Volume 19: Oslov Unraveled
Chapter 7
Moment of Truth
28 October, year 374, 2:14 a.m.
Blas Lindblom missed his boyfriend.He marched determinedly across the ground-floor foyer toward the soldiers who filled the Sector, guarding the Council. If he stayed in the building all night, huddled like a hostage, he might never find Detmer.He felt bogged down with failure, as if it were a dark, sluggish liquid coursing through his veins. He had saved Stefan Altmering from certain death, only to learn that Stefan was part of the sabotage plot. He had warned his mother against Tilrey Bronn, only to be patted on the head and ignored. He had failed utterly and miserably at his job of protecting the Republic from internal threats.Well, fuck it, then. It was time to start focusing on what he cared about, and what he cared about was making sure Detmer was safe. Why had he let him slip away earlier? Why hadn’t he run after him?The troops tried to stop Blas at the door, saying their orders were to keep everyone safely inside. Apparently they hadn’t got the news that Bors Dartán had the power to make the saboteur target the Council with one push of a button.Dartán was yet another traitor Blas had failed to detect in time. But what could he do about that now?He drew himself up. “I’m the General Magistrate’s son, and I was ordered to leave the building for my own protection.”It was close enough to true. His father had suggested he leave, though his mother had been too distracted to second the order. Then they’d tossed him out of the Council chamber and locked themselves up in there, making it crystal clear that he wasn’t wanted or needed.His mother had kept Bronn with her. Should he go back and beg her to reconsider? No, he knew where that would lead. She was letting affection and desire cloud her judgment, and maybe he was no different. Right now he didn’t care.After some conferring over their radios, the troops finally stood aside. “Don’t go home, Fir,” one of them said. “Find one of the warming centers and stay put. There are shirkers and escaped prisoners roving around, and they don’t like gray-jackets.”Blas promised to find a warming center. Privately he resolved to make a circuit of all the warming centers until he found Detmer.The temperature had dropped since he was last outside, but he didn’t mind how the wind lashed his cheeks as he crossed the street, keeping an eye out for his boyfriend. Pain and discomfort were what he deserved. He had failed his mother, the Republic, himself.So what? He didn’t much like himself right now, the Republic had never given a shit about him, and his mother was wrapped up in her wretched infatuation. Mersha alone cared about him. Mersha needed him right now.Despite the soldier’s warning, he found no roving bands of criminals, only knots of people huddled around fires, their parka hoods cinched tight. They didn’t even look up when he passed.Where would Detmer go? Home? Blas stepped into one of the building lobbies turned warming centers and found thirty or forty Upstarts crammed into sleeping bags, shivering around two space heaters. He scanned the faces, but no Mersha.Damn it, where are you? He would bring Mersha back to the Sector, where the power was on. They could camp out in Detmer’s office, sleeping on the floor in each other’s arms.He would beg Detmer’s forgiveness for leaving him alone, even temporarily. Finding Dartán was useless. Saving Stefan was useless. I should’ve been with you.On his way back outside, someone jostled him. A woman’s soft voice said, “Fir Lindblom?”Blas wheeled to glare at her. She was a Laborer, perhaps some kind of admin. Could his mother have sent her after him? “Who are you?”The woman took his arm—gently, unthreateningly—and led him outside where they wouldn’t be overheard. Hugging herself against the arctic gale, she said, “Are you looking for Detmer Verán? He sent me. He found something in the Brothel he says you should see. He thinks he knows who really killed Councillor Lindahl.”“They turned the cameras back on!” Aleks pointed to the window on Janta’s screen that showed the feed from the Council chamber.Janta nodded. In a distant way, he observed that Aleks’s face was slick with sweat. Aleks was afraid.Janta had felt fear in the past, but there was no room in his head for it right now. He was too busy keeping track of the action all over the city: the fall of the Core barracks, the ongoing assaults on Constabularies in the other Rings, the escaping prisoners, the troops ringing the Sector.He was a machine performing at full capacity, every processing circuit engaged. It felt good but strange, too—as if a humming alien energy had taken control of his brain. He had to be reminded to eat, drink, and relieve himself. He couldn’t imagine sleeping.