Chapter 23: Trump Card — The Key of Oslov

Volume 1: A Serviceable Boy

Chapter 23 Trump Card

Chapter Notes

I promise a reunion in the next chapter, after which Gersha and Tilrey can get back to their interrupted business. :) Thank you so much for reading!

Chapter Notes

I promise a reunion in the next chapter, after which Gersha and Tilrey can get back to their interrupted business. :) Thank you so much for reading!

As the Council’s morning session broke up, Verán beckoned to Gersha from his seat near the top of the amphitheater.He summons, and I go. But Gersha’s handheld still showed no messages from Ranek, and any distraction was welcome. Sheer habit made him slide into the seat beside Verán, who said, “You’ll be at the Lounge tonight? Besha told me you seemed unwell yesterday.”Damned Besha. “Just a bit under the weather. I’m fine now.”“Good, good.” The majority leader opened his lunch box and delicately nabbed a hunk of cod with his fork. “Karishkov’s done solid work with that Akeina fellow, so I’m giving the boy to him tonight.”Something seemed to wrench itself loose in Gersha’s head, the bleary blue light of the Council chamber thickening to a haze. Was tonight a free-night again, already?“I’m afraid the boy isn’t—he’s not disposed for—” He remembered Ranek’s suggestion and seized it like a life raft. “He has the flu, actually. Coughing and sneezing. I would have told you yesterday, but I lose track of time sometimes when I’m coding.”“How very annoying.” Verán wound noodles around the fork, looking genuinely put out. “Flu, not just a cold? He doesn’t normally get sick.”Gersha nodded emphatically. “He was running a fever, so I had Bosh take him to the clinic. I’m sure he’ll be fine in a few days, strong as he is.”Yes, he’ll be fine. Because Gersha was done waiting. Today he would go to Int/Sec to see Ranek, all the way down to the basement cells if he had to.Verán was still frowning. “Well, I certainly hope he’s in better shape by next ten-day when we all go to the Southern Range.”Mid-autumn vacation—Gersha had forgotten that, too. Verán, clearly seeing it in his face, added, “You’ve messaged the staff down there to prepare your residence, haven’t you?”“Of course.” He’d do it as soon as he could escape Verán’s clutches. But wait—there’d been something else, a reason he wanted to talk to Verán. Something he’d told Albertine Linnett.“I’ll just have to tell Karishkov to wait for his pleasure,” Verán said. “Poor fellow.”Oh yes. “I don’t think Karishkov is the right choice to chair Int/Sec,” Gersha said, plunging in thoughtlessly because, if he did think, he would talk himself out of this. “I’ve been meaning to tell you.”Verán looked taken aback for an instant. Then, relaxing, he said through a mouthful of noodles, “You know, Gersha, for a brilliant programmer, you can be quite slow on the uptake. It’s rather charming. You are aware Karishkov is Island?”“I know that.” Gersha struggled not to take visible offense at the older man’s condescension. If Tilrey could put up a bland, seamless front, letting sneering and provocation roll off his back, surely a high-named Councillor could do the same.“So, what’s your problem with Niko Karishkov? Are you not happy with the format he puts his reports in or something?”Gersha clenched a fist under the seat, keeping his face blank. Politics was all subterfuge. If he didn’t learn to hide his feelings, he’d never get anything done. “Of course, party loyalty is the paramount consideration. But it still seems to me that, policy-wise, Linnett has the more evidence-based approach. Her studies of factory city uprisings—”“We can’t give a chair to a Linnett.” Verán tapped the back of Gersha’s hand, turning the scolding into something playful. “You and your numbers, my lad! I like your commitment. While the rest of us are playing our parts, fighting our little partisan battles—” his eyes flew to the chamber’s west door, where Besha was murmuring with another junior Councillor— “you’re crunching those numbers and coming up with hard data. It’s lovely.”