Chapter 3: A Slow Night in the Brothel — The Key of Oslov

Volume 17: The Tinderbox

Chapter 3 A Slow Night in the Brothel

Chapter Notes

Warning: There’s a mention of past underage sexual abuse in this chapter.Thank you to quincette for inspiring me to compile all my Oslov dreamcasting into one post! You can find it here.I hope everyone’s well this winter (if it is winter for you) and staying safe. Thank you for reading! <3 <3

Chapter Notes

Warning: There’s a mention of past underage sexual abuse in this chapter.

Thank you to quincette for inspiring me to compile all my Oslov dreamcasting into one post! You can find it here.

I hope everyone’s well this winter (if it is winter for you) and staying safe. Thank you for reading! <3 <3

The patrons’ lounge of the Sanctioned Brothel was dead on work nights. Besha Linbeck preferred to avoid his colleagues when he met with Kai Meirthal, so that suited him fine.But often—tonight, for instance—Kai was delayed. So Besha had to spend half an hour sitting on a stool and chatting up the bartender.“Another of these with less of that foul orange stuff, please,” he said, pushing his glass across the bar. “Has anyone ever told you it tastes like mouthwash?”“No, Fir Councillor.” The boy on bartender duty whisked the glass away, his pretty lips a straight line. When Besha arrived, he’d been all smiles, but now his patience was fraying.That, at least, offered some amusement. Besha twisted restlessly on his stool. “You need better sources for your liquor. At least I have your tight shirt and erect nipples to keep me entertained.”Kai would have lobbed that back at Besha—an eye-roll and Glad I can offer you some diversion, Fir. This poor humorless boy only scowled. “If you want me in a room, Fir,” he said glumly, “I’ll need to go find someone to take over here.”“Flattered, but no thanks, darling. I’m just enjoying the view.” Besha raked his eyes down the boy’s chest to the bulge in the close-fitting leggings. He was so bored.He still came regularly to the Brothel to get sap for his sweet Rasmus, but sweet Rasmus wasn’t so sweet lately. Besha suspected he was seeing someone his own age on the side. While he still put on a good show when Besha was around, batting his eyelashes, he obviously saw their relationship as transactional.Wasn’t it always like that in the end? Every pretty lad was out for himself. There was a time when Tilrey had seemed sweet and submissive, too. And now look at him—practically running the Council, taking Besha’s place beside his wife, giving Besha orders.Besha might not mind if only Tilrey could still be—just sometimes—sweet to him. A sunny smile, a touch on the shoulder, a coy glance up through the eyelashes—that would be enough to keep Besha happy. It wasn’t like he was demanding a return to the old days.Over the years, though, their relationship had become all business. Tilrey must know that Besha missed the flirtatious edge on their interactions. But playing up to Besha was no longer worth his time.Besha shuddered as he remembered that day after tomorrow he would have to endure the quarterly Communal Meal. He and Davita would dine at Gersha’s, where his wife and Tilrey would talk politics endlessly. Meanwhile, Besha would have nothing to amuse him but the conversation of Gersha, Vera Linnett, and his own dull, somber eldest son.Such a pity that Blas, who looked like Davita, hadn’t inherited more of her sparkle and wit. Why had the boy insisted on going into Judicial work? Stalking the mean streets of Ring Eight, putting Drudge low-lifes and domestic abusers in detention—it was an embarrassing job for a Lindblom. No wonder Blas hadn’t found a wife yet—or a partner of any kind, as far as Besha could tell.Besha had begged Davita to do this Communal Meal with their daughter and son-in-law instead, because Gunde’s company was more fun. But Davita considered it politically vital to socialize with Gersha’s family, making a show of their alliance.Besha gave in, as always. He couldn’t resist goading his wife, though: “Do you sometimes wish you could have married him instead of me?”“Married Gersha?”He winked at her. “You know I don’t mean Gersha.”“Right. Very funny, darling.”Annoyance flickered across Davita’s face. He’d hit a nerve. “No more of this jealousy nonsense,” she added. “Tilrey’s good fun, that’s all. And useful. Even you can admit the boy’s clever at our Sector games.”“Oh, so clever.” How would she feel if she knew her precious, clever Tilrey was mounting a rebellion behind her back?The bartender slid another glass of vodka-and-mouthwash across the zinc. Besha sipped it with a grimace. But the liquor made the tiny lights hanging above the bar blur, and that was an improvement. Where in ten green hells was Kai?A stool scraped across the floor. Besha turned, his head spinning with vodka and relief.But instead of Kai, he found a younger, slighter lad, dressed like a kettle boy, with dark hair and enormous eyes.“Hello, Fir,” the boy said in a Thurskein gutter accent, training those eyes just over Besha’s head. “Quiet this evening, isn’t it?”“So it is.” Besha recognized him now—Gersha’s kettle boy, the one who wasn’t actually a kettle boy.Whenever they met, Besha was reminded of their first encounter at an unpleasant dinner two years ago, when Tilrey had scolded Besha for various indiscretions. Now and then, Besha spotted the kid wandering around the Core by his lonesome. Fearing a scolding for getting near Gersha’s protégé, he never approached or even greeted him.He certainly hadn’t expected the boy to approach him. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his interest piqued. “Whoring yourself on the side? Or did Tilrey send you to fetch me?”