Chapter 18: Snowball Fight — The Key of Oslov

Volume 17: The Tinderbox

Chapter 18 Snowball Fight

Chapter Notes

Remember these two characters? I don’t blame you if you don’t, because the last chapter about them was posted nearly a year ago! But here’s another one, and we’ll return to Tilrey and Janta in the next chapter.After that, there are just a few chapters till the end, but they’re gonna be eventful chapters, because we’re visiting Harbour again. I hope to keep posting weekly. Thanks for reading! <3

Chapter Notes

After that, there are just a few chapters till the end, but they’re gonna be eventful chapters, because we’re visiting Harbour again. I hope to keep posting weekly. Thanks for reading! <3

7 October, year 374

Detmer Verán stirred in his lover’s arms, burrowing his face into the sparse dark hair on Blas Lindblom’s chest. His whole body felt water-logged from the climax they’d shared. “You always take care of me so well, Fir,” he murmured submissively, playing the part that Blas liked him to play.Blas stroked his hair. “I can’t enjoy myself unless it’s mutual, Mersha.”“Yeah, the sex is great, but this place is fucking drafty.” Detmer rolled over on his back, abandoning the role-play. “Can we go to my apartment next time?”They were back in their original meeting place—the unsanctioned Radius Nine brothel—at Blas’s request. Detmer didn’t find the place’s lumpy mattresses or un-soundproofed walls a turn-on, and he especially disliked the knowing glances he’d gotten from the brothel keeper, whom he’d bribed when he first came here into letting him impersonate one of her workers.But Blas couldn’t get enough of the whole whore-and-client role-play, and Detmer had reasons to indulge him. They were coming up on five months together, and all they’d really done was have mind-blowing sex and explore various kinks and bask in each other’s arms. Detmer still hadn’t learned a single useful thing about the Lindblom family to tell Tilrey Bronn.“If you insist,” Blas said, “but you know how I feel about your apartment.” His lips pursed in the stern way that Detmer found irresistible. Read me my sentence, Fir Examining Magistrate! Oh, are you condemning me to be fucked till I can’t stand up?Detmer rolled over again and nuzzled Blas’s armpit, loving the rank, musky smell of his lover after a few hours of exertion. “What’s wrong with my apartment?” he asked innocently. “I do try to pick up my dirty underthings once in a while.”“You know that’s not the issue.”“No, the issue is that you don’t want to be reminded I’m your equal. Use your imagination, Blas! If you want to pretend I’m a Drudge, we can do it anywhere. Maybe even your apartment,” Detmer added daringly. He’d never been allowed past Blas’s door.A shudder of arousal ran over Blas’s body, and he reached out and pulled Detmer close. “I like boundaries. You know that.”“Mmm.” Detmer writhed up so that he could kiss Blas’s chin, then gave his attention to the full, shapely lips. “The best thing about boundaries is when you cross them,” he whispered. “It’s so much fun, every time.”Maybe Tilrey was right, and he’d seduced Blas only because he wanted to. Green knows, he did want to, every time.But his pride demanded that he get some useful intelligence to go with his pleasure. He knew all too well that Tilrey considered him a dilettante, a spoiled high name who dabbled in rebellion and could only be trusted with occasional errands. It would be so nice to solve a real problem for him and see the surprise on his face.“I know you want me to be just your whore,” Detmer said into Blas’s ear, molding himself to the warm, larger body. “You’re afraid someone will find out about us, Blasha.”“It’s nothing to do with you. It’s me.”“Of course it’s you. If you were a normal person, you wouldn’t be afraid to introduce me to your older sister, your dad, your mother.”Blas was hard again against Detmer’s thigh. “I’m not afraid,” he said, his heavy lids dipping low over dark eyes. “I just don’t want to, and you should understand that.”“Why not?” Detmer rubbed against the stiff bulge. “You introduced me to Virya.” He’d had a perfectly pleasant dinner with Blas’s younger sister—who, Blas had carefully explained, was a woman but forced to live in public as a man. Detmer had a few friends in similar situations, and Blas seemed relieved by his understanding. In front of Virya and her boyfriend, Blas had touched Detmer’s shoulder. He’d even briefly held Detmer’s hand, silently acknowledging their relationship.“Virya’s different.” Blas strained away from Detmer’s movement; he seemed to be caught between annoyance and arousal. “She’s unconventional, and so are you, so you understand each other. The rest of my family is . . . conventional.”“I know conventional, believe me!” Detmer gave Blas a little space. “I clean up nice, and I can say all the right things.”The General Magistrate had never spoken to him in the Sector; as far as he knew, she didn’t know he existed. It would be nice to change that. “What would happen if you brought me to dinner, Blas? Would your mother disapprove? Maybe she wouldn’t like it that I work for my cousin, even though they’re in the same party?”“My mother?” Blas laughed harshly. “No, she wouldn’t disapprove of you, Detmer Verán. I can tell you exactly what would happen if you came to dinner. My sister Gunde would ignore you, my father would flirt disgustingly with you—don’t laugh, you’d hate it—and my mother would find you charming and be overjoyed that I’ve made a friend of my own class. She would say we make an adorable couple.”Detmer did have to laugh at the martyred look on Blas’s face. “So, what’s wrong with that? We do.”“Wait. You need to know what would happen next. My mother would take you aside, or find you in the Sector, and beg you to persuade me to betroth myself to one of the nice girls she’s picked out. She would say that only you can save me for a proper marriage, because you have love on your side. In return for manipulating me into a union I despise, she might even promise you political favors. Is that what you’re hoping?”His expression had turned so fierce that Detmer’s grin melted away. When Blas was upset, he retreated into a fortress of solitude in his head where Detmer couldn’t reach him.“No, Blasha.” He rubbed his forehead gently against Blas’s shoulder, trying to keep him here. “Do you really think I’m just using you in a political game?”Blas stared up at the rotting plaster of the ceiling. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I hate Government Sector and everything that happens there.”Yet you still work for the Republic, enforcing the laws we make. It was too early in their acquaintance for Detmer to point out the contradiction. He had to tread carefully with Blas, who still seemed to believe most of what they’d both been raised to believe about the virtues of the system.“So that’s what your mother wants?” he asked, opening his mouth to nuzzle Blas’s exposed skin. “For you to have a proper marriage and give her grandchildren? She sounds just like my parents.”“The pressure gets worse as you get older,” Blas said gruffly. “You’ll see. She says it’s fine for me to fuck whomever I want, but a Lindblom has to be responsible. And yoking my life to someone I don’t care about is painless, and our kids probably won’t be able to tell if we hate each other, and why am I making a fuss about this? No one else does!”Detmer groaned theatrically, then gave Blas another soft head butt. “Well, she’s probably right. I mean, you’d survive marriage. Maybe we can even find you somebody you don’t hate. But your wife will have to accept that your precious Mersha comes first.”He said it with a pout, trying to make Blas lighten up. But instead of laughing, to Detmer’s surprise, Blas threw his arms around Detmer and pulled him into a humid, passionate kiss.