“I’d like to think there’s some value in my tech background.”“Of course. The techs are the best of us.” A direct quote from Whyberg. “Numbers separate us from the lower Levels. But numbers don’t supersede the Republic’s safety, I’m afraid.”The old man’s gaze swung back to Gersha, chilly and blue as a fresh-caught fish. “And, of course, there are other numbers one could cite. Karishkov rose fast because he’s bold and ruthless and understands how Drudges think. Under his directorship, the security services detained thirty-nine percent more suspects annually than they did under his predecessor. Would you really put a traitor’s daughter in charge of our intelligence operations?”Albertine was right—this was hopeless. Yet, forcing himself to hold Verán’s gaze, Gersha thought he saw a flicker of something more pliable there—uncertainty or curiosity or perhaps even a shred of warmth.The man is attracted to you. You’ve always ignored it and hoped it would go away. What if, instead, he could use it? Not that he’d ever sleep with Verán, but perhaps if he were a little friendlier . . .His eyes still on Verán’s, he remembered Ranek’s litany of complaints from their earlier conversation. “But what about Karishkov’s clearance rate for those suspects? According to a source of mine in Int/Sec, when he was in charge, nearly seventy percent of them ended up being released without charges. And a small but significant number of those sought redress in the courts, claiming they were detained on bogus tips because they refused to do favors for party operatives.”A faint blush was stealing over Verán’s withered face. “Systemic corruption wouldn’t be anything new for Int/Sec. But if you’re saying Karishkov is personally responsible, those are serious allegations, Gersha.”Gersha widened his eyes, hoping he looked earnest and guileless. Young. “Could be just rumors, the standard grumbling of the rank-and-file. But it bears investigation, doesn’t it? Before we put Karishkov in charge of the committee, shouldn’t we know how the department views him?”He moved his knee several centimeters to the right, letting it nudge Verán’s—lightly, discreetly, as if by accident.Verán swallowed, and Gersha dropped his eyes.This was mortifying, but he had a sliver of advantage now, and he needed to press it. What would Tilrey say? Something reassuringly submissive. “You know best, of course. It’s just a thought.”“I do indeed know best.”Verán patted Gersha’s knee, as if both to recognize and dismiss the contact between them. “But I like that you’re listening to the rank-and-file. Someone has to—they vote, don’t they?” A dry chuckle. “I’ll take it under advisement. And you, my lad, focus on having the boy healthy in time for the Southern Range. Perhaps the fresh air will pink up his cheeks, eh?”*“It’ll be very safe and very simple. One contact per month. When you go to the gym each first ten-day, order a juice from Mirella—you already know her, don’t you? She always flirts with your friend Bror. The meeting place and time will be written around the bottom rim of the cup. When the time comes, you show up, stay for an hour, and talk to me about what you’ve seen and done in the past thirty days. Nothing more.”“What I’ve ‘seen and done’?” Tilrey asked.He lay on his side with his face to the wall. Now that he felt reasonably sure Ranek Egil was a traitor, he no longer felt obliged to be on his best behavior. Plus, whatever they’d gassed him with had worn off, and all his joints throbbed from his struggles in the box, though his mind remained anxiously alert.“All I ever do, pretty much, is get fucked,” he objected, buying time. “All I ever see are the Islanders’ cocks. And I can’t talk about any of that without breaking discretion.”Egil made a faint exasperated sound. “This code of ‘discretion’ is what they use to enslave you, Tilrey. Don’t you see that?”

