Chapter 8: A Tragic Waste — The Key of Oslov

Volume 19: Oslov Unraveled

Chapter 8 A Tragic Waste

Chapter Summary

Get ready for the next few chapters to be a little intense! As in, that “torture” tag is for real. But Einara still has plans, and Bror doesn’t intend to let his old friend die. Darkest before the dawn, etc.!

Chapter Summary

28 October, year 374, 2:46 a.m.

Cold and freedom made an intoxicating combination. With the hood of his borrowed parka pulled over his forehead and his bare hands jammed deep into the pockets, Ceill crept from street to street, staying away from lights and crowds.His University dorm was too far for him to reach on foot at this season, so he headed instinctively for home. Then a snow squall blew up, whiting out the streets and cutting his visibility to a few yards in front of him. When it retreated, he had no idea where he was. Darkness had wiped out all the usual landmarks—the Judiciary, the Hall of Records, the monoliths of the Sector.The Core wasn’t that large. If Ceill just kept walking, he would eventually stumble on something familiar. The problem was, his fingers and toes were numb, and he was shivering violently. When he tipped his head back to watch the stars fighting their way through a tissue of clouds, he reeled, nearly losing his balance.He turned a corner to find a ragged circle of people surrounding a blazing bonfire. Thank everything green. Though he knew it was dangerous for him to be in crowds right now, he headed for it, desperate to feel warmth on his face.Rat-a-tat-tat. The night exploded with a series of sharp retorts. Ceill froze in the middle of the street, hands over his ears.The noise reminded him of the firecrackers that students sometimes set off on the last night of exams. Then he saw the people scuttling toward the buildings on either side of the street, leaving the flames to dance alone against blackness. Realizing he’d heard gunshots, he threw himself flat on his belly.Another volley of gunfire pierced the silence, and this one was closer. He needed to take cover!As he rose and floundered toward the nearest building, his vision kept blurring. Something boomed in his ears—the rush of his own blood. He crouched and pressed his back to the concrete. Around him, everyone was hunkered down. No one seemed wounded, but they were very still, probably because they heard what he did: the chanting of strong young voices, advancing toward them.“Stay angry! Fuck it up! Build it new!”Build what new? Tight to the wall, clenching his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering, Ceill stood up gingerly just as a chaotic parade of newcomers arrived at the fire, filling the frigid air with their din.Most of them were about his age. Some wore bizarre getups, white parkas painted with big red Ds that looked bloody in the firelight.These were Laborers, factory drones. But they were armed like Constables or even soldiers—Ceill’s breath caught as he saw the burly guns slung over their shoulders. They danced around the fire, chanting and yelling at the top of their lungs, as if they’d just won a victory or drunk themselves halfway to oblivion. Or both.The people around Ceill were cowering—Upstarts, Laborers, he wasn’t even sure anymore. The marchers took no notice of them.One youth aimed his gun at the sky, uttered a wild whoop, and fired.Another yelled, “Stay angry! Fuck things up!” And everyone took up the chant again as they left the fire and strutted on.Where were they going? The Sector? Why did they seem so happy? What had happened to Stefan?Ceill left his refuge and stalked after them. Maybe, if he dared, he could get some answers. They might be more likely to trust him if he admitted he was an escaped prisoner. Without being able to scan his hand-chip, they would never know he was an Upstart.He was hovering at the fringes of the procession, gathering his courage to approach the nearest unarmed rebel, when a heavy hand came down on his shoulder.Ceill whipped around, his heart pounding so hard the world went fluid. He expected to see the guards he’d fled from, ready to clap cuffs on him.Instead, the winking firelight showed him a tall, thick-necked Laborer with a face he’d known since childhood. Blunt nose. Keen, sympathetic eyes.“Uncle Bror! What are you doing here?”“Ceillsha!” Looking just as stunned, Bror threw his arms around Ceill. “What the fuck! How’d you get out of the Funnel?”Ceill had never encountered Tilrey’s old friend in the Core before, but it felt completely normal and right to find him now. Tears sprang to his eyes and trickled down his cheeks, freezing on his chin, as he clung to the older man’s solid bulk.When Ceill was little, Tilrey would bring him along on visits to Bror and Mirella’s family in Ring Six. While the adults talked “business”—what kind of business, Ceill never knew—Bror’s eldest daughter led Ceill to a magical place: a deserted factory courtyard where someone had constructed a fortress-like climbing structure out of scrap wood and metal.Ceill spent many happy hours there, scrabbling and sliding and playing tag with Bror’s four kids and their dozens of cousins. No one ever talked about rank, Levels, or tests in Ring Six. They didn’t treat him any differently because he was an Upstart. It was almost as good as being in Thurskein.He hadn’t seen Bror’s family since he was Raised. It was just awkward. Would they try to call him Fir, to treat him like an Upstart?“I ran away,” he told Bror now in a low, urgent voice. “They wanted to bring me to the Sector—as a hostage, I think. Why are you here? Do you know where Tilrey is?”Bror shook his head, holding Ceill at arm’s length. “Not sure yet, but I think he’s in the Council chamber—with Stefan. That was the plan.”“Stefan’s okay?” Ceill’s voice broke, and another wave of dizziness gripped him. He almost didn’t dare to hope Stefan had survived.“Oh, he’s more than okay—or so I hear. Whoever hacked the Net put him on the PA screens. He gave the Laborer Rings a piece of his mind.” Bror’s hands tightened, supporting Ceill as his knees threatened to buckle. “You okay, kid?”Ceill nodded, blinking away icy tears. “I saw Stefan in the Funnel, right after the blackout. The Council wants to kill him. I helped him, but I was so worried he wouldn’t get away!”“You helped him?” Bror gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You did a good deed for us all, kid. That was brave.” “I wasn’t in any danger.” Ceill had to get hold of himself; he was half delirious with cold and fatigue. “These kids” —he gestured at the people still cavorting drunkenly around them— “what are they doing? Why are they happy?”