Chapter 20: To Remake — The Key of Oslov

Volume 17: The Tinderbox

Chapter 20 To Remake

Chapter Notes

So yeah, it’s a really long chapter that refers to a lot of stuff from past stories, from The Trip to Harbour to Tilrey’s dark past in All the Kinds of Broken. I guess this is how we approach the endgame, which the conclusion of this story will set up.

Chapter Notes

21 October, year 374

“I have to warn you,” Ambassador Ludtten said to Tilrey as they sat on one of the central benches in the Embassy’s courtyard, “we’ll have an unwelcome companion at meals.”“Who?” Tilrey asked. His flight had landed in Harbour less than an hour ago, and already his heart felt lighter. It was an unseasonably mild autumn night, the stars shining through a light haze, and a breeze shook dry leaves off the trees and wafted them onto the courtyard paths. Tomorrow he had a full round of people to see and tasks to check off, but tonight he would simply enjoy the view.The Ambassador made a face. “Councillor Lindahl.”That startled Tilrey out of his pleasant reverie. “But why? He’s never shown any interest in Harbour.”“Apparently he has a pet agricultural pilot project. They’re trying to grow apple trees in greenhouses so we won’t have to import the fruit. He explained it over dinner and practically sent me into a coma.” Malkina Ludtten rolled her vivacious dark eyes. She was about Tilrey’s age, an inveterate flirt with a boundless appetite for gossip. “Anyway, on the spur of the moment, Lindahl decided he needed a change of scene and flew out to do hands-on research on his beloved apples. They waived the security protocols for him.”Tilrey sighed, remembering the endless forms he’d had to fill out. “Lindahl’s friends with the head of the Int/Sec Committee.”“That explains that.” Ludtten shot him a coy glance. “Why the sudden need to get out of Oslov, though? He’s done nothing since he got here but complain, so I don’t think he came for our balmy weather. Did something happen in the Council, by any chance?”“Now that you mention it…” Though Tilrey had no desire to dine with Lindahl, he couldn’t help grinning. “Have you heard of a stream called Their Ways Parted? Well, the episode that just aired told all of Oslov a few of Lindahl’s secrets…”“And here’s the route the tank will take up Main Street,” Gregoria said, her slim fingers sketching a map on the back of a scrap of paper. “Oslov’s primary supply depot is at the top, a mile from the Embassy and the airfield.”“What about the fighter jets?” Tilrey asked, bending over the rough-hewn table. Although the sun shone outside, smoke-stained windows kept the cabin dark. “If we don’t control at least three of the four, our tanks and ground weaponry will be useless.”“Ranek has a plan for that,” Peony said. She was on her knees building a fire in the stone hearth. “We have a couple of people inside the airfield, and at least two of the pilots are with us. We’re working on a third, but it takes time.”Tilrey knew that only too well. Facing down the arsenal of the Republic of Oslov was a terrifying prospect, but it was the only way to take over the city of Bettevy and hold Oslov’s supply of Harbourer goods hostage.And striking the Republic at this weak point could be the only way to force it to change—unless the legends of the backdoor passwords were true.Einara might rely on that faint possibility, but he couldn’t.He crossed his arms on the table, shivering in today’s autumn chill. He didn’t envy Peony and Gregoria, both of whom he’d known since they were kids, living in this drafty hovel that smelled of the strings of onions and garlic drying above the hearth. “How have things been for you two here in Bettevy? It must be strange after the Southern Hearth.”Gregoria made a dismissive sound. “After being fenced up all my life? It couldn’t be anything but an improvement.”“There are parts that are hard for her, though—like speaking Harbourer all the time.” Having coaxed a feeble flame from the hearth, Peony came to sit beside Gregoria. She patted her wife’s hand. “You hate that, don’t you, sweetie? But we have to be fluent in both languages.”“I don’t hate it! I just wish my accent were better. It’s a lot of work to blend in.” Gregoria plucked at her ankle-length skirt, so different from the coveralls she had grown up wearing in the Southern Hearth. “The Harbourers call us ‘spinsters.’ We have to pretend not to be married because they might be offended. I like the freedom to move around, but their customs are strange.”“I’m a Harbourer,” Peony reminded her. Though she was tall and womanly now, with her red hair braided on her head, she still had the restless energy that Tilrey remembered from when he’d met her as a scrawny, rebellious teenager.“I know, but you’ve lived with us for so long! You don’t have the local prejudices.” Gregoria sighed. “Before our number came up to settle here, we were talking about having a kid.”“We still could,” Peony said.“Here? It doesn’t feel safe. There are no proper clinics, nothing.”“That could change.” Peony turned her gaze to Tilrey, and he saw hope shining there. “After we take over the city, after you control your whole government, you can start sharing your technology with us.”“That’s the plan.” Tilrey tried to speak confidently. “Everything that you had in the Southern Hearth, you can and should have here—with Duke Dalziel’s consent, of course. He’ll remain the local sovereign.”The plan must sound so simple to these two—control Bettevy to control Redda. But they had never seen Redda for themselves—the skyscrapers, the majesty of Government Sector, the sheer might of troops, weaponry, and tradition. Their lives had been confined to a miniature, more egalitarian version of Oslov. They couldn’t imagine the scale of the task.“Or we could just get one of us pregnant the old-fashioned way,” Peony said, wrapping her arm around Gregoria’s shoulders. “I’ve got my eye on the baker’s lad at the market—he seems eager for a tumble. I don’t think he’d care about his paternal rights.”“Stop it!” Gregoria elbowed her, color rising to her cheeks in the firelight. “You are not going to sleep with the baker’s lad.”“He’s not bad looking.” Peony winked at Tilrey. “She’s fearsomely jealous and easy to tease.”Gregoria shook her head. “It’s just strange,” she told Tilrey. “All the laws and customs I know come from a place thousands of miles away where I’ve never been. I worry about raising a child here, in a place that doesn’t feel like home to me. But I don’t have a real home, do I?”Maybe not. Tilrey’s breath caught, and he opened his mouth to say what he was thinking: that they all needed to accept the possibility of failure. Blending in with the Bettevan population, accepting the label of “spinsters” and raising their child to speak Harbourer, might be the smartest thing these two could do.But Peony spoke before he could. “I escaped from home and raised myself in a weird place that scared the shit out of me, and I turned out fine. Mostly because I met you,” she said, bending to kiss her wife’s forehead. “Don’t be afraid, Gorsha. We’ll work it out.”Then she raised her eyes to Tilrey. “Won’t we?”“Yes.” Looking into her face, he wanted so badly to believe it. “Things are changing in Redda. Gregoria may even see her parents’ homeland one day.” Like all Oslov visitors to Harbour, Tilrey wore an Int/Sec tracker on his ankle to ensure he didn’t light out for the countryside. But he wasn’t worried that his wanderings around the city would be interpreted as suspicious. He walked for miles every time he came to Bettevy, visiting all his favorite places.A few blocks down from Peony and Gregoria’s home, which perched among other ragtag buildings on the brow of the hill, he ducked into an alley and took off the hooded cloak he’d been wearing. Underneath were the Oslov clothes in which he would visit the garrison.The outfit he wore now—a slate-blue jerkin and trousers—was basically the same as the one he’d worn as Gersha’s secretary at age twenty-four. It had never occurred to him to want his clothing to reflect his actual growth in power and status. But now, as he headed downhill, he wished he could look a little more imposing when he met with Col. Aurinthal, the base commander.Scuffling through flurries of fallen leaves, he noted how no two passersby were dressed alike. Harbourers had hundreds of ways of conveying their social position through their clothing—costly fabrics and dyes, embroidery, jewelry. They could even dress to please their personal tastes.The