Chapter 4: Unsanctioned — The Key of Oslov

Volume 17: The Tinderbox

Chapter 4 Unsanctioned

Chapter Notes

I will not introduce any more new characters I will not introduce any more new characters I will not introduce any more new characters ... okay, I might introduce a few new characters. :)This is a POV I’ve been waiting to write for a while. Thanks so much for reading!

Chapter Notes

I will not introduce any more new characters I will not introduce any more new characters I will not introduce any more new characters ... okay, I might introduce a few new characters. :)

This is a POV I’ve been waiting to write for a while. Thanks so much for reading!

Examining Magistrate Blas Lindblom was off work and headed to his usual evening de-stressing session when he spotted the banner.It hung midway up a tower block, covering an entire row of windows. He could read the blood-red lettering from the snowy street, ten floors below:THE NORTHMEN WILL CLAIM THE SOUTH!Blas clenched gloved fists, his breath misting the frigid air. Please not again with these fucking Northmen!He’d been hearing depositions for eleven hours straight with only a five-minute break to wolf down some lunch. His left eyelid was twitching again, a surefire sign he’d have trouble sleeping tonight. Would it really be so bad if he went his own way and let the problem sort itself out?Yes. It would. If an Int/Sec operative saw that damned Dissident banner looming over Ring Eight, Blas would never hear the end of it. His mother would call him into her office in Government Sector and give him the disappointed look that always made his stomach clench.And she would be right. As General Magistrate, his mother was responsible for the security of the entire Republic of Oslov. Blas was merely a judicial magistrate with the modest task of keeping low-ration Ring Eight of Redda under control—which meant more or less civilized, not openly squabbling or rebelling. If he couldn’t manage even that, what was he good for?He whipped out his handheld and called the ranking Constable on the ground floor of the precinct barracks.“Yes, Fir Examining Magistrate.” On his screen, the big redhead looked sulky. Probably he’d interrupted her in the middle of one of the grayjackets’ precious card games.“Subversive banner, east face of floor ten of Block 418, Lieutenant.” Blas used his courtroom voice—crisp, cold, businesslike. “I want four of you to go up there, destroy it, and detain everyone in the apartment. Question all residents in the hallway as well, and detain anybody who’s squirrelly. Separate cells. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.”“Got it, Fir.” Lt. Hargonnen sounded about as excited as if he’d announced that snow was forecast (again). “Be right over.”A dull ache began in Blas’s temples. The Ring Eight Constabulary was getting way too blasé about this new fad for displaying allegiance to the True Northmen.According to his informants, newcomers from Thurskein had started the trend, spreading stories of a dashing rebel leader who’d been driven into exile in the Wastes. The cause caught on like wildfire among young factory workers who desperately needed something, anything, to spice up their lives.Blas was inclined to write off the whole thing as a side effect of boredom, but the Seccies in the Core wouldn’t see it that way. They’d want to grill whoever had hung the banner, even if it was just a couple of schoolkids killing time. Int/Sec had no sense of proportion, and its spies were always nosing around for someone to make an example of.Blas had no fears for himself; job security was one of the undeniable perks of being Davita Lindblom’s son. But he didn’t want any of the Laborers under his command to suffer for his mistakes. Lt. Brandt, for instance, second in command at the Constabulary, was a gentle, steady fellow, always a pleasure to work with. Too bad he wasn’t on duty right now.“See you on the street in five, suited up,” Blas snapped at Hargonnen. “Any longer and I write you up—and yes, I’m here waiting.”“Kind of a long day for you, ain’t it, Fir?” the Constable said. “You want to go on home to dinner, we’ll take care of this.”Her faux concern made Blas’s cheeks burn. He knew the grayjackets jeered at him behind his back. No matter how many successful investigations he led, some of them would always see him as the Magistrate’s pampered son playing mean-streets cop because he wasn’t smart enough for a Sector job.Blas could have had any Sector desk job he wanted; by now, he could have been well on his way to joining his parents in the Council. But he had no interest in endless bureaucratic infighting. Out here in Ring Eight was where government power could do good in the lives of actual people—victims of domestic abuse, trafficking, exploitation.And if sometimes the local Constabulary and Judiciary did more harm than good, because their agents were human and self-interested—well, he was here to try to get them back on track. You could say one thing for him: He believed in the job.“I’ll rest for the day when my job is done, Lieutenant,” he said.“Got it, Fir.” He heard her yelling to her comrades to grab their weapons and body armor.Blas cut the connection and waited, shivering, on the packed snow. The sky of low pewter clouds gave no clue to the hour—nearly nine p.m., sun still above the horizon. All around him, identical concrete towers hemmed in the narrow street. Music, laughter, and smells of fried food wafted through an alley from the Ultramarine Bar, tucked beside the unsanctioned Radius Nine brothel.The brothel was where Blas wanted to be right now, shedding his clothes in a warm room while a man with laughing eyes waited for him in bed.The team arrived in five minutes and forty seconds, but he let that slide.Lt. Hargonnen took one look at the banner and started barking orders to her three subordinates. Blasé as she was, she knew they had to handle the situation before some Seccy sitting at a terminal in the Core spotted the thing on surveillance footage.In theory, the draconian new sap rationing affected only Upstarts, but it had had a ripple effect through the more vulnerable parts of the city. On campus these days, students were always protesting something or other. Here in Ring Eight, crime and subversion were both on the rise. A regrettable accident at one factory had nearly resulted in a mass walkout.All of it made the Seccies and the Council antsy. Blas’s mother always dismissed rumors of rebellion as silly, but he saw the worry in her eyes.While the other three Constables were checking their weapons, Hargonnen sidled over to Blas. “What do you think it means, anyway, Fir?” she asked. “The Northmen will claim the South? South of what?”Blas made an ugly sound in his throat. He wasn’t sure himself what the words meant, but it didn’t matter. To pay attention to nonsense was to give it power.The Laborers of Ring Eight didn’t need any Northmen. They needed what they’d always needed: three square meals, soft beds, hot showers, friendly pubs, decent working conditions, safe streets. Survival plus comfort. He would do his best to guarantee their right to a life worth living.