“I come here sometimes, Fir. I like to walk around the city.”The boy spoke in a gravelly monotone, like a bad actor reciting lines. Not the best voice for a whore, not seductive. But those great dark eyes unsettled Besha—so watchful. “Are you here as Tilrey’s spy, then?” he asked playfully. “Or does he even know you’re traipsing around the Sanctioned?”The boy dropped his gaze. “You won’t tell Tilrey you saw me, will you, Fir?”Now, this was interesting. “No,” Besha assured him (adding probably in his head). “So, what’s your problem, kid? You like to drink a little more sap than Rishka allows you?”“I can’t drink sap, Fir. It makes me see things that aren’t there. Tilrey told you that.”“Oh, right.” Besha winced at the fresh reminder of the dinner where he’d been scolded. The boy looked wary now—something tense in his posture, as if he might need to bolt. “You’re not scared of me, are you . . . what’s your name? Jan something?”“Janta. I’ve been wanting to talk to you alone, Fir.” The boy gazed straight down at the bar. “Ever since the first night we met. You said something about how Oslovs should go to Harbour and take it over. You called Oslov a shithole and a ‘rat trap’ and a ‘fucking freezer.’”Had Besha really said those things in the boy’s earshot? Apparently so.He glanced at the bartender, who was busy wiping glasses. “I said nothing of the kind. I’m a Councillor of the Republic.”The boy didn’t seem to register the denial. “I’ve been thinking about that, Fir. See, I’ve lived my whole life in Oslov. It’s all I know. But my father was from Harbour. He told me about it sometimes.”Besha hoisted his brows, though he wasn’t really shocked. There had to be some overland migration happening between Oslov and Harbour; no borders were airtight. Tilrey’s mother had been smuggling Skeinshaka to Harbour—Besha certainly hadn’t missed that—which meant there were probably a few Harbourers coming in the opposite direction.“Does Tilrey know about this?” he asked, switching his expression from shocked to concerned.The boy ignored this, too, as if he could see straight through Besha’s careful faking. “Tilrey tells me about Harbour sometimes, too,” he said, “because he’s been there. He likes it very much, but he doesn’t think Oslovs should take it over. I’ve never heard a single person suggest that, Fir. Except you.”Well, this was awkward—not that Besha was actually worried the boy would repeat his loose talk. As if a bit of fluff could threaten him!He switched to a tone of fond tolerance. “Tell me, my love, do you sometimes hear voices? Or think people are following you? I’m not judging, mind!”The great dark eyes focused on Besha’s forehead. “I’m not normal, but I don’t hallucinate, Fir. You feel guilty.”Besha swallowed down bile. “Why on earth would you say that?”A shrug. “Every time someone mentions Harbour. You just do.”Before Besha could stop himself, he remembered what Tilrey had told him at their dinner two years ago: The last time we discussed Harbour, you told me the place and its people weren’t even real to you.The whole story was ancient history. It was Malsha’s idea, Malsha’s fault. The old bastard had twisted Besha’s arm to do an ugly favor for him in the cruel way he was so good at.Malsha was long dead now. Even Harbourers might not remember what had hit them nearly thirty years ago—they had short life spans, didn’t they? Even people at the blast site might not remember! (The ones who’d survived the detonation, anyway.)Okay, so Harbourers probably did remember, but they didn’t matter. And Tilrey wasn’t stupid enough to tell anyone Besha’s little secret—not even this boy, who had no power and would never be believed.Besha glanced up to find Janta finally looking directly at him. Those great eyes, so steady and serious, gave him an unsettling sense that the boy could read his mind.Guilty? No! He’d never felt guilty for anything in his life except opportunities he hadn’t taken.Still . . . 10,000 foreigners dead, Tilrey had said. Or was it plural, tens of thousands? He could never remember. They weren’t Oslovs, so they didn’t exactly count. Not politically, anyway. Not to anyone who mattered. They’d probably been scrabbling out miserable lives on the ruined earth like animals. Maybe it was better to put them out of their misery.Here was this boy, though, sitting in front of him. A Harbourer, flesh and blood and very alive.“I fear, my child,” he said, “that on our first meeting, I was sapped and talking nonsense. I’m a bit of a jokester, and Tilrey’s so serious these days. I like to get a rise out of him.”Janta’s gaze was unblinking. “You miss Tilrey,” he said. “He used to do anything you wanted, especially in bed. Not anymore.”Besha twitched. “Did he tell you that?”“No. He doesn’t like to talk about his past. I saw how you touched him and he moved away.”Body language could be very informative, but a shiver ran down Besha’s spine. “And what else do you see in your infinite wisdom?” he asked. “Have you ever had a vision of what will happen if you don’t learn respect for your betters?”The boy dropped his gaze, but he didn’t look nervous. “I’m not very good at respect,” he said. “Where I grew up, there were no Upstarts or Laborers. Only strong and weak people.”It sounded like a place where Besha would have gotten along just fine. “And which were you? Strong or weak?”“Weak. Mostly.” The boy frowned down at his hands. “You used to be weak, too, but now you’re strong—or you tell yourself you are. I see why Tilrey’s still your friend, Fir,” he added before Besha could object, “and why he doesn’t trust you. You’re a clown with a knife hidden behind his back.”