“That’s good,” he told Aleks. “They need the cameras so they can broadcast a message from Stefan to the rest of the city. Besha gave them that idea. It’s part of our plan.”Aleks didn’t seem reassured. His lips kept quivering. He had always been so brave in Thurskein, boldly defying laws, but seeing Janta in control of the city must have changed him.They might all be dead soon. No one hijacked the Republic’s Net and survived. Janta knew this intellectually, but the strongest regret he felt was that he might never be able to touch Ceill’s soft hair again.He felt bad for Aleks and Lasha and the others. He felt bad for Ceill. But Ceill would live—Janta was sure of it—and he would forget Janta and be happy if he needed to. As for Janta, no one should mourn him. He was doing what he’d always been meant to do.“The cameras were off for about forty minutes,” Aleks was saying. “That means they know we’re watching, Janta. They used that time to plan something, I’ll bet.”Janta nodded. But his mind was already elsewhere—on the window where he was monitoring Ceill, who was stumbling away from the Sector.Good thing he’d happened to catch Ceill emerging from Int/Sec and found a way to signal to him. Einara had warned him that Ceill might be used as a hostage once Tilrey and Gersha revealed themselves, and Janta couldn’t let that happen. Not only for the sake of the revolution, but for his own.You have to live, he thought, watching Ceill skulk in the shadow of a building. Redda needs you to help rebuild.“Janta!” Aleks was nudging him and handing him a hot cup of something. “Did you hear me? What do you think they’re planning?”“It doesn’t matter.” Janta needed both his hands for the keyboard, but he sipped from the cup when Aleks lifted it to his lips. “Everything is about to change.”While the soldiers served tea to the frazzled Councillors in the amphitheater, Tilrey helped move the chairs several yards from the Council table. Morten Verán had switched the surveillance cams back on, then retreated into temporary exile with the rest of the Programmers.The table was about to become Stefan’s stage for a broadcast to the Republic. The actual broadcasting wouldn’t happen without Janta’s help, but Tilrey supposed he would oblige, since Stefan’s big moment had been Besha’s idea. He, Janta, and Einara had probably planned this together.Tilrey didn’t like not knowing their plan. He liked even less not knowing where Ceill was. But he had reached a constant state of stress and fatigue where nothing could add to his agitation, so he moved chairs and poured tea and tried not to think.When Gersha returned to the table, Tilrey led him to the seat beside Davita that he himself had occupied earlier. Then he leaned in and whispered, “I think we’re almost there.”Gersha looked alarmed. “Where?”You know. “When I step forward, you join me. After that, will you promise to follow my lead, whatever I do? Even if it doesn’t seem to make sense?”Gersha opened his mouth as if to object. Then he lowered his gaze. “Okay. Yes, love. I trust you.”Tilrey reached for his husband’s hand and squeezed. “Everything will work out. Promise. Soon we’ll see Ceill again.”Then he moved on.When he settled Davita in her chair with a fresh cup, she said, “What would I do without you?” Then, tugging his head down so she could speak confidentially, she added, “I’m sorry about those things Blas said about you. I should never have put the poor boy on the murder case. He’s as enchanted by Stefan Altmering as the Laborers.”Tilrey had caught a few Councillors giving him suspicious looks in the wake of Blas’s accusation. But the older and more influential ones, such as Saldegren and Ekorin, seemed to think nothing of it. They trusted him because they had known him since his youth—and, more importantly, because they had known him intimately, in a way they thought left no room for secrets.After all these years of observing him, of enjoying him, of using him, they’d learned nothing at all.“Blas is under a lot of stress,” he said, knowing how soon she would regret not listening to her son. “And he’s never been fond of me. I make a convenient target.”“I know, but all that nonsense about Lindahl catching you doing something subversive in Harbour—and you saved me, sweetheart. Without you, I might never have emerged from that tunnel alive.”“The search party would have found you.”“Perhaps too late.” Davita stroked his hand, her dark eyes full of earnest contrition. “When this is over, I’ll make Blas apologize.”“No need.” Something caught in his throat.“No, I will. I promise. He has to accept that you’re special to me.”The chamber’s double doors opened to admit a new swell of people. Davita turned from Tilrey, dropping his hand. “Ah, our little murderer is back. Why don’t you help him find the spotlight?”Tilrey went to meet Bors and Stefan, who were escorted by six soldiers at a respectful distance.Bors looked pissed off, as usual. Stefan was trembling—and no wonder, Tilrey thought. He gave the young man a hand up so that he could stand atop the cleared Council table, as Bors had earlier.The boy had escaped from prison and assassins into the chaos of the blackout. Now he was facing down the Republic’s elites, at least some of whom he must have serviced at the Brothel. Like Tilrey, he must have unpleasant memories to connect with those faces.