Tell him what he wants to hear. Tell him whatever gets you out.

Egil wanted him to be a spy for a Dissident cell, whatever fancy rhetoric of “patriotism” you dressed it up with. Tilrey had never expected to find treason at such high levels, but that was no reason to start risking his own neck, was it?Even if most of what Egil said was true.“Sure, I see and hear things,” he said. “And you want me to tattle on the Island Councillors so you—you lower-named Upstarts, I assume—can have your little rebellion. Push Verán and his friends out of power. What does that do for me?”Even the question was treasonous; asking it sent a strange thrill through Tilrey, and he told himself he was only buying time again. Egil would let him go home, and he’d tell Gersha about all of this, and Gersha would report Egil, and everything would be all right. Or would return to normal, anyway.“We want much more than power for ourselves.” The interrogator’s voice was low and tense. “I don’t have time now to lay it out for you, but we want real reforms, Tilrey, from greater Laborer involvement in the political process to fairer Notifications and postings. Under a neutral system, based purely on test scores, a boy like you would be serving the Republic with your brain, not your body. You might even be an Upstart.”But of course. The ultimate lure—or mirage. “Maybe I don’t want to be an Upstart, Fir.”“You must want something,” Egil said.Tilrey thought of two things at once: a blue-skied spring day in the woods outside Thurskein, and the warmth of Gersha’s skin. He was worn down, tired of lying. Egil was right; he did so much of it.“I want to get out of here,” he said, and rolled over to look at Egil. “But I don’t know that I want to be part of your conspiracy.”Egil was pacing again, slowly; the half of his face that Tilrey could see had hardened. “How do you think Gersha would react if he knew you had a record of Dissidence? That you chose this life over a prison sentence?”Tilrey kept his own features studiously indifferent. “Fir Linnett didn’t care about something I did when I was seventeen. I doubt Verán would, either.”“I’m talking about Gersha, not Linnett or Verán. Because I think you care about what Gersha thinks of you.”Tilrey didn’t trust his voice to deny it, so he said nothing.“Believe me, I know him—he’s a man of principles with a conservative upbringing. And he’s skittish and sensitive.” Shadows made pits of Egil’s eyes. “Celinda told you the truth about one thing: Gersha’s why you’re here. He came to me because he was concerned about your books.”Fuck. Tilrey felt the dismay twist his mouth before he could stop it. “Then I’ve lost him already.”“You haven’t ‘lost’ him. Don’t you see? The fact that you’re here, and that he’s responsible, has put him in agonies. He’s left at least twenty messages for me, demanding to hear you’re still alive. Gersha’s in love with you, Tilrey.”“That’s absurd.” But the word hollowed a pit in Tilrey’s stomach.Ináthera, a passion like breathlessness. An illicit, duty-defying affection like the ones that lead to tragedy in sagas and stories. Linnett had used the word occasionally, mocking him straight-faced: You leave me breathless, child. When you blush that way, I almost love you.Could Gersha really feel that way? Was he ready to give up everything for a glorified whore?Egil was still talking. “And you—we—could do something with his feelings. Gersha is high-named. He’s brilliant. He was raised to worship numbers and rules—did you know that, when he was in school, his uncle would ground him for anything less than perfect scores? But he’s also empathetic, with a strong sense of justice, and he’s just waiting for someone to wake him up. With the right guidance from someone who understands politics, he could rise to power in the Council. He could represent our interests. If there’s anyone who can turn him to our cause, it’s you.”“No.” The answer came without thought, absolute as stone. “I won’t be your tool, and I won’t turn Gersha into your tool.”If they’d been talking about any other Upstart, Tilrey wouldn’t have thought twice about the proposal—or rather, he would have promised anything it took to leave the cell. But, for all the reasons Egil had already cited, Gersha didn’t deserve to be manipulated that way.Even if he had put Tilrey here.Egil looked pained. “I don’t want a ‘tool.’ I want an ally. But if you won’t cooperate willingly—well, we both know I’ve compromised myself here today. If I release you, what’s to stop you from telling Gersha everything I’ve said? Or going straight to Verán?”“Nothing.” Tilrey held Egil’s gaze, forcing the man to stop his pacing.“So, what choice do I have, lad? Either you join us, or I put you away for life. Believe me, I don’t want to. But I can.”So that was Egil’s last card, face-up on the table.Tilrey had often watched Linnett match wits with his political rivals—lulling them into a sense of security, probing their vulnerabilities, making them think he’d exhausted his own tactics. That’s right, said Linnett. Clever boy. You know what you have to do now. You do have a trump card, don’t you?Tilrey took a deep breath. It was a risk, but he was tired of knuckling under, tired of being made to feel powerless.“What if I told you,” he said, “that I know who Linnett conspired with to betray the Republic? Remember when you questioned me about the man I overheard with him, that day I came home early from the gym?”Egil had gone absolutely still. “I remember. Go on.”“I know who that man is—the man who gave Linnett the Q-codes. Those are missile launch codes, aren’t they?”The interrogator gave his head a little shake, as if to remove cobwebs from it. “We went over this for nine straight hours the last time I interrogated you. You didn’t see the co-conspirator’s face, couldn’t ID his voice. You expect me to believe you’ve suddenly remembered?”“No.” Tilrey did not release Egil’s eyes. “But things have changed since then. What if I told you Linnett’s co-conspirator is alive and well and reaping the benefits of his betrayal of the Republic? What if I said he’s a decider in the Council?”Egil’s eyes had gone painfully keen. “I’d say, if there’s really a traitor at that level setting policy in the Council, and we can compromise him, he could be a powerful asset to us. Who is he?”His voice was an interrogator’s again—bone-cold, whip-sharp, and so authoritative that Tilrey had to struggle not to spit out the name.But if he had long practice in submission, he had long practice in discretion, too. He wrapped his arms around his knees and made his voice steel. “Let me out of here today, Fir, and I’ll give serious consideration to whether I choose to help you.”With two steps, Egil was beside him, vibrating with fury. Tilrey knew that vibration, knew the man was itching to kick him in the side or yank him to his feet and smack him. He did not move.

