Volume 18: Oslov Unlocked
Chapter 16
I Have Some Questions for You
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
27 October, year 374, 4 a.m.
Blas couldn’t sleep. He needed to be fresh for his conversation with Tilrey Bronn in the morning. But he needed to be prepared, too, and he worried he was missing something.At about 11 p.m., Detmer had finally messaged back, but no luck—he hadn’t seen Lindahl’s copy of the Council Record. Blas considered getting on a voice call to ask if Lindahl had ever mentioned Tilrey Bronn to him during their liaison. But it was a long shot, and neither Blas nor Detmer liked thinking about that episode in Detmer’s life.So, instead of calling Detmer, Blas sat in bed and watched the episode of Their Ways Parted that everyone was so upset about. He watched it a second time, dredging his brain for crumbs of gossip that he had heard from his talkative father over the years. After a few more hours of searching the Net and Int/Sec data, he knew his next step.When he left his apartment, it was pitch dark outside, too early for the commuter trams to start running. Blas had snatched only a few hours of fitful sleep, but he felt fully alert, and a tumbler of strong tea had set his blood pounding.It wasn’t just a question of solving the murder now. He needed to make sure his mother wasn’t unwittingly letting a dangerous person into her confidence.When he reached the Restaurant, at the core of the Core, the elegant dining room was dark and empty. Tropical plants from Harbour drooped among the tables, hunched forms in the gloom, and the air was rich with the residue of spices. Blas headed for the single light shining from the kitchen.He found just one person there, as he’d expected: an older Laborer in a white smock, who was kneading dough on a marble counter. “Forgive me for the interruption, but are you Svanner, Eivan?”The man gave a start. “Let me guess, Fir. You’re from the Judiciary.”Blas held out his hand, but Eivan didn’t reciprocate, still focused on his dough. He moved fluidly for sixty-five, with a still-handsome face and a mop of curly gray hair. His formal speech fit someone who had spent years as a Councillor’s secretary.Blas introduced himself. “How did you know?”“We hear a lot of things here, Fir.” Eivan flipped the dough over and thrust a fist into it. “I figured you’d get around to questioning me sooner or later. After all, the whole city knows now that I was Fir Lindahl’s boyfriend and I broke his heart.”There was a hint of bravado in his tone. Was he proud of breaking Lindahl’s heart, or only pretending not to be affected by his death? Blas couldn’t tell.“Your relationship with Fir Councillor Lindahl ended decades ago, from what I understand,” he said, seating himself on a tall stool at the counter. “You weren’t in the Brothel on the night of his death. I’m not here to interrogate you, Fir Svanner, only for background.”“Background on Enrishka?” Eivan looked up at Blas, the heels of his muscly hands sunk in the dough. “I haven’t laid eyes on the man since . . . oh, around 352. I think that’s the last time he showed up at my place and tried to talk me into bed for old times’ sake. Begging was hard on his pride.”Blas must have looked taken aback, because the Laborer laughed. “Didn’t you see the episode? The poor man really cared about me—and I suppose I used to care about him. He was such a wretched, twisted fuck, brilliant and arrogant and miserable. But then, you’re a high name. You understand him better than I can.”Blas had heard all sorts of disrespect and vulgarity in Ring Eight, but he’d never heard a Laborer in the Core speak so candidly about a Councillor. “Do you enjoy making Upstarts uncomfortable, Fir Svanner?”“Oh, you’re good, Fir.” With a chuckle, Eivan formed the dough into a ball. “Lindahl was a little in love with your mother, you know that? He wasn’t usually attracted to women, but it was one of his great regrets that he didn’t manage to wed her.”He plopped the dough into a bowl, then met Blas’s eyes. “I know your name because Enrishka used to lament that Davita’s children had a compromised bloodline. He was obsessed with heredity. That’s why he informed me I was the real father of his sister’s son—I would never have known otherwise. Without his help, I never would have known my son, either.”Eivan opened a drawer, and in that instant, Blas saw the older man’s mouth twist as if he’d felt a jab of pain. When he turned back to cover the dough, though, he looked calm. “I loved Fir Councillor for that, if nothing else—allowing me to know my child. These past few days since I heard the news, I’ve even been dreaming about him. When I’m half asleep, I’ll feel him in bed beside me. When I wake, he’s gone. What do you want to know?”Blas suppressed a shudder. Something in Eivan’s demeanor troubled him, something beyond the disrespect, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “Our suspect was a year old in 352. I feel safe in assuming you can’t speak to Lindahl’s relationship with him.”“The actor?” Eivan shook his head. “He would’ve been Enrishka’s type, but that’s all I know.”“I want to ask you about someone else. Tilrey Bronn.”“Who?”You know him. You have to. “Back when you were with Lindahl, Bronn was Fir Gádden’s kettle boy. He still lives with Gádden.”“Oh, you mean Nettsha.” Eivan took a canister of flour and scooped some out with a measuring cup. “That’s what they called him. He was actually Fir Verán’s kettle boy; Gádden was just the chaperone. Enrishka saw him pretty often. Nettsha was his type, too.”At least Blas hadn’t hit a dead end. He could already imagine why Lindahl had been rude to Bronn in Harbour, but he needed insight into how Bronn might have reacted. “Did you know the kettle boy? Did you ever see him and Lindahl together?”“Just once.” Eivan picked up a measuring spoon and tossed something else into the mix, his movements deft and practiced. “We were in the Southern Range, not long after my son died. I already wanted to leave Lindahl then. He knew it, and he was desperately trying to make me happy. When Verán gave him his precious jewel for a night, Enrishka turned around and offered the boy to me.”Blas thought he’d heard wrong. “Lindahl offered a kettle boy to you? His secretary? To, uh, share with him?”“Nah.” Eivan smiled jaggedly, mixing the ingredients by hand. “He sent me into his bedroom with the boy, just the two of us, and told the poor kid to give me whatever I wanted. I was in no mood for that, so we spent an hour talking. I told Nettsha all about my fucked-up relationship with Lindahl, if I remember correctly. I managed to shock him.”“Why would he be shocked?” Poor kid was such a strange way to describe Tilrey Bronn.“He was surprised that Lindahl had feelings for me and even more surprised when I said I reciprocated them.” Eivan paused, gazing into space. “He couldn’t believe it when I said Enrishka had been kind to me—‘decent’ was the word he used. My Councillor boyfriend liked smart Drudge boys with potential—outliers, he called them. He liked hurting those boys. That was his game.”Outliers. The shudder moved over Blas’s shoulders again. “So you think he hurt Bronn. But he didn’t hurt you?”“No. I didn’t let him.” Eivan examined his sticky hands. “I think it was really himself Fir Councillor was trying to hurt. His parents raised him to be perfect, you know; they punished him for every wrong answer. So he grew up and found people he could punish.” He plunged his hands into the dough again. “Course, none of that makes a difference when you’re on the receiving end.”Blas recalled Lindahl’s punishment of Stefan. “You’re suggesting he hurt Tilrey Bronn physically?”“There are all kinds of ways to hurt. But I don’t know—the kid didn’t tell me. Boys like him, they learn not to complain, especially to strangers.”“Bronn’s not a kid anymore.”Eivan grimaced. “No, he’s not, is he? Time flies. I’m an old man now, and I hear he gives speeches on the Council floor.”