“Hah! You’re a clever boy.” Besha’s laughter caught in his throat. Clown with a knife—maybe that should be his epitaph.He opened his mouth to say something he might regret, something too honest—but, luckily, that was the moment Kai chose to belly up to the bar.“What’s this, Fir Councillor?” Kai boomed. He didn’t greet Janta or show any sign of recognizing him, yet he planted himself between their bar stools as if to shield Janta from Besha or vice versa. “Chatting up strangers?”Besha got up and grabbed his drink, making a show of being ready to swoon from boredom. “You’ve made me wait for hours. What was I supposed to do?”“Sorry. Busy busy. But I have a comfy room for us.”Kai glanced from Besha to Janta, his expression still betraying nothing. “You, lad,” he said to Janta. “There’s a friend waiting for you in the staff lounge.”Besha was halfway across the room, trying to keep up with Kai’s long strides, when he realized he should have tossed some choice parting words at Janta. The little freak needed to know he hadn’t spooked a Councillor with his cryptic talk.You feel guilty. What the fuck was that? Maybe Besha would ask Tilrey about it. Or maybe not, because Tilrey had a way of activating the unpleasant, jellylike feeling in his gut that Besha supposed was guilt or something close to it.Anyway, it was too late now to reprimand the boy. All Besha wanted was to split a bottle with Kai and complain about the sap shortage and hear the latest Brothel gossip.*In the staff lounge, Janta found Ceill sitting on the lopsided sofa. His friend’s energy crackled like an approaching storm, anxious and angry at once.“I thought you were studying.” Janta sat beside Ceill, though he would rather have stayed at a distance. The conversation with Councillor Linbeck had drained him; he had no energy of his own left to deal with whatever had put Ceill in this state.And Ceill seemed hell-bent on confrontation. His eyes flashed just like Tilrey’s when he was upset. His whole face glowed with emotion, a blush staining his cheeks.He was too beautiful. It was distracting.“Gersha wants you home,” Ceill said. He was trying to control his voice, keeping it low, but it trembled with agitation. “He’s having an urgent tech problem.”Probably the transmitter that Gersha used late at night to communicate with the rebels in Harbour. “I’ll go home right away,” Janta said, trying to radiate calm that would transfer itself to Ceill. “I’m sure I can fix it.”It didn’t work. Ceill’s eyes kept sparking. “Tilrey came to my dorm, Janta. To find you. He and Gersha apparently think you spend every fifth-night with me—all night.”Janta’s hand twitched. He could almost feel it reaching out to cup Ceill’s hot cheek—to touch him, to soothe him.It was easier to influence people when you could touch them. But they tended to take it the wrong way. Janta had been careful to stay at arm’s length from Councillor Linbeck, for instance (no, he couldn’t think about that man right now!).He kept his hands where they were and lowered his gaze to the worn gray carpet. “I meant to tell you. Tilrey saw me leaving the apartment alone one night. I said I was going to see you. He believed me, but he didn’t believe the reason I gave him.”“And so you just let him go on believing . . . what?”Janta hung his head.Even when Gersha sat him down and asked if Janta were “happy about how things were going with Ceill,” Janta hadn’t set the record straight. He didn’t like lying to Gersha, even by omission, but they both seemed pleased with the idea that he and Ceill were sleeping together. Why disappoint them?Anyway, he didn’t want Tilrey and Gersha to know he was actually at the Brothel most fifth-nights, having tea or dinner with Einara. Raptly listening to her stories about Harbour. Teasing out her plans and making some of his own.“I should have told you,” he said.He’d meant to, truly, but it was so obvious Ceill would react this way.“Oh, you think?” Ceill’s words came in a flood. “I don’t need to know what you’re doing here every fifth-night, Janta. That’s your business. But if you were going to involve me, at least warn me! Suddenly my dad’s in my room talking about a—a something happening between us that I would never even consider, and he was looking at me like I should know everything about you, and I don’t know anything!”Ceill’s distress bled out of him. Janta squirmed. In a calmer part of his mind, he observed that Ceill was still more upset than angry, which made it unlikely that he would tell on Janta.Janta didn’t enjoy having these calculating thoughts about Ceill. But once you started trying to manipulate people, following the examples of people like Tilrey and Einara, you couldn’t switch the skill off and go back to being who you were before.“I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice. “I knew it was bad not to tell you, but I didn’t know how to start. I never told your dad anything except that I went to your room. Everything else, he just assumed.”When Ceill spoke again, his voice was gentler, though he didn’t look at Janta. “That’s what I figured. I didn’t set him straight, either. We talked, and my dad . . . he wasn’t mad at me. He actually didn’t seem to mind.”Ceill seemed oddly bemused by this. “Gersha doesn’t mind, either,” Janta assured him.Instead of calming Ceill, however, this made him bristle. “That part still bothers me!” he cried. “Gersha should have known it wasn’t true. As soon as Tilrey told him, he should have come to me and asked if we were really . . . you know. And then, if I said yes, he should’ve told me it was a terrible idea, or I should be careful, or something.”Janta’s chest tightened. He wasn’t sure why; Ceill wasn’t blaming him.