sky was blue overhead, and where the town ended, a crisp breeze whipped up whitecaps on the lake. The mountains on the far shore glowed crimson, gold, and purple. The first time Tilrey came here in the autumn, he’d gawked at those mountains until Duke Dalziel explained how dying leaves transform the landscape.Tilrey wished he could show Ceill those colors. The boy loved nature; it was unfair to make him spend most of his life in a treeless, sterile city.As Tilrey turned to gaze after a woman passing on a bicycle, wearing a particularly vivid red dress, something caught his eye—a dark-clad figure slipping between two outbuildings.Was someone following him? The Duke and the Ambassador were always scolding him for walking unaccompanied, but Tilrey had never felt threatened by Bettevy’s lawless elements. They kept their distance, whether because he was an Oslov or because of his sheer size.He continued down the hill with a relaxed, rolling stride, reminding himself to remain aware of his surroundings. On days like this, he remembered how Malsha had dreamed of retiring to Harbour. But Tilrey loved Redda, too, for all its flaws, and he would probably never be in a position to leave for good.In the best-case scenario, someday he and Gersha might be able to rent a little house in Bettevy for a month every year. With the restrictions on travel relaxed, Ceill could stay there with them. Hell, he could even invite Janta along if he wanted.The thought of Janta jolted Tilrey back to reality. He’d promised the boy he’d take him out to the Wastes to find those terminals. That was an act of treason; if Davita knew, she could have both him and Janta exiled. Tilrey had chosen his path, but would that be fair to Janta? To Ceill?All roads led to revolution in the end. Not everything could be solved in the comfort of the Council chamber. But if Tilrey didn’t handle things carefully—perfectly—there would be bloodshed. And people like Janta, Peony, and Gregoria would be on the front lines.He whispered a silent vow to himself, repeating the vow that Whyberg had famously made about his own revolution: Not a drop of innocent blood spilt. Not a drop.The Oslov garrison had been built onto an old stone armory that hugged the hillside a few blocks above the waterfront. Its official mission was to protect “free trade” on all sides of the lake, which actually meant protecting shipments of goods bound for Oslov.Before Tilrey could see the building, he heard the harsh cries of a commanding officer drilling his troops. The sound sent a shiver of misgiving through him.He knew that a good portion of the soldiers in the garrison were allies of the True Hearth, handpicked by their officers, who had in turn been recommended by his friend Gavril Ardaly for their Dissident sympathies. But they were still soldiers of the Republic.Approaching the door, he saw twenty or thirty troops drilling in the grassy courtyard that faced the street. They all wore the rust-red uniforms that were designed to stand out aggressively against the whites and grays of Redda.Here in Harbour, the color didn’t stand out at all, but it still made his stomach twist with a reflex of dread. When you’ve been raped by seven men in uniform, you don’t soon forget it.To his relief, the sentry at the door seemed to know him by sight. “Fir Bronn? Colonel Aurinthal is expecting you.”They traversed a high-ceilinged corridor walled with rough stone. The shouts of the drill sergeant still echoed faintly there, and Tilrey focused on keeping his posture confident.Beirthrande Aurinthal sat in a whitewashed office with her feet on the desk, smoking. She didn’t try to hide the pipe when her subordinate entered, only smiled crookedly at Tilrey’s look of surprise. “Back to your post, Private.”Aurinthal had gotten a little stouter in the twenty-one years since Tilrey and Gersha had met her in the Wastes, but age hadn’t shaken her casually insolent demeanor. Tilrey had had misgivings about giving her the command here. But her loyalty was steadfast and she got results, even if she used unorthodox methods.“You’re looking well, Rishka,” she said, giving him a once-over. “A little pale and peaked—but that comes of living in the mother country, right?” She slid her feet to the floor, rose with a grunt, and offered him the pipe. “Drag? We get some very nice stuff from the southern territories.”Tilrey shook his head. “Aren’t you worried about a visit from the Ambassador or a general?”“Oh, they don’t care. No one cares here.” She opened the door and ushered him through it. “How about a little tour of the facility? We’ve built on a new wing since you were here last.”Tilrey followed her through the labyrinth of the garrison, from the older stone sections to newly built ones that obeyed the Oslov aesthetic of white and more white. Aurinthal pointed out the new improvements with a pompousness that any general would have been proud of. They filled the gaps with chitchat about Gersha’s absence and Ceill’s studies and Aurinthal’s own family back in Redda, and soon enough they’d crossed the mess hall and the kitchen and found themselves in a little stone-walled pantry with no outlet.Aurinthal closed and bolted the door. “This room is clean,” she said, turning to Tilrey. “Did Peony and Gregoria brief you?”Tilrey nodded. He’d already known most of what the two women had told him from Gersha’s communications with Ranek Egil, but it was still helpful to go over things face-to-face. “They say you’re having some trouble with the airfield.”“Well, what do you expect?” Aurinthal exhaled, lifting a curl of white hair aloft. “Those flyboys are nothing like my grunts. They come up through a different system, and they can zip back to Redda any time they want. They don’t develop attachments to the natives.”“And your garrison troops do?”“Do they ever.” Aurinthal pulled out a rickety chair and sat down, not bothering to offer him a seat. “What, you think I win them over with shiny Dissident ideals? By telling them they could have rep in the Council? Nah.” She laughed hoarsely, then took another drag on her pipe. “My guys are basic, Tilrey. They only respond to things that get them in the feels—or in the balls. One of their favorite things is boning the natives, even though it’s against regulation.”“Consensually, I hope,” Tilrey said.“Of course!” Aurinthal waved dismissively. “Some go to brothels, some just make a special friend. And some of them form attachments, like I said. You know how I really got nearly two-thirds of this garrison on our side?”She didn’t wait for him to ask her to elaborate. “There was this lieutenant, Eirchvann, who was popular with everybody. He takes a shine to a Harbourer girl and gets her pregnant, and next thing we know, he’s trying to petition central command to let her come home with him as his wife.” Aurinthal chuckled at the sheer absurdity of the request. “He refused to take no for an answer and made a stink with the Ambassador, who made me strip him of his rank and send him home to moral rehab.”To Aurinthal, to any officer in the Republic’s military, there was nothing cruel about such a punishment. By reproducing with a Harbourer, the lieutenant had, essentially, tried to defect, which the state defined as a sign of insanity. “And the mother of his child?” Tilrey asked.He must have looked apprehensive, because Aurinthal said, “Don’t worry! Eirchvann’s buddies were mad as hell about what happened to him. They took up a collection to buy his girlfriend a little house; they look after her. They’re sweet fellows, these young recruits, but so naïve. And I swear, just like that, a bunch of them were suddenly convinced that the system needs to change. Radicalized, I guess you’d say.”“Do you encourage that?”“Not openly! I pretend to turn a blind eye and let my lower officers do the organizing. Everybody thinks I’m a clueless, grandmotherly sort of leader who gives infinite second chances.” She winked. “Anyway, the Eirchvann affair is when the tide turned in this garrison. A soldier’s in the minority now if they do want to go home to Redda. Some of them even talk about moving their families here one day.”“Good.” Tilrey wondered what Egil and the other Southern Hearthers would think of this fast-and-dirty recruitment method. Soldiers who signed on to a revolution for selfish reasons might not be reliable allies in the long haul.But you could say the same of the student protestors in Redda, or the Free Northmen in Thurskein, or the Ring Eighters who were suddenly riled up about the brutality of the justice system. Each of these rebellious factions had its own wants and grievances, far more compelling than any political theory. Maybe get them in the feels was the only method that worked.