“You’d better not be just messing with my head, Detmer Verán,” he whispered, rolling over to crush Detmer into the mattress, his cock urgently hard again. “But you are, aren’t you? You’re a politician. That’s what you do.”Detmer reared up against Blas to rub against the stiff bulge, his own arousal sharpening to a point. “And you’re a humorless judge who throws people in detention,” he said breathlessly. “But I want you, and I keep on wanting you. That’s all I know.”Blas’s own breath came fast and hard. “Show me how much you want me,” he said, his fingers like iron on Detmer’s shoulders as he ground down with his hips. “Tonight and always. Show me you’re mine.”Detmer was on fire, he was melting, and the red-hot core was in his groin. “Oh, I will, Fir. Believe me, I will.” In a dark alley of Ring Eight, amid whirling snow, Detmer reached for Blas and pulled him in for a last kiss. “Are you sure,” he whispered when their lips parted, “that you don’t want to come home with me?”Blas’s body said, No, not sure, but his mouth said, “Another time. I need to stop at the office and pick up some files.”Detmer rubbed his face against the shoulder of Blas’s tweed overcoat. He felt very aware that he was wearing his Laborer costume—a loose parka and big boots, so unlike Blas’s more structured garments. Funny how those uncomfortable Strutter clothes suddenly became sexy when you weren’t the one wearing them.“I want to see you soon.” He let his voice fall to a growl. “I demand to see you soon.”Blas’s breath hitched audibly. “You will, love,” he said, gently pushing Detmer away. “Maybe I should come to your office in the Sector one day and ambush you.”Was that a joke? Detmer hoped not; he could practically taste the sweetness of need in his mouth. “I’ll be waiting.”After that, it was hard to walk away, but the thoroughfare took them in opposite directions. Detmer paused to watch Blas’s tall figure striding through a group of kids who were having a snowball fight. Some things were universal—hadn’t they both lobbed snowballs at recess, back in the day? For a moment, his aching need for Blas mingled with nostalgia for a time when everything had been simpler.One of the snowballs hit Blas squarely in the back.An accident, Detmer thought. Poor aim. Blas clearly thought so, too; he shook off the missile and continued on his way.Then someone whistled shrilly up the street, and a voice from above called, “Dirty Strutter—he put my cousin in detention! Get him!”Three of the kids darted ahead to block Blas’s path, an action so smooth it could have been coordinated. To Detmer, hurrying back to his friend, they looked less like “kids” now than like fairly imposing youths.The smaller ones kept their distance and let loose with their entire arsenal of snowballs, laughing wildly when they scored a direct hit. “Gray-jacket!” they chanted. Meanwhile, one of the bigger boys marched up to Blas and gave him a hard shove.They couldn’t really mean to hurt him? This was a bad dream. Detmer ran toward his friend, his boots sinking into the powdery snow and slowing him down. The distance of a block seemed to stretch to a mile.Blas staggered backward into the arms of a sturdy girl, who pushed him back at the boy. “Fucking gray-jacket,” she said. “How many people have you sent away to rot, Fir?”Blas raised his hands and made what sounded like an attempt to reason with them. But their jeers cut him off: “Gray-jacket!” “Strutter!” “Tyrant!” “’Bout time someone showed you how it feels!”“That’s an examining magistrate!” Detmer yelled breathlessly as he ran, doing what he hoped was a passable Ring Eight accent. “Get the fuck away from him if you don’t want to rot yourselves!”But the young Dissidents—if they were actual Dissidents—seemed to have no regard for their own self-preservation. One of them took a swing at Blas’s jaw.Blas blocked the fist deftly with his forearm. Another kid punched Blas hard in the stomach, and that blow hit home. Still floundering through the snow toward the group, Detmer could feel the impact in his own gut.He could only watch as his lover slumped to the ground. Get up, Blasha! Do something!But Blas wasn’t getting up. The biggest youths formed a ring around him and began to kick him, the dull thuds of their boots slicing through the cold air along with their taunts: “Parasite!” “Jailer!” And a name that rang a faint bell for Detmer: “Johan Greisson!”Detmer had to pause to catch his breath, his vision hazy with terror. It was recess at school all over again—and those years hadn’t really been so innocent, had they? Detmer had taken his share of cuffs and kicks from bigger boys. Whenever they chose some other unlucky victim, he didn’t try to stop them; he was grateful.But this was different. This was Blas.Trembling all over, he launched himself at the circle of miscreants, using his skull as a battering ram to force his way between them. “Little shit-stains! Don’t you know that’s the General Magistrate’s son?”That shut everyone up, at least momentarily. The biggest kids edged away from Detmer, glancing uncertainly from him to their victim. Blas lay face down in the snow, motionless.Detmer’s throat cinched tight, and then anger rolled over him like a roaring, spitting firestorm. He thrashed out at the nearest attackers with his feet and fists. When he made contact, bloody triumph sang in his temples, though no one was fighting back.He chased one of the teenagers away from Blas, then wheeled around to pursue another. They retreated from his fury but not far, as if they knew he lacked the strength to really hurt them. Their eyes glittered.“You’ll rot in detention!” Detmer bellowed, though he feared it came out more like a squeak. “Every one of you!”Above him, from a window, a woman’s voice called, “Traitor! What are you, the magistrate’s whore?”“Collaborator!” someone else cried. “Don’t defend a gray-jacket!”“They’re killing us!”“Your friend’s a Johan Greisson!” one of the boys shouted at Detmer. “Dirty tyrant! We should hang him!”“No!” said the girl who had pushed Blas. “If he’s really the GM’s son, we’ll take him prisoner! Let her see how it feels when your kin just disappear!”Shit. Detmer threw himself to his knees beside Blas. “You’re not taking him anywhere!”“Hostage, hostage!” the woman chanted above them.From the far end of the street, a siren whined. Everyone heard it, but no one moved.“Leave, you idiots!” Detmer yelled. “Scatter! This isn’t worth getting detained for!”To his intense relief, the woman upstairs agreed with him. “Get inside!” she called to the kids. “They got rifles!”For a moment, the youths exchanged wild glances, as if they thought this might be the day to try their luck against the Constables. But reason prevailed. They scattered in an instant, melting back into crevices and alleys as if they’d never been there, leaving only Detmer hunched over Blas’s still form.Every gulp of air was a dagger in Detmer’s lungs. He had never in his life felt so glad to see the gray-jacketed Constables arrive on one of their bulky urban snow skimmers.He rolled Blas over carefully to get his face out of the snow. Blas’s eyes were closed, and his hair was matted with blood on one side. A whimper rose in Detmer’s throat.He swallowed it—this was no time to be weak—and stood up to face the two Constables. They marched over from the parked skimmer, looking bored and disdainful of him. Probably they thought they’d interrupted a street fight among their own kind.He mustered his most commanding Strutter voice: “Get backup and an emergency med