“Gersha did talk to me,” he said. “He didn’t think it was a terrible idea, though. Why would he think that?”“Because . . . it is!” Ceill sprang to his feet, paced the length of the couch, and stopped, glaring at the far wall as if it were Gersha, hands fisted at his sides. “Tilrey’s kind to you in his way, but he wanted to make you into a kettle boy. Gersha’s the one who really cares, the one who understands you. I think he sees you as a second son. Why would he want you to be with me?”Janta was too tired for this convoluted logic. “Because we like each other? Because I told him it was okay?”It’s just sex, he wanted to say. It’s really nothing. I could show you. But Ceill seemed to want to believe that sex was something more than sex—mystery, danger, violence, enchantment, lifelong passion.It was sweet, Janta supposed. He wished he could even envision having sex the way Ceill wanted to.“We’re not actually brothers,” he said patiently. “I told Gersha it wasn’t a big deal and we were just having fun. He asked if it made me happy, said I had to be honest, and I said yes, because you’re not like the men I’ve been with before.”Ceill’s shoulders tensed, but Janta plowed on: “You’re sweet and kind, and you care about how I feel, and I always feel safe with you. And just because I’ve had ‘bad experiences’ doesn’t mean I’m never allowed have . . . experiences again,” he added for good measure.“Bad experiences” was the term Gersha preferred. What he meant was that Janta had spent a few years of his life being treated like a thing instead of a person. Janta wasn’t ashamed of his past, but he could tell Ceill wouldn’t want to hear it described it plainly, either.Funny how they were the ones who tiptoed around the subject, when it had happened to him. Even Tilrey, who had also had “bad experiences,” seemed to find them unspeakable.“It’s not about what you’re allowed to do!” Ceill wheeled to face Janta again, though he kept his voice at a reasonable volume. “You’re allowed to experience absolutely anything you want. I never said you weren’t.”Janta nodded. He’d obviously said too much.“I just think . . . well, what you told Gersha wasn’t true, was it? You wouldn’t really want that?”Janta opened his mouth to deny it and closed it again. It was such a strange, slippery word, want. He didn’t always like how it felt in his mouth.There was one man in the Basement who always said, Tell me you want me. You had to say the words to get paid. And now when Janta said he wanted something, he was never entirely sure if he did want it or if he just needed someone else to think so.He tried to imagine having sex with Ceill. Not the magical kind of sex that Ceill wanted, but the kind Janta knew: Pulling his friend down on the sofa, getting on his knees, undoing Ceill’s fly. Sucking him off. Undressing for him. The rest.It would be very easy and not at all painful and possibly even the opposite of painful, but did Janta want it?Sex with Ceill would be a more or less pleasant task like any other. Tilrey or Einara would understand that. But Ceill would expect something more, and he would be disappointed.When Janta did speak, the words that slipped past his lips were a surprise even to him.“I want to touch your hair sometimes,” he said. “When I’m falling asleep, I think about how soft it would feel between my fingers. How you would look up at me, and I would have to squint, because you shine.”Ceill’s face went beet red.Too bad. After two whole years of having the fantasy, Janta found it a relief to confess. “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t expect you to want that, too.”Ceill sank down on the sofa and covered his face. His signal was agitated again—not by rage but by shame, confusion, and a hot background static that Janta suspected was arousal.“I’m sorry. Was that too . . .” What word would Ceill use? “Creepy? Was I creepy?”Behind the screen of his hands, Ceill made a sound like a moan. “No,” he said. “It’s just—you think I’m so pure, so special.”It was Janta’s turn to be confused. “I don’t think that. Do you think I’m somebody who’s innocent and only wants pure things? Because I’m not like that at all. Wanting to touch your hair isn’t any more innocent than wanting to touch your cock. It’s just different.”A smothered laugh came from Ceill. “A lot different.”Was it really? But Janta was sure of one thing now: Ceill wanted to do more than just touch his hair. And Ceill wasn’t happy with those feelings.It seemed like a shame. Couldn’t they work things out so they both had some of what they wanted?Ceill’s hunched, anguished posture made it clear they couldn’t—not yet, anyway. Janta felt very daring as he reached out and placed his hand lightly between Ceill’s shoulder blades.Ceill’s body tightened, but he didn’t pull away. He let Janta rub back and forth over his tunic, back and forth, until at last he relaxed and uncovered his eyes and said, “I’m sorry I’m such a fucking mess.”“You’re not a mess.” Janta stopped rubbing but didn’t move his hand. “You should be mad at me. I should have told you. But I need you to know that I’m not a child, okay?” He gave Ceill a firm pat. “I come here on fifth-nights because I have friends here, same as you do. Because I like this place. It reminds me of the Basement, the good parts of it. And I don’t . . . I don’t like it when you feel sorry for me.”“I don’t feel sorry for you!” Ceill didn’t meet Janta’s eyes.Janta wanted to turn the awkward moment into a joke, the way Tilrey might have, but he lacked that talent. He withdrew his hand from Ceill’s back, found his friend’s hand, and squeezed it. “Maybe someday I’ll surprise you.”