“If I told you that I wanted you to cut off all shipments to Oslov tomorrow,” he asked, “could you?”Aurinthal snapped her fingers. “Easy. I’d have my guys go down to the lakefront and close the port. Block it with a tank. But as long as central command controls the airfield, we wouldn’t be able to hold the port long.”“Then we’ll work on the airfield.” Tilrey wondered whether he knew anyone with connections in the air force. Maybe Besha’s far-reaching web of contacts would come in handy again.They left the pantry and parted ways at the door of Aurinthal’s office. The colonel stopped a passing lieutenant, an older man, and ordered him to escort Tilrey to the city wall, where a ground-van would be waiting to bring him back to the Embassy.“It’s not safe for you to wander the streets alone,” Aurinthal told Tilrey when he protested, slapping him on the back. “Not that you can’t defend yourself, but it’s better to be armed in this city.”Meanwhile, the lieutenant glared at Tilrey—disgusted, Tilrey supposed, at being ordered to attend to someone of such a low Level. That attitude was nothing new to him.So he was startled when, as they stepped out into the street, the lieutenant asked, “Don’t you recognize me, Nettsha?”Tilrey couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the vile nickname that the Islanders used to call him. “Why would I?” he snapped.But then, looking more closely at the lieutenant, he did recognize the combination of wide blue eyes, short stature, broad shoulders, and delicate features, now webbed with wrinkles. “Vlastor?”The man shook his head caustically. Tilrey remembered that gesture all too well, too, from the days when he’d been Majority Leader Verán’s kettle boy and Vlastor had been the Councillor’s driver.“We only lived together for what, two years?” Vlastor said. “I hope you haven’t forgotten all your old friends.”We weren’t friends. Tilrey bit back the words before he could say them aloud. Vlastor, like Ansha, was part of a time in his life that he preferred not to be reminded of. “I hope you’re doing well,” he said stiffly. “Weren’t you meaning to start a family?”“That I did. Sirka and I have two fine boys, both grown now. Meiks is in the Constabulary, and Jan-Helmer flies a V9 Stinger. I always dreamed of flying myself, but by the time I re-enlisted, it was too late to learn.”The man rattled on about his sons’ accomplishments, his monologue full of military jargon. Tilrey heard very little of it.During the month or so when he was locked in a small room in Verán’s apartment, Vlastor had been his jailer. Vlastor chaperoned him to the gym, ordered him up and into the shower when it was time to work, gave him sap to keep him compliant, and coaxed him to eat when food turned his stomach.In a disconnected way, Tilrey remembered crouching naked under the bedclothes and shuddering so violently that he couldn’t hold a cup or a bowl. He remembered Vlastor raising a tumbler to his lips and spooning broth into his mouth. The man wasn’t cruel, but he was always exasperated with Tilrey. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? What was all the fuss about? Don’t you know how lucky you are?Then there were the threats: Eat this whole bowl of rice, or I’ll tell the Fir, and you’ll be in moral rehab tomorrow. Do you know what they do there to lads who won’t eat? There are straps, Nettsha. There are needles. I’m just looking out for you.The clamor of the street faded around Tilrey. The colors blurred. The air grew colder, and the sun beat down roughly as he remembered being twenty years old in Redda.Vlastor had dressed and undressed him. Even fucked him once or twice, though only on Verán’s orders.And now this same Vlastor was living out his golden years in an easy posting in sunny Harbour and boring everyone by bragging about his kids. It wasn’t that Tilrey wished him ill, but...“What about you, lad?” Vlastor asked, reaching the end of his litany of his sons’ achievements. “What brings you to see Colonel Aurinthal?” His eyes ran over Tilrey’s clothes. “Still doing errands for Councillors?”“Fir Councillor Gádden entrusts me with his affairs.” Tilrey’s own voice sounded cold and unnatural to him. “I’m his secretary now.”“You got a wife? Kids?”“No.” Vlastor wasn’t the sort of person he could or would tell about Ceill.The surprise on Vlastor’s face quickly turned to pity. “A handsome lad like you could still wed at your age. I never thought Fir Gádden was that type.”“What type?” The words came out sharper than Tilrey meant them to.“Well … jealous. Possessive. He was always so fond of you, I thought he might let you have your freedom and still see him on the side.”“I have all the freedom I want.” They were climbing the steep part of the hill now, passing the grand old brick buildings that formed the Duke’s palace compound. Tilrey realized he was clenching his fists and unclenched them before Vlastor could notice.“Does Gádden give you sap?” Vlastor asked. “You’re not still hooked on it, are you?”Tilrey was grateful for the exertion; their brisk pace kept him from unwisely telling Vlastor to mind his tone and his own damned business. He said, “I don’t need sap from Gersha—from Fir Councillor. I’m with him because I want to be.”Vlastor seemed to weigh this information. “You don’t like women, then? I always wondered. You never really seemed to like it with men, either, or that’s what Fir Verán said.”“I didn’t like it with him.” He wouldn’t allow this pathetic man to bait him. “What about you, Vlastor? Do you like fucking your wife, or did you just do it because that was the socially acceptable way to produce your precious offspring?”Vlastor began panting as they approached the rugged, broken-glass-topped wall. “That’s a rude question, and you’re walking too fast, lad.”Tilrey paused to let him catch up. “No ruder than the one you asked, and I’m no lad at fifty-one.”“Green hells, is that possible?” Vlastor sounded despondent, as if he’d just remembered how old he was himself. “You don’t look it.” As the ground finally leveled out and a horse and cart passed them, he added, “I guess you want me to take my nose out of your business. But you’re a fine, healthy fellow, Nettsha. Councillor Lindahl used to say you were smart, too. Do you still stare at those weird old books?”I learned Harbourer from those books. It’s why I’m here. But it wasn’t worth it to explain. Vlastor was no one. “My name isn’t Nettsha,” Tilrey said. “Nor has it ever been, as I seem to recall telling you frequently.”“Oh?” Vlastor seemed genuinely confused. “What is it, then?”“Tilrey.” Perhaps you should call me Fir Bronn. Perhaps someday you will. “It’s kind of you to look out for me, Lieutenant,” he added, trying hard not to let his tone turn to sarcasm. “But I promise you, it’s unnecessary.”Vlastor seemed to chew this over as they approached the wall and its ducal sentries, dodging men pushing carts and women toting baskets of washing.“Well, it’s your life,” he said at last. “But if I were you, at your age, I’d want my independence and something to call my own. I’m sure Fir Gádden’s kind to you, but Strutters can never know us like our equals do, Ne—Tilrey. Personally, the older I get, the less I want anything to do with people who think they were born to lord it over me.”Tilrey wondered if Vlastor was part of the Dissident two-thirds of the garrison. In the old days, the driver had never questioned Upstarts’ absolute authority.But he wasn’t curious enough to prolong the conversation and find out. Anyway, probing might be dangerous.“Well, then,” he said, veering toward the sentries who waited to open the gate for him, “maybe you’ll be pleased to know that I don’t let a living soul lord it over me anymore, and least of all the man I love. Go back to your commander, Fir Lieutenant Vlastor. I’m fine from here.”On his visits to Harbour, Tilrey spent as little time as he could inside the Embassy. The interior rooms were painfully white and hermetically sealed, just like every dwelling in Oslov.The Ambassador’s small formal dining room had no windows, so when Tilrey stepped inside, he felt the full oppressive force of the white walls. Ambassador Ludtten and Enrik Lindahl were sharing tea on a padded bench at the near end of the room.The Ambassador shot Tilrey a sly glance to show him how bored she was by the Councillor’s company, then put on her social smile. “Tilrey, come sit with us! Dinner will just be a minute. You know the Councillor, of course.”Tilrey bobbed his head to Lindahl, putting on the perfect manners he practiced at home in the Sector. “Fir Councillor, such an unexpected pleasure to find you here.”Lindahl gave him a blank stare. “It’s Gersha’s little copy machine. Can’t your Fir even do his own diplomatic business anymore? He has to send you in his place?”