“As a proxy for Councillor Gádden.” Blas knew he needed a casual tone for his next question, but it took intense effort. “Do you think Bronn might have held a grudge against Lindahl?”“I only talked to the guy for an hour, Fir, twenty-six years ago.” Eivan plumped a new ball of dough down on the marble and began kneading. “What do you want me to tell you—that he’s the killer?”“I never asked you to speculate,” Blas said. “I only asked for your impressions.”“Yeah, well, my impression was that someone put the kid through hell. Whether it was Lindahl or someone else or a lot of someones, I dunno. These high names, you know, they do what they want with their whores, and there’s no one to stop them.”Blas wanted to object, but he hadn’t forgotten his conversation with Lindthardt. He couldn’t deny that no one had stood up for Stefan.“One hopes that abuses of power are the exception rather than the rule,” he said stiffly.“Yeah, one hopes.” After a moment, Eivan added, “But, to be frank, I’m not surprised Enrishka died the way he did, may his last moment be bright. Sooner or later, all that hurt was gonna come back to him.”Blas was at the door of Gersha Gádden’s office before eight. He knocked, but there was no answer.He knew he should grab breakfast and return later. Hovering in the hallway was unworthy of his office. But he refused to leave. He had used the hours after his conversation with Eivan Svanner to comb through the Int/Sec archives more thoroughly, and what he’d found had banished any traces of fatigue.He was still loitering outside the office when Bronn arrived at 8:18.The man had a knack for never looking surprised. He sized Blas up. “Fir Examining Magistrate. What can we do for you?”We, as if he and the absent Councillor Gádden were the same person. Blas disliked that.He disliked most things about Tilrey Bronn: the handsome features, the straight posture, the perfect manners. He was aware he was biased because his mother had chosen this man as her favorite. She even touched Bronn sometimes in public, clasping his hand the way she had at their Communal Meal. Blas couldn’t stomach that, no matter how many stern lectures he gave himself.He knew he didn’t own his mother, yet he couldn’t help feeling as if no one was worthy of her—not even his father! When Blas was a child, his parents had been more physically affectionate, and it always gave him the shivers. His mother was better than an ambitious, fawning social climber, which was what his father was and what he’d always assumed Bronn was, too.Now he was starting to think the man might be something much worse. A malcontent, hardened by bad treatment into a . . . did he dare even think the word rebel?He didn’t like to imagine how his mother would react if it were true. He almost hoped it wasn’t.But he had to do his job. “You must know I’m heading the investigation now. I have a few questions for you.”“Of course, Fir.” Bronn pressed his hand to the door sensor, his manner just as friendly as Blas’s was. “After you.”Inside the office’s antechamber, the secretary pulled out a chair for Blas. He seemed ready to remain standing, but Blas said, “Please, sit,” so Bronn took the other chair.“Have you seen Ceill, Fir?” he asked. “How is he?”“Ceill’s in good spirits. He’s been cooperative.” A little lie wouldn’t hurt. “Once we finalize his statement, we’ll release him.” Blas watched Bronn’s reaction closely, looking for hints of a different kind of worry—about what Ceill might have told them.But the secretary looked only relieved. Blas could practically feel the warmth of his smile. “I’m so glad to hear that, Fir. When can I tell Gersha that Ceill will be home?”“Soon.” Blas didn’t want Gersha getting too hopeful just yet. Anyway, it was time to get this conversation back on track—the radiant smile had distracted him.He speared Bronn with his gaze, reminding him who was in charge. “What did you and Fir Lindahl quarrel about in Harbour?”The question landed exactly as Blas had hoped. The secretary flinched backward, blood draining from his face. “Forgive me, Fir, but who told you I quarreled with Fir Councillor Lindahl?”“Are you saying you didn’t?”Bronn was gripping the seat of his chair. He must have realized it, because a moment later he folded his hands in his lap. “I didn’t think we were observed. And I wouldn’t call it a quarrel.”“You were observed at dinner, when Fir Councillor said he preferred not to eat with you.”“Oh, that.” Bronn looked relieved again—and then annoyed, as if he’d been tricked into revealing too much. “Fir Lindahl was in bad spirits, and he was a proud man, may his last moment be bright. I didn’t take it personally. I offered to leave, but Fir’n Ambassador asked me to stay. We had a perfectly civil dinner conversation.”“What happened when you weren’t observed?”Bronn lowered his gaze. Knitted his fingers together. “Nothing much. I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, Fir.”“If nothing happened, you can tell me. I don’t have to put it in my report.”“After the meal, in the courtyard, Fir Lindahl asked me to share his bed that night. I declined—respectfully, I hope. We parted ways.”Blas’s eyebrow shot up before he could control it. “You and Lindahl have a long history, I understand. In bed and out of it.”“We do.” The secretary spread his hands flat. “Let me cut to the meat of the matter, Fir Examining Magistrate. If you’re wondering whether I was on good terms with Fir Lindahl—I wasn’t.”Blas stiffened under the force of the man’s cobalt gaze. If Ceill’s stare was a little forceful, his father’s was downright oppressive. You couldn’t think about anything else when he was looking at you.“I didn’t like Fir Lindahl. He never physically hurt me, but he treated me with . . . rough disregard.” Bronn spoke the words with care, hinting at a wealth of incidents behind them. “When he asked me to oblige him that night in Harbour, for old times’ sake, I knew he wasn’t doing it primarily for physical gratification. He wanted to remind me of my place. But my place has changed since I first knew him. I said no, Fir—and worse, I took pleasure in saying no.”Blas had never heard Bronn speak on the Council floor, but now he understood why his mother praised the man’s eloquence. He could almost see the scene in his head: Lindahl’s ruffled pride, his sense of entitlement, and Bronn’s polite defiance. For an instant, he admired him for saying no.Then he reminded himself that he was hearing what Bronn wanted him to believe.Stay on track. “Thank you for the broader context, but I’m curious about the time frame. You arrived in Harbour in the earliest hours of October twenty-first. On the twenty-second, Lindahl flew back to Redda. So your conversation must have happened on one of those two evenings.”“The twenty-first.”“Is your rejection why Lindahl left?”This time, Bronn didn’t look surprised—or deny it, though he did lower his gaze. “It could have been a reason, but it wasn’t the only one. We spoke again on the twenty-second, on the docks, after Fir Councillor fainted from the heat. He was distraught.”“About what?”“Their Ways Parted. He saw the episode as mocking him. He spoke of the great burden of being who he was—his office, his birth, his legacy.”Blas cringed inwardly. His Lindblom grandparents were like that, always nattering on about the responsibilities of bearing a high name.Then he caught himself. Stop trying to distract me. Stop making me sympathize with you. “When Lindahl left, was that a relief to you?”“A bit. I was busy, though.” Bronn looked up again. He must know Blas was up to something. “Anyway,” he said, “I soon got even more distracted, because a soldier arrived from the garrison with a message from Gersha. Janta—his kettle boy—had run off. We were very worried about him. Since the most important parts of my business in Harbour were finished, I decided to return to Redda that night.”Blas felt like a child when his rival snatches the last rice cake from his fingers. He’d been so close to catching Bronn in a lie.