The patrons’ lounge of the Sanctioned Brothel was dead on work nights. Besha Linbeck preferred to avoid his colleagues when he met with Kai Meirthal, so that suited him fine.

But often—tonight, for instance—Kai was delayed. So Besha had to spend half an hour sitting on a stool and chatting up the bartender.

“Another of these with less of that foul orange stuff, please,” he said, pushing his glass across the bar. “Has anyone ever told you it tastes like mouthwash?”

“No, Fir Councillor.” The boy on bartender duty whisked the glass away, his pretty lips a straight line. When Besha arrived, he’d been all smiles, but now his patience was fraying.

That, at least, offered some amusement. Besha twisted restlessly on his stool. “You need better sources for your liquor. At least I have your tight shirt and erect nipples to keep me entertained.”

Kai would have lobbed that back at Besha—an eye-roll and Glad I can offer you some diversion, Fir. This poor humorless boy only scowled. “If you want me in a room, Fir,” he said glumly, “I’ll need to go find someone to take over here.”

“Flattered, but no thanks, darling. I’m just enjoying the view.” Besha raked his eyes down the boy’s chest to the bulge in the close-fitting leggings. He was so bored.

He still came regularly to the Brothel to get sap for his sweet Rasmus, but sweet Rasmus wasn’t so sweet lately. Besha suspected he was seeing someone his own age on the side. While he still put on a good show when Besha was around, batting his eyelashes, he obviously saw their relationship as transactional.

Wasn’t it always like that in the end? Every pretty lad was out for himself. There was a time when Tilrey had seemed sweet and submissive, too. And now look at him—practically running the Council, taking Besha’s place beside his wife, giving Besha orders.

Besha might not mind if only Tilrey could still be—just sometimes—sweet to him. A sunny smile, a touch on the shoulder, a coy glance up through the eyelashes—that would be enough to keep Besha happy. It wasn’t like he was demanding a return to the old days.

Over the years, though, their relationship had become all business. Tilrey must know that Besha missed the flirtatious edge on their interactions. But playing up to Besha was no longer worth his time.

Besha shuddered as he remembered that day after tomorrow he would have to endure the quarterly Communal Meal. He and Davita would dine at Gersha’s, where his wife and Tilrey would talk politics endlessly. Meanwhile, Besha would have nothing to amuse him but the conversation of Gersha, Vera Linnett, and his own dull, somber eldest son.

Such a pity that Blas, who looked like Davita, hadn’t inherited more of her sparkle and wit. Why had the boy insisted on going into Judicial work? Stalking the mean streets of Ring Eight, putting Drudge low-lifes and domestic abusers in detention—it was an embarrassing job for a Lindblom. No wonder Blas hadn’t found a wife yet—or a partner of any kind, as far as Besha could tell.

Besha had begged Davita to do this Communal Meal with their daughter and son-in-law instead, because Gunde’s company was more fun. But Davita considered it politically vital to socialize with Gersha’s family, making a show of their alliance.

Besha gave in, as always. He couldn’t resist goading his wife, though: “Do you sometimes wish you could have married him instead of me?”

“Married Gersha?”

He winked at her. “You know I don’t mean Gersha.”

“Right. Very funny, darling.”

Annoyance flickered across Davita’s face. He’d hit a nerve. “No more of this jealousy nonsense,” she added. “Tilrey’s good fun, that’s all. And useful. Even you can admit the boy’s clever at our Sector games.”

“Oh, so clever.” How would she feel if she knew her precious, clever Tilrey was mounting a rebellion behind her back?

The bartender slid another glass of vodka-and-mouthwash across the zinc. Besha sipped it with a grimace. But the liquor made the tiny lights hanging above the bar blur, and that was an improvement. Where in ten green hells was Kai?

A stool scraped across the floor. Besha turned, his head spinning with vodka and relief.

But instead of Kai, he found a younger, slighter lad, dressed like a kettle boy, with dark hair and enormous eyes.

“Hello, Fir,” the boy said in a Thurskein gutter accent, training those eyes just over Besha’s head. “Quiet this evening, isn’t it?”

“So it is.” Besha recognized him now—Gersha’s kettle boy, the one who wasn’t actually a kettle boy.

Whenever they met, Besha was reminded of their first encounter at an unpleasant dinner two years ago, when Tilrey had scolded Besha for various indiscretions. Now and then, Besha spotted the kid wandering around the Core by his lonesome. Fearing a scolding for getting near Gersha’s protégé, he never approached or even greeted him.

He certainly hadn’t expected the boy to approach him. “What are you doing here?” he asked, his interest piqued. “Whoring yourself on the side? Or did Tilrey send you to fetch me?”

“I come here sometimes, Fir. I like to walk around the city.”

The boy spoke in a gravelly monotone, like a bad actor reciting lines. Not the best voice for a whore, not seductive. But those great dark eyes unsettled Besha—so watchful. “Are you here as Tilrey’s spy, then?” he asked playfully. “Or does he even know you’re traipsing around the Sanctioned?”

