Davita’s chair and began rubbing her back, digging his fingertips in hard. Over his shoulder to Besha, he mouthed Sap.

Besha’s eyes flicked to Davita. He shook his head, reminding Tilrey that Davita wouldn’t allow her control to slip until she was certain of victory.

“No,” Tilrey said under his breath. “Me.”

Catching on, Besha offered a vial, indicating that Tilrey should take only a little. Tilrey dipped a finger in, licked it, and returned both hands to Davita’s shoulders.

“Mmmm.” Davita relaxed under his ministrations, though her eyes stayed on the handheld. “41.98 percent now. Latecomers to the polls. Good. Yes. Where were you this whole time, Rishka?”

“Seeing my mother in ’Skein.” Tilrey kneaded her neck muscles. The dip of sap was spreading through his head, making everything fuzzy and pleasant. “They’re still under lockdown. When I got the authorization at the last minute, I had to go.”

“You’re such a devoted son.” If Davita understood what it meant to be a Laborer under lockdown, her voice betrayed no awareness of it. “It’s sweet. But you’re needed here.”

“I’ll be at the party tonight.” Tilrey let his lips graze her pinned-up braids, knowing Besha wouldn’t mind. Another dip, and he might be able to forget what he’d seen in ’Skein, at least for tonight.

“That’s assuming we’ll be celebrating. Bit premature for that.” Davita’s shoulders tightened. “Still closing the gap, though. We’re nearly at 42.”

“Of course we’ll be celebrating! I ordered the food!” Besha’s nasal voice betrayed his nerves. “Where’s Gersha?”

“You know how he is about crowds. Tonight—”

“Stop talking about tonight, both of you! It’s unlucky!” Davita’s jaw was clenched, her eyes narrowed on the screen. “Green hills and valleys. Powers that be. We’re just two thousandths of a point away.”

It sounded like an invocation, Tilrey thought. Davita’s ancestors had prayed to the Spark just as his own had, whether she wanted to admit it or not.

“Programmers always go to the polls late,” Besha said. “Hreiska is their candidate, and they’re pushing her over.”

“Yes. Yes!” Davita straightened and inadvertently pushed Tilrey away, her feet drumming under the desk as she failed to contain her excitement. “We’re up, now we just have to hold it. It’ll be close . . .”

Tilrey eyed her handheld. Two minutes left, and the Peninsula tally was still rising. The room spun around him, everything narrowing to the screen in Davita’s hand.

Another Council election would be held in two years, but if they won now, it was unlikely to upset their majority. Upstart voters were conservative and change-averse. Their trust had to be won over years, and they rarely took the risk of putting a new party in power more than once a decade.

Davita had won their trust, it seemed. If only they knew how much change her party might bring.

She reached for Tilrey’s hand and clasped it, hers damp and trembling. Had he ever known her to tremble before, except in the throes of orgasm?

With his free hand, he reached for Besha, who offered his sweaty grip obligingly. They stood that way, a human chain, watching the clock count down the last minute and a half.

They were holding.

They were up a little. Now down a little!

The clock had stopped running. Tilrey’s vision blurred; he couldn’t read the number. Didn’t dare.

Outside the door, yells and cheers erupted.

“We did it!”

“Peninsula takes it!”

Tilrey was crying for the second time today, but these tears weren’t the same. He blinked them back and read the screen. 42.9 percent. A narrow margin, but they’d won.

Hammering on the door. “Lindblom! Davita! Come out here!”

Davita didn’t speak or move. Dropping Tilrey’s hand, Besha tugged her to her feet and gave her a long, intimate kiss.

He turned to Tilrey, one arm still around Davita, and kissed him with the same passion, tongue sliding down his throat in the usual sly way. Tilrey opened to him. It felt good to release the tension, and Besha’s mouth tasted comfortingly familiar—like sap.

Then Davita was kissing him, the three of them united by one embrace. “The General Magistrate,” Besha kept saying in a dazed way. “My wife, the General Magistrate.”

Tilrey nuzzled against Davita, but his head was beginning to clear. He wished he had more sap.

There wasn’t enough sap at the party, either.

Vials were going around, but only five or six of them, and it wouldn’t do to deprive the Councillors. Sitting on the white couch beside the new General Magistrate, listening to the hum of mutual congratulations, Tilrey cursed himself for having forgotten to pick up Gersha’s sap ration while he was in the Sector.

He nodded and smiled at Councillor Lindthardt, who was babbling tipsily about some crony he wanted to recommend for an Admin position. The older man didn’t seem the least bothered that Tilrey was sleeping with his wife—who was, after all, a member of the other party. The losing party.

“Send her dossier over, Fir,” Tilrey said automatically; he could conduct these conversations in his sleep. “Fir Gádden”—meaning I—“will review it and pass it on.”

Sap rations were two vials smaller than they’d been six months ago, and no one had explained why. He’d have to ask Davita or someone in the Bureau of Diversions.