“So,” he said gruffly, “you left on the night of the twenty-second.”“Yes. I missed that night’s scheduled flight, so I caught a ride with a fighter pilot who happened to be returning to Redda.”That matched the ambassador’s account. Blas skewered Bronn with his gaze, determined to make him squirm. “In that case, why did you tell my mother that you rushed home when you heard about Lindahl’s death, which didn’t happen until the twenty-third?”“I didn’t tell her that, Fir.”“She seems to be under that impression.”“She assumed I’d returned on the twenty-fourth. I didn’t contradict her.”“So you lied by omission to a superior who has complete trust in you.” To my mother, who deserves so much better. Blas raised his chin, no longer outraged just on his own behalf. “Why did you lie to her, Tilrey?”He used the first name to remind the man that they’d eaten Communal Meals together. That they were, in some twisted way, family.Tilrey’s gaze fell again. “It seemed easier than explaining my complicated family situation. Your mother, Fir . . . may I be honest?”Blas swallowed hard. He mustn’t let his anger show. “It’s about time.”“I respect your mother immensely. But I don’t think she would have understood how the disappearance of a kettle boy could cause an emergency in our household. She would have seen it as a trivial inconvenience.”Blas was about to say that he didn’t understand this so-called “emergency,” either, when he remembered something that the Brothel staffers had told him and Ceill Linnett had confirmed.“Ceill was upset about the kettle boy leaving, wasn’t he? Because the two of them were involved?”Tilrey sighed. “Yes. I don’t know why Janta ran off, but it may have been because he and Ceill quarreled. Gersha told me Ceill was very upset. I came home to see if I could calm him down.”That upset over a kettle boy leaving? But Ceill was young, and the young were dramatic, and Blas knew all too well how easy it was to get infatuated with a Laborer. “Is that why Ceill drank himself sick in the Brothel on the night of the twenty-third? Because of Gersha’s kettle boy?”“I don’t know anything about what Ceill did that night, Fir.” Tilrey rubbed his temples, looking pained. “Gersha and I were at home, and we thought he was on his way to Thurskein. But I’d guess so, yes.”Ceill’s behavior made sense. Bronn’s still didn’t. “Let’s go back to the night you returned, the twenty-second. You visited the Brothel that night. Kai Meirthal says you told him about Lindahl’s return.”“I did.” Tilrey spoke as if the words had been ripped from him.Blas made a mental note to return to Int/Sec and see if he could track all of Bronn’s movements around the time of the murder. Right now, though, he had to stay on the offensive. “If you’d come home to comfort Ceill, why go straight to the Brothel?”“I didn’t go straight there, Fir.” Tilrey wasn’t making eye contact. “Ceill wasn’t at home, and we weren’t sure where he was. I hoped I’d find him there.”Blas remembered something else Ceill had said during their interview. He’d barely registered it at the time, but now it struck him as incongruous, perhaps even sinister. “Why aren’t you mentioning that the kettle boy ran away because of actions you took? Because you’d ‘locked him up’?”Tilrey was silent for a moment, staring at the opposite wall. “Ceill told you that?”“He did.” Was the man was on the verge of an outburst? Blas hoped so.When it came, though, it was muted. “Fir Examining Magistrate.” The secretary raised his head. “Blas. I don’t want to hash out my family affairs with you.”“Believe me, I don’t want to pry into your business, either.” Blas feigned regret. He felt so close to some kind of revelation. “I’m simply trying to establish the chain of events leading to Fir Councillor’s death.”“And I’m just going to ask you something, with the greatest respect. Are you suggesting I could have killed Fir Lindahl? That I had a motive for doing so?”At last, it was out in the open. Those blue eyes were fixed on Blas again, and this time their expression was all befuddled innocence.Blas had expected that. He said, “I imagine you have an alibi for the night of the twenty-third.”“Gersha was with me.”Of course he was—or will say so. But Bronn hadn’t necessarily wielded the knife himself. He had enough power to delegate others to do his will.“I’m not suggesting anything,” Blas said. “But the fact that you quarreled with Fir Lindahl shortly before his death, and then you rushed home on his heels—that looks odd, doesn’t it?”It would look odd to my mother. That was what he meant, and he knew Tilrey knew it, too.The man’s gaze stayed on Blas, cold and luminous. “There’s still the matter of motive, Fir. I’ve admitted I disliked Fir Lindahl. I’ve admitted I rejected him. But to kill him because he annoyed me? Surely even you can admit I’m smarter than that.”Even you. Blas bristled at the implication, though he knew Bronn was trying to sidetrack him. “If you think I have a personal reason to target you, you’re mistaken.”“You don’t like my relationship with your mother. That’s understandable—in your place, I’d feel the same.” Bronn spread his hands as if to emphasize how reasonable he was being. “But I’m not your enemy, and I want to find Lindahl’s killer as much as you do. Not just out of a sense of justice, I admit, but because of the way the people are reacting to Altmering’s arrest. We need to restore order in our city, Fir.”He was saying the things Blas’s mother would have said, but from him they felt different. They felt wrong. “Who are these ‘people’?” Blas snapped. “Do you even know what you’re talking about?”Bronn looked embarrassed. “The workers. The common people, Fir.”“Why are you talking about them like you aren’t part of them? What are you, one of us?”“I mean no disrespect, Fir. From my perspective, working here in the Sector, one sometimes struggles to understand the workers’ motivations. I wish I had more insight into them. . .Bronn talked on—bland, conciliating. Blas didn’t listen. A dark tide of frustration rose in his head. When the man paused for breath, he blurted out what was uppermost in his mind: “Bors Dartán.”“Excuse me?”“A career Int/Sec analyst.” Blas fought to gather his thoughts. This wasn’t how he’d planned to introduce the name, but he needed to break through that smooth politician’s veneer. He needed a genuine reaction.“Twenty-one years ago,” he said, “Dartán filed several memos on you with his superiors. He had been surveilling you. He believed you had a connection with the Dissident Ranek Egil, whom he had successfully entrapped. He sought permission to open a formal file on you.”Tilrey’s gaze was still bold, but there was something new there, something subtly off. “Yet there is no file, is there, Fir? No investigation, at least to my knowledge—though you would know better than I. How is this Dartán relevant?”Blas had taken a shot in the dark, and he’d aimed true. Bronn had uttered Dartán’s name with forced casualness, as if he badly wanted Blas to think he’d never heard it before.He was afraid.Blas had expected to be triumphant. He felt only queasy. Weighing each word, he said, “You asked me why you might want to kill Lindahl. What if he knew something about you that you preferred to hide?”If Bronn refused to crack, seeking out Dartán would be his next step. At least the man’s memos had been informative. “Dartán saw you as a possible Dissident. Int/Sec records show you were detained for a few days when you were twenty-three on suspicion of subversion related to your reading material—on Gersha’s tip.” The last part had been the biggest surprise, because it meant Gersha knew.