Go ahead and hurt me. I have something you need.

Egil took a ragged breath and pulled his errant limbs back into line. Regained control of everything but his voice. “I can get an answer out of you one way or another, you little fool. You know I can—I’ve had you begging for mercy before, and I haven’t even brought in the heavy artillery. Why are you playing with me?”But there was weariness behind the words, and more than a bit of fear. Egil had exposed his secret counting on the power of his word to outweigh Tilrey’s. Now that his prey had proved to have some powerful leverage, he was out of ammunition.Tilrey ignored the threat, feeling the ghost of a smile form on his lips. “You’ve already risked your career with the little show you put on, and then giving Celinda a deal, Fir. You may not want to push your luck further. But I’m willing to meet you halfway.”“Meaning what?” Egil asked roughly.Well played, whispered Linnett. He’s beaten; now you set the terms.Tilrey raised his head. “I’m happy to meet monthly with you as you desire, Fir Egil, and I look forward to being educated on your reformist movement. Perhaps one day, if I choose, I’ll educate Fir Gádden in my turn. For now, though, I’d like to go home, right away. I hear he misses me.”

As the Council’s morning session broke up, Verán beckoned to Gersha from his seat near the top of the amphitheater.

He summons, and I go. But Gersha’s handheld still showed no messages from Ranek, and any distraction was welcome. Sheer habit made him slide into the seat beside Verán, who said, “You’ll be at the Lounge tonight? Besha told me you seemed unwell yesterday.”

Damned Besha. “Just a bit under the weather. I’m fine now.”

“Good, good.” The majority leader opened his lunch box and delicately nabbed a hunk of cod with his fork. “Karishkov’s done solid work with that Akeina fellow, so I’m giving the boy to him tonight.”

Something seemed to wrench itself loose in Gersha’s head, the bleary blue light of the Council chamber thickening to a haze. Was tonight a free-night again, already?

“I’m afraid the boy isn’t—he’s not disposed for—” He remembered Ranek’s suggestion and seized it like a life raft. “He has the flu, actually. Coughing and sneezing. I would have told you yesterday, but I lose track of time sometimes when I’m coding.”

“How very annoying.” Verán wound noodles around the fork, looking genuinely put out. “Flu, not just a cold? He doesn’t normally get sick.”

Gersha nodded emphatically. “He was running a fever, so I had Bosh take him to the clinic. I’m sure he’ll be fine in a few days, strong as he is.”

Yes, he’ll be fine. Because Gersha was done waiting. Today he would go to Int/Sec to see Ranek, all the way down to the basement cells if he had to.

Verán was still frowning. “Well, I certainly hope he’s in better shape by next ten-day when we all go to the Southern Range.”

Mid-autumn vacation—Gersha had forgotten that, too. Verán, clearly seeing it in his face, added, “You’ve messaged the staff down there to prepare your residence, haven’t you?”