unit now, lads! Those shirkers just tried to kill your boss.” The med-van took them out of Ring Eight to one of the Strutter hospitals in Ring Four. As Detmer crouched beside Blas’s gurney, clutching his hand and trying to ignore the keening of sirens and the jabber of the medics’ radio, it occurred to him to wonder why the detour was necessary. If the emergency care in Ring Eight was good enough for Ring Eighters, why wasn’t it good enough for Blas?He knew the answer, of course, just as he knew that at least some of the things those kids had been shouting in the street were true. They’re killing us. How many people have you sent away to rot, Fir?Blas did send people away to detention and moral rehab, probably often on the slightest suspicion of a subversive attitude. It was his job, and Detmer didn’t like it, though he’d never told Blas so.But was vigilantism the answer? Kicking a man to death on the street? If the oppressed workers of Right Eight wanted real justice, surely they could do better than that.Then Blas opened his eyes and looked straight at Detmer and asked in a weak voice, “What’s that noise? Where are we?”, and Detmer forgot everything else.At the hospital, the reception admins tried to turn Detmer away. He wasn’t a relation, they pointed out, eyeing his clothing, and “This clinic doesn’t serve Laborers.”Detmer considered showing them his real ID. Then something inside him snapped, and he barked, “I’m the patient’s boyfriend, and he’s the GM’s son, and he needs me here.”That did the trick.Next came a flurry of doctors and imaging tests, which revealed that Blas had two broken ribs and a concussion. The latter appeared to be mild, but the head clinician insisted on keeping him under observation to make sure no areas of subdural hemorrhage developed.“I’m staying,” Detmer told everyone who approached Blas, whether or not they questioned his presence.As dawn approached, they finally got Blas settled in a private room. Detmer pulled up a chair beside the bed, wide awake and running on adrenaline and strong tea offered by a kindly medic-assistant.Blas’s hand crept across the blankets toward him. Detmer grasped it. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Still no nausea? I could get you water, or maybe an herbal infusion?”Blas shook his head. He hadn’t talked much except to answer the doctors’ questions, and his voice came out slow and thick: “You don’t have to stay here, love. Work in the Sector must be starting soon.”“Fuck work.” It felt good to say those words and feel justified for once. “You really think I’d leave you?”“But I’m barely hurt.” Blas coughed raspily; he’d suffered some nasty bruises to his throat and chest from the youths’ work boots. “They’re only being extra vigilant because of my mother. I wish you hadn’t mentioned her.”“They saw your ID. They would have figured it out for themselves.” Detmer still felt an antsy urge to punch someone. “And those little punks could’ve killed you, easy. Would have killed you.”Blas shook his bandaged head. “You don’t know Eighters like I do, Mersha. Random bad apples crop up. But I’d warrant most of those kids were just going along with the crowd.”Except they had a reason to hate you. Nothing random about it. Much as Detmer despised the attackers, he hadn’t forgotten the inciter’s claim—that Blas had put someone’s cousin in detention. Examining magistrates made people disappear, and sometimes those people never returned.This was no time to discuss his feelings about Blas’s posting, though. “They would’ve come after me, too, if I’d been dressed in my real clothes,” he said, stroking Blas’s hand. “They hate all of us. I thought I was helping by mentioning your mom, but that gave them the brilliant idea of taking you hostage.”“Mersha.” Blas was the one soothing him now. “You did everything you could. You rescued me from a dangerous situation.”“I didn’t, though! I didn’t know what to do!” Just remembering made Detmer tremble from head to foot again. “When they first knocked you down, I froze and watched them do it.”“That’s a natural reaction. You haven’t been trained for combat.”Detmer shook his head—he couldn’t let Blas think he’d been even remotely heroic. He pressed Blas’s hand to his chest. “I crack under pressure, Blasha. When I was seven, my Prime class went out beyond the Outer Ring for the test where they make you build a fire and assemble a generator. And I just froze. I let my partner do all the work while I sat there and bawled because I thought I was getting frostbite. Ask anybody from my school cohort. They used to call me Red Nose.”Blas’s eyelids had fluttered closed, but now they opened. He squeezed Detmer’s hand. “You were seven. Of course you were terrified by the Wastes—we all were.”But not everybody had shown their terror. Detmer wondered what had possessed him to tell that story. No one needed to know it who didn’t already.Him, a rebel! That was a laugh. Tilrey had surely guessed how weak he was; it was why he never trusted Detmer with anything important. Put Detmer in an Int/Sec cell, and he would snivel and spill everything he knew.“After that, my dad sat me down and gave me a lecture,” he said. “He warned me I would disgrace the Verán name if I didn’t learn to hide my emotions like a normal person. And I try! But when they knocked you down and started kicking you, I . . .” A tear spilled down his cheek, and he wiped it impatiently away with his free hand. “I panicked. I acted like a fool.”Blas patted Detmer’s hand. “You did exactly the right thing,” he said stubbornly. “I was unconscious for most of it, but I know how things turned out.”“And now I’m making it all about me.” Detmer wasn’t sure if he was chuckling or sobbing. He’d tried to make Blas think he was above it all, a decadent elite who didn’t fear anybody or anything, even ridicule. “You’re lying here consoling me, and you’re the one who’s going to have lifelong trauma from tonight.”“I am not! I’ll be fine.” Blas tugged Detmer’s hand up to his lips and brushed it with a kiss. “I’ll be stoic enough for both of us, okay? Why don’t you get in bed with me? There’s room.”Detmer didn’t hesitate. But just as he settled on the edge of the bed, the door hissed open behind him. He tugged his hand free of Blas’s and slid his feet to the floor as the rich, refined tones of a familiar female voice filled the room.“Blasha! Green hills and valleys, what have those wretches done to you?”It was Davita Lindblom.Detmer had watched the General Magistrate countless times on the Council floor and occasionally stood near her in a crowd, but he had never experienced the power of her presence quite like this. Tall and dignified, with dark hair piled on her head and a shawl draping her shoulders, she swept into the room on a wave of spicy perfume and perched herself on the other side of Blas’s bed. She didn’t even glance at Detmer.“My first-born son!” She leaned over to examine Blas’s bandages. “How many times have I told you you’d get hurt in that blasted job of yours?”Blas’s expression had closed up. “Hundreds. But as you can see, Mother, I’m barely hurt at all.”“They targeted you! They beat you within an inch of your life!” Blas opened his mouth to object, but the Magistrate cut him off. “I heard the report straight from one of your colleagues. With the unrest in the city, none of us are safe in Laborer districts, you least of all. I’m reposting you tomorrow.”Blas’s eyes narrowed. “Over my dead body.”“That’s what it’ll take, isn’t it?” Shaking her head, the Magistrate looked up—and, at last, noticed Detmer. “Who are you? Why are you here?”She didn’t recognize him. Maybe it was the Laborer clothes, or maybe he really was that much of a nonentity in the Sector.