“That was a misunderstanding. Your mother knows all about it. You can ask Gersha—”Blas talked over him: “In detention, you were interrogated at length by Ranek Egil, who was later exiled as a traitor. Dartán believed Egil took that opportunity to radicalize you.”Tilrey rose, sending his chair skittering backward. “That’s quite an accusation to make with no evidence, Fir.”Blas felt the heat of the man’s rage across the room. Finally, he was getting somewhere—if only he knew where. “I haven’t accused you of anything. I’m simply pointing out a potential motive.”Two sharp knocks sounded at the door. Tilrey whipped around, but Blas wasn’t finished with him. “If Lindahl caught you engaged in subversive activity, if he threatened you, you would have felt trapped. You would have—”Someone called through the door: “Rishka! Thought you were expecting me!”Blas jumped to his feet. Though muffled, the nasal voice was all too familiar. “Tell him to come back later,” he snapped, but he knew it was too late to salvage the momentum of his interrogation.What in seven green hells was his father doing here?The door opened.Thank everything green. Tilrey had never been more relieved to see Besha in his life.As usual, the Councillor barreled straight into the office. But he stopped short when he saw his son. “Oh, excuse me, Blasha. I didn’t realize you were conducting official business.”Tilrey’s heart was beating triple time. How had he let Blas make him lose control? What was wrong with him?He couldn’t have known Kai would mention his presence in the Brothel on the night before the murder, but he hoped he’d dealt with that fairly well. The nerve of this boy digging up dirt on him, though, going all the way to Bors Dartán! It was the last straw.Bors should have the sense not to talk, knowing his own fate was entangled with Einara’s and Tilrey’s. If he did talk, though, he could bring them all down.“I wasn’t conducting official business,” Blas said, scowling at his father. “I stopped by to give Gersha news of his son. Do you have business here?”Tilrey could see Besha sizing up the situation with a glance. “I do, actually,” he said, sliding himself between them. “Important Council business and directives from your mother. If you’ve delivered your news, why don’t you run along and do your detective work?”Blas flushed at his father’s tone. Tilrey felt almost sorry for him. “Fir Lindblom isn’t bothering me, Fir Councillor,” he said, grateful for the minutes Besha had given him to regain control. “He came to let me know Ceill’s okay.”“Isn’t that nice? But we don’t have time for chit-chat.” Besha shooed his son. “Off you go. The city’s security is at stake. Your mother needs me to brief the secretary so he can brief Gersha, and you should be filing your paperwork for the verdict. It’s about time, right?”As if obeying orders, Blas moved toward the door. Then he wheeled back toward them, eyes narrowed. Tilrey could almost see the young man imagining five ways he’d like to gut his own father.Blas said, “I won’t be filing any verdict till I’m sure I have the guilty party.”Me. He knows it’s me, even if he has no solid proof. Tilrey’s breathing was back under control; nothing showed on his face, he hoped. But he couldn’t dispel a hollow, sinking sensation.“That’s generally a good policy, son.” Besha allowed himself an eye-roll. “Your mother needs Tilrey for the rest of the day, so I suggest you go back to the Funnel and squeeze a full confession out of Stefan.”“I’m leaving because I’m done here.” Blas’s gaze met Tilrey’s, and it was clear he wasn’t anywhere near done. “For now.”The door snapped shut behind the examining magistrate, leaving the temperature in the room several degrees lower. Tilrey felt the chill as he returned to his chair.Besha sat in the one Blas had abandoned. “What a busybody,” he said. “I came here to warn you he was on his way, but I was too late. You didn’t say anything stupid, did you?”Tilrey shook his head—then realized what Besha was implying about his knowledge of the Lindahl case. “Did Gersha tell you?” he asked as the sinking sensation intensified.“Gersha? Nah, he keeps your secrets.” Besha laughed; he seemed pleased with himself. “Einara was the one who told me about Kai’s little mistake. Kai didn’t even realize it might get you in trouble.”Tilrey’s thoughts were like hardening cement; he couldn’t seem to link causes to effects. “You talked to Einara?” he asked stupidly. “I didn’t think you knew her.”Everything was conspiring to defeat him today. First Blas accusing him of murder and sedition, now Besha and Einara passing secrets.“Oh, I’ve known her for a while. A long while.” Besha sprang up again and hovered over Tilrey, one hand on the desk. “When she was young, I used to request her in the Brothel. She reminded me of you. But it wasn’t until recently that I learned just how alike you two are.”Tilrey felt more and more clueless. “What are you saying, Besha?”Besha looked straight at him, eyes hard as glass. “How did you think Janta got out of a locked apartment? He may be a genius, but he’s not magic.”A cold wind was blowing close by, so close that Tilrey wasn’t sure whether it came from outside the window or inside him. “You. You got him out. Why?”Besha’s mouth tightened until he was practically sneering, though the expression looked more pained than smug. “Funny you wouldn’t guess, love. Einara trapped me exactly the way you did, nearly thirty years ago.”Besha’s secret. How had she known it? But Tilrey didn’t have the energy to tease out the truth. “You’re her tool, then? Betraying me after all this time?”Besha looked reproachful. “She didn’t give me a choice any more than you did. Anyway, I wouldn’t be betraying you if you had the sense to join forces with her.”I don’t trust her, and neither should you. But Tilrey knew there was no point in appealing to Besha’s conscience. “I won’t be much use to Einara now. Your son suspects the truth. Give him a few days, and he’ll have enough proof to put me in the Funnel.”His stomach twisted. And once I’m there, I’ll betray Einara and all of you—unless I take Soldrid first.“Smart boy, my Blas,” Besha said. “He sees something out of place and picks right up on it—so thorough. But I don’t think he’ll have even a few days to put the pieces together.”In his mind, Tilrey saw his stash of emergency cyanide capsules. He saw himself saying goodbye to Gersha—gripping his husband’s hands, gazing into his eyes, asking him to record a confession that could be used to free Ceill. Would he leave Ceill a note? What could he possibly write that would be enough?His head was full of tumult, but he needed to know what Besha was implying. “What do you mean, Blas won’t even have a few days?”“Einara wants you to know that Janta’s very close. Soon he’ll be ready—maybe today, definitely tomorrow.” Besha inflected the words with a shrug, as if he were talking about the weather. “We just have to keep poor Stefan alive till then, to give the rabble something to fight for.”A ray of hope penetrated the storm in Tilrey’s head. “You believe Einara about Janta?”“Believe her? I’ve seen what the kid can do for myself. As for you, don’t worry. Einara needs you too badly to let you be arrested. She’s willing to set aside her differences—if you cooperate.”Cooperate? Tilrey’s thoughts were moving fast again, driven by the sheer force of panic. “You’re talking as if she’s already in charge.” Einara’s taking over the city might save him—or kill him, if all she wanted was an Oslov bloodbath. “You may be her tool, but I won’t be.”“Oh, she doesn’t want you to be her tool.” Besha grinned. “She just wants you to become the rebel you know you are. You’ll know when to act—when the lights go out. And from now on, any messages for Einara go through me.”
27 October, year 374, 4 a.m.
Blas couldn’t sleep. He needed to be fresh for his conversation with Tilrey Bronn in the morning. But he needed to be prepared, too, and he worried he was missing something.