“Partly because they just captured the Core Constabulary.” Bror grinned, as if he’d had something to do with that. “And partly because of your friend Stefan’s speech. We didn’t get the broadcast here, but we all heard about it on pirate radio from our friends in the Laborer Rings. The General Magistrate told Stefan to calm down the people, but he didn’t calm ’em down. He gave ’em hell.”“Good for Stefan!” Ceill cried. He yearned to see his friend telling off the whole Council.The grin still split Bror’s face, which was covered in frosty beard stubble. “Sounds like he couldn’t have done it without you. You helped him get away.”“I just did what I had to,” Ceill said as another fit of shivers seized him.Bror whipped off his own knitted hat and jammed it down over Ceill’s eyes. “You’ve been out too long, kid. We gotta get you somewhere warm.”“I’m okay, really!” Ceill felt as if he might faint, but he didn’t want to miss anything. Not when Stefan was at the center of it. “Are you part of the rebellion, too, then? I can’t believe my dad never told me!”Bror wound his scarf around Ceill’s neck and knotted it. “Tilrey just wanted to keep you safe,” he said, hustling Ceill up the street. “He’s been through a lot, y’know. Wanted your life to be different.”Ceill understood, but it was still so frustrating. “I want what he and Gersha want! This whole time I could’ve helped them!”“Tilrey would have told you everything when he was ready. He didn’t mean things to happen this quickly—no one did.”“I know, but—” Ceill broke off as he realized with a jolt that they were headed back toward the Sector. “There’s guards there! They’re looking for me!”“I figured.” Bror guided him up the street, keeping him on course. “We’ll steer clear of them. If Tilrey’s where I think he is, at the center of the action, then you might make a valuable bargaining chip. The only safe place for you is out of the way, underground.”*Tilrey hadn’t been restrained or handcuffed for decades, except in play. But when the soldiers seized him, he submitted gracefully. He kept his eyes on Gersha, willing his husband not to be afraid.The soldiers didn’t touch Gersha. They didn’t even look at him as they dragged Tilrey and Stefan down from the Council table into the mass of seething Councillors.Apparently they still didn’t dare to arrest a high name.Stefan was limp in the soldiers’ grip, his gaze withdrawn, as if the speech had drained all his remaining strength. Bors Dartán struggled fiercely and silently against his captors. One of the soldiers hit him with a rifle stock, and his knees buckled.“Everyone out!” Davita rose with her hands covering her ears, her voice soaring above the unruly crowd. “I can’t hear myself think! Did someone go disable those cams? Good. Leave us alone.”She pointed at Tilrey, who stood beside Stefan, both of them cuffed and flanked by soldiers. He knew he wouldn’t be heard above the crowd if he spoke, or would be yelled down, so he said nothing.General Atteivian leaned in to murmur to Davita. His expression remained unflappable, but his brow was furrowed.Davita nodded. “Put the boy in a secure place—he’s our hostage. Dartán, too. Give Dartán’s device to . . .”She looked up at Gersha, who had stepped down from the table of his own accord. He was very pale, but his gaze met hers steadily.“I’m afraid I can’t help you trace the device, Davita,” he said. “Not now.”A look of confusion and sadness passed over Davita’s patrician features. “Well. Too bad we had to send the Progs away. Give the device to Saldegren—he was a high quant scorer. He can run decryption and find out where it was transmitting to.”“Leave it to me,” Saldegren said, though he sounded exhausted.Davita glanced at Tilrey, without meeting his eyes. “And leave him here a moment.”The Councillors reluctantly cleared the room—all but Besha and Karishkov, who lingered in the shadows. Tilrey heard them muttering to each other—some startled, others claiming they’d intuited his and Gersha’s treachery all along.Typical. If the rebellion failed, and everything returned to normal, they’d soon all be insisting they’d never trusted him for an instant. A high name’s sense of superiority could bounce back from almost anything.If Tilrey couldn’t at least shatter their complacency, then he’d done nothing at all.He caught Stefan’s eye as the soldiers dragged the boy and Bors out through the double doors. A glance could never be enough to convey what he felt: Thank you. I hope the people saw and heard you. You did so well.Gersha didn’t move. The soldiers looked questioningly from him to their general, who referred the question to Davita. “Uh, Fir’n Magistrate, your colleague…”At last, Davita focused on them again. Her eyes flew to Tilrey, then back to rest on Gersha with something akin to horror. “You pulled him into this mess, didn’t you? I’ve always known you were a dangerous idealist, my friend, but I chose not to take it seriously. My mistake.”“I’m not an idealist, Davita.” Gersha’s voice trembled a little. “I’m a realist who sees the need for change, as should you. You should also see that I don’t need to pull Tilrey into anything. He has a mind of his own—a brilliant mind, as it happens.” “Don’t hide behind a Drudge!” Davita snapped. “These are your ideas, Gersha, your reformist notions. You’re the instigator—own it, at least.”Gersha opened his mouth, then closed it. He glanced at Tilrey, clearly waiting for his cue.Tilrey wasn’t surprised by Davita’s assumption that Gersha was in charge. He had, in fact, counted on it. But he was still a little disappointed.