“A friend of your son’s, Fir’n,” Detmer said with the humility he knew she would expect from a Drudge. It might be easier for all of them if he stayed in his disguise a little longer.But Blas raised himself on his elbows and ordered him, “Tell her! No more pretending.”“Shh, love.” Davita pressed her son back down on his back. “You’re supposed to be resting quietly.”“Fine!” Blas’s eyes flashed toward Detmer again. “Say your full name, Detmer.”Detmer sighed. “Detmer Verán.”“He’s Visha Verán’s grandson,” Blas told his mother as if the words were obscenities. “He works in the Sector like you, and we’re together because we’re together, and no, he isn’t the answer to your prayers, the nice boyfriend who’s supposed to lead me to a nice wife. I’m going to keep disappointing you. Understand?”Davita gave Detmer a second look, this time a long one. His cheeks burned—not just with shame but with pleasure, because of what Blas had called him.“I know you, lad,” the Magistrate said. “You’re on the staff of my colleague István. His nephew?”“Cousin.”She cocked a brow. “And you’re in wardrobe violation.”Detmer ducked his head. “Are you going to report me?”“No.” She was still scrutinizing him. “I knew your grandfather well. You look like him, but those pretty eyes must come from your mother’s side. He wouldn’t have approved of whatever game you’re playing here, young Verán.”Detmer didn’t remember much about his grandfather besides a disapproving scowl. He had a feeling, though, that the Magistrate wasn’t quite as firm in her own disapproval as she wanted him to think.He raised his eyes in the way he often used on his own mother, letting the lashes flutter. “I’m sorry you have to see me this way, Fir’n Magistrate. It was just a bit of playacting.”“It’s not her business,” Blas said sharply.Overlapping him, his mother said, “I don’t need to know any more than that.”“I’m glad you’re willing to give me some privacy.” But Blas was clearly too weak to keep up his end of the argument. His head lolled back on the pillow, his eyes glazing. “Mersha saved me, Mom. Without him, I’d have had my head kicked in.”“The gray-jackets saved you,” Detmer muttered. “I panicked.”But Davita was busy bending worriedly over her son and stroking his blood-matted hair. “Be quiet now, sweetheart. Just rest.” She glanced up at Detmer. “Are we allowed to let him sleep?”He nodded. “They just said to wake him after a few hours.”Blas’s eyes had slipped closed. “Mersha’s not gonna help you find a wife for me,” he said. “I know you want him to, but don’t get any ideas.”“What on earth are you talking about?” Davita rested a palm on her son’s forehead. “Your future marriage is the last thing on my mind right now.”Detmer remembered his own mother touching him there when he was feverish. For a ridiculous instant, he wished he had someone in his adult life who adored him as much as the Magistrate obviously adored her son.Blas’s eyelids fluttered again. “Who’s Johan Greisson?”“What’s that, sweetheart?” Davita glanced up at Detmer, her expression asking, Should we be worried that he isn’t making sense?“Some of them called me that.” Blas opened glassy eyes into Detmer’s. “Why? Did they mistake me for somebody else?”Detmer remembered the cries from the crowd—and where he knew that name from. “No,” he said. “Johan Greisson is a character in Their Ways Parted—the stream,” he added, since both mother and son looked mystified. “It’s very popular. Greisson is a Constable who’s brutal and corrupt. He takes bribes and twists the law to please himself.”Davita looked scandalized. “This is on a stream? The Bureau of Diversions allowed a peace officer to be portrayed this way?”Blas uttered a hacking laugh. “Ask Dad about it. He watches all the streams.”“Your father’s no arbiter of appropriateness.” Davita returned to stroking Blas’s hair, trying to soothe him. “If this is the entertainment we’re giving Laborers, it’s no surprise they’re attacking us.”“When the system needs internal critique, fiction cuts deeper than fact,” Blas quoted.His mother rolled her eyes. “Whyberg wasn’t talking about silly stories for Drudges when he wrote that.”“Who says they’re silly? Maybe there’s truth there.” But Blas’s eyes were closing again.They sat awhile in silence, letting Blas doze off. Davita held one of her son’s hands, and after a painful interval of hesitation, Detmer reached for the other. After all, Blas had said they were together.Eventually, Blas rolled onto his side, his breaths encouragingly deep and even. They both released him. Detmer looked up—and froze, because the Magistrate’s great dark eyes, so like her son’s, were fixed on him.“I don’t trust you,” she said.He tried to stay steady under that gaze, hoping she hadn’t seen him with Tilrey. “Why not? Just the way I’m dressed?”“You’re all wrong for my Blas. He’s so earnest—painfully so—and you have the smallest glint in your eye. The wrong kind of glint.”“I do?” Could she read the signs of Dissidence in his face? Did she know that he’d been half sympathizing with the mob that had attacked her son?Davita nodded. “Anyway, my Blas never chooses appropriate partners of his own Level—believe me, I know. How did you get past his defenses? Did you pretend to be someone you weren’t?”That was a lucky guess, Detmer hoped. “Now you’re calling me appropriate? I thought you said I was all wrong.”“Oh, you are. But on paper, you’re perfect for him.”Detmer’s instincts told him that protesting wouldn’t go over well with her. So he said, “I’ve had a crush on Blas since University, Fir’n Magistrate. I know we aren’t very much alike—except in our lineage—but I guess that’s part of the attraction. When I finally found a way to make him notice me, I went for it. I pursued him shamelessly, if you want to know the truth.”“By putting on a Drudge costume?”She didn’t look disgusted. Maybe she even understood. “Sometimes. It makes him more comfortable with me. And the earnestness you were talking about?” Detmer said, gaining courage. “That’s my favorite thing about Blas. I like to make him laugh.”Davita’s expression didn’t change. “That’s good. Blas needs to laugh occasionally.”“I think so.”“But he needs more than that.” Something shifted in her eyes. Their expression softened and deepened, appealing directly to him. “He needs to quit his ridiculous job and come work in the Core, where he won’t be in constant danger from malcontents.”At last, Detmer agreed with her on something. “I can try to convince him,” he said. “But I don’t think I’ll get far. He thinks he’s doing good in Ring Eight.”“He is,” Davita said as if it were obvious. “But that’s not the point.”Detmer wondered if removing Blas from Ring Eight would actually benefit anyone there. Maybe not. Whoever replaced him would probably be harsher and less interested in treating the residents like human beings.But Davita was right. They were talking about what would benefit Blas himself. “He’s more likely to listen to you than me,” he said.She sighed as if he were very thick. “Can’t you see? He does the opposite of listen to me. He took this posting because he knew I’d hate it.”But Blas adores you just as much as you adore him. Detmer was already sure of it. Love worked strangely in some families, he supposed; in his own, it barely worked at all. “I don’t think he’d give up his posting for me, either,” he said.“Maybe not, but it’s worth a try.” Davita reached across her son’s prone form and tapped Detmer on the forearm. “That glint of trickery in your eye? Use that, young Verán. I can always spot a clever little schemer, and that’s what you are. Use all your wits to persuade my son to come back where he belongs. I’ll make sure you’re rewarded.”