“It means trouble, Lieutenant,” he said. “Go do your job.”*By the time Blas reached the brothel, it was nearly eleven.He wasn’t certified to intervene in potentially violent situations. So he hadn’t gone into the tower, only waited in the street until the banner fluttered to the ground and the four Constables emerged with the culprits.As he’d suspected, they were a handful of scared, scruffy teenagers. A few nights in the barracks, followed by a month in the detention block, should straighten them out. No need for them to end up in the bowels of Int/Sec—the Funnel, as the Constables called it.In Blas’s experience, would-be rebels who disappeared into the Funnel were more likely to emerge radicalized than cured, when they emerged at all. He and his mother had had a few arguments on this subject, but he kept his opinions to himself when he dealt with his superiors in the central Judiciary.Unsanctioned but tolerated, the Radius Nine brothel sprawled across a warehouse’s roomy basement. As he descended the narrow flight of concrete steps into the shadows, Blas felt a familiar flutter of dread and excitement in his belly.His mentor, the now-retired Examining Magistrate Veltrein, had brought him here when he was still green. “It’s good to mingle with the ordinary people under your jurisdiction,” the man explained matter-of-factly, when Blas looked shocked. “And there’s no better place to mingle than an unsanctioned brothel.”The place made Blas queasy that first time. He couldn’t understand why the local Judiciary didn’t shut it down, and he didn’t like Veltrein’s breezy explanation that “The sex trade will happen either way. This way, at least we can impose some controls.”But Blas came back anyway … again and again.The hallway at the bottom, lit by a single flickering green tube, smelled muskily of pipe smoke and sex. In the small room at the far end, he found Sifeira, the brothel keeper, hunched over her desk with a massive account book.“Good evening, Fir Examining Magistrate.” A gimlet-eyed slip of a woman, she closed the book in deference to Blas’s status. But she did not rise from her seat.Seemingly ageless, Sifeira had been in charge as long as Blas had been visiting. She never rose for anyone, he’d been told, even the occasional slumming Admin or Councillor who came for services they couldn’t find in the tightly regulated realm of the Sanctioned Brothel—or just for thrills.“Bad news, Fir,” she said. A blink of lizard-like eyelids. “Vedya is off tonight. Case of the sniffles. Good thing I found you a stand-in.”“Stand-in?” Blas’s heart sank. He came for Vedya, no one else. Vedya was always there on his nights.It took Blas much longer than a night to feel comfortable with a partner. That was one reason he went to the Radius Nine, where he wielded more authority. At the Sanctioned Brothel, he would have had to compete with Sector officials for the companion of his choice; here, his word was law.“I’ll be back next fifth-day, then,” he said, refastening his coat and swallowing his disappointment.“Wait a minute, Fir.” There was a rare flicker of urgency in Sifeira’s voice. “I want to give you our newest boy, and you won’t be disappointed. He’s young and well born, quite a looker.”“I don’t care,” Blas said peevishly. He wanted to spend the night with Vedya, who was nearly ten years his senior and balding and low-born and knew exactly what Blas liked and chuckled in that sweet, knowing way and never, ever judged him.Sifeira leaned toward him over the paper-littered desk. She said, “Vedya said to tell you he trained the new lad just for you, knowing what you like. He wants you to have him, Fir.”“He said that?”“Do I ever lie to you, Fir?”Of course you do. She was probably lying right now. But Vedya needed his regular dose of sap, and he was hardly the brothel’s best earner. If Sifeira chose to take her displeasure with Blas out on her sick employee, she could easily make Vedya’s life difficult.Blas sighed. He slipped two vials from his coat—part of his own sap ration, untouched—and handed them to the brothel keeper. “Give that to Vedya, and no one else. A token of my appreciation.”Sifeira tucked the vials into her voluminous robe. The hint of a smile touched her lips. “The new lad won’t need a tip. Doesn’t indulge. He’s waiting in your usual room, Fir.”Blas wished he could shower first, to prepare himself for the touch of a stranger. But the showers here were filthy, so he went along to the room.Cheap partitions had transformed the basement into a warren of separate chambers. As he walked, groans and whimpers of pleasure seeped through the flimsy doors.If Blas was going along with this, it was only because of what Vedya had confided to him last fall. Vedya was sick of this life. In the next three years he wanted to leave, find a legitimate posting, and marry.It was such a modest ambition that Blas was touched by the confession. He promised to help any way he could.Maybe training the new boy to be his replacement was part of Vedya’s plan to move on. In which case, Blas would accept the situation and even pretend to welcome it. He remembered all too well how Vedya had smiled at him, joking and serious at once, and asked, “What would you do without me, Fir? Wouldn’t you be lonely?”And Blas’s heart had twisted because yes, he would be lonely, but that was his own affair. Vedya deserved better than this.Of course, it was also possible that Sifeira was lying to keep Blas cooperative while Vedya was dead in a ditch somewhere, the victim of a depraved patron or a whores’ quarrel. Dealing with these people, you never knew.Willing away the mental image—surely Vedya was fine!