“My Fir flatters me with his compliments, Fir’n,” he said, raising his chin. “But he knows best. I take my orders from him, and I always will.”Forgive me, Gersha, he added silently with his eyes. With any luck, he had just spared his husband the worst of what was coming.It was the henchman they would want to torture to pry information from the ringleader, not vice versa. And Tilrey knew he could endure more than Gersha could.He forced his weary brain to work. From now until the rebels stormed the Council—if they managed it—the big question mark in the equation was Niko Karishkov.The Councillor’s Int/Sec experience made him the natural choice to conduct an interrogation, but he had nearly as much to hide as Tilrey and Gersha did. For decades, he had buried evidence of the True Hearth’s activities in Thurskein, trying to protect his secret son. He and Tilrey had been locked in a duel of wits just as long, and over the past few years, Tilrey had used his knowledge of Aleks Snowblind’s whereabouts to make Karishkov his pawn. The exposure of Karishkov’s treason would be bad for them both, and the Councillor had more to lose.The question was, did Karishkov care? He adored Aleks, yes. But he had other children and grandchildren who were here in Redda, shivering in cold and darkness. He might well believe Aleks was safely out of the way in the Wastes. Given all that, Tilrey couldn’t blame him if he weighed his options and decided it was time to surrender and come clean.Karishkov had no way of knowing Aleks was with Janta. Any missile sent to eliminate the hacker of Redda would eliminate his beloved son, too.And Tilrey couldn’t tell him unless he somehow managed to get him alone.“Put Gádden in a cell.” Davita’s voice was the report of a revolver. “A secure one.”Gersha said, “I’m staying,” and now his tight voice suggested controlled panic. Maybe he’d figured out Tilrey’s strategy.“Oh, you’ll be together soon enough.” Davita’s bloodshot eyes skewered her colleague. “And I think you’ll regret dragging the love of your life into your treason.” She turned to Atteivian, whose military composure betrayed nothing. “What are you waiting for?”Atteivian must have made a rapid gesture. The next instant, two soldiers had Gersha in hand.Tilrey turned his gaze to the old oak floorboards—couldn’t help it. Gersha knew better than to struggle. But he would flinch and shrink back, because no one had treated him this way since he was lost in the Harbourer wilderness, a good twenty years ago.And Tilrey couldn’t bear to see that. It would shatter him when they both needed to be strong.He looked up again once the soldiers had cuffed Gersha. Just once, their eyes met before the men swung his husband toward the door.Tilrey tried to fill that one glance with meaning. Don’t worry. Bror and Mirella will come for us. But when he thought of Ceill, who could so easily become a hostage, a shudder ran through him.He wanted to believe Davita wouldn’t hurt Ceill, but she had already thrown his son into Int/Sec. Weighed against the lives of thousands of Upstarts, her affection for Ceill was a trifle, especially when both his fathers had betrayed her.He dreaded seeing naked terror in Gersha’s eyes. But instead there was calm resolve there, as if Gersha were mirroring his own reassurance back to him.Thank everything green. Tilrey’s heart rocketed as Gersha and his captors left the Chamber. For Gersha, he had needed to show no fear. Now that his husband was out of the room, he was suddenly conscious of cold sweat bursting from his pores. The stiff position of his arms behind his back already hurt, and the soldiers’ grip wasn’t gentle. One of them stunk of smoked fish.Now he had to face Davita.She peered over at Karishkov, still lurking in the back of the room. “Well, Niko? Is it true what Tilrey said about Int/Sec having a file on him? You knew these two were traitors? You didn’t say a greening word?”Tilrey held his breath, cursing himself for having mentioned Karishkov’s name earlier. Not that he had any way to stop the man from spilling everything, with his hands literally tied.“There’s a file, yes.” Karishkov strode over to join them by the table. He wore his usual haughty glower, as if this were just another day in the chamber for him. “On Tilrey Bronn specifically, not on Gersha. Bors Dartán pestered me about it for years. I thought he had a childish grudge against the kettle boy. Believe me, I never thought there was anything to the accusations. I’m as surprised as you are to learn that Dartán and Bronn are in league.”Tilrey exhaled. Karishkov’s pride—or his sense of self-preservation—had held firm so far; he had told only a sliver of the truth. But he must be worried about his family.“Dartán was Raised,” Atteivian said, as if trying to make sense of it. “He may still have Laborer sympathies.”“I suppose.” Davita’s tone made it clear Bors didn’t interest her. “But Drudges don’t plot something this elaborate. Drudges don’t unravel the code that runs our city.”Karishkov cleared his throat. His eyes darted, for a split second, to Tilrey. “Who do you think is doing this, then, if not the exile? Gersha could have written the code, maybe, but someone else is implementing it from the Wastes.”“Gersha will tell us. He’s weak. We have what he cares about most.” And now, at last, Davita faced Tilrey again.For a long moment, she just looked at him, her head high and her dark eyes blazing. He held the gaze. As he did, sense-memories returned from earlier in the evening—the musk of her skin, the tickle of her sweaty hair on his shoulder, the soft give of her limbs.He had held her down and play-acted an assault, at her own request. He had been inside her. But the real intimacy had come afterward, when they rested in each other’s arms and she told him how she had gone to bed with Verán when she was young—undergoing the same humiliation Tilrey had, for her own political reasons. Not really the same, he knew, not at all. Still, he had felt close to her in that moment. So close that he’d had to fight a temptation to be as frank with her as he was with Gersha.“I know I wasn’t made to rule or lead,” Davita said, still staring at him. “It helps to have a guide.”She was quoting back to him what he had said to her several hours ago in her bed. Words calculated to reassure her he felt nothing but respect for her. Lies.He lifted his chin. “Before I said those things, I told you you reminded me of Verán. I told you not enough had changed since his time. When I said that part, I meant it, Davita.”The soldier who stank of fish elbowed him in the ribs, hard. “You call her Fir’n, asshole.”Tilrey went limp—an old reflex. But he kept his eyes on Davita and said, “Not enough has changed. Not nearly enough. That’s why Gersha and I planned all this. That’s why he wrote the code to hack the city.”If she wanted to believe Gersha was the master hacker, all the better. It might keep Gersha safe—at least as long as they thought he had the power to give them back control of Redda.Davita moved so quickly that Tilrey barely registered her approach before she slapped him across the face.Not a token slap. The blow stung. It knocked the wind out of him. For an instant he tottered, and the soldiers held him upright.Magistrate Linden used to slap him that way—open-handed but hard enough to bruise. There was usually no one to hold Tilrey still in those days, so he viewed it as a game that he could win by reacting as little as possible. He held his posture and kept his eyes trained firmly on the opposite wall even when blood from a split lip was trickling down his chin.To resist, even to acknowledge a desire to resist, was to lose the game. In those days, his only power was to suffer in stubborn silence.That power was still inside him.He found his footing again. He raised his eyes to the General Magistrate’s. He made his face as blank as he could.Davita’s own features contorted—with rage? Disgust? Grief? “You saved me in that damned tunnel. I trusted you. And you lied and lied—so many lies. Why did you even bring me here? Why didn’t you leave me in the dark to die?”