“It’s okay,” Tilrey said in a low voice. “They’re afraid to hurt you now.”When Stefan met Tilrey’s gaze, his dark eyes were fiercely determined. “I know it.”The Councillors seated themselves in a loose circle around the table. Bors hovered beside the table looking daggers at anyone who approached Stefan. Atteivian’s soldiers, Tilrey noted, stood guard at the doors of the chamber.He met Besha’s eyes briefly and received a typical Besha smirk. Tilrey replied with a look that said, I hope to hell you know what you’re doing.Alone, standing on the table, Stefan peeled off his borrowed parka to reveal the prison coverall beneath. “Where’s the camera? I thought I was gonna give a statement.”“You are, my lad,” Davita said. “Speak to the surveillance cams in the balcony. Your friend who controls the Net—whoever he is—can broadcast your message to the disruptors in the outer Rings. They need to know we’re taking their demands seriously.”She addressed Stefan with exaggerated gentleness, as if he were a child—the way she spoke to most Laborers. She had used the same tone with Tilrey for many years, until she forgot and began treating him like a peer.And Tilrey had liked it when she granted him that minimal courtesy, though he knew she justified it by classifying him as an “exception.” He had always enjoyed impressing Upstarts by exceeding their expectations.It was a childish pleasure—something he was a little ashamed of, something Einara would have mocked him for. (They’re your oppressors! What do you care what they think of you?) Maybe it was finally time to let it go.“Go on, start talking!” Besha called up to Stefan. “Tell all your friends that you’re alive and safe and they can stand down now.”He stepped toward the table. But Bors barred the way, raising his device high. “Come any closer, and we all go up in flames!”“Fine, fine!” Besha withdrew. “Why does Tilrey get to stand so close, though?”“He’s not a Councillor,” Bors said through gritted teeth.Passing Tilrey, Besha winked as if to say It’s time, sending a shiver coursing down Tilrey’s spine.Time for what? Was he really ready?Stefan cleared his throat, raised his head, and addressed the balcony in a small voice. “Laborers of Redda! Um. I’m fine. Still alive!”“You can do better than that,” Besha scolded. “You’re an actor. Perform!”“Tell the people,” Davita said, “that we’ve heard the saboteur’s demands and intend to meet them to the best of our—”“Tell them they’ll have representation in the new government!” Bors interrupted.Davita opened her mouth to object. Tilrey caught her eye, silently reminding her of the lethal device in Bors’s hand.She said, “Yes. Tell them that.”Stefan scowled down at the oak tabletop between his boots for a moment, as if processing all the unsolicited advice. Then he raised his head again.“They tried to kill me,” he cried, projecting his voice to the balcony, “but they didn’t succeed!”“Focus on the positive,” Davita hissed at him. “The actions we’re taking to satisfy their demands. Tell them to choose three representatives and—”This time, Stefan seemed to have no interest in her input. He plowed ahead. “I’m innocent of the crime I’m accused of!” he told the invisible audience. “But I’m nothing. I’m just a symbol. It’s you who actually matter—you, the workers of Redda! Your government oppresses you. It pens you up and limits your choices. It imprisons anyone who speaks out!”Saldegren and Lindthardt were on their feet instantly, converging on the table. “Shut him up!”“That’s treason!”Stefan kept right on going. “Your own soldiers fired on you, people of Redda! They killed your brothers, your sisters, your sons, your daughters, your friends! All because you held public demonstrations demanding a fair trial for me!”In the corner of his eye, Tilrey saw General Atteivian motion to his soldiers. Three of them sped up the steps from the amphitheater, pistols out, ready to remove Stefan from his perch.Bors held his device aloft. The soldiers froze in place, a few yards away.“We have to let him speak, or else we prove his point!” Besha insisted, blocking Saldegren and Lindthardt’s path to the table. “You fools, don’t you see?”Meanwhile, Stefan shouted on, seemingly oblivious to the conflict below him. “I said I’m innocent of Lindahl’s murder, and I mean it! But I’m not sorry Lindahl died. He had me raped and beaten. He ruined my life. He represents everything that’s wrong with this rotten Republic—everything we need to change!”Tilrey stared at the young man, thrilled by his transformation. The frightened prisoner had transformed back into the actor who riveted every gaze—head high, eyes blazing. When Stefan made a sweeping gesture, a shudder went through the room.