—Blas tapped two knuckles on the door.“Come in!” A tenor voice.Blas swallowed his trepidation and entered.The room was just a cell, two thirds occupied by a lumpy bed with a lurid magenta coverlet. Scarves of similarly illicit hues—oranges, yellows, pinks, purples—covered the partitions. A hanging lamp of perforated tin spattered the walls with flecks of light.On the bed sprawled a young man wearing a loose white T-shirt and track pants. He had a long face, a high forehead, tousled sandy hair, straight dark brows.A looker, yes, and aware of his looks—Blas could see that at a glance. The boy had a petulant, self-assured air he wasn’t sure he liked.The boy rose from the bed with alacrity, though he didn’t show respect by lowering his gaze. “Welcome, Fir. Would you like something to eat or drink?”“No, thanks.” Blas sat in the single rickety armchair, keeping his distance. “I imagine you know who I am. What’s your name?”“Mersha, Fir.” The boy’s eyes were keen, focused blue.As their gazes locked, Blas suppressed a shiver of desire. Something about the boy’s look, defiant and submissive at once, made him think Sifeira might have told him the truth. “So, I hear Vedya trained you for me?”“You could say that, Fir.” The boy dropped his eyes. “He told me you like to be in control. And I . . . like to be out of control.”Blas’s arousal fought with his embarrassment. “I didn’t give Vedya permission to discuss me with third parties.”“Your secrets stay in the brothel, Fir. That’s the first lesson I learned.” An earnest flash of those blue eyes. The boy patted the bed beside him. “You don’t need to have any inhibitions with me. I’m here to do anything you want. Anything.”The words made blood rush to Blas’s cock. He closed his eyes, fighting the dizzying sensation. Was he really so easy to manipulate?“Sifeira called you high born,” he said, opening his eyes again to assess the threat level. He tried to revert to the crisp tone he used in depositions. “What does that mean? How old are you, and who are your parents?”The boy’s husky laugh made Blas’s cheeks flush. “You don’t get to scan our ID chips here, Fir.”“I didn’t ask for that—”“But you’d like to see my whole record at a glance, wouldn’t you?” An impish grin. “I’m twenty-six, and I’d rather not tell you my surname. But I can say I was raised in Ring Three, and one of my parents was born an Upstart.”The boy delivered this last news as if he expected Blas to find it exciting. Some Upstarts probably did. For his part, Blas was simply relieved to know the boy was older than he looked and only four years his junior.He didn’t fuck minors, and he didn’t care about fucking so-called “high-born” Laborers. He knew just how little a name was worth.“I imagine your Ring Three parents wanted a better life for you than this,” he said reprovingly.“They certainly did.” Mersha’s bold gaze stiffened Blas’s cock into lead. He had an accent that Blas’s own parents wouldn’t have been ashamed of. “But parents don’t always get what they want, do they, Fir? Did your parents want you to be a cop?”“I’m not a cop. I give cops their orders. I’m a courtroom magistrate.”Even as Blas spoke, he knew Mersha was deliberately provoking him, just as Vedya always did. And it was working. He itched with the urge to shove the boy down on the bed and wipe the cheeky look off his face with a deep, claiming kiss.Mersha’s grin widened. “Are you sure you don’t want to come over here, Fir Magistrate? Vedya showed me where all the toys are. Plenty of ways to tie me up and teach me a lesson.”Blas took a deep breath. Directed his gaze over the boy’s head. Counted to ten. He was not going to that bed before he was ready. Or possibly at all.He asked in as neutral a tone as he could manage, “Do you like being tied up, Mersha?”“Is that the voice you use in your courtroom, Fir? To make suspects spill their guts?”“You haven’t answered the question.”The boy’s grin faded. “Vedya said you’d like me to like it, Fir. He also said you’d want me to fight you, just a little. You like ’em feisty.”“I like them fully consenting,” Blas said.“I’m here in this freaking bed, Fir. I think I’m consenting.” Mersha winked. “And I’m more than up for trying out your kink. It’s all just a game, right? It’s no fun if the prey doesn’t struggle.”The boy was bright—bright enough to be indiscreet. But while Blas’s brain heeded the warning signs, his cock just kept getting harder.“Are you fresh?” he asked sharply, trying to maintain some semblance of control.“Sifeira would’ve told you if you were getting a virgin. I’ve been with a few men, Fir. Not many.” Mersha ducked his head, chastened or just pretending. And then he said the words that pushed Blas’s arousal past the point of no return: “You might hurt me if you’re not gentle.”The boy peered up through his lashes as if awaiting a response. Blas said nothing. It was all he could do not to go and forcibly remove that coyness—obviously put-on, yet so fucking hot—from Mersha’s face.Mersha took the initiative. Without waiting for an order, he rose and tugged the shirt over his head, revealing a slim but toned chest. Before Blas could tell him to stop, the pants followed. And the young man stood naked before him, his cock jutting saucily from a nest of brown hair between lean, muscled thighs.Blas wanted to reprimand the boy for rushing him along. But his mouth was too dry to speak. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the tall, lithe body before him.Mersha looked directly at Blas again, and now his gaze was soft and startled. “Have I done something wrong, Fir Examining Magistrate? Do I need a stern lecture? Some time in detention?”Then—slowly, deliberately—he raised his arms and linked his fingers behind his head, making a show of his defenseless nudity.Blas wasn’t aware of standing up until he was beside the boy. He seized hold of Mersha’s wrists and pulled his arms higher.The boy didn’t resist. He only arched his back in wordless, needy submission, his eyelids fluttering closed.And Blas lost his last shred of control.There was no time to think about ropes, cuffs, or shackles. They weren’t needed. With a hoarse grunt, Blas tackled Mersha down onto the bed, rolled him over, and mounted him. He spread the boy’s thighs roughly, and a soft gasp from Mersha rewarded his boldness.Blas gasped, too, and moaned as his hips heaved against the boy’s ass, his aching organ seeking the tight passage. Only with an immense effort did he remember to reach for the lotion on the nightstand.He began with his greased fingers, trying to tease the boy, but Mersha’s writhing quickly made him lose control again. Fighting the urge to take his own cock in hand and finish on the spot, Blas lined himself up and pushed his way gently in.Vedya must have trained the lad, because Vedya himself couldn’t have played his part any better. The raised hips, the tense yet yielding limbs, the eager moans as Blas thrust into him—it was almost more than Blas could take. The passage was tighter than Vedya’s, too.Blas knotted one hand in the sandy-blond hair and braced the other on a sinewy shoulder. He drove the boy’s face down into the coverlet. The lad gave as good as he got, straining up to take more of Blas’s cock, whispering, “Harder, Fir” and “Punish me.”In a dim and dusty corner of his mind, Blas remembered that he had meant to take this slow. He also meant to reach for Mersha’s cock and reciprocate. He truly did.But no sooner had he found a decent rhythm than he was spasming from head to toe and spilling his seed into the boy as if he were eighteen again.After that, he couldn’t even move. He closed his eyes and let his heart rate return to normal, one cheek pressed against sweat-sheened skin.Halfway to sleep, he saw again the banner hanging above the street, its lettering red as blood. Why would the Northmen claim the South? Did they mean the Southern Range, where his mother had taught him to ski as a child?Then he heard his father’s grating, nasal laughter deep in the shadows of his mind. Not so morally superior now, are we, Blasha?Blas came awake with a jerk. He rolled off the boy. “Sorry. Fell asleep.”“No harm done.” Mersha rolled over and stretched his long limbs with abandon, smiling shamelessly at Blas. “Vedya told me you were a good fuck, Fir. He didn’t lie.”The tone was cheeky again, but Blas was in no position to object. “I’m sorry I left you hanging,” he said. “Are you still . . . would you . . . ?”He reached for the boy’s cock, but Mersha didn’t take his hand and guide it. He lolled on the spongy bed, throwing his head back to display his white throat. “In a minute, Fir. You wore me out.”“Did I?” Blas felt compelled to apologize for his poor stamina. “I don’t usually finish that quickly. I guess I’ve just never had someone as, uh, physically attractive as you.”Mersha chortled. “That’s hard to believe, Fir. I mean, Vedya’s past his prime, but—”“Vedya is very good at what he does,” Blas said defensively. Vedya was the one who’d taught him what he needed in bed, and he wouldn’t hear a word against him from this lad who was still wet behind the ears.“No offense intended!” Mersha’s hand caught Blas’s and squeezed. “I can see why you’re fond of him. I just meant . . . well, you’re pretty fucking hot yourself, Fir. I figured you’d had your pick.”Heat flooded Blas’s face. He knew perfectly well he had his mother’s looks—the pale brown skin, the large eyes, the jet-black hair and expressive brows. But he also had a scowl that kept people at a distance, and he saw no reason not to wear that scowl most of the time.He liked it. It kept him safe from people like his father—schemers who were just itching to take advantage of him. Those parasites existed in all walks of life.“I’ve had better things to do,” he said.“Better than this?”The mocking tone made Blas blush again. Did this boy know who he was? Vedya, being a lifelong Eighter, barely grasped the significance of titles like Councillor and General Magistrate, but Mersha was from Ring Three. He might even have heard of the Lindbloms.“I’m more focused on my work,” Blas said, knowing how sad that sounded.Other people of his Level managed to combine illustrious careers with active, even hyperactive sex lives. Some of them were married with children at his age, as his mother ceaselessly reminded him. Some had families and long-term lovers and still visited brothels for variety.His father was that type. He shuddered.Clearly something was wrong with Blas. Even in his school days, he shied away from suitable partners.The first person ever to make advances to him was Dovic Verán, reaching for his cock as they studied side by side in the library. Dovic always treated Blas with contempt, dropping remarks about how his dad had brownnosed his way into the Council, so the sudden come-on seemed like a trick. Blas kept his body rigid until Dovic gave up and moved away.In those days, he told himself his repulsion was the fault of his father and his unspeakable family situation. How could he trust anyone of his own Level? Later, though, when he came to know himself better, he realized the rot ran deeper than that. He had desires too dark to admit to anyone whose company he wasn’t paying for.He had been attracted to Dovic Verán, arrogance and all. He would have liked to push him down and truss him up and show him a thing or two.Come to think, this boy looked a little like Dovic, with that high brow and golden insolence. Prettier, though.Mersha laughed, reaching over to flick a lock of black hair out of Blas’s face. “Strutters are so weird, Fir. I don’t think I’ll ever understand you.”The light touch was enough to make Blas achingly hard again. He groaned, deep in his throat, and rolled onto his stomach, trying to hide it. “What you do to me.”Then his darker urges seized control once more. He rolled over and pressed his whole body tight to the boy’s, pushing him onto his back and rutting against him.“Forgive me,” he whispered, knowing he couldn’t resist the desperate need that pumped through his veins. “I just . . . one more time. Please.”The boy’s laughter was knowing. He spread his legs and rolled up to give Blas access to his already-slick passage. “You don’t even have to ask, Fir. All yours.”