At about 11 p.m., Detmer had finally messaged back, but no luck—he hadn’t seen Lindahl’s copy of the Council Record. Blas considered getting on a voice call to ask if Lindahl had ever mentioned Tilrey Bronn to him during their liaison. But it was a long shot, and neither Blas nor Detmer liked thinking about that episode in Detmer’s life.
So, instead of calling Detmer, Blas sat in bed and watched the episode of Their Ways Parted that everyone was so upset about. He watched it a second time, dredging his brain for crumbs of gossip that he had heard from his talkative father over the years. After a few more hours of searching the Net and Int/Sec data, he knew his next step.
When he left his apartment, it was pitch dark outside, too early for the commuter trams to start running. Blas had snatched only a few hours of fitful sleep, but he felt fully alert, and a tumbler of strong tea had set his blood pounding.
It wasn’t just a question of solving the murder now. He needed to make sure his mother wasn’t unwittingly letting a dangerous person into her confidence.
When he reached the Restaurant, at the core of the Core, the elegant dining room was dark and empty. Tropical plants from Harbour drooped among the tables, hunched forms in the gloom, and the air was rich with the residue of spices. Blas headed for the single light shining from the kitchen.
He found just one person there, as he’d expected: an older Laborer in a white smock, who was kneading dough on a marble counter. “Forgive me for the interruption, but are you Svanner, Eivan?”
The man gave a start. “Let me guess, Fir. You’re from the Judiciary.”
Blas held out his hand, but Eivan didn’t reciprocate, still focused on his dough. He moved fluidly for sixty-five, with a still-handsome face and a mop of curly gray hair. His formal speech fit someone who had spent years as a Councillor’s secretary.
Blas introduced himself. “How did you know?”
“We hear a lot of things here, Fir.” Eivan flipped the dough over and thrust a fist into it. “I figured you’d get around to questioning me sooner or later. After all, the whole city knows now that I was Fir Lindahl’s boyfriend and I broke his heart.”
There was a hint of bravado in his tone. Was he proud of breaking Lindahl’s heart, or only pretending not to be affected by his death? Blas couldn’t tell.
“Your relationship with Fir Councillor Lindahl ended decades ago, from what I understand,” he said, seating himself on a tall stool at the counter. “You weren’t in the Brothel on the night of his death. I’m not here to interrogate you, Fir Svanner, only for background.”
“Background on Enrishka?” Eivan looked up at Blas, the heels of his muscly hands sunk in the dough. “I haven’t laid eyes on the man since . . . oh, around 352. I think that’s the last time he showed up at my place and tried to talk me into bed for old times’ sake. Begging was hard on his pride.”
Blas must have looked taken aback, because the Laborer laughed. “Didn’t you see the episode? The poor man really cared about me—and I suppose I used to care about him. He was such a wretched, twisted fuck, brilliant and arrogant and miserable. But then, you’re a high name. You understand him better than I can.”
Blas had heard all sorts of disrespect and vulgarity in Ring Eight, but he’d never heard a Laborer in the Core speak so candidly about a Councillor. “Do you enjoy making Upstarts uncomfortable, Fir Svanner?”
“Oh, you’re good, Fir.” With a chuckle, Eivan formed the dough into a ball. “Lindahl was a little in love with your mother, you know that? He wasn’t usually attracted to women, but it was one of his great regrets that he didn’t manage to wed her.”
He plopped the dough into a bowl, then met Blas’s eyes. “I know your name because Enrishka used to lament that Davita’s children had a compromised bloodline. He was obsessed with heredity. That’s why he informed me I was the real father of his sister’s son—I would never have known otherwise. Without his help, I never would have known my son, either.”
Eivan opened a drawer, and in that instant, Blas saw the older man’s mouth twist as if he’d felt a jab of pain. When he turned back to cover the dough, though, he looked calm. “I loved Fir Councillor for that, if nothing else—allowing me to know my child. These past few days since I heard the news, I’ve even been dreaming about him. When I’m half asleep, I’ll feel him in bed beside me. When I wake, he’s gone. What do you want to know?”
Blas suppressed a shudder. Something in Eivan’s demeanor troubled him, something beyond the disrespect, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. “Our suspect was a year old in 352. I feel safe in assuming you can’t speak to Lindahl’s relationship with him.”
“The actor?” Eivan shook his head. “He would’ve been Enrishka’s type, but that’s all I know.”
“I want to ask you about someone else. Tilrey Bronn.”
“Who?”
You know him. You have to. “Back when you were with Lindahl, Bronn was Fir Gádden’s kettle boy. He still lives with Gádden.”
“Oh, you mean Nettsha.” Eivan took a canister of flour and scooped some out with a measuring cup. “That’s what they called him. He was actually Fir Verán’s kettle boy; Gádden was just the chaperone. Enrishka saw him pretty often. Nettsha was his type, too.”
At least Blas hadn’t hit a dead end. He could already imagine why Lindahl had been rude to Bronn in Harbour, but he needed insight into how Bronn might have reacted. “Did you know the kettle boy? Did you ever see him and Lindahl together?”
“Just once.” Eivan picked up a measuring spoon and tossed something else into the mix, his movements deft and practiced. “We were in the Southern Range, not long after my son died. I already wanted to leave Lindahl then. He knew it, and he was desperately trying to make me happy. When Verán gave him his precious jewel for a night, Enrishka turned around and offered the boy to me.”
Blas thought he’d heard wrong. “Lindahl offered a kettle boy to you? His secretary? To, uh, share with him?”
“Nah.” Eivan smiled jaggedly, mixing the ingredients by hand. “He sent me into his bedroom with the boy, just the two of us, and told the poor kid to give me whatever I wanted. I was in no mood for that, so we spent an hour talking. I told Nettsha all about my fucked-up relationship with Lindahl, if I remember correctly. I managed to shock him.”
“Why would he be shocked?” Poor kid was such a strange way to describe Tilrey Bronn.
“He was surprised that Lindahl had feelings for me and even more surprised when I said I reciprocated them.” Eivan paused, gazing into space. “He couldn’t believe it when I said Enrishka had been kind to me—‘decent’ was the word he used. My Councillor boyfriend liked smart Drudge boys with potential—outliers, he called them. He liked hurting those boys. That was his game.”
Outliers. The shudder moved over Blas’s shoulders again. “So you think he hurt Bronn. But he didn’t hurt you?”
“No. I didn’t let him.” Eivan examined his sticky hands. “I think it was really himself Fir Councillor was trying to hurt. His parents raised him to be perfect, you know; they punished him for every wrong answer. So he grew up and found people he could punish.” He plunged his hands into the dough again. “Course, none of that makes a difference when you’re on the receiving end.”
Blas recalled Lindahl’s punishment of Stefan. “You’re suggesting he hurt Tilrey Bronn physically?”
“There are all kinds of ways to hurt. But I don’t know—the kid didn’t tell me. Boys like him, they learn not to complain, especially to strangers.”
“Bronn’s not a kid anymore.”
Eivan grimaced. “No, he’s not, is he? Time flies. I’m an old man now, and I hear he gives speeches on the Council floor.”
“As a proxy for Councillor Gádden.” Blas knew he needed a casual tone for his next question, but it took intense effort. “Do you think Bronn might have held a grudge against Lindahl?”