“Silence him,” Saldegren pleaded.But Stefan’s voice grew louder and stronger with every interruption. “These Councillors asked me to give a speech so I could calm you all down. But I don’t want you to calm down, people of Redda! I want you to stay angry! I want you to capture the Constabularies and free the prisoners! I want you to help me build a new Oslov!”Davita made the slightest gesture. Tilrey caught it in his peripheral vision.The general must have caught it, too. In an instant, the three soldiers who’d surrounded the table moved in.They seized Bors, ripping the device from his hand. Then, while two of them restrained him, the third soldier leapt onto the table.“Shoot the boy!” Councillor Ekorin urged.“No!” Tilrey was queasy with dread, but he couldn’t let Stefan be hurt. He didn’t have to glance at Besha to know it was time to act.He sprang onto the seat of an empty chair and from there to the tabletop, heart pounding, just in time to dart between Stefan and the advancing soldier. Facing the rifle pointed at the young man, he raised both hands and yelled, “Don’t hurt him! The people will go mad!”“No one’s going to shoot the boy, only restrain him.” That was Davita, below and behind Tilrey. “Would someone go up and unplug those damned cams again, please?”“Restrain the prisoner,” Atteivian ordered.A muscle bounced in the soldier’s jaw. Weapon still out, he waved Tilrey out of the way.Stefan had retreated to the head of the table, as far as possible from his pursuer. Breathless now, he shouted at the balcony: “They want us to negotiate! But there’s only one person in this room I’ll negotiate with! The person who gave the order to shut off the lights!”The soldier was still grimly focused on Tilrey, but now his eyes widened.Exclamations of surprise rose from the Councillors below, too. What were they looking at?Tilrey risked a glance over his shoulder, and then he understood. Stefan was pointing at him.He was that person.“The boy doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Davita said sharply. “Please remove him.”But no one moved, not even Tilrey. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The room swam before his eyes. In its place, he saw a cloudy vision of Ceill’s face—his son as a child, innocent and trusting. Then Ceill as an adult, worried and skeptical. A face he might never see again.For you. I’ll do this for you. With the thought, a strange calm washed over him.“I know exactly what I’m saying.” Stefan’s voice trembled, but he enunciated each word clearly. “Only one person in this room can lead the new Republic. It’s not me, Magistrate. And it sure as hell isn’t you.”Still shielding Stefan, Tilrey turned very slowly to face Davita. “He’s telling the truth.”“Nonsense, he’s trying to distract us,” Davita snapped. “Repeating what Blas said. Psychological warfare.”But Tilrey kept on talking. He made his voice dead level; it was the only way to get the words out. He couldn’t hold Davita’s gaze, so he kept his eyes steady to one side of her.“I gave the order to turn off the lights. I had Lindahl killed. Blas was right—there’s a long Int/Sec file on me, because I’ve been plotting against the Republic, and I feared Lindahl would find out.” He cleared his throat. He felt lightheaded, terrified and freed at once. “Ask Dartán. Ask Karishkov.”People gasped. They seemed very far away, too distant to touch him. He wondered if Einara could see what he was doing, and if she were happy now. Was this what she wanted? For him to be a spectacle?Just like one of those Election Nights thirty years ago—but no, this was different. This time there was only so much they could do to him.“Go on,” Tilrey said to the soldier. He lowered his hands and held them out for the cuffs. “Take me into custody.”“And me.”Gersha’s voice. He’d risen and broken free of the crowd. The Councillors parted around him, their expressions horror-struck.Even though Tilrey had told Gersha to step forward and claim his share of the guilt, his chest tightened. What if it doesn’t work? They could kill us both.“Gersha.” Davita spoke in a harsh whisper. “Tilrey. What are you…?”Gersha stepped onto a chair and from there, a little shakily, up to stand beside Tilrey.“There is no ‘exile’ controlling the city, Davita.” His cheeks were flushed, and his voice quavered. But it was still the voice he had used so many times to orate beautifully in the Council chamber. “There’s only us. I know this is a shock, but Stefan is right.”He met Tilrey’s eyes, and a current passed between them. Tilrey read the expression there: No matter what happens, I follow you. For Ceill.Tilrey straightened his back and took his husband’s hand. In an instant, he knew, they would be torn apart, but he needed to feel the warmth of Gersha’s palm. It leveled his breathing. It brought him to a quiet center where no one else could touch him.Whatever happened, he knew now, everything would be all right in the end.“Oslov needs a change,” he said. “And it can’t wait anymore.”
28 October, year 374, 2:14 a.m.
Blas Lindblom missed his boyfriend.