7 October, year 374

Blas stroked his hair. “I can’t enjoy myself unless it’s mutual, Mersha.”

“Yeah, the sex is great, but this place is fucking drafty.” Detmer rolled over on his back, abandoning the role-play. “Can we go to my apartment next time?”

They were back in their original meeting place—the unsanctioned Radius Nine brothel—at Blas’s request. Detmer didn’t find the place’s lumpy mattresses or un-soundproofed walls a turn-on, and he especially disliked the knowing glances he’d gotten from the brothel keeper, whom he’d bribed when he first came here into letting him impersonate one of her workers.

But Blas couldn’t get enough of the whole whore-and-client role-play, and Detmer had reasons to indulge him. They were coming up on five months together, and all they’d really done was have mind-blowing sex and explore various kinks and bask in each other’s arms. Detmer still hadn’t learned a single useful thing about the Lindblom family to tell Tilrey Bronn.

“If you insist,” Blas said, “but you know how I feel about your apartment.” His lips pursed in the stern way that Detmer found irresistible. Read me my sentence, Fir Examining Magistrate! Oh, are you condemning me to be fucked till I can’t stand up?

Detmer rolled over again and nuzzled Blas’s armpit, loving the rank, musky smell of his lover after a few hours of exertion. “What’s wrong with my apartment?” he asked innocently. “I do try to pick up my dirty underthings once in a while.”

“You know that’s not the issue.”

“No, the issue is that you don’t want to be reminded I’m your equal. Use your imagination, Blas! If you want to pretend I’m a Drudge, we can do it anywhere. Maybe even your apartment,” Detmer added daringly. He’d never been allowed past Blas’s door.

A shudder of arousal ran over Blas’s body, and he reached out and pulled Detmer close. “I like boundaries. You know that.”

“Mmm.” Detmer writhed up so that he could kiss Blas’s chin, then gave his attention to the full, shapely lips. “The best thing about boundaries is when you cross them,” he whispered. “It’s so much fun, every time.”

Maybe Tilrey was right, and he’d seduced Blas only because he wanted to. Green knows, he did want to, every time.

But his pride demanded that he get some useful intelligence to go with his pleasure. He knew all too well that Tilrey considered him a dilettante, a spoiled high name who dabbled in rebellion and could only be trusted with occasional errands. It would be so nice to solve a real problem for him and see the surprise on his face.

“I know you want me to be just your whore,” Detmer said into Blas’s ear, molding himself to the warm, larger body. “You’re afraid someone will find out about us, Blasha.”

“It’s nothing to do with you. It’s me.”

“Of course it’s you. If you were a normal person, you wouldn’t be afraid to introduce me to your older sister, your dad, your mother.”

Blas was hard again against Detmer’s thigh. “I’m not afraid,” he said, his heavy lids dipping low over dark eyes. “I just don’t want to, and you should understand that.”

“Why not?” Detmer rubbed against the stiff bulge. “You introduced me to Virya.” He’d had a perfectly pleasant dinner with Blas’s younger sister—who, Blas had carefully explained, was a woman but forced to live in public as a man. Detmer had a few friends in similar situations, and Blas seemed relieved by his understanding. In front of Virya and her boyfriend, Blas had touched Detmer’s shoulder. He’d even briefly held Detmer’s hand, silently acknowledging their relationship.

“Virya’s different.” Blas strained away from Detmer’s movement; he seemed to be caught between annoyance and arousal. “She’s unconventional, and so are you, so you understand each other. The rest of my family is . . . conventional.”

“I know conventional, believe me!” Detmer gave Blas a little space. “I clean up nice, and I can say all the right things.”

The General Magistrate had never spoken to him in the Sector; as far as he knew, she didn’t know he existed. It would be nice to change that. “What would happen if you brought me to dinner, Blas? Would your mother disapprove? Maybe she wouldn’t like it that I work for my cousin, even though they’re in the same party?”

“My mother?” Blas laughed harshly. “No, she wouldn’t disapprove of you, Detmer Verán. I can tell you exactly what would happen if you came to dinner. My sister Gunde would ignore you, my father would flirt disgustingly with you—don’t laugh, you’d hate it—and my mother would find you charming and be overjoyed that I’ve made a friend of my own class. She would say we make an adorable couple.”

Detmer did have to laugh at the martyred look on Blas’s face. “So, what’s wrong with that? We do.”

“Wait. You need to know what would happen next. My mother would take you aside, or find you in the Sector, and beg you to persuade me to betroth myself to one of the nice girls she’s picked out. She would say that only you can save me for a proper marriage, because you have love on your side. In return for manipulating me into a union I despise, she might even promise you political favors. Is that what you’re hoping?”

His expression had turned so fierce that Detmer’s grin melted away. When Blas was upset, he retreated into a fortress of solitude in his head where Detmer couldn’t reach him.

“No, Blasha.” He rubbed his forehead gently against Blas’s shoulder, trying to keep him here. “Do you really think I’m just using you in a political game?”

Blas stared up at the rotting plaster of the ceiling. “I don’t know, and I don’t want to know. I hate Government Sector and everything that happens there.”

Yet you still work for the Republic, enforcing the laws we make. It was too early in their acquaintance for Detmer to point out the contradiction. He had to tread carefully with Blas, who still seemed to believe most of what they’d both been raised to believe about the virtues of the system.

“So that’s what your mother wants?” he asked, opening his mouth to nuzzle Blas’s exposed skin. “For you to have a proper marriage and give her grandchildren? She sounds just like my parents.”

“The pressure gets worse as you get older,” Blas said gruffly. “You’ll see. She says it’s fine for me to fuck whomever I want, but a Lindblom has to be responsible. And yoking my life to someone I don’t care about is painless, and our kids probably won’t be able to tell if we hate each other, and why am I making a fuss about this? No one else does!”

Detmer groaned theatrically, then gave Blas another soft head butt. “Well, she’s probably right. I mean, you’d survive marriage. Maybe we can even find you somebody you don’t hate. But your wife will have to accept that your precious Mersha comes first.”

He said it with a pout, trying to make Blas lighten up. But instead of laughing, to Detmer’s surprise, Blas threw his arms around Detmer and pulled him into a humid, passionate kiss.

“You’d better not be just messing with my head, Detmer Verán,” he whispered, rolling over to crush Detmer into the mattress, his cock urgently hard again. “But you are, aren’t you? You’re a politician. That’s what you do.”

Detmer reared up against Blas to rub against the stiff bulge, his own arousal sharpening to a point. “And you’re a humorless judge who throws people in detention,” he said breathlessly. “But I want you, and I keep on wanting you. That’s all I know.”