“I only talked to the guy for an hour, Fir, twenty-six years ago.” Eivan plumped a new ball of dough down on the marble and began kneading. “What do you want me to tell you—that he’s the killer?”
“I never asked you to speculate,” Blas said. “I only asked for your impressions.”
“Yeah, well, my impression was that someone put the kid through hell. Whether it was Lindahl or someone else or a lot of someones, I dunno. These high names, you know, they do what they want with their whores, and there’s no one to stop them.”
Blas wanted to object, but he hadn’t forgotten his conversation with Lindthardt. He couldn’t deny that no one had stood up for Stefan.
“One hopes that abuses of power are the exception rather than the rule,” he said stiffly.
“Yeah, one hopes.” After a moment, Eivan added, “But, to be frank, I’m not surprised Enrishka died the way he did, may his last moment be bright. Sooner or later, all that hurt was gonna come back to him.”
Blas was at the door of Gersha Gádden’s office before eight. He knocked, but there was no answer.
He knew he should grab breakfast and return later. Hovering in the hallway was unworthy of his office. But he refused to leave. He had used the hours after his conversation with Eivan Svanner to comb through the Int/Sec archives more thoroughly, and what he’d found had banished any traces of fatigue.
He was still loitering outside the office when Bronn arrived at 8:18.
The man had a knack for never looking surprised. He sized Blas up. “Fir Examining Magistrate. What can we do for you?”
We, as if he and the absent Councillor Gádden were the same person. Blas disliked that.
He disliked most things about Tilrey Bronn: the handsome features, the straight posture, the perfect manners. He was aware he was biased because his mother had chosen this man as her favorite. She even touched Bronn sometimes in public, clasping his hand the way she had at their Communal Meal. Blas couldn’t stomach that, no matter how many stern lectures he gave himself.
He knew he didn’t own his mother, yet he couldn’t help feeling as if no one was worthy of her—not even his father! When Blas was a child, his parents had been more physically affectionate, and it always gave him the shivers. His mother was better than an ambitious, fawning social climber, which was what his father was and what he’d always assumed Bronn was, too.
Now he was starting to think the man might be something much worse. A malcontent, hardened by bad treatment into a . . . did he dare even think the word rebel?
He didn’t like to imagine how his mother would react if it were true. He almost hoped it wasn’t.
But he had to do his job. “You must know I’m heading the investigation now. I have a few questions for you.”
“Of course, Fir.” Bronn pressed his hand to the door sensor, his manner just as friendly as Blas’s was. “After you.”
Inside the office’s antechamber, the secretary pulled out a chair for Blas. He seemed ready to remain standing, but Blas said, “Please, sit,” so Bronn took the other chair.
“Have you seen Ceill, Fir?” he asked. “How is he?”
“Ceill’s in good spirits. He’s been cooperative.” A little lie wouldn’t hurt. “Once we finalize his statement, we’ll release him.” Blas watched Bronn’s reaction closely, looking for hints of a different kind of worry—about what Ceill might have told them.
But the secretary looked only relieved. Blas could practically feel the warmth of his smile. “I’m so glad to hear that, Fir. When can I tell Gersha that Ceill will be home?”
“Soon.” Blas didn’t want Gersha getting too hopeful just yet. Anyway, it was time to get this conversation back on track—the radiant smile had distracted him.
He speared Bronn with his gaze, reminding him who was in charge. “What did you and Fir Lindahl quarrel about in Harbour?”
The question landed exactly as Blas had hoped. The secretary flinched backward, blood draining from his face. “Forgive me, Fir, but who told you I quarreled with Fir Councillor Lindahl?”
“Are you saying you didn’t?”
Bronn was gripping the seat of his chair. He must have realized it, because a moment later he folded his hands in his lap. “I didn’t think we were observed. And I wouldn’t call it a quarrel.”
“You were observed at dinner, when Fir Councillor said he preferred not to eat with you.”
“Oh, that.” Bronn looked relieved again—and then annoyed, as if he’d been tricked into revealing too much. “Fir Lindahl was in bad spirits, and he was a proud man, may his last moment be bright. I didn’t take it personally. I offered to leave, but Fir’n Ambassador asked me to stay. We had a perfectly civil dinner conversation.”
“What happened when you weren’t observed?”
Bronn lowered his gaze. Knitted his fingers together. “Nothing much. I don’t like speaking ill of the dead, Fir.”
“If nothing happened, you can tell me. I don’t have to put it in my report.”
“After the meal, in the courtyard, Fir Lindahl asked me to share his bed that night. I declined—respectfully, I hope. We parted ways.”
Blas’s eyebrow shot up before he could control it. “You and Lindahl have a long history, I understand. In bed and out of it.”
“We do.” The secretary spread his hands flat. “Let me cut to the meat of the matter, Fir Examining Magistrate. If you’re wondering whether I was on good terms with Fir Lindahl—I wasn’t.”
Blas stiffened under the force of the man’s cobalt gaze. If Ceill’s stare was a little forceful, his father’s was downright oppressive. You couldn’t think about anything else when he was looking at you.
“I didn’t like Fir Lindahl. He never physically hurt me, but he treated me with . . . rough disregard.” Bronn spoke the words with care, hinting at a wealth of incidents behind them. “When he asked me to oblige him that night in Harbour, for old times’ sake, I knew he wasn’t doing it primarily for physical gratification. He wanted to remind me of my place. But my place has changed since I first knew him. I said no, Fir—and worse, I took pleasure in saying no.”
Blas had never heard Bronn speak on the Council floor, but now he understood why his mother praised the man’s eloquence. He could almost see the scene in his head: Lindahl’s ruffled pride, his sense of entitlement, and Bronn’s polite defiance. For an instant, he admired him for saying no.
Then he reminded himself that he was hearing what Bronn wanted him to believe.
Stay on track. “Thank you for the broader context, but I’m curious about the time frame. You arrived in Harbour in the earliest hours of October twenty-first. On the twenty-second, Lindahl flew back to Redda. So your conversation must have happened on one of those two evenings.”
“The twenty-first.”
“Is your rejection why Lindahl left?”
This time, Bronn didn’t look surprised—or deny it, though he did lower his gaze. “It could have been a reason, but it wasn’t the only one. We spoke again on the twenty-second, on the docks, after Fir Councillor fainted from the heat. He was distraught.”
“About what?”
“Their Ways Parted. He saw the episode as mocking him. He spoke of the great burden of being who he was—his office, his birth, his legacy.”
Blas cringed inwardly. His Lindblom grandparents were like that, always nattering on about the responsibilities of bearing a high name.
Then he caught himself. Stop trying to distract me. Stop making me sympathize with you. “When Lindahl left, was that a relief to you?”
“A bit. I was busy, though.” Bronn looked up again. He must know Blas was up to something. “Anyway,” he said, “I soon got even more distracted, because a soldier arrived from the garrison with a message from Gersha. Janta—his kettle boy—had run off. We were very worried about him. Since the most important parts of my business in Harbour were finished, I decided to return to Redda that night.”
Blas felt like a child when his rival snatches the last rice cake from his fingers. He’d been so close to catching Bronn in a lie.
“So,” he said gruffly, “you left on the night of the twenty-second.”