“Fir Gádden chose to spend the fall recess with his son,” Tilrey said, keeping his gaze down. “He briefed me fully.”He didn’t have the best memories of Lindahl from his kettle boy days, but in the Council, he’d found the man fairly easy to deal with. Lindahl took most things literally, never looking for hidden implications, so surface respect went a long way with him.Now, though, Lindahl seemed to be in a touchy mood. “Is he going to eat with us?” he asked the Ambassador, as if he viewed Tilrey’s presence as a deliberate affront to him.“I’m not sure why he wouldn’t.” Ludtten gave Tilrey a can-you-believe-this look. From a low-named family herself, she had no patience for the likes of Lindahl. “Tilrey knows every corner of the city, Fir Councillor. Maybe he can show you around the docks tomorrow.”Lindahl shuddered fastidiously. “I simply want to inspect the quality of the apples we’re shipping to Redda. I don’t need a grand tour.”“Well, then!” Two Laborers entered the room carrying serving dishes, and Ludtten shot to her feet. “Shall we dine?” While Lindahl painstakingly settled himself and spread out his napkin on his lap, she whispered to Tilrey, “Thank everything green you’re here to keep me company.”The meal was awkward, to say the least. The only thing Lindahl wanted to discuss were his experiments in arboriculture; every other topic of conversation made him lapse into sullen silence. Even when answering Tilrey’s polite questions about apple varieties, the Councillor wouldn’t look him in the eye.“This one’s too smart for his own good,” Lindahl said abruptly to Ludtten as one of the servers cleared their plates. “I’ve seen his test scores, and I can tell you he’s a formidable memorizer.”“I’m sorry, Councillor, you lost me,” Ludtten replied, her tone bordering on mockery. “Are you talking about your fellow guest?”Lindahl looked at Tilrey at last. “I mean no personal offense, Secretary,” he said. “But my father always told me to beware of anomalies and outliers. There are certain Drudges who stay in a posting below their intellectual level out of sheer laziness. Or to do mischief.”Had someone tipped off Lindahl about him? Tilrey couldn’t believe it. If the man had known something, he wouldn’t have hesitated to tell Davita.No, the Councillor was just out of sorts. Tilrey put on the friendly smile that charmed most Upstarts. “I’m the lazy sort, I’m afraid, Fir.”The Ambassador looked exasperated. “Tilrey’s not up to any mischief, I assure you,” she told Lindahl. “He has the same diplomatic clearance you do, and you can speak freely in front of him.”Lindahl rose from the table and folded his napkin. “Oh, I have no doubt of that. I have no doubt of that at all.”He turned sharply and left the room.When the door had closed behind him, the Ambassador burst out giggling like a young girl. She covered her mouth with her napkin. “Is he normally like this? How do you stand it?”“He’s not normally quite this … irritable,” Tilrey said.“And this is all because of a stream? Is he the laughingstock of the entire Council, or what?”Tilrey had to admit he was surprised, too, by how affected Lindahl seemed. “Maybe Fir Councillor has finally been forced to contemplate his life. And he doesn’t like what he sees.” After that, Tilrey had no idea what to expect when Lindahl joined him in the courtyard later in the evening.The moon was rising, casting an unearthly glow over bushes and trees. Smells of damp earth and late flowers wafted upward. The scene brought back memories of Tilrey’s first visit to Harbour, when Gersha had been terrified of everything—the fresh air, the smells, the insects. He clung to Tilrey for comfort, even though he still despised Tilrey as a traitor.Remembering how he’d held Gersha’s trembling form in his arms, Tilrey couldn’t help wondering if Lindahl was having trouble adjusting to Harbour for similar reasons. The world of high-named Upstarts was so rarified and monotone that it left them ill equipped for anything more chaotic.But Lindahl’s comfortable world had turned against him. Tilrey knew how cruel and competitive Councillors could be, and all of them were aware of the true identity of “Councillor Dahlstellar.” Even though Kai’s script had revealed no real secrets, they must be beside themselves at seeing their prim, judgmental colleague exposed to public ridicule.Rather than join Tilrey on one of the central benches, Lindahl stood gazing down into the sunken pool. “You seem to like this foul place.”“I do, Fir.” Though he was still annoyed by Lindahl’s words at dinner, Tilrey knew the man too well to bother holding a grudge. “It takes some adjustment, though. Gersha found it unsettling at first, too.”“I’m not afraid, boy—or ‘unsettled’ or whatever you said. I just find it distracting.” As if to prove how unafraid he was, Lindahl came and sat down beside Tilrey. “It’s too much,” he said. Then, without any transition, “Do you still remember the piece I set you to memorize?”“Which one?”“Preamble to the Constitution of the Republic. Recite it.”Tilrey had no desire to recite on command, but out of long habit, he did it: “To remake a society is always a fearsome task. To remake a civilization after centuries of dormant darkness is an especially daunting one. Therefore, we believe that our companion in that task must be cold, steadfast logic, and our methods must be based on evidence…”When you worked in government, it was a useful thing to know the writings of Whyberg by heart. Never mind that Tilrey had originally memorized passages such as this one because Lindahl liked to hear them while he was approaching his climax.Sometimes it was Whyberg. Sometimes it was square roots or the multiplication table or the periodic table of elements. Although he criticized Laborers who were “too smart for their own good,” Lindahl seemed to find the evidence of that intelligence arousing. Or maybe he just enjoyed barking orders like a schoolmaster. Tilrey had never bothered to think about it one way or the other; he simply appreciated that Lindahl’s kink was painless to satisfy.He wasn’t surprised, though, to find Lindahl’s hand suddenly resting on his thigh. At first, he didn’t move—that was long habit, too. He did fall silent, and Lindahl said, “More.”“I don’t remember the rest, Fir.” A chill moved over Tilrey’s skin. Why wasn’t he moving away? Was he still in awe of this broken man?“Hmph.” Lindahl gave him a pat, then began moving his hand in small circles. “You’re too old to be attractive,” he said flatly, as if he were evaluating one of his precious apples, “but I think I’d still enjoy you, especially your mouth. For old times’ sake. Would Gersha mind?”In the outer courtyard, a dog barked, and the noise brought Tilrey back to the present with a jolt.He rose and stepped away from Lindahl, easily shaking off the touch. “No thank you, Fir.” And I hope you recognize that the ‘thank you’ part is just a courtesy.Lindahl stared at him like a child denied dessert. “So Gersha would mind?”It would have been easy to use Gersha as an excuse. Tilrey had done it many times over the years. But now he thought of the young Laborer who had been the secret father of Lindahl’s nephew, and every molecule of his body was repelled by the idea of lying to spare the Councillor’s vanity.So many people had catered to Lindahl’s foibles over the years. So few people had told him the truth.“Whatever happened to Eivan, Fir?” he asked. “The young man who used to share your bed? I’m sure he would be better company than I could be.”Lindahl’s expression closed up. “He got old, too.”He rejected you, didn’t he? Kai’s stream had suggested as much, and Tilrey himself had witnessed Eivan’s annoyance with Lindahl nearly thirty years ago. He hoped Eivan, wherever he was, was living his best life and not thinking about Lindahl at all.“I don’t know if I’m too smart for my own good, Fir,” he said, “but I like making my own choices in intimate matters, and right now, I choose to sleep alone. I’d better get to bed; I have a full day tomorrow.