“I don’t want you dead, Fir’n.” The honorific slipped out from long habit. He couldn’t help grimacing. “We don’t want you dead. You’re a good leader, but you’re clinging to a cruel system that doesn’t work. You were about to kill an innocent young man in cold blood. If brute force is the only way you can stay in power, maybe something has to ch—”He broke off as the fish-smelling soldier kicked him viciously in the shin, bringing tears to his eyes. He closed them, breathing through the pain.Pain was familiar—even friendly in some ways. He wasn’t afraid.“No, no, don’t touch him! Not yet.” Davita gestured to Atteivian, silently telling him to keep his men in check. “I want to hear what this vicious, deceitful . . . thing has to say for himself.”“Gersha’s clearly the ringleader, though. This one might not know anything.” That was Karishkov, creeping up behind Davita in hopes of calming her down. They were all a little shocked, Tilrey imagined, that for once in her life she wasn’t in perfect control.Davita ignored him. When Karishkov put a tentative hand on her arm, she shook him off violently. “Greening hells, you’re all useless! You” —she turned on Karishkov— “you fought to head the Int/Sec Committee, and I knew you’d do a shit job. Which you have. Look at our city in shambles. Do you know who you have to thank for your position?”She stabbed a finger at Tilrey. “He said I should appoint you. Besha was perfectly qualified to take charge of that committee. But he—this Drudge traitor, this whore, this shirker—said I should choose you instead, to avoid even the appearance of nepotism. Maybe he knew you were a fucking incompetent. Maybe he counted on it.”Karishkov’s face was red, but he reined himself in as usual. “I accept my responsibility. I’m happy to resign once the city is safe. But for now, blaming me isn’t going to help—”“Shut up.” Davita’s voice was a lash.Karishkov’s throat pulsed as if he’d swallowed his words. Tilrey could feel the soldiers holding their breaths. Even the general stood stock still.“You’re all a bunch of spoiled fools, and so am I. This creature, this boy” —her eyes slid over Tilrey again— “outsmarted us all. Gersha may have masterminded the plot and written the code, but our sweet, obliging Rishka did the legwork and the social engineering. He knew our weaknesses far too well.”“Fir’n Magistrate,” Atteivian began, but a scathing glance from Davita silenced him.She continued: “He’s right about one thing, anyway—the system is broken. If we’d recognized his potential and Raised him, he would never have turned traitor. But that psychopath Malsha got hold of him and twisted him into a tool to take down the Republic. Gersha only finished the job.”Tilrey wanted to contradict her, to tell her no Upstart was responsible for any meaningful choice he had made. But he hung his head as if her taunts deflated him. They were in a waiting game now, and the longer they could stall, the better. He needed to find a way to speak to Karishkov alone.“With all due respect, why he betrayed us doesn’t matter,” Atteivian said, trying to get things back on track. “He’ll regret it in due time. People are freezing out there, Fir’n Magistrate!”Davita’s eyes were fixed on Tilrey. “Explain yourself, and I don’t want to hear the foolish ideas Gersha fed you. I want the truth. What pushed you over the brink?”Tilrey summoned the low, submissive voice he had used so often in the Council chamber to make high names trust him—and in the bedroom. “We don’t hate the Republic, Fir’n. We just want you to understand that merit can come from anywhere. I lied before—Gersha didn’t write the code to take control of the Net. Do you want to know who did?”Davita took a step closer, vibrating with anger. “You’re just going to tell me?” “Janta.” It was safe to tell her, he hoped, because Janta was well out of the way. The boy could never risk returning to Redda unless the True Hearth was victorious. “The Skeinsha boy we kept in our house, who used to set the table for our Communal Meals.”He met Davita’s eyes again, steadying his voice to counter the disbelief he saw there. Perhaps he shouldn’t be telling her, but he couldn’t resist. Janta deserved his due. “The kid’s a genius—a natural talent. Gersha taught him everything he could, but Janta is more skilled than he’ll ever be. That’s who controls your fate right now, Davita—not some exiled Programmer. Not Gersha. Not me. The person who decides whether you’ll live or die is barely out of his teens. A Skeinsha, a kettle boy, a piece of garbage to you. Someone like me when I first came to this city.”“He’s lying,” Karishkov said. “Don’t let him get inside your head.”Davita’s mouth twisted into an ugly smile. When she blinked several times rapidly, Tilrey realized with a lurch in his stomach that she was fighting tears.She had felt something real for him, then, against all her better judgment. Maybe she was capable of change, too.“You should have left me in that tunnel to die,” she said.“I couldn’t.” The words caught in his throat. If things went badly, this might be the last time they’d see each other alive.Nudging Karishkov aside, Davita came up to him and stood on tiptoe to speak more privately.“You know,” she said in a husky voice, almost a whisper, “right before the lights went out, I was thinking you would have made me a better husband than Besha did, if only you’d been an Upstart. All the same lovely natural submissiveness and cleverness, but with morals. So I thought.”She took a step back, then another, tears pooling in her dark eyes. “It’s a shame your natural gifts will never be any use to the Republic. A tragic waste. But we’ll need to break Gersha somehow.”And then, turning to the soldiers— “Take him away.”