“Of course.” He’d do it as soon as he could escape Verán’s clutches. But wait—there’d been something else, a reason he wanted to talk to Verán. Something he’d told Albertine Linnett.

“I’ll just have to tell Karishkov to wait for his pleasure,” Verán said. “Poor fellow.”

Oh yes. “I don’t think Karishkov is the right choice to chair Int/Sec,” Gersha said, plunging in thoughtlessly because, if he did think, he would talk himself out of this. “I’ve been meaning to tell you.”

Verán looked taken aback for an instant. Then, relaxing, he said through a mouthful of noodles, “You know, Gersha, for a brilliant programmer, you can be quite slow on the uptake. It’s rather charming. You are aware Karishkov is Island?”

“I know that.” Gersha struggled not to take visible offense at the older man’s condescension. If Tilrey could put up a bland, seamless front, letting sneering and provocation roll off his back, surely a high-named Councillor could do the same.

“So, what’s your problem with Niko Karishkov? Are you not happy with the format he puts his reports in or something?”

Gersha clenched a fist under the seat, keeping his face blank. Politics was all subterfuge. If he didn’t learn to hide his feelings, he’d never get anything done. “Of course, party loyalty is the paramount consideration. But it still seems to me that, policy-wise, Linnett has the more evidence-based approach. Her studies of factory city uprisings—”

“We can’t give a chair to a Linnett.” Verán tapped the back of Gersha’s hand, turning the scolding into something playful. “You and your numbers, my lad! I like your commitment. While the rest of us are playing our parts, fighting our little partisan battles—” his eyes flew to the chamber’s west door, where Besha was murmuring with another junior Councillor— “you’re crunching those numbers and coming up with hard data. It’s lovely.”

“I’d like to think there’s some value in my tech background.”

“Of course. The techs are the best of us.” A direct quote from Whyberg. “Numbers separate us from the lower Levels. But numbers don’t supersede the Republic’s safety, I’m afraid.”

The old man’s gaze swung back to Gersha, chilly and blue as a fresh-caught fish. “And, of course, there are other numbers one could cite. Karishkov rose fast because he’s bold and ruthless and understands how Drudges think. Under his directorship, the security services detained thirty-nine percent more suspects annually than they did under his predecessor. Would you really put a traitor’s daughter in charge of our intelligence operations?”

Albertine was right—this was hopeless. Yet, forcing himself to hold Verán’s gaze, Gersha thought he saw a flicker of something more pliable there—uncertainty or curiosity or perhaps even a shred of warmth.

The man is attracted to you. You’ve always ignored it and hoped it would go away. What if, instead, he could use it? Not that he’d ever sleep with Verán, but perhaps if he were a little friendlier . . .

His eyes still on Verán’s, he remembered Ranek’s litany of complaints from their earlier conversation. “But what about Karishkov’s clearance rate for those suspects? According to a source of mine in Int/Sec, when he was in charge, nearly seventy percent of them ended up being released without charges. And a small but significant number of those sought redress in the courts, claiming they were detained on bogus tips because they refused to do favors for party operatives.”

A faint blush was stealing over Verán’s withered face. “Systemic corruption wouldn’t be anything new for Int/Sec. But if you’re saying Karishkov is personally responsible, those are serious allegations, Gersha.”

Gersha widened his eyes, hoping he looked earnest and guileless. Young. “Could be just rumors, the standard grumbling of the rank-and-file. But it bears investigation, doesn’t it? Before we put Karishkov in charge of the committee, shouldn’t we know how the department views him?”

He moved his knee several centimeters to the right, letting it nudge Verán’s—lightly, discreetly, as if by accident.

Verán swallowed, and Gersha dropped his eyes.

This was mortifying, but he had a sliver of advantage now, and he needed to press it. What would Tilrey say? Something reassuringly submissive. “You know best, of course. It’s just a thought.”

“I do indeed know best.”