Examining Magistrate Blas Lindblom was off work and headed to his usual evening de-stressing session when he spotted the banner.

It hung midway up a tower block, covering an entire row of windows. He could read the blood-red lettering from the snowy street, ten floors below:

THE NORTHMEN WILL CLAIM THE SOUTH!

Blas clenched gloved fists, his breath misting the frigid air. Please not again with these fucking Northmen!

He’d been hearing depositions for eleven hours straight with only a five-minute break to wolf down some lunch. His left eyelid was twitching again, a surefire sign he’d have trouble sleeping tonight. Would it really be so bad if he went his own way and let the problem sort itself out?

Yes. It would. If an Int/Sec operative saw that damned Dissident banner looming over Ring Eight, Blas would never hear the end of it. His mother would call him into her office in Government Sector and give him the disappointed look that always made his stomach clench.

And she would be right. As General Magistrate, his mother was responsible for the security of the entire Republic of Oslov. Blas was merely a judicial magistrate with the modest task of keeping low-ration Ring Eight of Redda under control—which meant more or less civilized, not openly squabbling or rebelling. If he couldn’t manage even that, what was he good for?

He whipped out his handheld and called the ranking Constable on the ground floor of the precinct barracks.

“Yes, Fir Examining Magistrate.” On his screen, the big redhead looked sulky. Probably he’d interrupted her in the middle of one of the grayjackets’ precious card games.

“Subversive banner, east face of floor ten of Block 418, Lieutenant.” Blas used his courtroom voice—crisp, cold, businesslike. “I want four of you to go up there, destroy it, and detain everyone in the apartment. Question all residents in the hallway as well, and detain anybody who’s squirrelly. Separate cells. I’ll deal with them tomorrow.”

“Got it, Fir.” Lt. Hargonnen sounded about as excited as if he’d announced that snow was forecast (again). “Be right over.”

A dull ache began in Blas’s temples. The Ring Eight Constabulary was getting way too blasé about this new fad for displaying allegiance to the True Northmen.

According to his informants, newcomers from Thurskein had started the trend, spreading stories of a dashing rebel leader who’d been driven into exile in the Wastes. The cause caught on like wildfire among young factory workers who desperately needed something, anything, to spice up their lives.

Blas was inclined to write off the whole thing as a side effect of boredom, but the Seccies in the Core wouldn’t see it that way. They’d want to grill whoever had hung the banner, even if it was just a couple of schoolkids killing time. Int/Sec had no sense of proportion, and its spies were always nosing around for someone to make an example of.

Blas had no fears for himself; job security was one of the undeniable perks of being Davita Lindblom’s son. But he didn’t want any of the Laborers under his command to suffer for his mistakes. Lt. Brandt, for instance, second in command at the Constabulary, was a gentle, steady fellow, always a pleasure to work with. Too bad he wasn’t on duty right now.

“See you on the street in five, suited up,” Blas snapped at Hargonnen. “Any longer and I write you up—and yes, I’m here waiting.”

“Kind of a long day for you, ain’t it, Fir?” the Constable said. “You want to go on home to dinner, we’ll take care of this.”

Her faux concern made Blas’s cheeks burn. He knew the grayjackets jeered at him behind his back. No matter how many successful investigations he led, some of them would always see him as the Magistrate’s pampered son playing mean-streets cop because he wasn’t smart enough for a Sector job.

Blas could have had any Sector desk job he wanted; by now, he could have been well on his way to joining his parents in the Council. But he had no interest in endless bureaucratic infighting. Out here in Ring Eight was where government power could do good in the lives of actual people—victims of domestic abuse, trafficking, exploitation.

And if sometimes the local Constabulary and Judiciary did more harm than good, because their agents were human and self-interested—well, he was here to try to get them back on track. You could say one thing for him: He believed in the job.

“I’ll rest for the day when my job is done, Lieutenant,” he said.

“Got it, Fir.” He heard her yelling to her comrades to grab their weapons and body armor.

Blas cut the connection and waited, shivering, on the packed snow. The sky of low pewter clouds gave no clue to the hour—nearly nine p.m., sun still above the horizon. All around him, identical concrete towers hemmed in the narrow street. Music, laughter, and smells of fried food wafted through an alley from the Ultramarine Bar, tucked beside the unsanctioned Radius Nine brothel.

The brothel was where Blas wanted to be right now, shedding his clothes in a warm room while a man with laughing eyes waited for him in bed.

The team arrived in five minutes and forty seconds, but he let that slide.

Lt. Hargonnen took one look at the banner and started barking orders to her three subordinates. Blasé as she was, she knew they had to handle the situation before some Seccy sitting at a terminal in the Core spotted the thing on surveillance footage.

In theory, the draconian new sap rationing affected only Upstarts, but it had had a ripple effect through the more vulnerable parts of the city. On campus these days, students were always protesting something or other. Here in Ring Eight, crime and subversion were both on the rise. A regrettable accident at one factory had nearly resulted in a mass walkout.

All of it made the Seccies and the Council antsy. Blas’s mother always dismissed rumors of rebellion as silly, but he saw the worry in her eyes.

While the other three Constables were checking their weapons, Hargonnen sidled over to Blas. “What do you think it means, anyway, Fir?” she asked. “The Northmen will claim the South? South of what?”

Blas made an ugly sound in his throat. He wasn’t sure himself what the words meant, but it didn’t matter. To pay attention to nonsense was to give it power.