“Lovely.” Bending over the couch, Lindthardt flicked a lock of hair playfully out of Tilrey’s eyes. “Remember Verán’s Election Night parties? Those were some wild times, back when we were young.”

Tilrey didn’t react to the touch. When the man’s hand withdrew, he edged just barely away. “I’m surprised you remember those nights, Fir.”

“Ha ha! Good point. I could drink twice my weight back then. Speaking of which—” And Lindthardt turned, mercifully, to accost a friend who was elbowing past him with a bottle.

Tilrey turned away. Just like that wretched Lindthardt to bring up the past.

When he was young, under Verán’s leadership, the Island Party cut loose on Election Nights. Verán was fond of recreating a Feudal fertility ritual called the Spring Fling, only with his kettle boy in place of the traditional virgin girl.

“Allies need something to bond them,” the old man used to say in his world-weary way. “A pretty boy does just fine.”

It was bad enough having to endure that. But the one time Gersha witnessed part of the “celebration”—a chill moved over Tilrey’s shoulders at the memory.

He was grateful that this party was comparatively staid and sober—“boring,” he’d overheard the younger Councillors calling it. The harsh lights had been dimmed, but otherwise the sitting room looked as it always did, pallid and sterile. Davita kept her colorful Harbourer fabrics and knickknacks hidden in her bedroom.

Davita’s pretty young secretary was pouring the tea and flirting with the female guests and a few of the male ones. Occasionally Davita reached for the young woman and stroked her cheek or hair, casually showing off her possession to everyone.

Later tonight, she might send the girl to some swing voter’s bed to coax him or her back into the fold. Ten years ago, she’d often still done the same to Tilrey, and he’d done more than cooperate; he’d strategized these exchanges of favors with her. But he was a little old now to serve as an enticement—except to Vreya Akeina, apparently. And to Davita herself.

She’d insisted that Tilrey and Besha flank her on the couch, saying, “You’ve earned it.” But maybe their coveted positions only signified that they were her possessions, too.

While Davita was busy talking to Councillor Lindahl, Tilrey stretched a hand across her to Besha. “Another dip?”

Besha handed over a vial. “Why can’t you take Gersha’s? I’m running short.”

“Poor Besha.” Tilrey poured a puddle of sap into his palm and returned the vial.

Besha scowled suspiciously. “And since when are you so deep into it?”

Before Tilrey could answer or drink the dose, he felt a familiar soft grip on his shoulder. Closing his fist to hide the sap, he turned to face his husband.

“Sweetheart.” Gersha bent to be heard over the chatter. “I don’t think I can take any more of this. Would you mind too much if I . . .?”

“Course not, love.” Had Gersha seen him taking Besha’s vial? He hoped not. “Go along home; I’ll make your excuses. See you as soon as I can.”

Gersha shot a glance at Davita—still busy talking up that old ass Lindahl—and then kissed Tilrey on the forehead. “Should I wait up for you?”

“Don’t bother, love. Might be a while.”

When Gersha was safely out of the room, Tilrey licked the sap from his hand.

Besha gave him a wink. “On the sly, eh? I know how that goes.”

“No, you don’t. We don’t have secrets from each other the way you do.” Now Tilrey thought about it, he didn’t know why he’d hidden what he was doing. Everyone drank sap at parties. Gersha would have thought nothing of it.

It was Besha’s fault. He soiled the most innocent actions with his own corruption.

Tilrey rose from the couch, the sap giving him a head rush. The room was stifling. He couldn’t sit between these two pampered Upstarts and listen to another second of self-congratulation.

“I need some air,” he told Besha, heading for the coldroom.

The door sealed behind him, drowning out the party’s noise. Feeling the sap, Tilrey grabbed his coat, thrust his feet into outdoor boots, and plowed outdoors through the second sealed door.

Ah, that’s more like it. It was so cold his fingertips were already going numb, and he wouldn’t stay more than a few minutes. But he was alone under the blazing stars.

He sucked in a breath of frigid air, his head buzzing, and gazed at the city’s twinkling towers. Why hadn’t he left with Gersha? Davita might want him sitting beside her, but she didn’t really need him tonight. By the time the party ended, she would be too exhausted for play.

“Nice out here, isn’t it?”

Tilrey turned to find an Upstart boy who looked no older than Ceill. Suppressing his irritation, he said, “So it is, Fir.”

The boy raised a crude tin pipe to his mouth and took a puff of whatever illicit stimulant kids smoked these days. He was tall, long-faced, and handsome in a painfully clean-cut way, with sandy hair spilling from under his parka hood. “You won’t tell?” he asked with a shy smile.

“Of course not.” Tilrey made for the door. The last thing he felt like being right now was deferential. “Better be getting in before I freeze, Fir.”

The boy pocketed the pipe in a flash and opened the door for him. “Please, call me Detmer,” he said, following Tilrey back inside. “Or Mershka. I’m just here as my cousin István’s aide.”

The unusual name rang a bell. “Majority Leader Verán had a younger brother named Detmer.”