“Yes. I missed that night’s scheduled flight, so I caught a ride with a fighter pilot who happened to be returning to Redda.”
That matched the ambassador’s account. Blas skewered Bronn with his gaze, determined to make him squirm. “In that case, why did you tell my mother that you rushed home when you heard about Lindahl’s death, which didn’t happen until the twenty-third?”
“I didn’t tell her that, Fir.”
“She seems to be under that impression.”
“She assumed I’d returned on the twenty-fourth. I didn’t contradict her.”
“So you lied by omission to a superior who has complete trust in you.” To my mother, who deserves so much better. Blas raised his chin, no longer outraged just on his own behalf. “Why did you lie to her, Tilrey?”
He used the first name to remind the man that they’d eaten Communal Meals together. That they were, in some twisted way, family.
Tilrey’s gaze fell again. “It seemed easier than explaining my complicated family situation. Your mother, Fir . . . may I be honest?”
Blas swallowed hard. He mustn’t let his anger show. “It’s about time.”
“I respect your mother immensely. But I don’t think she would have understood how the disappearance of a kettle boy could cause an emergency in our household. She would have seen it as a trivial inconvenience.”
Blas was about to say that he didn’t understand this so-called “emergency,” either, when he remembered something that the Brothel staffers had told him and Ceill Linnett had confirmed.
“Ceill was upset about the kettle boy leaving, wasn’t he? Because the two of them were involved?”
Tilrey sighed. “Yes. I don’t know why Janta ran off, but it may have been because he and Ceill quarreled. Gersha told me Ceill was very upset. I came home to see if I could calm him down.”
That upset over a kettle boy leaving? But Ceill was young, and the young were dramatic, and Blas knew all too well how easy it was to get infatuated with a Laborer. “Is that why Ceill drank himself sick in the Brothel on the night of the twenty-third? Because of Gersha’s kettle boy?”
“I don’t know anything about what Ceill did that night, Fir.” Tilrey rubbed his temples, looking pained. “Gersha and I were at home, and we thought he was on his way to Thurskein. But I’d guess so, yes.”
Ceill’s behavior made sense. Bronn’s still didn’t. “Let’s go back to the night you returned, the twenty-second. You visited the Brothel that night. Kai Meirthal says you told him about Lindahl’s return.”
“I did.” Tilrey spoke as if the words had been ripped from him.
Blas made a mental note to return to Int/Sec and see if he could track all of Bronn’s movements around the time of the murder. Right now, though, he had to stay on the offensive. “If you’d come home to comfort Ceill, why go straight to the Brothel?”
“I didn’t go straight there, Fir.” Tilrey wasn’t making eye contact. “Ceill wasn’t at home, and we weren’t sure where he was. I hoped I’d find him there.”
Blas remembered something else Ceill had said during their interview. He’d barely registered it at the time, but now it struck him as incongruous, perhaps even sinister. “Why aren’t you mentioning that the kettle boy ran away because of actions you took? Because you’d ‘locked him up’?”
Tilrey was silent for a moment, staring at the opposite wall. “Ceill told you that?”
“He did.” Was the man was on the verge of an outburst? Blas hoped so.
When it came, though, it was muted. “Fir Examining Magistrate.” The secretary raised his head. “Blas. I don’t want to hash out my family affairs with you.”
“Believe me, I don’t want to pry into your business, either.” Blas feigned regret. He felt so close to some kind of revelation. “I’m simply trying to establish the chain of events leading to Fir Councillor’s death.”
“And I’m just going to ask you something, with the greatest respect. Are you suggesting I could have killed Fir Lindahl? That I had a motive for doing so?”
At last, it was out in the open. Those blue eyes were fixed on Blas again, and this time their expression was all befuddled innocence.
Blas had expected that. He said, “I imagine you have an alibi for the night of the twenty-third.”
“Gersha was with me.”
Of course he was—or will say so. But Bronn hadn’t necessarily wielded the knife himself. He had enough power to delegate others to do his will.
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Blas said. “But the fact that you quarreled with Fir Lindahl shortly before his death, and then you rushed home on his heels—that looks odd, doesn’t it?”
It would look odd to my mother. That was what he meant, and he knew Tilrey knew it, too.
The man’s gaze stayed on Blas, cold and luminous. “There’s still the matter of motive, Fir. I’ve admitted I disliked Fir Lindahl. I’ve admitted I rejected him. But to kill him because he annoyed me? Surely even you can admit I’m smarter than that.”
Even you. Blas bristled at the implication, though he knew Bronn was trying to sidetrack him. “If you think I have a personal reason to target you, you’re mistaken.”
“You don’t like my relationship with your mother. That’s understandable—in your place, I’d feel the same.” Bronn spread his hands as if to emphasize how reasonable he was being. “But I’m not your enemy, and I want to find Lindahl’s killer as much as you do. Not just out of a sense of justice, I admit, but because of the way the people are reacting to Altmering’s arrest. We need to restore order in our city, Fir.”
He was saying the things Blas’s mother would have said, but from him they felt different. They felt wrong. “Who are these ‘people’?” Blas snapped. “Do you even know what you’re talking about?”
Bronn looked embarrassed. “The workers. The common people, Fir.”
“Why are you talking about them like you aren’t part of them? What are you, one of us?”
“I mean no disrespect, Fir. From my perspective, working here in the Sector, one sometimes struggles to understand the workers’ motivations. I wish I had more insight into them. . .
Bronn talked on—bland, conciliating. Blas didn’t listen. A dark tide of frustration rose in his head. When the man paused for breath, he blurted out what was uppermost in his mind: “Bors Dartán.”
“Excuse me?”
“A career Int/Sec analyst.” Blas fought to gather his thoughts. This wasn’t how he’d planned to introduce the name, but he needed to break through that smooth politician’s veneer. He needed a genuine reaction.
“Twenty-one years ago,” he said, “Dartán filed several memos on you with his superiors. He had been surveilling you. He believed you had a connection with the Dissident Ranek Egil, whom he had successfully entrapped. He sought permission to open a formal file on you.”
Tilrey’s gaze was still bold, but there was something new there, something subtly off. “Yet there is no file, is there, Fir? No investigation, at least to my knowledge—though you would know better than I. How is this Dartán relevant?”
Blas had taken a shot in the dark, and he’d aimed true. Bronn had uttered Dartán’s name with forced casualness, as if he badly wanted Blas to think he’d never heard it before.
He was afraid.
Blas had expected to be triumphant. He felt only queasy. Weighing each word, he said, “You asked me why you might want to kill Lindahl. What if he knew something about you that you preferred to hide?”
If Bronn refused to crack, seeking out Dartán would be his next step. At least the man’s memos had been informative. “Dartán saw you as a possible Dissident. Int/Sec records show you were detained for a few days when you were twenty-three on suspicion of subversion related to your reading material—on Gersha’s tip.” The last part had been the biggest surprise, because it meant Gersha knew.
“That was a misunderstanding. Your mother knows all about it. You can ask Gersha—”
Blas talked over him: “In detention, you were interrogated at length by Ranek Egil, who was later exiled as a traitor. Dartán believed Egil took that opportunity to radicalize you.”