The Laborers of Ring Eight didn’t need any Northmen. They needed what they’d always needed: three square meals, soft beds, hot showers, friendly pubs, decent working conditions, safe streets. Survival plus comfort. He would do his best to guarantee their right to a life worth living.

“It means trouble, Lieutenant,” he said. “Go do your job.”

By the time Blas reached the brothel, it was nearly eleven.

He wasn’t certified to intervene in potentially violent situations. So he hadn’t gone into the tower, only waited in the street until the banner fluttered to the ground and the four Constables emerged with the culprits.

As he’d suspected, they were a handful of scared, scruffy teenagers. A few nights in the barracks, followed by a month in the detention block, should straighten them out. No need for them to end up in the bowels of Int/Sec—the Funnel, as the Constables called it.

In Blas’s experience, would-be rebels who disappeared into the Funnel were more likely to emerge radicalized than cured, when they emerged at all. He and his mother had had a few arguments on this subject, but he kept his opinions to himself when he dealt with his superiors in the central Judiciary.

Unsanctioned but tolerated, the Radius Nine brothel sprawled across a warehouse’s roomy basement. As he descended the narrow flight of concrete steps into the shadows, Blas felt a familiar flutter of dread and excitement in his belly.

His mentor, the now-retired Examining Magistrate Veltrein, had brought him here when he was still green. “It’s good to mingle with the ordinary people under your jurisdiction,” the man explained matter-of-factly, when Blas looked shocked. “And there’s no better place to mingle than an unsanctioned brothel.”

The place made Blas queasy that first time. He couldn’t understand why the local Judiciary didn’t shut it down, and he didn’t like Veltrein’s breezy explanation that “The sex trade will happen either way. This way, at least we can impose some controls.”

But Blas came back anyway … again and again.

The hallway at the bottom, lit by a single flickering green tube, smelled muskily of pipe smoke and sex. In the small room at the far end, he found Sifeira, the brothel keeper, hunched over her desk with a massive account book.

“Good evening, Fir Examining Magistrate.” A gimlet-eyed slip of a woman, she closed the book in deference to Blas’s status. But she did not rise from her seat.

Seemingly ageless, Sifeira had been in charge as long as Blas had been visiting. She never rose for anyone, he’d been told, even the occasional slumming Admin or Councillor who came for services they couldn’t find in the tightly regulated realm of the Sanctioned Brothel—or just for thrills.

“Bad news, Fir,” she said. A blink of lizard-like eyelids. “Vedya is off tonight. Case of the sniffles. Good thing I found you a stand-in.”

“Stand-in?” Blas’s heart sank. He came for Vedya, no one else. Vedya was always there on his nights.

It took Blas much longer than a night to feel comfortable with a partner. That was one reason he went to the Radius Nine, where he wielded more authority. At the Sanctioned Brothel, he would have had to compete with Sector officials for the companion of his choice; here, his word was law.

“I’ll be back next fifth-day, then,” he said, refastening his coat and swallowing his disappointment.

“Wait a minute, Fir.” There was a rare flicker of urgency in Sifeira’s voice. “I want to give you our newest boy, and you won’t be disappointed. He’s young and well born, quite a looker.”

“I don’t care,” Blas said peevishly. He wanted to spend the night with Vedya, who was nearly ten years his senior and balding and low-born and knew exactly what Blas liked and chuckled in that sweet, knowing way and never, ever judged him.

Sifeira leaned toward him over the paper-littered desk. She said, “Vedya said to tell you he trained the new lad just for you, knowing what you like. He wants you to have him, Fir.”

“He said that?”

“Do I ever lie to you, Fir?”

Of course you do. She was probably lying right now. But Vedya needed his regular dose of sap, and he was hardly the brothel’s best earner. If Sifeira chose to take her displeasure with Blas out on her sick employee, she could easily make Vedya’s life difficult.

Blas sighed. He slipped two vials from his coat—part of his own sap ration, untouched—and handed them to the brothel keeper. “Give that to Vedya, and no one else. A token of my appreciation.”

Sifeira tucked the vials into her voluminous robe. The hint of a smile touched her lips. “The new lad won’t need a tip. Doesn’t indulge. He’s waiting in your usual room, Fir.”

Blas wished he could shower first, to prepare himself for the touch of a stranger. But the showers here were filthy, so he went along to the room.

Cheap partitions had transformed the basement into a warren of separate chambers. As he walked, groans and whimpers of pleasure seeped through the flimsy doors.

If Blas was going along with this, it was only because of what Vedya had confided to him last fall. Vedya was sick of this life. In the next three years he wanted to leave, find a legitimate posting, and marry.

It was such a modest ambition that Blas was touched by the confession. He promised to help any way he could.

Maybe training the new boy to be his replacement was part of Vedya’s plan to move on. In which case, Blas would accept the situation and even pretend to welcome it. He remembered all too well how Vedya had smiled at him, joking and serious at once, and asked, “What would you do without me, Fir? Wouldn’t you be lonely?”

And Blas’s heart had twisted because yes, he would be lonely, but that was his own affair. Vedya deserved better than this.

Of course, it was also possible that Sifeira was lying to keep Blas cooperative while Vedya was dead in a ditch somewhere, the victim of a depraved patron or a whores’ quarrel. Dealing with these people, you never knew.

Willing away the mental image—surely Vedya was fine!—Blas tapped two knuckles on the door.

“Come in!” A tenor voice.

Blas swallowed his trepidation and entered.