21 October, year 374

“I have to warn you,” Ambassador Ludtten said to Tilrey as they sat on one of the central benches in the Embassy’s courtyard, “we’ll have an unwelcome companion at meals.”

“Who?” Tilrey asked. His flight had landed in Harbour less than an hour ago, and already his heart felt lighter. It was an unseasonably mild autumn night, the stars shining through a light haze, and a breeze shook dry leaves off the trees and wafted them onto the courtyard paths. Tomorrow he had a full round of people to see and tasks to check off, but tonight he would simply enjoy the view.

The Ambassador made a face. “Councillor Lindahl.”

That startled Tilrey out of his pleasant reverie. “But why? He’s never shown any interest in Harbour.”

“Apparently he has a pet agricultural pilot project. They’re trying to grow apple trees in greenhouses so we won’t have to import the fruit. He explained it over dinner and practically sent me into a coma.” Malkina Ludtten rolled her vivacious dark eyes. She was about Tilrey’s age, an inveterate flirt with a boundless appetite for gossip. “Anyway, on the spur of the moment, Lindahl decided he needed a change of scene and flew out to do hands-on research on his beloved apples. They waived the security protocols for him.”

Tilrey sighed, remembering the endless forms he’d had to fill out. “Lindahl’s friends with the head of the Int/Sec Committee.”

“That explains that.” Ludtten shot him a coy glance. “Why the sudden need to get out of Oslov, though? He’s done nothing since he got here but complain, so I don’t think he came for our balmy weather. Did something happen in the Council, by any chance?”

“Now that you mention it…” Though Tilrey had no desire to dine with Lindahl, he couldn’t help grinning. “Have you heard of a stream called Their Ways Parted? Well, the episode that just aired told all of Oslov a few of Lindahl’s secrets…”

“And here’s the route the tank will take up Main Street,” Gregoria said, her slim fingers sketching a map on the back of a scrap of paper. “Oslov’s primary supply depot is at the top, a mile from the Embassy and the airfield.”

“What about the fighter jets?” Tilrey asked, bending over the rough-hewn table. Although the sun shone outside, smoke-stained windows kept the cabin dark. “If we don’t control at least three of the four, our tanks and ground weaponry will be useless.”

“Ranek has a plan for that,” Peony said. She was on her knees building a fire in the stone hearth. “We have a couple of people inside the airfield, and at least two of the pilots are with us. We’re working on a third, but it takes time.”

Tilrey knew that only too well. Facing down the arsenal of the Republic of Oslov was a terrifying prospect, but it was the only way to take over the city of Bettevy and hold Oslov’s supply of Harbourer goods hostage.

And striking the Republic at this weak point could be the only way to force it to change—unless the legends of the backdoor passwords were true.

Einara might rely on that faint possibility, but he couldn’t.

He crossed his arms on the table, shivering in today’s autumn chill. He didn’t envy Peony and Gregoria, both of whom he’d known since they were kids, living in this drafty hovel that smelled of the strings of onions and garlic drying above the hearth. “How have things been for you two here in Bettevy? It must be strange after the Southern Hearth.”

Gregoria made a dismissive sound. “After being fenced up all my life? It couldn’t be anything but an improvement.”

“There are parts that are hard for her, though—like speaking Harbourer all the time.” Having coaxed a feeble flame from the hearth, Peony came to sit beside Gregoria. She patted her wife’s hand. “You hate that, don’t you, sweetie? But we have to be fluent in both languages.”

“I don’t hate it! I just wish my accent were better. It’s a lot of work to blend in.” Gregoria plucked at her ankle-length skirt, so different from the coveralls she had grown up wearing in the Southern Hearth. “The Harbourers call us ‘spinsters.’ We have to pretend not to be married because they might be offended. I like the freedom to move around, but their customs are strange.”

“I’m a Harbourer,” Peony reminded her. Though she was tall and womanly now, with her red hair braided on her head, she still had the restless energy that Tilrey remembered from when he’d met her as a scrawny, rebellious teenager.

“I know, but you’ve lived with us for so long! You don’t have the local prejudices.” Gregoria sighed. “Before our number came up to settle here, we were talking about having a kid.”

“We still could,” Peony said.

“Here? It doesn’t feel safe. There are no proper clinics, nothing.”

“That could change.” Peony turned her gaze to Tilrey, and he saw hope shining there. “After we take over the city, after you control your whole government, you can start sharing your technology with us.”

“That’s the plan.” Tilrey tried to speak confidently. “Everything that you had in the Southern Hearth, you can and should have here—with Duke Dalziel’s consent, of course. He’ll remain the local sovereign.”

The plan must sound so simple to these two—control Bettevy to control Redda. But they had never seen Redda for themselves—the skyscrapers, the majesty of Government Sector, the sheer might of troops, weaponry, and tradition. Their lives had been confined to a miniature, more egalitarian version of Oslov. They couldn’t imagine the scale of the task.

“Or we could just get one of us pregnant the old-fashioned way,” Peony said, wrapping her arm around Gregoria’s shoulders. “I’ve got my eye on the baker’s lad at the market—he seems eager for a tumble. I don’t think he’d care about his paternal rights.”

“Stop it!” Gregoria elbowed her, color rising to her cheeks in the firelight. “You are not going to sleep with the baker’s lad.”

“He’s not bad looking.” Peony winked at Tilrey. “She’s fearsomely jealous and easy to tease.”

Gregoria shook her head. “It’s just strange,” she told Tilrey. “All the laws and customs I know come from a place thousands of miles away where I’ve never been. I worry about raising a child here, in a place that doesn’t feel like home to me. But I don’t have a real home, do I?”

Maybe not. Tilrey’s breath caught, and he opened his mouth to say what he was thinking: that they all needed to accept the possibility of failure. Blending in with the Bettevan population, accepting the label of “spinsters” and raising their child to speak Harbourer, might be the smartest thing these two could do.

But Peony spoke before he could. “I escaped from home and raised myself in a weird place that scared the shit out of me, and I turned out fine. Mostly because I met you,” she said, bending to kiss her wife’s forehead. “Don’t be afraid, Gorsha. We’ll work it out.”

Then she raised her eyes to Tilrey. “Won’t we?”

“Yes.” Looking into her face, he wanted so badly to believe it. “Things are changing in Redda. Gregoria may even see her parents’ homeland one day.”

Like all Oslov visitors to Harbour, Tilrey wore an Int/Sec tracker on his ankle to ensure he didn’t light out for the countryside. But he wasn’t worried that his wanderings around the city would be interpreted as suspicious. He walked for miles every time he came to Bettevy, visiting all his favorite places.

A few blocks down from Peony and Gregoria’s home, which perched among other ragtag buildings on the brow of the hill, he ducked into an alley and took off the hooded cloak he’d been wearing. Underneath were the Oslov clothes in which he would visit the garrison.

The outfit he wore now—a slate-blue jerkin and trousers—was basically the same as the one he’d worn as Gersha’s secretary at age twenty-four. It had never occurred to him to want his clothing to reflect his actual growth in power and status. But now, as he headed downhill, he wished he could look a little more imposing when he met with Col. Aurinthal, the base commander.

Scuffling through flurries of fallen leaves, he noted how no two passersby were dressed alike. Harbourers had hundreds of ways of conveying their social position through their clothing—costly fabrics and dyes, embroidery, jewelry. They could even dress to please their personal tastes.

The sky was blue overhead, and where the town ended, a crisp breeze whipped up whitecaps on the lake. The mountains on the far shore glowed crimson, gold, and purple. The first time Tilrey came here in the autumn, he’d gawked at those mountains until Duke Dalziel explained how dying leaves transform the landscape.