28 October, year 374, 2:46 a.m.

His University dorm was too far for him to reach on foot at this season, so he headed instinctively for home. Then a snow squall blew up, whiting out the streets and cutting his visibility to a few yards in front of him. When it retreated, he had no idea where he was. Darkness had wiped out all the usual landmarks—the Judiciary, the Hall of Records, the monoliths of the Sector.

The Core wasn’t that large. If Ceill just kept walking, he would eventually stumble on something familiar. The problem was, his fingers and toes were numb, and he was shivering violently. When he tipped his head back to watch the stars fighting their way through a tissue of clouds, he reeled, nearly losing his balance.

He turned a corner to find a ragged circle of people surrounding a blazing bonfire. Thank everything green. Though he knew it was dangerous for him to be in crowds right now, he headed for it, desperate to feel warmth on his face.

Rat-a-tat-tat. The night exploded with a series of sharp retorts. Ceill froze in the middle of the street, hands over his ears.

The noise reminded him of the firecrackers that students sometimes set off on the last night of exams. Then he saw the people scuttling toward the buildings on either side of the street, leaving the flames to dance alone against blackness. Realizing he’d heard gunshots, he threw himself flat on his belly.

Another volley of gunfire pierced the silence, and this one was closer. He needed to take cover!

As he rose and floundered toward the nearest building, his vision kept blurring. Something boomed in his ears—the rush of his own blood.

He crouched and pressed his back to the concrete. Around him, everyone was hunkered down. No one seemed wounded, but they were very still, probably because they heard what he did: the chanting of strong young voices, advancing toward them.

“Stay angry! Fuck it up! Build it new!”

Build what new? Tight to the wall, clenching his jaw to stop his teeth from chattering, Ceill stood up gingerly just as a chaotic parade of newcomers arrived at the fire, filling the frigid air with their din.

Most of them were about his age. Some wore bizarre getups, white parkas painted with big red Ds that looked bloody in the firelight.

These were Laborers, factory drones. But they were armed like Constables or even soldiers—Ceill’s breath caught as he saw the burly guns slung over their shoulders. They danced around the fire, chanting and yelling at the top of their lungs, as if they’d just won a victory or drunk themselves halfway to oblivion. Or both.

The people around Ceill were cowering—Upstarts, Laborers, he wasn’t even sure anymore. The marchers took no notice of them.

One youth aimed his gun at the sky, uttered a wild whoop, and fired.

Another yelled, “Stay angry! Fuck things up!” And everyone took up the chant again as they left the fire and strutted on.

Where were they going? The Sector? Why did they seem so happy? What had happened to Stefan?

Ceill left his refuge and stalked after them. Maybe, if he dared, he could get some answers. They might be more likely to trust him if he admitted he was an escaped prisoner. Without being able to scan his hand-chip, they would never know he was an Upstart.

He was hovering at the fringes of the procession, gathering his courage to approach the nearest unarmed rebel, when a heavy hand came down on his shoulder.

Ceill whipped around, his heart pounding so hard the world went fluid. He expected to see the guards he’d fled from, ready to clap cuffs on him.

Instead, the winking firelight showed him a tall, thick-necked Laborer with a face he’d known since childhood. Blunt nose. Keen, sympathetic eyes.

“Uncle Bror! What are you doing here?”

“Ceillsha!” Looking just as stunned, Bror threw his arms around Ceill. “What the fuck! How’d you get out of the Funnel?”

Ceill had never encountered Tilrey’s old friend in the Core before, but it felt completely normal and right to find him now. Tears sprang to his eyes and trickled down his cheeks, freezing on his chin, as he clung to the older man’s solid bulk.

When Ceill was little, Tilrey would bring him along on visits to Bror and Mirella’s family in Ring Six. While the adults talked “business”—what kind of business, Ceill never knew—Bror’s eldest daughter led Ceill to a magical place: a deserted factory courtyard where someone had constructed a fortress-like climbing structure out of scrap wood and metal.

Ceill spent many happy hours there, scrabbling and sliding and playing tag with Bror’s four kids and their dozens of cousins. No one ever talked about rank, Levels, or tests in Ring Six. They didn’t treat him any differently because he was an Upstart. It was almost as good as being in Thurskein.

He hadn’t seen Bror’s family since he was Raised. It was just awkward. Would they try to call him Fir, to treat him like an Upstart?

“I ran away,” he told Bror now in a low, urgent voice. “They wanted to bring me to the Sector—as a hostage, I think. Why are you here? Do you know where Tilrey is?”

Bror shook his head, holding Ceill at arm’s length. “Not sure yet, but I think he’s in the Council chamber—with Stefan. That was the plan.”

“Stefan’s okay?” Ceill’s voice broke, and another wave of dizziness gripped him. He almost didn’t dare to hope Stefan had survived.

“Oh, he’s more than okay—or so I hear. Whoever hacked the Net put him on the PA screens. He gave the Laborer Rings a piece of his mind.” Bror’s hands tightened, supporting Ceill as his knees threatened to buckle. “You okay, kid?”

Ceill nodded, blinking away icy tears. “I saw Stefan in the Funnel, right after the blackout. The Council wants to kill him. I helped him, but I was so worried he wouldn’t get away!”

“You helped him?” Bror gave him a pat on the shoulder. “You did a good deed for us all, kid. That was brave.”

“I wasn’t in any danger.” Ceill had to get hold of himself; he was half delirious with cold and fatigue. “These kids” —he gestured at the people still cavorting drunkenly around them— “what are they doing? Why are they happy?”

“Partly because they just captured the Core Constabulary.” Bror grinned, as if he’d had something to do with that. “And partly because of your friend Stefan’s speech. We didn’t get the broadcast here, but we all heard about it on pirate radio from our friends in the Laborer Rings. The General Magistrate told Stefan to calm down the people, but he didn’t calm ’em down. He gave ’em hell.”