The room was just a cell, two thirds occupied by a lumpy bed with a lurid magenta coverlet. Scarves of similarly illicit hues—oranges, yellows, pinks, purples—covered the partitions. A hanging lamp of perforated tin spattered the walls with flecks of light.

On the bed sprawled a young man wearing a loose white T-shirt and track pants. He had a long face, a high forehead, tousled sandy hair, straight dark brows.

A looker, yes, and aware of his looks—Blas could see that at a glance. The boy had a petulant, self-assured air he wasn’t sure he liked.

The boy rose from the bed with alacrity, though he didn’t show respect by lowering his gaze. “Welcome, Fir. Would you like something to eat or drink?”

“No, thanks.” Blas sat in the single rickety armchair, keeping his distance. “I imagine you know who I am. What’s your name?”

“Mersha, Fir.” The boy’s eyes were keen, focused blue.

As their gazes locked, Blas suppressed a shiver of desire. Something about the boy’s look, defiant and submissive at once, made him think Sifeira might have told him the truth. “So, I hear Vedya trained you for me?”

“You could say that, Fir.” The boy dropped his eyes. “He told me you like to be in control. And I . . . like to be out of control.”

Blas’s arousal fought with his embarrassment. “I didn’t give Vedya permission to discuss me with third parties.”

“Your secrets stay in the brothel, Fir. That’s the first lesson I learned.” An earnest flash of those blue eyes. The boy patted the bed beside him. “You don’t need to have any inhibitions with me. I’m here to do anything you want. Anything.”

The words made blood rush to Blas’s cock. He closed his eyes, fighting the dizzying sensation. Was he really so easy to manipulate?

“Sifeira called you high born,” he said, opening his eyes again to assess the threat level. He tried to revert to the crisp tone he used in depositions. “What does that mean? How old are you, and who are your parents?”

The boy’s husky laugh made Blas’s cheeks flush. “You don’t get to scan our ID chips here, Fir.”

“I didn’t ask for that—”

“But you’d like to see my whole record at a glance, wouldn’t you?” An impish grin. “I’m twenty-six, and I’d rather not tell you my surname. But I can say I was raised in Ring Three, and one of my parents was born an Upstart.”

The boy delivered this last news as if he expected Blas to find it exciting. Some Upstarts probably did. For his part, Blas was simply relieved to know the boy was older than he looked and only four years his junior.

He didn’t fuck minors, and he didn’t care about fucking so-called “high-born” Laborers. He knew just how little a name was worth.

“I imagine your Ring Three parents wanted a better life for you than this,” he said reprovingly.

“They certainly did.” Mersha’s bold gaze stiffened Blas’s cock into lead. He had an accent that Blas’s own parents wouldn’t have been ashamed of. “But parents don’t always get what they want, do they, Fir? Did your parents want you to be a cop?”

“I’m not a cop. I give cops their orders. I’m a courtroom magistrate.”

Even as Blas spoke, he knew Mersha was deliberately provoking him, just as Vedya always did. And it was working. He itched with the urge to shove the boy down on the bed and wipe the cheeky look off his face with a deep, claiming kiss.

Mersha’s grin widened. “Are you sure you don’t want to come over here, Fir Magistrate? Vedya showed me where all the toys are. Plenty of ways to tie me up and teach me a lesson.”

Blas took a deep breath. Directed his gaze over the boy’s head. Counted to ten. He was not going to that bed before he was ready. Or possibly at all.

He asked in as neutral a tone as he could manage, “Do you like being tied up, Mersha?”

“Is that the voice you use in your courtroom, Fir? To make suspects spill their guts?”

“You haven’t answered the question.”

The boy’s grin faded. “Vedya said you’d like me to like it, Fir. He also said you’d want me to fight you, just a little. You like ’em feisty.”

“I like them fully consenting,” Blas said.

“I’m here in this freaking bed, Fir. I think I’m consenting.” Mersha winked. “And I’m more than up for trying out your kink. It’s all just a game, right? It’s no fun if the prey doesn’t struggle.”

The boy was bright—bright enough to be indiscreet. But while Blas’s brain heeded the warning signs, his cock just kept getting harder.

“Are you fresh?” he asked sharply, trying to maintain some semblance of control.

“Sifeira would’ve told you if you were getting a virgin. I’ve been with a few men, Fir. Not many.” Mersha ducked his head, chastened or just pretending. And then he said the words that pushed Blas’s arousal past the point of no return: “You might hurt me if you’re not gentle.”

The boy peered up through his lashes as if awaiting a response. Blas said nothing. It was all he could do not to go and forcibly remove that coyness—obviously put-on, yet so fucking hot—from Mersha’s face.

Mersha took the initiative. Without waiting for an order, he rose and tugged the shirt over his head, revealing a slim but toned chest. Before Blas could tell him to stop, the pants followed. And the young man stood naked before him, his cock jutting saucily from a nest of brown hair between lean, muscled thighs.

Blas wanted to reprimand the boy for rushing him along. But his mouth was too dry to speak. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the tall, lithe body before him.

Mersha looked directly at Blas again, and now his gaze was soft and startled. “Have I done something wrong, Fir Examining Magistrate? Do I need a stern lecture? Some time in detention?”

Then—slowly, deliberately—he raised his arms and linked his fingers behind his head, making a show of his defenseless nudity.

Blas wasn’t aware of standing up until he was beside the boy. He seized hold of Mersha’s wrists and pulled his arms higher.

The boy didn’t resist. He only arched his back in wordless, needy submission, his eyelids fluttering closed.

And Blas lost his last shred of control.