The boy dropped his gaze. “You won’t tell Tilrey you saw me, will you, Fir?”

Now, this was interesting. “No,” Besha assured him (adding probably in his head). “So, what’s your problem, kid? You like to drink a little more sap than Rishka allows you?”

“I can’t drink sap, Fir. It makes me see things that aren’t there. Tilrey told you that.”

“Oh, right.” Besha winced at the fresh reminder of the dinner where he’d been scolded. The boy looked wary now—something tense in his posture, as if he might need to bolt. “You’re not scared of me, are you . . . what’s your name? Jan something?”

“Janta. I’ve been wanting to talk to you alone, Fir.” The boy gazed straight down at the bar. “Ever since the first night we met. You said something about how Oslovs should go to Harbour and take it over. You called Oslov a shithole and a ‘rat trap’ and a ‘fucking freezer.’”

Had Besha really said those things in the boy’s earshot? Apparently so.

He glanced at the bartender, who was busy wiping glasses. “I said nothing of the kind. I’m a Councillor of the Republic.”

The boy didn’t seem to register the denial. “I’ve been thinking about that, Fir. See, I’ve lived my whole life in Oslov. It’s all I know. But my father was from Harbour. He told me about it sometimes.”

Besha hoisted his brows, though he wasn’t really shocked. There had to be some overland migration happening between Oslov and Harbour; no borders were airtight. Tilrey’s mother had been smuggling Skeinshaka to Harbour—Besha certainly hadn’t missed that—which meant there were probably a few Harbourers coming in the opposite direction.

“Does Tilrey know about this?” he asked, switching his expression from shocked to concerned.

The boy ignored this, too, as if he could see straight through Besha’s careful faking. “Tilrey tells me about Harbour sometimes, too,” he said, “because he’s been there. He likes it very much, but he doesn’t think Oslovs should take it over. I’ve never heard a single person suggest that, Fir. Except you.”

Well, this was awkward—not that Besha was actually worried the boy would repeat his loose talk. As if a bit of fluff could threaten him!

He switched to a tone of fond tolerance. “Tell me, my love, do you sometimes hear voices? Or think people are following you? I’m not judging, mind!”

The great dark eyes focused on Besha’s forehead. “I’m not normal, but I don’t hallucinate, Fir. You feel guilty.”

Besha swallowed down bile. “Why on earth would you say that?”

A shrug. “Every time someone mentions Harbour. You just do.”

Before Besha could stop himself, he remembered what Tilrey had told him at their dinner two years ago: The last time we discussed Harbour, you told me the place and its people weren’t even real to you.

The whole story was ancient history. It was Malsha’s idea, Malsha’s fault. The old bastard had twisted Besha’s arm to do an ugly favor for him in the cruel way he was so good at.

Malsha was long dead now. Even Harbourers might not remember what had hit them nearly thirty years ago—they had short life spans, didn’t they? Even people at the blast site might not remember! (The ones who’d survived the detonation, anyway.)

Okay, so Harbourers probably did remember, but they didn’t matter. And Tilrey wasn’t stupid enough to tell anyone Besha’s little secret—not even this boy, who had no power and would never be believed.

Besha glanced up to find Janta finally looking directly at him. Those great eyes, so steady and serious, gave him an unsettling sense that the boy could read his mind.

Guilty? No! He’d never felt guilty for anything in his life except opportunities he hadn’t taken.

Still . . . 10,000 foreigners dead, Tilrey had said. Or was it plural, tens of thousands? He could never remember. They weren’t Oslovs, so they didn’t exactly count. Not politically, anyway. Not to anyone who mattered. They’d probably been scrabbling out miserable lives on the ruined earth like animals. Maybe it was better to put them out of their misery.

Here was this boy, though, sitting in front of him. A Harbourer, flesh and blood and very alive.

“I fear, my child,” he said, “that on our first meeting, I was sapped and talking nonsense. I’m a bit of a jokester, and Tilrey’s so serious these days. I like to get a rise out of him.”

Janta’s gaze was unblinking. “You miss Tilrey,” he said. “He used to do anything you wanted, especially in bed. Not anymore.”

Besha twitched. “Did he tell you that?”

“No. He doesn’t like to talk about his past. I saw how you touched him and he moved away.”

Body language could be very informative, but a shiver ran down Besha’s spine. “And what else do you see in your infinite wisdom?” he asked. “Have you ever had a vision of what will happen if you don’t learn respect for your betters?”

The boy dropped his gaze, but he didn’t look nervous. “I’m not very good at respect,” he said. “Where I grew up, there were no Upstarts or Laborers. Only strong and weak people.”

It sounded like a place where Besha would have gotten along just fine. “And which were you? Strong or weak?”

“Weak. Mostly.” The boy frowned down at his hands. “You used to be weak, too, but now you’re strong—or you tell yourself you are. I see why Tilrey’s still your friend, Fir,” he added before Besha could object, “and why he doesn’t trust you. You’re a clown with a knife hidden behind his back.”

“Hah! You’re a clever boy.” Besha’s laughter caught in his throat. Clown with a knife—maybe that should be his epitaph.