He marched determinedly across the ground-floor foyer toward the soldiers who filled the Sector, guarding the Council. If he stayed in the building all night, huddled like a hostage, he might never find Detmer.
He felt bogged down with failure, as if it were a dark, sluggish liquid coursing through his veins. He had saved Stefan Altmering from certain death, only to learn that Stefan was part of the sabotage plot. He had warned his mother against Tilrey Bronn, only to be patted on the head and ignored. He had failed utterly and miserably at his job of protecting the Republic from internal threats.
Well, fuck it, then. It was time to start focusing on what he cared about, and what he cared about was making sure Detmer was safe. Why had he let him slip away earlier? Why hadn’t he run after him?
The troops tried to stop Blas at the door, saying their orders were to keep everyone safely inside. Apparently they hadn’t got the news that Bors Dartán had the power to make the saboteur target the Council with one push of a button.
Dartán was yet another traitor Blas had failed to detect in time. But what could he do about that now?
He drew himself up. “I’m the General Magistrate’s son, and I was ordered to leave the building for my own protection.”
It was close enough to true. His father had suggested he leave, though his mother had been too distracted to second the order. Then they’d tossed him out of the Council chamber and locked themselves up in there, making it crystal clear that he wasn’t wanted or needed.
His mother had kept Bronn with her. Should he go back and beg her to reconsider? No, he knew where that would lead. She was letting affection and desire cloud her judgment, and maybe he was no different. Right now he didn’t care.
After some conferring over their radios, the troops finally stood aside. “Don’t go home, Fir,” one of them said. “Find one of the warming centers and stay put. There are shirkers and escaped prisoners roving around, and they don’t like gray-jackets.”
Blas promised to find a warming center. Privately he resolved to make a circuit of all the warming centers until he found Detmer.
The temperature had dropped since he was last outside, but he didn’t mind how the wind lashed his cheeks as he crossed the street, keeping an eye out for his boyfriend. Pain and discomfort were what he deserved. He had failed his mother, the Republic, himself.
So what? He didn’t much like himself right now, the Republic had never given a shit about him, and his mother was wrapped up in her wretched infatuation. Mersha alone cared about him. Mersha needed him right now.
Despite the soldier’s warning, he found no roving bands of criminals, only knots of people huddled around fires, their parka hoods cinched tight. They didn’t even look up when he passed.
Where would Detmer go? Home? Blas stepped into one of the building lobbies turned warming centers and found thirty or forty Upstarts crammed into sleeping bags, shivering around two space heaters. He scanned the faces, but no Mersha.
Damn it, where are you? He would bring Mersha back to the Sector, where the power was on. They could camp out in Detmer’s office, sleeping on the floor in each other’s arms.
He would beg Detmer’s forgiveness for leaving him alone, even temporarily. Finding Dartán was useless. Saving Stefan was useless. I should’ve been with you.
On his way back outside, someone jostled him. A woman’s soft voice said, “Fir Lindblom?”
Blas wheeled to glare at her. She was a Laborer, perhaps some kind of admin. Could his mother have sent her after him? “Who are you?”
The woman took his arm—gently, unthreateningly—and led him outside where they wouldn’t be overheard. Hugging herself against the arctic gale, she said, “Are you looking for Detmer Verán? He sent me. He found something in the Brothel he says you should see. He thinks he knows who really killed Councillor Lindahl.”
“They turned the cameras back on!” Aleks pointed to the window on Janta’s screen that showed the feed from the Council chamber.
Janta nodded. In a distant way, he observed that Aleks’s face was slick with sweat. Aleks was afraid.
Janta had felt fear in the past, but there was no room in his head for it right now. He was too busy keeping track of the action all over the city: the fall of the Core barracks, the ongoing assaults on Constabularies in the other Rings, the escaping prisoners, the troops ringing the Sector.
He was a machine performing at full capacity, every processing circuit engaged. It felt good but strange, too—as if a humming alien energy had taken control of his brain. He had to be reminded to eat, drink, and relieve himself. He couldn’t imagine sleeping.
“That’s good,” he told Aleks. “They need the cameras so they can broadcast a message from Stefan to the rest of the city. Besha gave them that idea. It’s part of our plan.”
Aleks didn’t seem reassured. His lips kept quivering. He had always been so brave in Thurskein, boldly defying laws, but seeing Janta in control of the city must have changed him.
They might all be dead soon. No one hijacked the Republic’s Net and survived. Janta knew this intellectually, but the strongest regret he felt was that he might never be able to touch Ceill’s soft hair again.