Tilrey wished he could show Ceill those colors. The boy loved nature; it was unfair to make him spend most of his life in a treeless, sterile city.

As Tilrey turned to gaze after a woman passing on a bicycle, wearing a particularly vivid red dress, something caught his eye—a dark-clad figure slipping between two outbuildings.

Was someone following him? The Duke and the Ambassador were always scolding him for walking unaccompanied, but Tilrey had never felt threatened by Bettevy’s lawless elements. They kept their distance, whether because he was an Oslov or because of his sheer size.

He continued down the hill with a relaxed, rolling stride, reminding himself to remain aware of his surroundings. On days like this, he remembered how Malsha had dreamed of retiring to Harbour. But Tilrey loved Redda, too, for all its flaws, and he would probably never be in a position to leave for good.

In the best-case scenario, someday he and Gersha might be able to rent a little house in Bettevy for a month every year. With the restrictions on travel relaxed, Ceill could stay there with them. Hell, he could even invite Janta along if he wanted.

The thought of Janta jolted Tilrey back to reality. He’d promised the boy he’d take him out to the Wastes to find those terminals. That was an act of treason; if Davita knew, she could have both him and Janta exiled. Tilrey had chosen his path, but would that be fair to Janta? To Ceill?

All roads led to revolution in the end. Not everything could be solved in the comfort of the Council chamber. But if Tilrey didn’t handle things carefully—perfectly—there would be bloodshed. And people like Janta, Peony, and Gregoria would be on the front lines.

He whispered a silent vow to himself, repeating the vow that Whyberg had famously made about his own revolution: Not a drop of innocent blood spilt. Not a drop.

The Oslov garrison had been built onto an old stone armory that hugged the hillside a few blocks above the waterfront. Its official mission was to protect “free trade” on all sides of the lake, which actually meant protecting shipments of goods bound for Oslov.

Before Tilrey could see the building, he heard the harsh cries of a commanding officer drilling his troops. The sound sent a shiver of misgiving through him.

He knew that a good portion of the soldiers in the garrison were allies of the True Hearth, handpicked by their officers, who had in turn been recommended by his friend Gavril Ardaly for their Dissident sympathies. But they were still soldiers of the Republic.

Approaching the door, he saw twenty or thirty troops drilling in the grassy courtyard that faced the street. They all wore the rust-red uniforms that were designed to stand out aggressively against the whites and grays of Redda.

Here in Harbour, the color didn’t stand out at all, but it still made his stomach twist with a reflex of dread. When you’ve been raped by seven men in uniform, you don’t soon forget it.

To his relief, the sentry at the door seemed to know him by sight. “Fir Bronn? Colonel Aurinthal is expecting you.”

They traversed a high-ceilinged corridor walled with rough stone. The shouts of the drill sergeant still echoed faintly there, and Tilrey focused on keeping his posture confident.

Beirthrande Aurinthal sat in a whitewashed office with her feet on the desk, smoking. She didn’t try to hide the pipe when her subordinate entered, only smiled crookedly at Tilrey’s look of surprise. “Back to your post, Private.”

Aurinthal had gotten a little stouter in the twenty-one years since Tilrey and Gersha had met her in the Wastes, but age hadn’t shaken her casually insolent demeanor. Tilrey had had misgivings about giving her the command here. But her loyalty was steadfast and she got results, even if she used unorthodox methods.

“You’re looking well, Rishka,” she said, giving him a once-over. “A little pale and peaked—but that comes of living in the mother country, right?” She slid her feet to the floor, rose with a grunt, and offered him the pipe. “Drag? We get some very nice stuff from the southern territories.”

Tilrey shook his head. “Aren’t you worried about a visit from the Ambassador or a general?”

“Oh, they don’t care. No one cares here.” She opened the door and ushered him through it. “How about a little tour of the facility? We’ve built on a new wing since you were here last.”

Tilrey followed her through the labyrinth of the garrison, from the older stone sections to newly built ones that obeyed the Oslov aesthetic of white and more white. Aurinthal pointed out the new improvements with a pompousness that any general would have been proud of. They filled the gaps with chitchat about Gersha’s absence and Ceill’s studies and Aurinthal’s own family back in Redda, and soon enough they’d crossed the mess hall and the kitchen and found themselves in a little stone-walled pantry with no outlet.

Aurinthal closed and bolted the door. “This room is clean,” she said, turning to Tilrey. “Did Peony and Gregoria brief you?”

Tilrey nodded. He’d already known most of what the two women had told him from Gersha’s communications with Ranek Egil, but it was still helpful to go over things face-to-face. “They say you’re having some trouble with the airfield.”

“Well, what do you expect?” Aurinthal exhaled, lifting a curl of white hair aloft. “Those flyboys are nothing like my grunts. They come up through a different system, and they can zip back to Redda any time they want. They don’t develop attachments to the natives.”

“And your garrison troops do?”

“Do they ever.” Aurinthal pulled out a rickety chair and sat down, not bothering to offer him a seat. “What, you think I win them over with shiny Dissident ideals? By telling them they could have rep in the Council? Nah.” She laughed hoarsely, then took another drag on her pipe. “My guys are basic, Tilrey. They only respond to things that get them in the feels—or in the balls. One of their favorite things is boning the natives, even though it’s against regulation.”

“Consensually, I hope,” Tilrey said.

“Of course!” Aurinthal waved dismissively. “Some go to brothels, some just make a special friend. And some of them form attachments, like I said. You know how I really got nearly two-thirds of this garrison on our side?”

She didn’t wait for him to ask her to elaborate. “There was this lieutenant, Eirchvann, who was popular with everybody. He takes a shine to a Harbourer girl and gets her pregnant, and next thing we know, he’s trying to petition central command to let her come home with him as his wife.” Aurinthal chuckled at the sheer absurdity of the request. “He refused to take no for an answer and made a stink with the Ambassador, who made me strip him of his rank and send him home to moral rehab.”

To Aurinthal, to any officer in the Republic’s military, there was nothing cruel about such a punishment. By reproducing with a Harbourer, the lieutenant had, essentially, tried to defect, which the state defined as a sign of insanity. “And the mother of his child?” Tilrey asked.

He must have looked apprehensive, because Aurinthal said, “Don’t worry! Eirchvann’s buddies were mad as hell about what happened to him. They took up a collection to buy his girlfriend a little house; they look after her. They’re sweet fellows, these young recruits, but so naïve. And I swear, just like that, a bunch of them were suddenly convinced that the system needs to change. Radicalized, I guess you’d say.”

“Do you encourage that?”

“Not openly! I pretend to turn a blind eye and let my lower officers do the organizing. Everybody thinks I’m a clueless, grandmotherly sort of leader who gives infinite second chances.” She winked. “Anyway, the Eirchvann affair is when the tide turned in this garrison. A soldier’s in the minority now if they do want to go home to Redda. Some of them even talk about moving their families here one day.”

“Good.” Tilrey wondered what Egil and the other Southern Hearthers would think of this fast-and-dirty recruitment method. Soldiers who signed on to a revolution for selfish reasons might not be reliable allies in the long haul.

But you could say the same of the student protestors in Redda, or the Free Northmen in Thurskein, or the Ring Eighters who were suddenly riled up about the brutality of the justice system. Each of these rebellious factions had its own wants and grievances, far more compelling than any political theory. Maybe get them in the feels was the only method that worked.

“If I told you that I wanted you to cut off all shipments to Oslov tomorrow,” he asked, “could you?”

Aurinthal snapped her fingers. “Easy. I’d have my guys go down to the lakefront and close the port. Block it with a tank. But as long as central command controls the airfield, we wouldn’t be able to hold the port long.”