He opened his mouth to say something he might regret, something too honest—but, luckily, that was the moment Kai chose to belly up to the bar.

“What’s this, Fir Councillor?” Kai boomed. He didn’t greet Janta or show any sign of recognizing him, yet he planted himself between their bar stools as if to shield Janta from Besha or vice versa. “Chatting up strangers?”

Besha got up and grabbed his drink, making a show of being ready to swoon from boredom. “You’ve made me wait for hours. What was I supposed to do?”

“Sorry. Busy busy. But I have a comfy room for us.”

Kai glanced from Besha to Janta, his expression still betraying nothing. “You, lad,” he said to Janta. “There’s a friend waiting for you in the staff lounge.”

Besha was halfway across the room, trying to keep up with Kai’s long strides, when he realized he should have tossed some choice parting words at Janta. The little freak needed to know he hadn’t spooked a Councillor with his cryptic talk.

You feel guilty. What the fuck was that? Maybe Besha would ask Tilrey about it. Or maybe not, because Tilrey had a way of activating the unpleasant, jellylike feeling in his gut that Besha supposed was guilt or something close to it.

Anyway, it was too late now to reprimand the boy. All Besha wanted was to split a bottle with Kai and complain about the sap shortage and hear the latest Brothel gossip.

In the staff lounge, Janta found Ceill sitting on the lopsided sofa. His friend’s energy crackled like an approaching storm, anxious and angry at once.

“I thought you were studying.” Janta sat beside Ceill, though he would rather have stayed at a distance. The conversation with Councillor Linbeck had drained him; he had no energy of his own left to deal with whatever had put Ceill in this state.

And Ceill seemed hell-bent on confrontation. His eyes flashed just like Tilrey’s when he was upset. His whole face glowed with emotion, a blush staining his cheeks.

He was too beautiful. It was distracting.

“Gersha wants you home,” Ceill said. He was trying to control his voice, keeping it low, but it trembled with agitation. “He’s having an urgent tech problem.”

Probably the transmitter that Gersha used late at night to communicate with the rebels in Harbour. “I’ll go home right away,” Janta said, trying to radiate calm that would transfer itself to Ceill. “I’m sure I can fix it.”

It didn’t work. Ceill’s eyes kept sparking. “Tilrey came to my dorm, Janta. To find you. He and Gersha apparently think you spend every fifth-night with me—all night.”

Janta’s hand twitched. He could almost feel it reaching out to cup Ceill’s hot cheek—to touch him, to soothe him.

It was easier to influence people when you could touch them. But they tended to take it the wrong way. Janta had been careful to stay at arm’s length from Councillor Linbeck, for instance (no, he couldn’t think about that man right now!).

He kept his hands where they were and lowered his gaze to the worn gray carpet. “I meant to tell you. Tilrey saw me leaving the apartment alone one night. I said I was going to see you. He believed me, but he didn’t believe the reason I gave him.”

“And so you just let him go on believing . . . what?”

Janta hung his head.

Even when Gersha sat him down and asked if Janta were “happy about how things were going with Ceill,” Janta hadn’t set the record straight. He didn’t like lying to Gersha, even by omission, but they both seemed pleased with the idea that he and Ceill were sleeping together. Why disappoint them?

Anyway, he didn’t want Tilrey and Gersha to know he was actually at the Brothel most fifth-nights, having tea or dinner with Einara. Raptly listening to her stories about Harbour. Teasing out her plans and making some of his own.

“I should have told you,” he said.

He’d meant to, truly, but it was so obvious Ceill would react this way.

“Oh, you think?” Ceill’s words came in a flood. “I don’t need to know what you’re doing here every fifth-night, Janta. That’s your business. But if you were going to involve me, at least warn me! Suddenly my dad’s in my room talking about a—a something happening between us that I would never even consider, and he was looking at me like I should know everything about you, and I don’t know anything!”

Ceill’s distress bled out of him. Janta squirmed. In a calmer part of his mind, he observed that Ceill was still more upset than angry, which made it unlikely that he would tell on Janta.

Janta didn’t enjoy having these calculating thoughts about Ceill. But once you started trying to manipulate people, following the examples of people like Tilrey and Einara, you couldn’t switch the skill off and go back to being who you were before.

“I’m sorry,” he said in a small voice. “I knew it was bad not to tell you, but I didn’t know how to start. I never told your dad anything except that I went to your room. Everything else, he just assumed.”

When Ceill spoke again, his voice was gentler, though he didn’t look at Janta. “That’s what I figured. I didn’t set him straight, either. We talked, and my dad . . . he wasn’t mad at me. He actually didn’t seem to mind.”

Ceill seemed oddly bemused by this. “Gersha doesn’t mind, either,” Janta assured him.

Instead of calming Ceill, however, this made him bristle. “That part still bothers me!” he cried. “Gersha should have known it wasn’t true. As soon as Tilrey told him, he should have come to me and asked if we were really . . . you know. And then, if I said yes, he should’ve told me it was a terrible idea, or I should be careful, or something.”

Janta’s chest tightened. He wasn’t sure why; Ceill wasn’t blaming him.