Verán patted Gersha’s knee, as if both to recognize and dismiss the contact between them. “But I like that you’re listening to the rank-and-file. Someone has to—they vote, don’t they?” A dry chuckle. “I’ll take it under advisement. And you, my lad, focus on having the boy healthy in time for the Southern Range. Perhaps the fresh air will pink up his cheeks, eh?”

“It’ll be very safe and very simple. One contact per month. When you go to the gym each first ten-day, order a juice from Mirella—you already know her, don’t you? She always flirts with your friend Bror. The meeting place and time will be written around the bottom rim of the cup. When the time comes, you show up, stay for an hour, and talk to me about what you’ve seen and done in the past thirty days. Nothing more.”

“What I’ve ‘seen and done’?” Tilrey asked.

He lay on his side with his face to the wall. Now that he felt reasonably sure Ranek Egil was a traitor, he no longer felt obliged to be on his best behavior. Plus, whatever they’d gassed him with had worn off, and all his joints throbbed from his struggles in the box, though his mind remained anxiously alert.

“All I ever do, pretty much, is get fucked,” he objected, buying time. “All I ever see are the Islanders’ cocks. And I can’t talk about any of that without breaking discretion.”

Egil made a faint exasperated sound. “This code of ‘discretion’ is what they use to enslave you, Tilrey. Don’t you see that?”

Tell him what he wants to hear. Tell him whatever gets you out.

Even if most of what Egil said was true.

“Sure, I see and hear things,” he said. “And you want me to tattle on the Island Councillors so you—you lower-named Upstarts, I assume—can have your little rebellion. Push Verán and his friends out of power. What does that do for me?”

Even the question was treasonous; asking it sent a strange thrill through Tilrey, and he told himself he was only buying time again. Egil would let him go home, and he’d tell Gersha about all of this, and Gersha would report Egil, and everything would be all right. Or would return to normal, anyway.

“We want much more than power for ourselves.” The interrogator’s voice was low and tense. “I don’t have time now to lay it out for you, but we want real reforms, Tilrey, from greater Laborer involvement in the political process to fairer Notifications and postings. Under a neutral system, based purely on test scores, a boy like you would be serving the Republic with your brain, not your body. You might even be an Upstart.”

But of course. The ultimate lure—or mirage. “Maybe I don’t want to be an Upstart, Fir.”

“You must want something,” Egil said.

Tilrey thought of two things at once: a blue-skied spring day in the woods outside Thurskein, and the warmth of Gersha’s skin. He was worn down, tired of lying. Egil was right; he did so much of it.

“I want to get out of here,” he said, and rolled over to look at Egil. “But I don’t know that I want to be part of your conspiracy.”

Egil was pacing again, slowly; the half of his face that Tilrey could see had hardened. “How do you think Gersha would react if he knew you had a record of Dissidence? That you chose this life over a prison sentence?”

Tilrey kept his own features studiously indifferent. “Fir Linnett didn’t care about something I did when I was seventeen. I doubt Verán would, either.”

“I’m talking about Gersha, not Linnett or Verán. Because I think you care about what Gersha thinks of you.”

Tilrey didn’t trust his voice to deny it, so he said nothing.

“Believe me, I know him—he’s a man of principles with a conservative upbringing. And he’s skittish and sensitive.” Shadows made pits of Egil’s eyes. “Celinda told you the truth about one thing: Gersha’s why you’re here. He came to me because he was concerned about your books.”

Fuck. Tilrey felt the dismay twist his mouth before he could stop it. “Then I’ve lost him already.”

“You haven’t ‘lost’ him. Don’t you see? The fact that you’re here, and that he’s responsible, has put him in agonies. He’s left at least twenty messages for me, demanding to hear you’re still alive. Gersha’s in love with you, Tilrey.”

“That’s absurd.” But the word hollowed a pit in Tilrey’s stomach.

Ináthera, a passion like breathlessness. An illicit, duty-defying affection like the ones that lead to tragedy in sagas and stories. Linnett had used the word occasionally, mocking him straight-faced: You leave me breathless, child. When you blush that way, I almost love you.

Could Gersha really feel that way? Was he ready to give up everything for a glorified whore?