He felt bad for Aleks and Lasha and the others. He felt bad for Ceill. But Ceill would live—Janta was sure of it—and he would forget Janta and be happy if he needed to. As for Janta, no one should mourn him. He was doing what he’d always been meant to do.
“The cameras were off for about forty minutes,” Aleks was saying. “That means they know we’re watching, Janta. They used that time to plan something, I’ll bet.”
Janta nodded. But his mind was already elsewhere—on the window where he was monitoring Ceill, who was stumbling away from the Sector.
Good thing he’d happened to catch Ceill emerging from Int/Sec and found a way to signal to him. Einara had warned him that Ceill might be used as a hostage once Tilrey and Gersha revealed themselves, and Janta couldn’t let that happen. Not only for the sake of the revolution, but for his own.
You have to live, he thought, watching Ceill skulk in the shadow of a building. Redda needs you to help rebuild.
“Janta!” Aleks was nudging him and handing him a hot cup of something. “Did you hear me? What do you think they’re planning?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Janta needed both his hands for the keyboard, but he sipped from the cup when Aleks lifted it to his lips. “Everything is about to change.”
While the soldiers served tea to the frazzled Councillors in the amphitheater, Tilrey helped move the chairs several yards from the Council table. Morten Verán had switched the surveillance cams back on, then retreated into temporary exile with the rest of the Programmers.
The table was about to become Stefan’s stage for a broadcast to the Republic. The actual broadcasting wouldn’t happen without Janta’s help, but Tilrey supposed he would oblige, since Stefan’s big moment had been Besha’s idea. He, Janta, and Einara had probably planned this together.
Tilrey didn’t like not knowing their plan. He liked even less not knowing where Ceill was. But he had reached a constant state of stress and fatigue where nothing could add to his agitation, so he moved chairs and poured tea and tried not to think.
When Gersha returned to the table, Tilrey led him to the seat beside Davita that he himself had occupied earlier. Then he leaned in and whispered, “I think we’re almost there.”
Gersha looked alarmed. “Where?”
You know. “When I step forward, you join me. After that, will you promise to follow my lead, whatever I do? Even if it doesn’t seem to make sense?”
Gersha opened his mouth as if to object. Then he lowered his gaze. “Okay. Yes, love. I trust you.”
Tilrey reached for his husband’s hand and squeezed. “Everything will work out. Promise. Soon we’ll see Ceill again.”
Then he moved on.
When he settled Davita in her chair with a fresh cup, she said, “What would I do without you?” Then, tugging his head down so she could speak confidentially, she added, “I’m sorry about those things Blas said about you. I should never have put the poor boy on the murder case. He’s as enchanted by Stefan Altmering as the Laborers.”
Tilrey had caught a few Councillors giving him suspicious looks in the wake of Blas’s accusation. But the older and more influential ones, such as Saldegren and Ekorin, seemed to think nothing of it. They trusted him because they had known him since his youth—and, more importantly, because they had known him intimately, in a way they thought left no room for secrets.
After all these years of observing him, of enjoying him, of using him, they’d learned nothing at all.
“Blas is under a lot of stress,” he said, knowing how soon she would regret not listening to her son. “And he’s never been fond of me. I make a convenient target.”
“I know, but all that nonsense about Lindahl catching you doing something subversive in Harbour—and you saved me, sweetheart. Without you, I might never have emerged from that tunnel alive.”
“The search party would have found you.”
“Perhaps too late.” Davita stroked his hand, her dark eyes full of earnest contrition. “When this is over, I’ll make Blas apologize.”
“No need.” Something caught in his throat.
“No, I will. I promise. He has to accept that you’re special to me.”
The chamber’s double doors opened to admit a new swell of people. Davita turned from Tilrey, dropping his hand. “Ah, our little murderer is back. Why don’t you help him find the spotlight?”
Tilrey went to meet Bors and Stefan, who were escorted by six soldiers at a respectful distance.
Bors looked pissed off, as usual. Stefan was trembling—and no wonder, Tilrey thought. He gave the young man a hand up so that he could stand atop the cleared Council table, as Bors had earlier.
The boy had escaped from prison and assassins into the chaos of the blackout. Now he was facing down the Republic’s elites, at least some of whom he must have serviced at the Brothel. Like Tilrey, he must have unpleasant memories to connect with those faces.
“It’s okay,” Tilrey said in a low voice. “They’re afraid to hurt you now.”
