Volume 19: Oslov Unraveled
Chapter 16
Missions
28 October, year 374, 5:36 a.m.
Snow still scoured the long runways of the Sixth Battalion’s airbase, but the flakes came less thickly now. The storm was winding down.Niko Karishkov strode into the hangar, his legs shaky after the turbulent ride from the Sector. He hated helicopters—that wasn’t real flying.Uniformed personnel hurried back and forth in the corridors, readying fighter jets for their flights to the Bureau of Preparedness terminals. They had scrambled their best pilots, he knew, ones who could navigate by the stars and landmarks visible in the dark. A predawn flight over the Wastes was risky, but so was waiting for sunrise, still several hours away. Who knew what the hacker might do to the city in those hours—especially if the rebels surrounding the Sector seized their chance to attack?And so the pilots had their mission of death. He had his.“Where’s Captain Lundhard?” he snapped at the nearest flunky.The man gaped, clearly surprised to see a Councillor. “In the command office, Fir. Two floors up. Lift’s right there.”“Thank you.” Niko stabbed the lift button.On the copter ride, buffeted by storm winds, he hadn’t been able to think. He’d been conscious only of constant roiling, a tempest inside his body that mirrored the one outside. Stomach, head, brain, all in disorder.Now, alone in the quiet lift, he finally had a minute to collect himself. He closed his eyes, breathed, and silently recited a prayer he had learned decades ago:Oh, wild and free Spark. Fire in the darkness, light of the world. Guide my steps on the trail that leads me to my loved ones.He summoned faces to his mind. Aleks, his son. Vreni, his first and true wife. Then his legal wife, Leontina, and their daughters, Sverike and Nella—they were dear to him, too, though perhaps he’d never loved them quite as fiercely as his original family. You could never match the emotions of youth.Light up my last moment. Destroy me, oh Spark, but only to preserve me. A Feudal prayer that no good Oslov should even know. A prayer for the dead that doubled easily as a prayer for and by the dying.He had recited that prayer over and over, aloud and then silently, during his time in moral rehab many years ago, after his ignominious return from undercover service in Thurskein.Niko’s Int/Sec handler and his family friend Gurya Keikorannen had agreed to cover up his treachery and paint him as a hero who had foiled a band of neo-Feudal rebels. Only they knew that he had willingly joined the shirkers. To keep his name clean, to redeem himself and shield his Laborer family from harm, he was forced to betray his other Skeinsha comrades and then undergo a discreet course of “rest therapy,” as his handler put it.He had spent two ten-days in a white-walled, windowless room, alone except for occasional visits from Keikorannen and a clinician who gave him cryptic tests and grilled him on his state of mind. Niko was no fool. He answered all the questions the way he was supposed to. He renounced belief in the Spark and proclaimed his absolute faith in Edvard Whyberg, knowing it was the only way to protect Vreni and his son. When Keikorannen was there, he accused himself of being a besotted fool, seduced by a beautiful woman into participating in absurd rituals. He even wept.Deep down in his heart, he never forgot he had signed a solstice scroll, a blood oath of unity with Vreni’s clan. That could not be recanted or erased.Over time, as Niko left moral rehab and resumed his life as an Upstart, his faith in Vreni’s old ways waned. He stopped praying regularly. But whenever he was under stress, the old refrains returned to comfort him.Make me thy tinder, o Spark, as the trees of the forest are. Burn with my light. Be thou, spirit fierce, my spirit.He needed to calm his mind now, to make it all readiness for what was coming. The words helped.But as the lift stopped with a jerk on the second floor, an unwelcome image popped into his head: Tilrey Bronn with a blood-streaked face, one eye swollen shut and the other glazed with pain.Damn that man! He had dogged Niko for so long, using the secrets of Niko’s past to extort favors from him. Well, whatever became of Tilrey now, he wouldn’t be able to hurt Niko anymore.And maybe, if Tilrey and his rebels had an ounce of sense (which Niko was only very cautiously optimistic about), they would remake the Republic into a place where Vreni and her kin could practice their old faith openly. Imagine a future where Aleks could stop hiding and come to Redda and meet his half sisters and perhaps even (though this might be going too far) hold a seat on the Council like his father. He was a natural leader. People would listen to him.Niko had grown out of idealism during his stint in moral rehab, but he supposed one could dream.He finished the prayer. Scatter ashes and sparks around me, from now till the Great Darkness rises and bears us all away. Hear, oh hear.The lift door opened.He found Captain Lundhard sitting at a desk in the midst of controlled chaos. To their right, a wide window showed the needle-nosed jets being loaded with their lethal cargo.Niko said, “I want to fly a plane.”