Tilrey rose, sending his chair skittering backward. “That’s quite an accusation to make with no evidence, Fir.”
Blas felt the heat of the man’s rage across the room. Finally, he was getting somewhere—if only he knew where. “I haven’t accused you of anything. I’m simply pointing out a potential motive.”
Two sharp knocks sounded at the door. Tilrey whipped around, but Blas wasn’t finished with him. “If Lindahl caught you engaged in subversive activity, if he threatened you, you would have felt trapped. You would have—”
Someone called through the door: “Rishka! Thought you were expecting me!”
Blas jumped to his feet. Though muffled, the nasal voice was all too familiar. “Tell him to come back later,” he snapped, but he knew it was too late to salvage the momentum of his interrogation.
What in seven green hells was his father doing here?
The door opened.
Thank everything green. Tilrey had never been more relieved to see Besha in his life.
As usual, the Councillor barreled straight into the office. But he stopped short when he saw his son. “Oh, excuse me, Blasha. I didn’t realize you were conducting official business.”
Tilrey’s heart was beating triple time. How had he let Blas make him lose control? What was wrong with him?
He couldn’t have known Kai would mention his presence in the Brothel on the night before the murder, but he hoped he’d dealt with that fairly well. The nerve of this boy digging up dirt on him, though, going all the way to Bors Dartán! It was the last straw.
Bors should have the sense not to talk, knowing his own fate was entangled with Einara’s and Tilrey’s. If he did talk, though, he could bring them all down.
“I wasn’t conducting official business,” Blas said, scowling at his father. “I stopped by to give Gersha news of his son. Do you have business here?”
Tilrey could see Besha sizing up the situation with a glance. “I do, actually,” he said, sliding himself between them. “Important Council business and directives from your mother. If you’ve delivered your news, why don’t you run along and do your detective work?”
Blas flushed at his father’s tone. Tilrey felt almost sorry for him. “Fir Lindblom isn’t bothering me, Fir Councillor,” he said, grateful for the minutes Besha had given him to regain control. “He came to let me know Ceill’s okay.”
“Isn’t that nice? But we don’t have time for chit-chat.” Besha shooed his son. “Off you go. The city’s security is at stake. Your mother needs me to brief the secretary so he can brief Gersha, and you should be filing your paperwork for the verdict. It’s about time, right?”
As if obeying orders, Blas moved toward the door. Then he wheeled back toward them, eyes narrowed. Tilrey could almost see the young man imagining five ways he’d like to gut his own father.
Blas said, “I won’t be filing any verdict till I’m sure I have the guilty party.”
Me. He knows it’s me, even if he has no solid proof. Tilrey’s breathing was back under control; nothing showed on his face, he hoped. But he couldn’t dispel a hollow, sinking sensation.
“That’s generally a good policy, son.” Besha allowed himself an eye-roll. “Your mother needs Tilrey for the rest of the day, so I suggest you go back to the Funnel and squeeze a full confession out of Stefan.”
“I’m leaving because I’m done here.” Blas’s gaze met Tilrey’s, and it was clear he wasn’t anywhere near done. “For now.”
The door snapped shut behind the examining magistrate, leaving the temperature in the room several degrees lower. Tilrey felt the chill as he returned to his chair.
Besha sat in the one Blas had abandoned. “What a busybody,” he said. “I came here to warn you he was on his way, but I was too late. You didn’t say anything stupid, did you?”
Tilrey shook his head—then realized what Besha was implying about his knowledge of the Lindahl case. “Did Gersha tell you?” he asked as the sinking sensation intensified.
“Gersha? Nah, he keeps your secrets.” Besha laughed; he seemed pleased with himself. “Einara was the one who told me about Kai’s little mistake. Kai didn’t even realize it might get you in trouble.”
Tilrey’s thoughts were like hardening cement; he couldn’t seem to link causes to effects. “You talked to Einara?” he asked stupidly. “I didn’t think you knew her.”
Everything was conspiring to defeat him today. First Blas accusing him of murder and sedition, now Besha and Einara passing secrets.
“Oh, I’ve known her for a while. A long while.” Besha sprang up again and hovered over Tilrey, one hand on the desk. “When she was young, I used to request her in the Brothel. She reminded me of you. But it wasn’t until recently that I learned just how alike you two are.”
Tilrey felt more and more clueless. “What are you saying, Besha?”
Besha looked straight at him, eyes hard as glass. “How did you think Janta got out of a locked apartment? He may be a genius, but he’s not magic.”
A cold wind was blowing close by, so close that Tilrey wasn’t sure whether it came from outside the window or inside him. “You. You got him out. Why?”
Besha’s mouth tightened until he was practically sneering, though the expression looked more pained than smug. “Funny you wouldn’t guess, love. Einara trapped me exactly the way you did, nearly thirty years ago.”
Besha’s secret. How had she known it? But Tilrey didn’t have the energy to tease out the truth. “You’re her tool, then? Betraying me after all this time?”
Besha looked reproachful. “She didn’t give me a choice any more than you did. Anyway, I wouldn’t be betraying you if you had the sense to join forces with her.”
I don’t trust her, and neither should you. But Tilrey knew there was no point in appealing to Besha’s conscience. “I won’t be much use to Einara now. Your son suspects the truth. Give him a few days, and he’ll have enough proof to put me in the Funnel.”
His stomach twisted. And once I’m there, I’ll betray Einara and all of you—unless I take Soldrid first.
“Smart boy, my Blas,” Besha said. “He sees something out of place and picks right up on it—so thorough. But I don’t think he’ll have even a few days to put the pieces together.”
In his mind, Tilrey saw his stash of emergency cyanide capsules. He saw himself saying goodbye to Gersha—gripping his husband’s hands, gazing into his eyes, asking him to record a confession that could be used to free Ceill. Would he leave Ceill a note? What could he possibly write that would be enough?
His head was full of tumult, but he needed to know what Besha was implying. “What do you mean, Blas won’t even have a few days?”
“Einara wants you to know that Janta’s very close. Soon he’ll be ready—maybe today, definitely tomorrow.” Besha inflected the words with a shrug, as if he were talking about the weather. “We just have to keep poor Stefan alive till then, to give the rabble something to fight for.”
A ray of hope penetrated the storm in Tilrey’s head. “You believe Einara about Janta?”
“Believe her? I’ve seen what the kid can do for myself. As for you, don’t worry. Einara needs you too badly to let you be arrested. She’s willing to set aside her differences—if you cooperate.”
Cooperate? Tilrey’s thoughts were moving fast again, driven by the sheer force of panic. “You’re talking as if she’s already in charge.” Einara’s taking over the city might save him—or kill him, if all she wanted was an Oslov bloodbath. “You may be her tool, but I won’t be.”
“Oh, she doesn’t want you to be her tool.” Besha grinned. “She just wants you to become the rebel you know you are. You’ll know when to act—when the lights go out. And from now on, any messages for Einara go through me.”
Chapter End Notes
Tilrey’s history with Eivan Svanner is covered in Sleeping Arrangements.
Chapter End Notes
Tilrey’s history with Eivan Svanner is covered in Sleeping Arrangements.
Tilrey’s history with Eivan Svanner is covered in Sleeping Arrangements.