“Good for Stefan!” Ceill cried. He yearned to see his friend telling off the whole Council.

The grin still split Bror’s face, which was covered in frosty beard stubble. “Sounds like he couldn’t have done it without you. You helped him get away.”

“I just did what I had to,” Ceill said as another fit of shivers seized him.

Bror whipped off his own knitted hat and jammed it down over Ceill’s eyes. “You’ve been out too long, kid. We gotta get you somewhere warm.”

“I’m okay, really!” Ceill felt as if he might faint, but he didn’t want to miss anything. Not when Stefan was at the center of it. “Are you part of the rebellion, too, then? I can’t believe my dad never told me!”

Bror wound his scarf around Ceill’s neck and knotted it. “Tilrey just wanted to keep you safe,” he said, hustling Ceill up the street. “He’s been through a lot, y’know. Wanted your life to be different.”

Ceill understood, but it was still so frustrating. “I want what he and Gersha want! This whole time I could’ve helped them!”

“Tilrey would have told you everything when he was ready. He didn’t mean things to happen this quickly—no one did.”

“I know, but—” Ceill broke off as he realized with a jolt that they were headed back toward the Sector. “There’s guards there! They’re looking for me!”

“I figured.” Bror guided him up the street, keeping him on course. “We’ll steer clear of them. If Tilrey’s where I think he is, at the center of the action, then you might make a valuable bargaining chip. The only safe place for you is out of the way, underground.”

Tilrey hadn’t been restrained or handcuffed for decades, except in play. But when the soldiers seized him, he submitted gracefully. He kept his eyes on Gersha, willing his husband not to be afraid.

The soldiers didn’t touch Gersha. They didn’t even look at him as they dragged Tilrey and Stefan down from the Council table into the mass of seething Councillors.

Apparently they still didn’t dare to arrest a high name.

Stefan was limp in the soldiers’ grip, his gaze withdrawn, as if the speech had drained all his remaining strength. Bors Dartán struggled fiercely and silently against his captors. One of the soldiers hit him with a rifle stock, and his knees buckled.

“Everyone out!” Davita rose with her hands covering her ears, her voice soaring above the unruly crowd. “I can’t hear myself think! Did someone go disable those cams? Good. Leave us alone.”

She pointed at Tilrey, who stood beside Stefan, both of them cuffed and flanked by soldiers. He knew he wouldn’t be heard above the crowd if he spoke, or would be yelled down, so he said nothing.

General Atteivian leaned in to murmur to Davita. His expression remained unflappable, but his brow was furrowed.

Davita nodded. “Put the boy in a secure place—he’s our hostage. Dartán, too. Give Dartán’s device to . . .”

She looked up at Gersha, who had stepped down from the table of his own accord. He was very pale, but his gaze met hers steadily.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you trace the device, Davita,” he said. “Not now.”

A look of confusion and sadness passed over Davita’s patrician features. “Well. Too bad we had to send the Progs away. Give the device to Saldegren—he was a high quant scorer. He can run decryption and find out where it was transmitting to.”

“Leave it to me,” Saldegren said, though he sounded exhausted.

Davita glanced at Tilrey, without meeting his eyes. “And leave him here a moment.”

The Councillors reluctantly cleared the room—all but Besha and Karishkov, who lingered in the shadows. Tilrey heard them muttering to each other—some startled, others claiming they’d intuited his and Gersha’s treachery all along.

Typical. If the rebellion failed, and everything returned to normal, they’d soon all be insisting they’d never trusted him for an instant. A high name’s sense of superiority could bounce back from almost anything.

If Tilrey couldn’t at least shatter their complacency, then he’d done nothing at all.

He caught Stefan’s eye as the soldiers dragged the boy and Bors out through the double doors. A glance could never be enough to convey what he felt: Thank you. I hope the people saw and heard you. You did so well.

Gersha didn’t move. The soldiers looked questioningly from him to their general, who referred the question to Davita. “Uh, Fir’n Magistrate, your colleague…”

At last, Davita focused on them again. Her eyes flew to Tilrey, then back to rest on Gersha with something akin to horror. “You pulled him into this mess, didn’t you? I’ve always known you were a dangerous idealist, my friend, but I chose not to take it seriously. My mistake.”

“I’m not an idealist, Davita.” Gersha’s voice trembled a little. “I’m a realist who sees the need for change, as should you. You should also see that I don’t need to pull Tilrey into anything. He has a mind of his own—a brilliant mind, as it happens.”

“Don’t hide behind a Drudge!” Davita snapped. “These are your ideas, Gersha, your reformist notions. You’re the instigator—own it, at least.”

Gersha opened his mouth, then closed it. He glanced at Tilrey, clearly waiting for his cue.

Tilrey wasn’t surprised by Davita’s assumption that Gersha was in charge. He had, in fact, counted on it. But he was still a little disappointed.

“My Fir flatters me with his compliments, Fir’n,” he said, raising his chin. “But he knows best. I take my orders from him, and I always will.”

Forgive me, Gersha, he added silently with his eyes. With any luck, he had just spared his husband the worst of what was coming.

It was the henchman they would want to torture to pry information from the ringleader, not vice versa. And Tilrey knew he could endure more than Gersha could.

He forced his weary brain to work. From now until the rebels stormed the Council—if they managed it—the big question mark in the equation was Niko Karishkov.

The Councillor’s Int/Sec experience made him the natural choice to conduct an interrogation, but he had nearly as much to hide as Tilrey and Gersha did. For decades, he had buried evidence of the True Hearth’s activities in Thurskein, trying to protect his secret son. He and Tilrey had been locked in a duel of wits just as long, and over the past few years, Tilrey had used his knowledge of Aleks Snowblind’s whereabouts to make Karishkov his pawn. The exposure of Karishkov’s treason would be bad for them both, and the Councillor had more to lose.