There was no time to think about ropes, cuffs, or shackles. They weren’t needed. With a hoarse grunt, Blas tackled Mersha down onto the bed, rolled him over, and mounted him. He spread the boy’s thighs roughly, and a soft gasp from Mersha rewarded his boldness.

Blas gasped, too, and moaned as his hips heaved against the boy’s ass, his aching organ seeking the tight passage. Only with an immense effort did he remember to reach for the lotion on the nightstand.

He began with his greased fingers, trying to tease the boy, but Mersha’s writhing quickly made him lose control again. Fighting the urge to take his own cock in hand and finish on the spot, Blas lined himself up and pushed his way gently in.

Vedya must have trained the lad, because Vedya himself couldn’t have played his part any better. The raised hips, the tense yet yielding limbs, the eager moans as Blas thrust into him—it was almost more than Blas could take. The passage was tighter than Vedya’s, too.

Blas knotted one hand in the sandy-blond hair and braced the other on a sinewy shoulder. He drove the boy’s face down into the coverlet. The lad gave as good as he got, straining up to take more of Blas’s cock, whispering, “Harder, Fir” and “Punish me.”

In a dim and dusty corner of his mind, Blas remembered that he had meant to take this slow. He also meant to reach for Mersha’s cock and reciprocate. He truly did.

But no sooner had he found a decent rhythm than he was spasming from head to toe and spilling his seed into the boy as if he were eighteen again.

After that, he couldn’t even move. He closed his eyes and let his heart rate return to normal, one cheek pressed against sweat-sheened skin.

Halfway to sleep, he saw again the banner hanging above the street, its lettering red as blood. Why would the Northmen claim the South? Did they mean the Southern Range, where his mother had taught him to ski as a child?

Then he heard his father’s grating, nasal laughter deep in the shadows of his mind. Not so morally superior now, are we, Blasha?

Blas came awake with a jerk. He rolled off the boy. “Sorry. Fell asleep.”

“No harm done.” Mersha rolled over and stretched his long limbs with abandon, smiling shamelessly at Blas. “Vedya told me you were a good fuck, Fir. He didn’t lie.”

The tone was cheeky again, but Blas was in no position to object. “I’m sorry I left you hanging,” he said. “Are you still . . . would you . . . ?”

He reached for the boy’s cock, but Mersha didn’t take his hand and guide it. He lolled on the spongy bed, throwing his head back to display his white throat. “In a minute, Fir. You wore me out.”

“Did I?” Blas felt compelled to apologize for his poor stamina. “I don’t usually finish that quickly. I guess I’ve just never had someone as, uh, physically attractive as you.”

Mersha chortled. “That’s hard to believe, Fir. I mean, Vedya’s past his prime, but—”

“Vedya is very good at what he does,” Blas said defensively. Vedya was the one who’d taught him what he needed in bed, and he wouldn’t hear a word against him from this lad who was still wet behind the ears.

“No offense intended!” Mersha’s hand caught Blas’s and squeezed. “I can see why you’re fond of him. I just meant . . . well, you’re pretty fucking hot yourself, Fir. I figured you’d had your pick.”

Heat flooded Blas’s face. He knew perfectly well he had his mother’s looks—the pale brown skin, the large eyes, the jet-black hair and expressive brows. But he also had a scowl that kept people at a distance, and he saw no reason not to wear that scowl most of the time.

He liked it. It kept him safe from people like his father—schemers who were just itching to take advantage of him. Those parasites existed in all walks of life.

“I’ve had better things to do,” he said.

“Better than this?”

The mocking tone made Blas blush again. Did this boy know who he was? Vedya, being a lifelong Eighter, barely grasped the significance of titles like Councillor and General Magistrate, but Mersha was from Ring Three. He might even have heard of the Lindbloms.

“I’m more focused on my work,” Blas said, knowing how sad that sounded.

Other people of his Level managed to combine illustrious careers with active, even hyperactive sex lives. Some of them were married with children at his age, as his mother ceaselessly reminded him. Some had families and long-term lovers and still visited brothels for variety.

His father was that type. He shuddered.

Clearly something was wrong with Blas. Even in his school days, he shied away from suitable partners.

The first person ever to make advances to him was Dovic Verán, reaching for his cock as they studied side by side in the library. Dovic always treated Blas with contempt, dropping remarks about how his dad had brownnosed his way into the Council, so the sudden come-on seemed like a trick. Blas kept his body rigid until Dovic gave up and moved away.

In those days, he told himself his repulsion was the fault of his father and his unspeakable family situation. How could he trust anyone of his own Level? Later, though, when he came to know himself better, he realized the rot ran deeper than that. He had desires too dark to admit to anyone whose company he wasn’t paying for.

He had been attracted to Dovic Verán, arrogance and all. He would have liked to push him down and truss him up and show him a thing or two.

Come to think, this boy looked a little like Dovic, with that high brow and golden insolence. Prettier, though.

Mersha laughed, reaching over to flick a lock of black hair out of Blas’s face. “Strutters are so weird, Fir. I don’t think I’ll ever understand you.”

The light touch was enough to make Blas achingly hard again. He groaned, deep in his throat, and rolled onto his stomach, trying to hide it. “What you do to me.”

Then his darker urges seized control once more. He rolled over and pressed his whole body tight to the boy’s, pushing him onto his back and rutting against him.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, knowing he couldn’t resist the desperate need that pumped through his veins. “I just . . . one more time. Please.”

The boy’s laughter was knowing. He spread his legs and rolled up to give Blas access to his already-slick passage. “You don’t even have to ask, Fir. All yours.”