“Gersha did talk to me,” he said. “He didn’t think it was a terrible idea, though. Why would he think that?”

“Because . . . it is!” Ceill sprang to his feet, paced the length of the couch, and stopped, glaring at the far wall as if it were Gersha, hands fisted at his sides. “Tilrey’s kind to you in his way, but he wanted to make you into a kettle boy. Gersha’s the one who really cares, the one who understands you. I think he sees you as a second son. Why would he want you to be with me?”

Janta was too tired for this convoluted logic. “Because we like each other? Because I told him it was okay?”

It’s just sex, he wanted to say. It’s really nothing. I could show you. But Ceill seemed to want to believe that sex was something more than sex—mystery, danger, violence, enchantment, lifelong passion.

It was sweet, Janta supposed. He wished he could even envision having sex the way Ceill wanted to.

“We’re not actually brothers,” he said patiently. “I told Gersha it wasn’t a big deal and we were just having fun. He asked if it made me happy, said I had to be honest, and I said yes, because you’re not like the men I’ve been with before.”

Ceill’s shoulders tensed, but Janta plowed on: “You’re sweet and kind, and you care about how I feel, and I always feel safe with you. And just because I’ve had ‘bad experiences’ doesn’t mean I’m never allowed have . . . experiences again,” he added for good measure.

“Bad experiences” was the term Gersha preferred. What he meant was that Janta had spent a few years of his life being treated like a thing instead of a person. Janta wasn’t ashamed of his past, but he could tell Ceill wouldn’t want to hear it described it plainly, either.

Funny how they were the ones who tiptoed around the subject, when it had happened to him. Even Tilrey, who had also had “bad experiences,” seemed to find them unspeakable.

“It’s not about what you’re allowed to do!” Ceill wheeled to face Janta again, though he kept his voice at a reasonable volume. “You’re allowed to experience absolutely anything you want. I never said you weren’t.”

Janta nodded. He’d obviously said too much.

“I just think . . . well, what you told Gersha wasn’t true, was it? You wouldn’t really want that?”

Janta opened his mouth to deny it and closed it again. It was such a strange, slippery word, want. He didn’t always like how it felt in his mouth.

There was one man in the Basement who always said, Tell me you want me. You had to say the words to get paid. And now when Janta said he wanted something, he was never entirely sure if he did want it or if he just needed someone else to think so.

He tried to imagine having sex with Ceill. Not the magical kind of sex that Ceill wanted, but the kind Janta knew: Pulling his friend down on the sofa, getting on his knees, undoing Ceill’s fly. Sucking him off. Undressing for him. The rest.

It would be very easy and not at all painful and possibly even the opposite of painful, but did Janta want it?

Sex with Ceill would be a more or less pleasant task like any other. Tilrey or Einara would understand that. But Ceill would expect something more, and he would be disappointed.

When Janta did speak, the words that slipped past his lips were a surprise even to him.

“I want to touch your hair sometimes,” he said. “When I’m falling asleep, I think about how soft it would feel between my fingers. How you would look up at me, and I would have to squint, because you shine.”

Ceill’s face went beet red.

Too bad. After two whole years of having the fantasy, Janta found it a relief to confess. “It’s okay,” he said. “I don’t expect you to want that, too.”

Ceill sank down on the sofa and covered his face. His signal was agitated again—not by rage but by shame, confusion, and a hot background static that Janta suspected was arousal.

“I’m sorry. Was that too . . .” What word would Ceill use? “Creepy? Was I creepy?”

Behind the screen of his hands, Ceill made a sound like a moan. “No,” he said. “It’s just—you think I’m so pure, so special.”

It was Janta’s turn to be confused. “I don’t think that. Do you think I’m somebody who’s innocent and only wants pure things? Because I’m not like that at all. Wanting to touch your hair isn’t any more innocent than wanting to touch your cock. It’s just different.”

A smothered laugh came from Ceill. “A lot different.”

Was it really? But Janta was sure of one thing now: Ceill wanted to do more than just touch his hair. And Ceill wasn’t happy with those feelings.

It seemed like a shame. Couldn’t they work things out so they both had some of what they wanted?

Ceill’s hunched, anguished posture made it clear they couldn’t—not yet, anyway. Janta felt very daring as he reached out and placed his hand lightly between Ceill’s shoulder blades.

Ceill’s body tightened, but he didn’t pull away. He let Janta rub back and forth over his tunic, back and forth, until at last he relaxed and uncovered his eyes and said, “I’m sorry I’m such a fucking mess.”

“You’re not a mess.” Janta stopped rubbing but didn’t move his hand. “You should be mad at me. I should have told you. But I need you to know that I’m not a child, okay?” He gave Ceill a firm pat. “I come here on fifth-nights because I have friends here, same as you do. Because I like this place. It reminds me of the Basement, the good parts of it. And I don’t . . . I don’t like it when you feel sorry for me.”

“I don’t feel sorry for you!” Ceill didn’t meet Janta’s eyes.

Janta wanted to turn the awkward moment into a joke, the way Tilrey might have, but he lacked that talent. He withdrew his hand from Ceill’s back, found his friend’s hand, and squeezed it. “Maybe someday I’ll surprise you.”