He saw the family resemblance now, even before Detmer said, “I was named for my great-uncle. Visha Verán was my grandpa. May his last moment be bright,” he added as if in afterthought. “And you—I know who you are.”

I imagine you do. But there was nothing suggestive or malicious about the boy’s grin. He held out a hand for Tilrey’s coat and hung it up before taking off his own.

“You must be surprised, huh?” he said. “The Veráns have always been Islanders. But I really believe in the whole Peninsula platform—how we shouldn’t make ourselves an island in the world. Your speeches are really powerful,” Detmer added, dropping his eyes. “I mean, Councillor Lindblom’s are good, too, but yours—you make me feel how we need to change.”

Tilrey’s throat closed. Visha Verán had called him “slow” and maintained he wasn’t good for much besides sucking cock. Was the man’s direct descendant mocking him?

“They aren’t my speeches,” he said. “They’re Fir Councillor Gádden’s. I just deliver them.”

“Yes, but you do that so well.” The boy edged closer to Tilrey, eyes glittering in the coldroom’s dim light. “Would you like some?” he asked, holding out a vial of sap.

Tilrey did want it, but he shook his head. “Isn’t your family upset by your working for a Peninsula Councillor?”

“Oh, they gave up on me long ago.” Detmer took another step, backing Tilrey against the wall. “I was a Hargist back at Uni, so I’m an incorrigible disappointment. Working for any Councillor is better than they expected from me.”

As he spoke, he reached over in a businesslike way and placed his hand on Tilrey’s groin, gently but effectively cupping his cock. “There are some things I’m pretty good at, though. I could show you.”

Tilrey stood stock still, taken off guard. A sexual advance was nothing new, but this type of advance was. The boy’s whole tone and posture were deferential, not demanding. He was offering himself.

A Verán. To him. Was the boy mad?

The worst thing was, he was hardening under the touch. And the boy, realizing it, was starting to rub him. His touch was clever; he’d done this before.

Tilrey stepped backward, extricating himself as tactfully as he could. “I think you’ve made a mistake, lad . . . Fir Verán. You do realize what I am?”

“That you’re a Laborer? Levels are just formalities for people like us.” The boy smiled winningly. “All I know is, you’re in Fir’n Lindblom’s office all the time. You’ve got her ear.”

Levels are just formalities? Was that what rebellious Strutter kids were telling each other these days? Tilrey wished Visha Verán could have risen from the dead to see this.

Detmer wasn’t done. He dropped to his knees in front of Tilrey and looked up through his lashes. “Look, this is gonna sound really crass, but—I want to stand for Councillor before I’m thirty-five. It’s a tradition in my family. And I know I won’t get there without some help.”

Tilrey swallowed, trying not to look at the boy’s eyes, at his mouth. Detmer must be a spy of some sort. That was the only plausible explanation. But which of his enemies would be foolish enough to expect him to take sexual favors from a Verán?

“I thought your family had written you off,” he said.

“They’ll come around once I’m elected. I believe in serving the Republic any way I can, and believe me, I can.”

He made another tactful grab for Tilrey’s groin, but Tilrey stepped out of range. “How old are you, anyway?”

The boy dimpled at him. “Twenty-six.”

Not a child, then. A very attractive Verán with a distinct resemblance to his tyrannical grandfather, offering himself up as a prize, with or without a motive beyond the one he’d already confessed to.

Tilrey slipped his coat from the peg and used it to hide the arousal he couldn’t seem to repress.

“Do you even know,” he asked in his severest tone, “that I was your grandfather’s kettle boy? His piece? Can you imagine what he’d say if he could see you begging to suck my cock?”

That got through to Detmer. He scrambled to his feet. “I’m not begging. Anyway, that was, like, thirty years ago. Nobody remembers.”

“You only think that because you’re a child.”

Detmer’s eyes ran up and down Tilrey. “All I know is, I watch and listen, and I see everybody in the Coalition taking their orders from you. Even my cousin. Everybody but Lindblom. I want to prove to you I’m worthy of moving up. For my intellectual merit, of course. But also, well . . .” A naughty grin. “There are all kinds of merit.”

Tilrey could say yes. Nothing was stopping him. No one could punish him now.

A cold triumph made him lightheaded, and he wanted to say yes. But he pulled on his coat. “Even if I wanted to, this isn’t the time or place. I have to go.”

The boy made no effort to stop him from unsealing the outer door. “Maybe another time?”

Yes. No. Without a word, Tilrey stepped outside, directly into the wind, and yanked the door shut behind him.

Gersha had taken the car home. He walked without thinking—through Davita’s garage to the stairs that led down, flight after flight after flight, into the Underground City.

He needed to walk. He needed to sober up. It didn’t occur to him until he was passing the lighted windows of the Café that he wasn’t going home, as he’d thought. He was going to the Brothel.

Chapter End Notes

So, yup. Bit of a dark character arc for Tilrey here, and he may need to do more processing of the contradictory forces in his life than Gersha can help him with. But he’ll always find his way back in the end. Thanks for reading! <3

Chapter End Notes