The question was, did Karishkov care? He adored Aleks, yes. But he had other children and grandchildren who were here in Redda, shivering in cold and darkness. He might well believe Aleks was safely out of the way in the Wastes. Given all that, Tilrey couldn’t blame him if he weighed his options and decided it was time to surrender and come clean.

Karishkov had no way of knowing Aleks was with Janta. Any missile sent to eliminate the hacker of Redda would eliminate his beloved son, too.

And Tilrey couldn’t tell him unless he somehow managed to get him alone.

“Put Gádden in a cell.” Davita’s voice was the report of a revolver. “A secure one.”

Gersha said, “I’m staying,” and now his tight voice suggested controlled panic. Maybe he’d figured out Tilrey’s strategy.

“Oh, you’ll be together soon enough.” Davita’s bloodshot eyes skewered her colleague. “And I think you’ll regret dragging the love of your life into your treason.” She turned to Atteivian, whose military composure betrayed nothing. “What are you waiting for?”

Atteivian must have made a rapid gesture. The next instant, two soldiers had Gersha in hand.

Tilrey turned his gaze to the old oak floorboards—couldn’t help it. Gersha knew better than to struggle. But he would flinch and shrink back, because no one had treated him this way since he was lost in the Harbourer wilderness, a good twenty years ago.

And Tilrey couldn’t bear to see that. It would shatter him when they both needed to be strong.

He looked up again once the soldiers had cuffed Gersha. Just once, their eyes met before the men swung his husband toward the door.

Tilrey tried to fill that one glance with meaning. Don’t worry. Bror and Mirella will come for us. But when he thought of Ceill, who could so easily become a hostage, a shudder ran through him.

He wanted to believe Davita wouldn’t hurt Ceill, but she had already thrown his son into Int/Sec. Weighed against the lives of thousands of Upstarts, her affection for Ceill was a trifle, especially when both his fathers had betrayed her.

He dreaded seeing naked terror in Gersha’s eyes. But instead there was calm resolve there, as if Gersha were mirroring his own reassurance back to him.

Thank everything green. Tilrey’s heart rocketed as Gersha and his captors left the Chamber. For Gersha, he had needed to show no fear. Now that his husband was out of the room, he was suddenly conscious of cold sweat bursting from his pores. The stiff position of his arms behind his back already hurt, and the soldiers’ grip wasn’t gentle. One of them stunk of smoked fish.

Now he had to face Davita.

She peered over at Karishkov, still lurking in the back of the room. “Well, Niko? Is it true what Tilrey said about Int/Sec having a file on him? You knew these two were traitors? You didn’t say a greening word?”

Tilrey held his breath, cursing himself for having mentioned Karishkov’s name earlier. Not that he had any way to stop the man from spilling everything, with his hands literally tied.

“There’s a file, yes.” Karishkov strode over to join them by the table. He wore his usual haughty glower, as if this were just another day in the chamber for him. “On Tilrey Bronn specifically, not on Gersha. Bors Dartán pestered me about it for years. I thought he had a childish grudge against the kettle boy. Believe me, I never thought there was anything to the accusations. I’m as surprised as you are to learn that Dartán and Bronn are in league.”

Tilrey exhaled. Karishkov’s pride—or his sense of self-preservation—had held firm so far; he had told only a sliver of the truth. But he must be worried about his family.

“Dartán was Raised,” Atteivian said, as if trying to make sense of it. “He may still have Laborer sympathies.”

“I suppose.” Davita’s tone made it clear Bors didn’t interest her. “But Drudges don’t plot something this elaborate. Drudges don’t unravel the code that runs our city.”

Karishkov cleared his throat. His eyes darted, for a split second, to Tilrey. “Who do you think is doing this, then, if not the exile? Gersha could have written the code, maybe, but someone else is implementing it from the Wastes.”

“Gersha will tell us. He’s weak. We have what he cares about most.” And now, at last, Davita faced Tilrey again.

For a long moment, she just looked at him, her head high and her dark eyes blazing. He held the gaze. As he did, sense-memories returned from earlier in the evening—the musk of her skin, the tickle of her sweaty hair on his shoulder, the soft give of her limbs.

He had held her down and play-acted an assault, at her own request. He had been inside her. But the real intimacy had come afterward, when they rested in each other’s arms and she told him how she had gone to bed with Verán when she was young—undergoing the same humiliation Tilrey had, for her own political reasons. Not really the same, he knew, not at all. Still, he had felt close to her in that moment. So close that he’d had to fight a temptation to be as frank with her as he was with Gersha.

“I know I wasn’t made to rule or lead,” Davita said, still staring at him. “It helps to have a guide.”

She was quoting back to him what he had said to her several hours ago in her bed. Words calculated to reassure her he felt nothing but respect for her. Lies.

He lifted his chin. “Before I said those things, I told you you reminded me of Verán. I told you not enough had changed since his time. When I said that part, I meant it, Davita.”

The soldier who stank of fish elbowed him in the ribs, hard. “You call her Fir’n, asshole.”

Tilrey went limp—an old reflex. But he kept his eyes on Davita and said, “Not enough has changed. Not nearly enough. That’s why Gersha and I planned all this. That’s why he wrote the code to hack the city.”

If she wanted to believe Gersha was the master hacker, all the better. It might keep Gersha safe—at least as long as they thought he had the power to give them back control of Redda.

Davita moved so quickly that Tilrey barely registered her approach before she slapped him across the face.

Not a token slap. The blow stung. It knocked the wind out of him. For an instant he tottered, and the soldiers held him upright.