When Stefan met Tilrey’s gaze, his dark eyes were fiercely determined. “I know it.”
The Councillors seated themselves in a loose circle around the table. Bors hovered beside the table looking daggers at anyone who approached Stefan. Atteivian’s soldiers, Tilrey noted, stood guard at the doors of the chamber.
He met Besha’s eyes briefly and received a typical Besha smirk. Tilrey replied with a look that said, I hope to hell you know what you’re doing.
Alone, standing on the table, Stefan peeled off his borrowed parka to reveal the prison coverall beneath. “Where’s the camera? I thought I was gonna give a statement.”
“You are, my lad,” Davita said. “Speak to the surveillance cams in the balcony. Your friend who controls the Net—whoever he is—can broadcast your message to the disruptors in the outer Rings. They need to know we’re taking their demands seriously.”
She addressed Stefan with exaggerated gentleness, as if he were a child—the way she spoke to most Laborers. She had used the same tone with Tilrey for many years, until she forgot and began treating him like a peer.
And Tilrey had liked it when she granted him that minimal courtesy, though he knew she justified it by classifying him as an “exception.” He had always enjoyed impressing Upstarts by exceeding their expectations.
It was a childish pleasure—something he was a little ashamed of, something Einara would have mocked him for. (They’re your oppressors! What do you care what they think of you?) Maybe it was finally time to let it go.
“Go on, start talking!” Besha called up to Stefan. “Tell all your friends that you’re alive and safe and they can stand down now.”
He stepped toward the table. But Bors barred the way, raising his device high. “Come any closer, and we all go up in flames!”
“Fine, fine!” Besha withdrew. “Why does Tilrey get to stand so close, though?”
“He’s not a Councillor,” Bors said through gritted teeth.
Passing Tilrey, Besha winked as if to say It’s time, sending a shiver coursing down Tilrey’s spine.
Time for what? Was he really ready?
Stefan cleared his throat, raised his head, and addressed the balcony in a small voice. “Laborers of Redda! Um. I’m fine. Still alive!”
“You can do better than that,” Besha scolded. “You’re an actor. Perform!”
“Tell the people,” Davita said, “that we’ve heard the saboteur’s demands and intend to meet them to the best of our—”
“Tell them they’ll have representation in the new government!” Bors interrupted.
Davita opened her mouth to object. Tilrey caught her eye, silently reminding her of the lethal device in Bors’s hand.
She said, “Yes. Tell them that.”
Stefan scowled down at the oak tabletop between his boots for a moment, as if processing all the unsolicited advice. Then he raised his head again.
“They tried to kill me,” he cried, projecting his voice to the balcony, “but they didn’t succeed!”
“Focus on the positive,” Davita hissed at him. “The actions we’re taking to satisfy their demands. Tell them to choose three representatives and—”
This time, Stefan seemed to have no interest in her input. He plowed ahead. “I’m innocent of the crime I’m accused of!” he told the invisible audience. “But I’m nothing. I’m just a symbol. It’s you who actually matter—you, the workers of Redda! Your government oppresses you. It pens you up and limits your choices. It imprisons anyone who speaks out!”
Saldegren and Lindthardt were on their feet instantly, converging on the table. “Shut him up!”
“That’s treason!”
Stefan kept right on going. “Your own soldiers fired on you, people of Redda! They killed your brothers, your sisters, your sons, your daughters, your friends! All because you held public demonstrations demanding a fair trial for me!”
In the corner of his eye, Tilrey saw General Atteivian motion to his soldiers. Three of them sped up the steps from the amphitheater, pistols out, ready to remove Stefan from his perch.
Bors held his device aloft. The soldiers froze in place, a few yards away.
“We have to let him speak, or else we prove his point!” Besha insisted, blocking Saldegren and Lindthardt’s path to the table. “You fools, don’t you see?”
Meanwhile, Stefan shouted on, seemingly oblivious to the conflict below him. “I said I’m innocent of Lindahl’s murder, and I mean it! But I’m not sorry Lindahl died. He had me raped and beaten. He ruined my life. He represents everything that’s wrong with this rotten Republic—everything we need to change!”
Tilrey stared at the young man, thrilled by his transformation. The frightened prisoner had transformed back into the actor who riveted every gaze—head high, eyes blazing. When Stefan made a sweeping gesture, a shudder went through the room.
“Silence him,” Saldegren pleaded.