Blas’s own breath came fast and hard. “Show me how much you want me,” he said, his fingers like iron on Detmer’s shoulders as he ground down with his hips. “Tonight and always. Show me you’re mine.”

Detmer was on fire, he was melting, and the red-hot core was in his groin. “Oh, I will, Fir. Believe me, I will.”

In a dark alley of Ring Eight, amid whirling snow, Detmer reached for Blas and pulled him in for a last kiss. “Are you sure,” he whispered when their lips parted, “that you don’t want to come home with me?”

Blas’s body said, No, not sure, but his mouth said, “Another time. I need to stop at the office and pick up some files.”

Detmer rubbed his face against the shoulder of Blas’s tweed overcoat. He felt very aware that he was wearing his Laborer costume—a loose parka and big boots, so unlike Blas’s more structured garments. Funny how those uncomfortable Strutter clothes suddenly became sexy when you weren’t the one wearing them.

“I want to see you soon.” He let his voice fall to a growl. “I demand to see you soon.”

Blas’s breath hitched audibly. “You will, love,” he said, gently pushing Detmer away. “Maybe I should come to your office in the Sector one day and ambush you.”

Was that a joke? Detmer hoped not; he could practically taste the sweetness of need in his mouth. “I’ll be waiting.”

After that, it was hard to walk away, but the thoroughfare took them in opposite directions. Detmer paused to watch Blas’s tall figure striding through a group of kids who were having a snowball fight. Some things were universal—hadn’t they both lobbed snowballs at recess, back in the day? For a moment, his aching need for Blas mingled with nostalgia for a time when everything had been simpler.

One of the snowballs hit Blas squarely in the back.

An accident, Detmer thought. Poor aim. Blas clearly thought so, too; he shook off the missile and continued on his way.

Then someone whistled shrilly up the street, and a voice from above called, “Dirty Strutter—he put my cousin in detention! Get him!”

Three of the kids darted ahead to block Blas’s path, an action so smooth it could have been coordinated. To Detmer, hurrying back to his friend, they looked less like “kids” now than like fairly imposing youths.

The smaller ones kept their distance and let loose with their entire arsenal of snowballs, laughing wildly when they scored a direct hit. “Gray-jacket!” they chanted. Meanwhile, one of the bigger boys marched up to Blas and gave him a hard shove.

They couldn’t really mean to hurt him? This was a bad dream. Detmer ran toward his friend, his boots sinking into the powdery snow and slowing him down. The distance of a block seemed to stretch to a mile.

Blas staggered backward into the arms of a sturdy girl, who pushed him back at the boy. “Fucking gray-jacket,” she said. “How many people have you sent away to rot, Fir?”

Blas raised his hands and made what sounded like an attempt to reason with them. But their jeers cut him off: “Gray-jacket!” “Strutter!” “Tyrant!” “’Bout time someone showed you how it feels!”

“That’s an examining magistrate!” Detmer yelled breathlessly as he ran, doing what he hoped was a passable Ring Eight accent. “Get the fuck away from him if you don’t want to rot yourselves!”

But the young Dissidents—if they were actual Dissidents—seemed to have no regard for their own self-preservation. One of them took a swing at Blas’s jaw.

Blas blocked the fist deftly with his forearm. Another kid punched Blas hard in the stomach, and that blow hit home. Still floundering through the snow toward the group, Detmer could feel the impact in his own gut.

He could only watch as his lover slumped to the ground. Get up, Blasha! Do something!

But Blas wasn’t getting up. The biggest youths formed a ring around him and began to kick him, the dull thuds of their boots slicing through the cold air along with their taunts: “Parasite!” “Jailer!” And a name that rang a faint bell for Detmer: “Johan Greisson!”

Detmer had to pause to catch his breath, his vision hazy with terror. It was recess at school all over again—and those years hadn’t really been so innocent, had they? Detmer had taken his share of cuffs and kicks from bigger boys. Whenever they chose some other unlucky victim, he didn’t try to stop them; he was grateful.

But this was different. This was Blas.

Trembling all over, he launched himself at the circle of miscreants, using his skull as a battering ram to force his way between them. “Little shit-stains! Don’t you know that’s the General Magistrate’s son?”

That shut everyone up, at least momentarily. The biggest kids edged away from Detmer, glancing uncertainly from him to their victim. Blas lay face down in the snow, motionless.

Detmer’s throat cinched tight, and then anger rolled over him like a roaring, spitting firestorm. He thrashed out at the nearest attackers with his feet and fists. When he made contact, bloody triumph sang in his temples, though no one was fighting back.

He chased one of the teenagers away from Blas, then wheeled around to pursue another. They retreated from his fury but not far, as if they knew he lacked the strength to really hurt them. Their eyes glittered.

“You’ll rot in detention!” Detmer bellowed, though he feared it came out more like a squeak. “Every one of you!”

Above him, from a window, a woman’s voice called, “Traitor! What are you, the magistrate’s whore?”

“Collaborator!” someone else cried. “Don’t defend a gray-jacket!”

“They’re killing us!”

“Your friend’s a Johan Greisson!” one of the boys shouted at Detmer. “Dirty tyrant! We should hang him!”

“No!” said the girl who had pushed Blas. “If he’s really the GM’s son, we’ll take him prisoner! Let her see how it feels when your kin just disappear!”

Shit. Detmer threw himself to his knees beside Blas. “You’re not taking him anywhere!”

“Hostage, hostage!” the woman chanted above them.

From the far end of the street, a siren whined. Everyone heard it, but no one moved.

“Leave, you idiots!” Detmer yelled. “Scatter! This isn’t worth getting detained for!”

To his intense relief, the woman upstairs agreed with him. “Get inside!” she called to the kids. “They got rifles!”

For a moment, the youths exchanged wild glances, as if they thought this might be the day to try their luck against the Constables. But reason prevailed. They scattered in an instant, melting back into crevices and alleys as if they’d never been there, leaving only Detmer hunched over Blas’s still form.

Every gulp of air was a dagger in Detmer’s lungs. He had never in his life felt so glad to see the gray-jacketed Constables arrive on one of their bulky urban snow skimmers.

He rolled Blas over carefully to get his face out of the snow. Blas’s eyes were closed, and his hair was matted with blood on one side. A whimper rose in Detmer’s throat.

He swallowed it—this was no time to be weak—and stood up to face the two Constables. They marched over from the parked skimmer, looking bored and disdainful of him. Probably they thought they’d interrupted a street fight among their own kind.

He mustered his most commanding Strutter voice: “Get backup and an emergency med unit now, lads! Those shirkers just tried to kill your boss.”

The med-van took them out of Ring Eight to one of the Strutter hospitals in Ring Four. As Detmer crouched beside Blas’s gurney, clutching his hand and trying to ignore the keening of sirens and the jabber of the medics’ radio, it occurred to him to wonder why the detour was necessary. If the emergency care in Ring Eight was good enough for Ring Eighters, why wasn’t it good enough for Blas?