Magistrate Linden used to slap him that way—open-handed but hard enough to bruise. There was usually no one to hold Tilrey still in those days, so he viewed it as a game that he could win by reacting as little as possible. He held his posture and kept his eyes trained firmly on the opposite wall even when blood from a split lip was trickling down his chin.

To resist, even to acknowledge a desire to resist, was to lose the game. In those days, his only power was to suffer in stubborn silence.

That power was still inside him.

He found his footing again. He raised his eyes to the General Magistrate’s. He made his face as blank as he could.

Davita’s own features contorted—with rage? Disgust? Grief? “You saved me in that damned tunnel. I trusted you. And you lied and lied—so many lies. Why did you even bring me here? Why didn’t you leave me in the dark to die?”

“I don’t want you dead, Fir’n.” The honorific slipped out from long habit. He couldn’t help grimacing. “We don’t want you dead. You’re a good leader, but you’re clinging to a cruel system that doesn’t work. You were about to kill an innocent young man in cold blood. If brute force is the only way you can stay in power, maybe something has to ch—”

He broke off as the fish-smelling soldier kicked him viciously in the shin, bringing tears to his eyes. He closed them, breathing through the pain.

Pain was familiar—even friendly in some ways. He wasn’t afraid.

“No, no, don’t touch him! Not yet.” Davita gestured to Atteivian, silently telling him to keep his men in check. “I want to hear what this vicious, deceitful . . . thing has to say for himself.”

“Gersha’s clearly the ringleader, though. This one might not know anything.” That was Karishkov, creeping up behind Davita in hopes of calming her down. They were all a little shocked, Tilrey imagined, that for once in her life she wasn’t in perfect control.

Davita ignored him. When Karishkov put a tentative hand on her arm, she shook him off violently. “Greening hells, you’re all useless! You” —she turned on Karishkov— “you fought to head the Int/Sec Committee, and I knew you’d do a shit job. Which you have. Look at our city in shambles. Do you know who you have to thank for your position?”

She stabbed a finger at Tilrey. “He said I should appoint you. Besha was perfectly qualified to take charge of that committee. But he—this Drudge traitor, this whore, this shirker—said I should choose you instead, to avoid even the appearance of nepotism. Maybe he knew you were a fucking incompetent. Maybe he counted on it.”

Karishkov’s face was red, but he reined himself in as usual. “I accept my responsibility. I’m happy to resign once the city is safe. But for now, blaming me isn’t going to help—”

“Shut up.” Davita’s voice was a lash.

Karishkov’s throat pulsed as if he’d swallowed his words. Tilrey could feel the soldiers holding their breaths. Even the general stood stock still.

“You’re all a bunch of spoiled fools, and so am I. This creature, this boy” —her eyes slid over Tilrey again— “outsmarted us all. Gersha may have masterminded the plot and written the code, but our sweet, obliging Rishka did the legwork and the social engineering. He knew our weaknesses far too well.”

“Fir’n Magistrate,” Atteivian began, but a scathing glance from Davita silenced him.

She continued: “He’s right about one thing, anyway—the system is broken. If we’d recognized his potential and Raised him, he would never have turned traitor. But that psychopath Malsha got hold of him and twisted him into a tool to take down the Republic. Gersha only finished the job.”

Tilrey wanted to contradict her, to tell her no Upstart was responsible for any meaningful choice he had made. But he hung his head as if her taunts deflated him. They were in a waiting game now, and the longer they could stall, the better. He needed to find a way to speak to Karishkov alone.

“With all due respect, why he betrayed us doesn’t matter,” Atteivian said, trying to get things back on track. “He’ll regret it in due time. People are freezing out there, Fir’n Magistrate!”

Davita’s eyes were fixed on Tilrey. “Explain yourself, and I don’t want to hear the foolish ideas Gersha fed you. I want the truth. What pushed you over the brink?”

Tilrey summoned the low, submissive voice he had used so often in the Council chamber to make high names trust him—and in the bedroom. “We don’t hate the Republic, Fir’n. We just want you to understand that merit can come from anywhere. I lied before—Gersha didn’t write the code to take control of the Net. Do you want to know who did?”

Davita took a step closer, vibrating with anger. “You’re just going to tell me?”

“Janta.” It was safe to tell her, he hoped, because Janta was well out of the way. The boy could never risk returning to Redda unless the True Hearth was victorious. “The Skeinsha boy we kept in our house, who used to set the table for our Communal Meals.”

He met Davita’s eyes again, steadying his voice to counter the disbelief he saw there. Perhaps he shouldn’t be telling her, but he couldn’t resist. Janta deserved his due. “The kid’s a genius—a natural talent. Gersha taught him everything he could, but Janta is more skilled than he’ll ever be. That’s who controls your fate right now, Davita—not some exiled Programmer. Not Gersha. Not me. The person who decides whether you’ll live or die is barely out of his teens. A Skeinsha, a kettle boy, a piece of garbage to you. Someone like me when I first came to this city.”

“He’s lying,” Karishkov said. “Don’t let him get inside your head.”

Davita’s mouth twisted into an ugly smile. When she blinked several times rapidly, Tilrey realized with a lurch in his stomach that she was fighting tears.

She had felt something real for him, then, against all her better judgment. Maybe she was capable of change, too.

“You should have left me in that tunnel to die,” she said.

“I couldn’t.” The words caught in his throat. If things went badly, this might be the last time they’d see each other alive.

Nudging Karishkov aside, Davita came up to him and stood on tiptoe to speak more privately.

“You know,” she said in a husky voice, almost a whisper, “right before the lights went out, I was thinking you would have made me a better husband than Besha did, if only you’d been an Upstart. All the same lovely natural submissiveness and cleverness, but with morals. So I thought.”

She took a step back, then another, tears pooling in her dark eyes. “It’s a shame your natural gifts will never be any use to the Republic. A tragic waste. But we’ll need to break Gersha somehow.”

And then, turning to the soldiers— “Take him away.”