But Stefan’s voice grew louder and stronger with every interruption. “These Councillors asked me to give a speech so I could calm you all down. But I don’t want you to calm down, people of Redda! I want you to stay angry! I want you to capture the Constabularies and free the prisoners! I want you to help me build a new Oslov!”
Davita made the slightest gesture. Tilrey caught it in his peripheral vision.
The general must have caught it, too. In an instant, the three soldiers who’d surrounded the table moved in.
They seized Bors, ripping the device from his hand. Then, while two of them restrained him, the third soldier leapt onto the table.
“Shoot the boy!” Councillor Ekorin urged.
“No!” Tilrey was queasy with dread, but he couldn’t let Stefan be hurt. He didn’t have to glance at Besha to know it was time to act.
He sprang onto the seat of an empty chair and from there to the tabletop, heart pounding, just in time to dart between Stefan and the advancing soldier. Facing the rifle pointed at the young man, he raised both hands and yelled, “Don’t hurt him! The people will go mad!”
“No one’s going to shoot the boy, only restrain him.” That was Davita, below and behind Tilrey. “Would someone go up and unplug those damned cams again, please?”
“Restrain the prisoner,” Atteivian ordered.
A muscle bounced in the soldier’s jaw. Weapon still out, he waved Tilrey out of the way.
Stefan had retreated to the head of the table, as far as possible from his pursuer. Breathless now, he shouted at the balcony: “They want us to negotiate! But there’s only one person in this room I’ll negotiate with! The person who gave the order to shut off the lights!”
The soldier was still grimly focused on Tilrey, but now his eyes widened.
Exclamations of surprise rose from the Councillors below, too. What were they looking at?
Tilrey risked a glance over his shoulder, and then he understood. Stefan was pointing at him.
He was that person.
“The boy doesn’t know what he’s saying,” Davita said sharply. “Please remove him.”
But no one moved, not even Tilrey. For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. The room swam before his eyes. In its place, he saw a cloudy vision of Ceill’s face—his son as a child, innocent and trusting. Then Ceill as an adult, worried and skeptical. A face he might never see again.
For you. I’ll do this for you. With the thought, a strange calm washed over him.
“I know exactly what I’m saying.” Stefan’s voice trembled, but he enunciated each word clearly. “Only one person in this room can lead the new Republic. It’s not me, Magistrate. And it sure as hell isn’t you.”
Still shielding Stefan, Tilrey turned very slowly to face Davita. “He’s telling the truth.”
“Nonsense, he’s trying to distract us,” Davita snapped. “Repeating what Blas said. Psychological warfare.”
But Tilrey kept on talking. He made his voice dead level; it was the only way to get the words out. He couldn’t hold Davita’s gaze, so he kept his eyes steady to one side of her.
“I gave the order to turn off the lights. I had Lindahl killed. Blas was right—there’s a long Int/Sec file on me, because I’ve been plotting against the Republic, and I feared Lindahl would find out.” He cleared his throat. He felt lightheaded, terrified and freed at once. “Ask Dartán. Ask Karishkov.”
People gasped. They seemed very far away, too distant to touch him. He wondered if Einara could see what he was doing, and if she were happy now. Was this what she wanted? For him to be a spectacle?
Just like one of those Election Nights thirty years ago—but no, this was different. This time there was only so much they could do to him.
“Go on,” Tilrey said to the soldier. He lowered his hands and held them out for the cuffs. “Take me into custody.”
“And me.”
Gersha’s voice. He’d risen and broken free of the crowd. The Councillors parted around him, their expressions horror-struck.
Even though Tilrey had told Gersha to step forward and claim his share of the guilt, his chest tightened. What if it doesn’t work? They could kill us both.
“Gersha.” Davita spoke in a harsh whisper. “Tilrey. What are you…?”
Gersha stepped onto a chair and from there, a little shakily, up to stand beside Tilrey.
“There is no ‘exile’ controlling the city, Davita.” His cheeks were flushed, and his voice quavered. But it was still the voice he had used so many times to orate beautifully in the Council chamber. “There’s only us. I know this is a shock, but Stefan is right.”
He met Tilrey’s eyes, and a current passed between them. Tilrey read the expression there: No matter what happens, I follow you. For Ceill.
Tilrey straightened his back and took his husband’s hand. In an instant, he knew, they would be torn apart, but he needed to feel the warmth of Gersha’s palm. It leveled his breathing. It brought him to a quiet center where no one else could touch him.
Whatever happened, he knew now, everything would be all right in the end.
“Oslov needs a change,” he said. “And it can’t wait anymore.”