He knew the answer, of course, just as he knew that at least some of the things those kids had been shouting in the street were true. They’re killing us. How many people have you sent away to rot, Fir?

Blas did send people away to detention and moral rehab, probably often on the slightest suspicion of a subversive attitude. It was his job, and Detmer didn’t like it, though he’d never told Blas so.

But was vigilantism the answer? Kicking a man to death on the street? If the oppressed workers of Right Eight wanted real justice, surely they could do better than that.

Then Blas opened his eyes and looked straight at Detmer and asked in a weak voice, “What’s that noise? Where are we?”, and Detmer forgot everything else.

At the hospital, the reception admins tried to turn Detmer away. He wasn’t a relation, they pointed out, eyeing his clothing, and “This clinic doesn’t serve Laborers.”

Detmer considered showing them his real ID. Then something inside him snapped, and he barked, “I’m the patient’s boyfriend, and he’s the GM’s son, and he needs me here.”

That did the trick.

Next came a flurry of doctors and imaging tests, which revealed that Blas had two broken ribs and a concussion. The latter appeared to be mild, but the head clinician insisted on keeping him under observation to make sure no areas of subdural hemorrhage developed.

“I’m staying,” Detmer told everyone who approached Blas, whether or not they questioned his presence.

As dawn approached, they finally got Blas settled in a private room. Detmer pulled up a chair beside the bed, wide awake and running on adrenaline and strong tea offered by a kindly medic-assistant.

Blas’s hand crept across the blankets toward him. Detmer grasped it. “Are you hungry? Thirsty? Still no nausea? I could get you water, or maybe an herbal infusion?”

Blas shook his head. He hadn’t talked much except to answer the doctors’ questions, and his voice came out slow and thick: “You don’t have to stay here, love. Work in the Sector must be starting soon.”

“Fuck work.” It felt good to say those words and feel justified for once. “You really think I’d leave you?”

“But I’m barely hurt.” Blas coughed raspily; he’d suffered some nasty bruises to his throat and chest from the youths’ work boots. “They’re only being extra vigilant because of my mother. I wish you hadn’t mentioned her.”

“They saw your ID. They would have figured it out for themselves.” Detmer still felt an antsy urge to punch someone. “And those little punks could’ve killed you, easy. Would have killed you.”

Blas shook his bandaged head. “You don’t know Eighters like I do, Mersha. Random bad apples crop up. But I’d warrant most of those kids were just going along with the crowd.”

Except they had a reason to hate you. Nothing random about it. Much as Detmer despised the attackers, he hadn’t forgotten the inciter’s claim—that Blas had put someone’s cousin in detention. Examining magistrates made people disappear, and sometimes those people never returned.

This was no time to discuss his feelings about Blas’s posting, though. “They would’ve come after me, too, if I’d been dressed in my real clothes,” he said, stroking Blas’s hand. “They hate all of us. I thought I was helping by mentioning your mom, but that gave them the brilliant idea of taking you hostage.”

“Mersha.” Blas was the one soothing him now. “You did everything you could. You rescued me from a dangerous situation.”

“I didn’t, though! I didn’t know what to do!” Just remembering made Detmer tremble from head to foot again. “When they first knocked you down, I froze and watched them do it.”

“That’s a natural reaction. You haven’t been trained for combat.”

Detmer shook his head—he couldn’t let Blas think he’d been even remotely heroic. He pressed Blas’s hand to his chest. “I crack under pressure, Blasha. When I was seven, my Prime class went out beyond the Outer Ring for the test where they make you build a fire and assemble a generator. And I just froze. I let my partner do all the work while I sat there and bawled because I thought I was getting frostbite. Ask anybody from my school cohort. They used to call me Red Nose.”

Blas’s eyelids had fluttered closed, but now they opened. He squeezed Detmer’s hand. “You were seven. Of course you were terrified by the Wastes—we all were.”

But not everybody had shown their terror. Detmer wondered what had possessed him to tell that story. No one needed to know it who didn’t already.

Him, a rebel! That was a laugh. Tilrey had surely guessed how weak he was; it was why he never trusted Detmer with anything important. Put Detmer in an Int/Sec cell, and he would snivel and spill everything he knew.

“After that, my dad sat me down and gave me a lecture,” he said. “He warned me I would disgrace the Verán name if I didn’t learn to hide my emotions like a normal person. And I try! But when they knocked you down and started kicking you, I . . .” A tear spilled down his cheek, and he wiped it impatiently away with his free hand. “I panicked. I acted like a fool.”

Blas patted Detmer’s hand. “You did exactly the right thing,” he said stubbornly. “I was unconscious for most of it, but I know how things turned out.”

“And now I’m making it all about me.” Detmer wasn’t sure if he was chuckling or sobbing. He’d tried to make Blas think he was above it all, a decadent elite who didn’t fear anybody or anything, even ridicule. “You’re lying here consoling me, and you’re the one who’s going to have lifelong trauma from tonight.”

“I am not! I’ll be fine.” Blas tugged Detmer’s hand up to his lips and brushed it with a kiss. “I’ll be stoic enough for both of us, okay? Why don’t you get in bed with me? There’s room.”

Detmer didn’t hesitate. But just as he settled on the edge of the bed, the door hissed open behind him. He tugged his hand free of Blas’s and slid his feet to the floor as the rich, refined tones of a familiar female voice filled the room.

“Blasha! Green hills and valleys, what have those wretches done to you?”

It was Davita Lindblom.

Detmer had watched the General Magistrate countless times on the Council floor and occasionally stood near her in a crowd, but he had never experienced the power of her presence quite like this. Tall and dignified, with dark hair piled on her head and a shawl draping her shoulders, she swept into the room on a wave of spicy perfume and perched herself on the other side of Blas’s bed. She didn’t even glance at Detmer.

“My first-born son!” She leaned over to examine Blas’s bandages. “How many times have I told you you’d get hurt in that blasted job of yours?”

Blas’s expression had closed up. “Hundreds. But as you can see, Mother, I’m barely hurt at all.”

“They targeted you! They beat you within an inch of your life!” Blas opened his mouth to object, but the Magistrate cut him off. “I heard the report straight from one of your colleagues. With the unrest in the city, none of us are safe in Laborer districts, you least of all. I’m reposting you tomorrow.”

Blas’s eyes narrowed. “Over my dead body.”

“That’s what it’ll take, isn’t it?” Shaking her head, the Magistrate looked up—and, at last, noticed Detmer. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

She didn’t recognize him. Maybe it was the Laborer clothes, or maybe he really was that much of a nonentity in the Sector.

“A friend of your son’s, Fir’n,” Detmer said with the humility he knew she would expect from a Drudge. It might be easier for all of them if he stayed in his disguise a little longer.

But Blas raised himself on his elbows and ordered him, “Tell her! No more pretending.”

“Shh, love.” Davita pressed her son back down on his back. “You’re supposed to be resting quietly.”