“Then we’ll work on the airfield.” Tilrey wondered whether he knew anyone with connections in the air force. Maybe Besha’s far-reaching web of contacts would come in handy again.

They left the pantry and parted ways at the door of Aurinthal’s office. The colonel stopped a passing lieutenant, an older man, and ordered him to escort Tilrey to the city wall, where a ground-van would be waiting to bring him back to the Embassy.

“It’s not safe for you to wander the streets alone,” Aurinthal told Tilrey when he protested, slapping him on the back. “Not that you can’t defend yourself, but it’s better to be armed in this city.”

Meanwhile, the lieutenant glared at Tilrey—disgusted, Tilrey supposed, at being ordered to attend to someone of such a low Level. That attitude was nothing new to him.

So he was startled when, as they stepped out into the street, the lieutenant asked, “Don’t you recognize me, Nettsha?”

Tilrey couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the vile nickname that the Islanders used to call him. “Why would I?” he snapped.

But then, looking more closely at the lieutenant, he did recognize the combination of wide blue eyes, short stature, broad shoulders, and delicate features, now webbed with wrinkles. “Vlastor?”

The man shook his head caustically. Tilrey remembered that gesture all too well, too, from the days when he’d been Majority Leader Verán’s kettle boy and Vlastor had been the Councillor’s driver.

“We only lived together for what, two years?” Vlastor said. “I hope you haven’t forgotten all your old friends.”

We weren’t friends. Tilrey bit back the words before he could say them aloud. Vlastor, like Ansha, was part of a time in his life that he preferred not to be reminded of. “I hope you’re doing well,” he said stiffly. “Weren’t you meaning to start a family?”

“That I did. Sirka and I have two fine boys, both grown now. Meiks is in the Constabulary, and Jan-Helmer flies a V9 Stinger. I always dreamed of flying myself, but by the time I re-enlisted, it was too late to learn.”

The man rattled on about his sons’ accomplishments, his monologue full of military jargon. Tilrey heard very little of it.

During the month or so when he was locked in a small room in Verán’s apartment, Vlastor had been his jailer. Vlastor chaperoned him to the gym, ordered him up and into the shower when it was time to work, gave him sap to keep him compliant, and coaxed him to eat when food turned his stomach.

In a disconnected way, Tilrey remembered crouching naked under the bedclothes and shuddering so violently that he couldn’t hold a cup or a bowl. He remembered Vlastor raising a tumbler to his lips and spooning broth into his mouth. The man wasn’t cruel, but he was always exasperated with Tilrey. Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it? What was all the fuss about? Don’t you know how lucky you are?

Then there were the threats: Eat this whole bowl of rice, or I’ll tell the Fir, and you’ll be in moral rehab tomorrow. Do you know what they do there to lads who won’t eat? There are straps, Nettsha. There are needles. I’m just looking out for you.

The clamor of the street faded around Tilrey. The colors blurred. The air grew colder, and the sun beat down roughly as he remembered being twenty years old in Redda.

Vlastor had dressed and undressed him. Even fucked him once or twice, though only on Verán’s orders.

And now this same Vlastor was living out his golden years in an easy posting in sunny Harbour and boring everyone by bragging about his kids. It wasn’t that Tilrey wished him ill, but...

“What about you, lad?” Vlastor asked, reaching the end of his litany of his sons’ achievements. “What brings you to see Colonel Aurinthal?” His eyes ran over Tilrey’s clothes. “Still doing errands for Councillors?”

“Fir Councillor Gádden entrusts me with his affairs.” Tilrey’s own voice sounded cold and unnatural to him. “I’m his secretary now.”

“You got a wife? Kids?”

“No.” Vlastor wasn’t the sort of person he could or would tell about Ceill.

The surprise on Vlastor’s face quickly turned to pity. “A handsome lad like you could still wed at your age. I never thought Fir Gádden was that type.”

“What type?” The words came out sharper than Tilrey meant them to.

“Well … jealous. Possessive. He was always so fond of you, I thought he might let you have your freedom and still see him on the side.”

“I have all the freedom I want.” They were climbing the steep part of the hill now, passing the grand old brick buildings that formed the Duke’s palace compound. Tilrey realized he was clenching his fists and unclenched them before Vlastor could notice.

“Does Gádden give you sap?” Vlastor asked. “You’re not still hooked on it, are you?”

Tilrey was grateful for the exertion; their brisk pace kept him from unwisely telling Vlastor to mind his tone and his own damned business. He said, “I don’t need sap from Gersha—from Fir Councillor. I’m with him because I want to be.”

Vlastor seemed to weigh this information. “You don’t like women, then? I always wondered. You never really seemed to like it with men, either, or that’s what Fir Verán said.”

“I didn’t like it with him.” He wouldn’t allow this pathetic man to bait him. “What about you, Vlastor? Do you like fucking your wife, or did you just do it because that was the socially acceptable way to produce your precious offspring?”

Vlastor began panting as they approached the rugged, broken-glass-topped wall. “That’s a rude question, and you’re walking too fast, lad.”

Tilrey paused to let him catch up. “No ruder than the one you asked, and I’m no lad at fifty-one.”

“Green hells, is that possible?” Vlastor sounded despondent, as if he’d just remembered how old he was himself. “You don’t look it.” As the ground finally leveled out and a horse and cart passed them, he added, “I guess you want me to take my nose out of your business. But you’re a fine, healthy fellow, Nettsha. Councillor Lindahl used to say you were smart, too. Do you still stare at those weird old books?”

I learned Harbourer from those books. It’s why I’m here. But it wasn’t worth it to explain. Vlastor was no one. “My name isn’t Nettsha,” Tilrey said. “Nor has it ever been, as I seem to recall telling you frequently.”

“Oh?” Vlastor seemed genuinely confused. “What is it, then?”

“Tilrey.” Perhaps you should call me Fir Bronn. Perhaps someday you will. “It’s kind of you to look out for me, Lieutenant,” he added, trying hard not to let his tone turn to sarcasm. “But I promise you, it’s unnecessary.”

Vlastor seemed to chew this over as they approached the wall and its ducal sentries, dodging men pushing carts and women toting baskets of washing.

“Well, it’s your life,” he said at last. “But if I were you, at your age, I’d want my independence and something to call my own. I’m sure Fir Gádden’s kind to you, but Strutters can never know us like our equals do, Ne—Tilrey. Personally, the older I get, the less I want anything to do with people who think they were born to lord it over me.”

Tilrey wondered if Vlastor was part of the Dissident two-thirds of the garrison. In the old days, the driver had never questioned Upstarts’ absolute authority.

But he wasn’t curious enough to prolong the conversation and find out. Anyway, probing might be dangerous.

“Well, then,” he said, veering toward the sentries who waited to open the gate for him, “maybe you’ll be pleased to know that I don’t let a living soul lord it over me anymore, and least of all the man I love. Go back to your commander, Fir Lieutenant Vlastor. I’m fine from here.”

On his visits to Harbour, Tilrey spent as little time as he could inside the Embassy. The interior rooms were painfully white and hermetically sealed, just like every dwelling in Oslov.

The Ambassador’s small formal dining room had no windows, so when Tilrey stepped inside, he felt the full oppressive force of the white walls. Ambassador Ludtten and Enrik Lindahl were sharing tea on a padded bench at the near end of the room.

The Ambassador shot Tilrey a sly glance to show him how bored she was by the Councillor’s company, then put on her social smile. “Tilrey, come sit with us! Dinner will just be a minute. You know the Councillor, of course.”

Tilrey bobbed his head to Lindahl, putting on the perfect manners he practiced at home in the Sector. “Fir Councillor, such an unexpected pleasure to find you here.”