Egil was still talking. “And you—we—could do something with his feelings. Gersha is high-named. He’s brilliant. He was raised to worship numbers and rules—did you know that, when he was in school, his uncle would ground him for anything less than perfect scores? But he’s also empathetic, with a strong sense of justice, and he’s just waiting for someone to wake him up. With the right guidance from someone who understands politics, he could rise to power in the Council. He could represent our interests. If there’s anyone who can turn him to our cause, it’s you.”

“No.” The answer came without thought, absolute as stone. “I won’t be your tool, and I won’t turn Gersha into your tool.”

If they’d been talking about any other Upstart, Tilrey wouldn’t have thought twice about the proposal—or rather, he would have promised anything it took to leave the cell. But, for all the reasons Egil had already cited, Gersha didn’t deserve to be manipulated that way.

Even if he had put Tilrey here.

Egil looked pained. “I don’t want a ‘tool.’ I want an ally. But if you won’t cooperate willingly—well, we both know I’ve compromised myself here today. If I release you, what’s to stop you from telling Gersha everything I’ve said? Or going straight to Verán?”

“Nothing.” Tilrey held Egil’s gaze, forcing the man to stop his pacing.

“So, what choice do I have, lad? Either you join us, or I put you away for life. Believe me, I don’t want to. But I can.”

So that was Egil’s last card, face-up on the table.

Tilrey had often watched Linnett match wits with his political rivals—lulling them into a sense of security, probing their vulnerabilities, making them think he’d exhausted his own tactics. That’s right, said Linnett. Clever boy. You know what you have to do now. You do have a trump card, don’t you?

Tilrey took a deep breath. It was a risk, but he was tired of knuckling under, tired of being made to feel powerless.

“What if I told you,” he said, “that I know who Linnett conspired with to betray the Republic? Remember when you questioned me about the man I overheard with him, that day I came home early from the gym?”

Egil had gone absolutely still. “I remember. Go on.”

“I know who that man is—the man who gave Linnett the Q-codes. Those are missile launch codes, aren’t they?”

The interrogator gave his head a little shake, as if to remove cobwebs from it. “We went over this for nine straight hours the last time I interrogated you. You didn’t see the co-conspirator’s face, couldn’t ID his voice. You expect me to believe you’ve suddenly remembered?”

“No.” Tilrey did not release Egil’s eyes. “But things have changed since then. What if I told you Linnett’s co-conspirator is alive and well and reaping the benefits of his betrayal of the Republic? What if I said he’s a decider in the Council?”

Egil’s eyes had gone painfully keen. “I’d say, if there’s really a traitor at that level setting policy in the Council, and we can compromise him, he could be a powerful asset to us. Who is he?”

His voice was an interrogator’s again—bone-cold, whip-sharp, and so authoritative that Tilrey had to struggle not to spit out the name.

But if he had long practice in submission, he had long practice in discretion, too. He wrapped his arms around his knees and made his voice steel. “Let me out of here today, Fir, and I’ll give serious consideration to whether I choose to help you.”

With two steps, Egil was beside him, vibrating with fury. Tilrey knew that vibration, knew the man was itching to kick him in the side or yank him to his feet and smack him. He did not move.

Go ahead and hurt me. I have something you need.

But there was weariness behind the words, and more than a bit of fear. Egil had exposed his secret counting on the power of his word to outweigh Tilrey’s. Now that his prey had proved to have some powerful leverage, he was out of ammunition.

Tilrey ignored the threat, feeling the ghost of a smile form on his lips. “You’ve already risked your career with the little show you put on, and then giving Celinda a deal, Fir. You may not want to push your luck further. But I’m willing to meet you halfway.”

“Meaning what?” Egil asked roughly.

Well played, whispered Linnett. He’s beaten; now you set the terms.

Tilrey raised his head. “I’m happy to meet monthly with you as you desire, Fir Egil, and I look forward to being educated on your reformist movement. Perhaps one day, if I choose, I’ll educate Fir Gádden in my turn. For now, though, I’d like to go home, right away. I hear he misses me.”