“Fine!” Blas’s eyes flashed toward Detmer again. “Say your full name, Detmer.”

Detmer sighed. “Detmer Verán.”

“He’s Visha Verán’s grandson,” Blas told his mother as if the words were obscenities. “He works in the Sector like you, and we’re together because we’re together, and no, he isn’t the answer to your prayers, the nice boyfriend who’s supposed to lead me to a nice wife. I’m going to keep disappointing you. Understand?”

Davita gave Detmer a second look, this time a long one. His cheeks burned—not just with shame but with pleasure, because of what Blas had called him.

“I know you, lad,” the Magistrate said. “You’re on the staff of my colleague István. His nephew?”

“Cousin.”

She cocked a brow. “And you’re in wardrobe violation.”

Detmer ducked his head. “Are you going to report me?”

“No.” She was still scrutinizing him. “I knew your grandfather well. You look like him, but those pretty eyes must come from your mother’s side. He wouldn’t have approved of whatever game you’re playing here, young Verán.”

Detmer didn’t remember much about his grandfather besides a disapproving scowl. He had a feeling, though, that the Magistrate wasn’t quite as firm in her own disapproval as she wanted him to think.

He raised his eyes in the way he often used on his own mother, letting the lashes flutter. “I’m sorry you have to see me this way, Fir’n Magistrate. It was just a bit of playacting.”

“It’s not her business,” Blas said sharply.

Overlapping him, his mother said, “I don’t need to know any more than that.”

“I’m glad you’re willing to give me some privacy.” But Blas was clearly too weak to keep up his end of the argument. His head lolled back on the pillow, his eyes glazing. “Mersha saved me, Mom. Without him, I’d have had my head kicked in.”

“The gray-jackets saved you,” Detmer muttered. “I panicked.”

But Davita was busy bending worriedly over her son and stroking his blood-matted hair. “Be quiet now, sweetheart. Just rest.” She glanced up at Detmer. “Are we allowed to let him sleep?”

He nodded. “They just said to wake him after a few hours.”

Blas’s eyes had slipped closed. “Mersha’s not gonna help you find a wife for me,” he said. “I know you want him to, but don’t get any ideas.”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Davita rested a palm on her son’s forehead. “Your future marriage is the last thing on my mind right now.”

Detmer remembered his own mother touching him there when he was feverish. For a ridiculous instant, he wished he had someone in his adult life who adored him as much as the Magistrate obviously adored her son.

Blas’s eyelids fluttered again. “Who’s Johan Greisson?”

“What’s that, sweetheart?” Davita glanced up at Detmer, her expression asking, Should we be worried that he isn’t making sense?

“Some of them called me that.” Blas opened glassy eyes into Detmer’s. “Why? Did they mistake me for somebody else?”

Detmer remembered the cries from the crowd—and where he knew that name from. “No,” he said. “Johan Greisson is a character in Their Ways Parted—the stream,” he added, since both mother and son looked mystified. “It’s very popular. Greisson is a Constable who’s brutal and corrupt. He takes bribes and twists the law to please himself.”

Davita looked scandalized. “This is on a stream? The Bureau of Diversions allowed a peace officer to be portrayed this way?”

Blas uttered a hacking laugh. “Ask Dad about it. He watches all the streams.”

“Your father’s no arbiter of appropriateness.” Davita returned to stroking Blas’s hair, trying to soothe him. “If this is the entertainment we’re giving Laborers, it’s no surprise they’re attacking us.”

“When the system needs internal critique, fiction cuts deeper than fact,” Blas quoted.

His mother rolled her eyes. “Whyberg wasn’t talking about silly stories for Drudges when he wrote that.”

“Who says they’re silly? Maybe there’s truth there.” But Blas’s eyes were closing again.

They sat awhile in silence, letting Blas doze off. Davita held one of her son’s hands, and after a painful interval of hesitation, Detmer reached for the other. After all, Blas had said they were together.

Eventually, Blas rolled onto his side, his breaths encouragingly deep and even. They both released him. Detmer looked up—and froze, because the Magistrate’s great dark eyes, so like her son’s, were fixed on him.

“I don’t trust you,” she said.

He tried to stay steady under that gaze, hoping she hadn’t seen him with Tilrey. “Why not? Just the way I’m dressed?”

“You’re all wrong for my Blas. He’s so earnest—painfully so—and you have the smallest glint in your eye. The wrong kind of glint.”

“I do?” Could she read the signs of Dissidence in his face? Did she know that he’d been half sympathizing with the mob that had attacked her son?

Davita nodded. “Anyway, my Blas never chooses appropriate partners of his own Level—believe me, I know. How did you get past his defenses? Did you pretend to be someone you weren’t?”

That was a lucky guess, Detmer hoped. “Now you’re calling me appropriate? I thought you said I was all wrong.”

“Oh, you are. But on paper, you’re perfect for him.”

Detmer’s instincts told him that protesting wouldn’t go over well with her. So he said, “I’ve had a crush on Blas since University, Fir’n Magistrate. I know we aren’t very much alike—except in our lineage—but I guess that’s part of the attraction. When I finally found a way to make him notice me, I went for it. I pursued him shamelessly, if you want to know the truth.”

“By putting on a Drudge costume?”

She didn’t look disgusted. Maybe she even understood. “Sometimes. It makes him more comfortable with me. And the earnestness you were talking about?” Detmer said, gaining courage. “That’s my favorite thing about Blas. I like to make him laugh.”

Davita’s expression didn’t change. “That’s good. Blas needs to laugh occasionally.”

“I think so.”

“But he needs more than that.” Something shifted in her eyes. Their expression softened and deepened, appealing directly to him. “He needs to quit his ridiculous job and come work in the Core, where he won’t be in constant danger from malcontents.”

At last, Detmer agreed with her on something. “I can try to convince him,” he said. “But I don’t think I’ll get far. He thinks he’s doing good in Ring Eight.”

“He is,” Davita said as if it were obvious. “But that’s not the point.”

Detmer wondered if removing Blas from Ring Eight would actually benefit anyone there. Maybe not. Whoever replaced him would probably be harsher and less interested in treating the residents like human beings.

But Davita was right. They were talking about what would benefit Blas himself. “He’s more likely to listen to you than me,” he said.

She sighed as if he were very thick. “Can’t you see? He does the opposite of listen to me. He took this posting because he knew I’d hate it.”

But Blas adores you just as much as you adore him. Detmer was already sure of it. Love worked strangely in some families, he supposed; in his own, it barely worked at all. “I don’t think he’d give up his posting for me, either,” he said.

“Maybe not, but it’s worth a try.” Davita reached across her son’s prone form and tapped Detmer on the forearm. “That glint of trickery in your eye? Use that, young Verán. I can always spot a clever little schemer, and that’s what you are. Use all your wits to persuade my son to come back where he belongs. I’ll make sure you’re rewarded.”