Lindahl gave him a blank stare. “It’s Gersha’s little copy machine. Can’t your Fir even do his own diplomatic business anymore? He has to send you in his place?”

“Fir Gádden chose to spend the fall recess with his son,” Tilrey said, keeping his gaze down. “He briefed me fully.”

He didn’t have the best memories of Lindahl from his kettle boy days, but in the Council, he’d found the man fairly easy to deal with. Lindahl took most things literally, never looking for hidden implications, so surface respect went a long way with him.

Now, though, Lindahl seemed to be in a touchy mood. “Is he going to eat with us?” he asked the Ambassador, as if he viewed Tilrey’s presence as a deliberate affront to him.

“I’m not sure why he wouldn’t.” Ludtten gave Tilrey a can-you-believe-this look. From a low-named family herself, she had no patience for the likes of Lindahl. “Tilrey knows every corner of the city, Fir Councillor. Maybe he can show you around the docks tomorrow.”

Lindahl shuddered fastidiously. “I simply want to inspect the quality of the apples we’re shipping to Redda. I don’t need a grand tour.”

“Well, then!” Two Laborers entered the room carrying serving dishes, and Ludtten shot to her feet. “Shall we dine?” While Lindahl painstakingly settled himself and spread out his napkin on his lap, she whispered to Tilrey, “Thank everything green you’re here to keep me company.”

The meal was awkward, to say the least. The only thing Lindahl wanted to discuss were his experiments in arboriculture; every other topic of conversation made him lapse into sullen silence. Even when answering Tilrey’s polite questions about apple varieties, the Councillor wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“This one’s too smart for his own good,” Lindahl said abruptly to Ludtten as one of the servers cleared their plates. “I’ve seen his test scores, and I can tell you he’s a formidable memorizer.”

“I’m sorry, Councillor, you lost me,” Ludtten replied, her tone bordering on mockery. “Are you talking about your fellow guest?”

Lindahl looked at Tilrey at last. “I mean no personal offense, Secretary,” he said. “But my father always told me to beware of anomalies and outliers. There are certain Drudges who stay in a posting below their intellectual level out of sheer laziness. Or to do mischief.”

Had someone tipped off Lindahl about him? Tilrey couldn’t believe it. If the man had known something, he wouldn’t have hesitated to tell Davita.

No, the Councillor was just out of sorts. Tilrey put on the friendly smile that charmed most Upstarts. “I’m the lazy sort, I’m afraid, Fir.”

The Ambassador looked exasperated. “Tilrey’s not up to any mischief, I assure you,” she told Lindahl. “He has the same diplomatic clearance you do, and you can speak freely in front of him.”

Lindahl rose from the table and folded his napkin. “Oh, I have no doubt of that. I have no doubt of that at all.”

He turned sharply and left the room.

When the door had closed behind him, the Ambassador burst out giggling like a young girl. She covered her mouth with her napkin. “Is he normally like this? How do you stand it?”

“He’s not normally quite this … irritable,” Tilrey said.

“And this is all because of a stream? Is he the laughingstock of the entire Council, or what?”

Tilrey had to admit he was surprised, too, by how affected Lindahl seemed. “Maybe Fir Councillor has finally been forced to contemplate his life. And he doesn’t like what he sees.”

After that, Tilrey had no idea what to expect when Lindahl joined him in the courtyard later in the evening.

The moon was rising, casting an unearthly glow over bushes and trees. Smells of damp earth and late flowers wafted upward. The scene brought back memories of Tilrey’s first visit to Harbour, when Gersha had been terrified of everything—the fresh air, the smells, the insects. He clung to Tilrey for comfort, even though he still despised Tilrey as a traitor.

Remembering how he’d held Gersha’s trembling form in his arms, Tilrey couldn’t help wondering if Lindahl was having trouble adjusting to Harbour for similar reasons. The world of high-named Upstarts was so rarified and monotone that it left them ill equipped for anything more chaotic.

But Lindahl’s comfortable world had turned against him. Tilrey knew how cruel and competitive Councillors could be, and all of them were aware of the true identity of “Councillor Dahlstellar.” Even though Kai’s script had revealed no real secrets, they must be beside themselves at seeing their prim, judgmental colleague exposed to public ridicule.

Rather than join Tilrey on one of the central benches, Lindahl stood gazing down into the sunken pool. “You seem to like this foul place.”

“I do, Fir.” Though he was still annoyed by Lindahl’s words at dinner, Tilrey knew the man too well to bother holding a grudge. “It takes some adjustment, though. Gersha found it unsettling at first, too.”

“I’m not afraid, boy—or ‘unsettled’ or whatever you said. I just find it distracting.” As if to prove how unafraid he was, Lindahl came and sat down beside Tilrey. “It’s too much,” he said. Then, without any transition, “Do you still remember the piece I set you to memorize?”

“Which one?”

“Preamble to the Constitution of the Republic. Recite it.”

Tilrey had no desire to recite on command, but out of long habit, he did it: “To remake a society is always a fearsome task. To remake a civilization after centuries of dormant darkness is an especially daunting one. Therefore, we believe that our companion in that task must be cold, steadfast logic, and our methods must be based on evidence…”

When you worked in government, it was a useful thing to know the writings of Whyberg by heart. Never mind that Tilrey had originally memorized passages such as this one because Lindahl liked to hear them while he was approaching his climax.

Sometimes it was Whyberg. Sometimes it was square roots or the multiplication table or the periodic table of elements. Although he criticized Laborers who were “too smart for their own good,” Lindahl seemed to find the evidence of that intelligence arousing. Or maybe he just enjoyed barking orders like a schoolmaster. Tilrey had never bothered to think about it one way or the other; he simply appreciated that Lindahl’s kink was painless to satisfy.

He wasn’t surprised, though, to find Lindahl’s hand suddenly resting on his thigh. At first, he didn’t move—that was long habit, too. He did fall silent, and Lindahl said, “More.”

“I don’t remember the rest, Fir.” A chill moved over Tilrey’s skin. Why wasn’t he moving away? Was he still in awe of this broken man?

“Hmph.” Lindahl gave him a pat, then began moving his hand in small circles. “You’re too old to be attractive,” he said flatly, as if he were evaluating one of his precious apples, “but I think I’d still enjoy you, especially your mouth. For old times’ sake. Would Gersha mind?”

In the outer courtyard, a dog barked, and the noise brought Tilrey back to the present with a jolt.

He rose and stepped away from Lindahl, easily shaking off the touch. “No thank you, Fir.” And I hope you recognize that the ‘thank you’ part is just a courtesy.

Lindahl stared at him like a child denied dessert. “So Gersha would mind?”

It would have been easy to use Gersha as an excuse. Tilrey had done it many times over the years. But now he thought of the young Laborer who had been the secret father of Lindahl’s nephew, and every molecule of his body was repelled by the idea of lying to spare the Councillor’s vanity.

So many people had catered to Lindahl’s foibles over the years. So few people had told him the truth.

“Whatever happened to Eivan, Fir?” he asked. “The young man who used to share your bed? I’m sure he would be better company than I could be.”

Lindahl’s expression closed up. “He got old, too.”

He rejected you, didn’t he? Kai’s stream had suggested as much, and Tilrey himself had witnessed Eivan’s annoyance with Lindahl nearly thirty years ago. He hoped Eivan, wherever he was, was living his best life and not thinking about Lindahl at all.

“I don’t know if I’m too smart for my own good, Fir,” he said, “but I like making my own choices in intimate matters, and right now, I choose to sleep alone. I’d better get to bed; I have a full day tomorrow.