“You want to what, Fir?” Lundhard stared as if he’d spoken in a foreign tongue. Though she was trying to show respect, she clearly had no time to coddle a Councillor’s vanity between taking reports and barking orders at her inferiors. “But we’ve already assigned our best pilots. Of course.”“I am a pilot, Captain. I obtained certification as part of my undercover service. I even flew training runs with your battalion.” Niko’s cover identity, Nikolai Svod, had come to Thurskein from air force service and flew frequent supply runs, an easy pretext for returning to Redda for debriefings with his handler. “I’ve kept it up as a hobby. I never feel freer than when I’m in the air.”That was true, at least.“I appreciate your expertise, Fir Councillor. But these are state-of-the-art fighter jets, not hobby planes!” The captain looked confounded—understandably. “If the exile mobilizes drones against us, we’ll have to execute defensive manueuvers!”Niko knew she was right about his inadequacy for the task. He also knew that defensive measures would not become an issue, because he had no intention of flying even a kilometer beyond the base.He drew himself up to his full height and stared down the captain with all the cold superiority of the bearer of a high name. “General Atteivian himself gave the order for me to deploy the ordnance on the Southern Range bunker. That terrain can be tricky, especially with squalls in the mountain passes this time of year. It happens to be precisely the area where I fly recreationally. I’ve made a study of it.”Lundhard looked shaken, but not quite persuaded. “Atteivian ordered this? Really?”“He did, once I assured him that I know the east side of the Range like the back of my hand.” Niko raised his right hand to illustrate, praying she didn’t radio Atteivian to confirm. “Do you have any pilot who can say the same?”Lundhard pressed her lips together. “You do realize, Fir, how risky these blind flights are? We’ve been candid with our pilots about the dangers. Those who volunteered know this could be their last mission.”When Niko volunteered to go undercover for Int/Sec, his superior had told him something similar. He had accepted the risks gladly, eager to prove himself.And yet you somehow managed to save yourself, too, along the way. Who had said that to him? Look at you, Nikolsha. Look at your life. Your power.It must have been his wife, Vreni. She was always mocking him for his hypocrisy in the years after he had to leave her behind in Thurskein.But no, not Vreni. He was remembering the Brothel director, the woman he had hired to impersonate the love of his life so he could cry in her arms. The woman who had betrayed him to Tilrey Bronn.In a scathing voice, the Brothel director had reproached Niko with his selfish cowardice. He knew now that, shirker or not, she was right. Yes, he had protected his son all these years, but it had cost him nothing. Niko had never sacrificed anything meaningful for Aleks, not even his own freedom, until Tilrey managed to turn the tables on him.He was ready to change that. He only wished he wouldn’t have to sacrifice innocents in the process.He opened his mouth to say he was comfortable flying a suicide mission, but Lundhard was no longer focused on him. All over the office, radios were crackling to life. Personnel clustered around them, listening.A white-faced lieutenant dashed up to Lundhard’s desk. “Fir’n, have you heard? The rebels are storming the Sector! Firing on our troops!”“Yes, we heard, Lieutenant.” Lundhard’s expression was calm, but her jaw was set hard, as if she were tamping down panic. “I assume all our copters have been deployed to scatter the mob.”“They have, Fir’n Captain.”“Then tell General Atteivian to hold fast. We’ll have these planes in the air by oh-six-fifteen.”As the lieutenant darted out again, Lundhard wheeled to face Niko. She looked coldly furious.“You really want to risk your life for Oslov, Fir Councillor? Fine, you get your chance. I’d honestly rather lose you than one of my prize pilots. Suit up, and let’s go.”Ceill went straight to the Brothel kitchen, where he found the cook stirring a vat of broth. “Hey, Karlsha!”“Ceill! Young Fir, I mean!” The cook dropped his ladle to give Ceill a hearty pat on the back. “They said you were in the Funnel with Stefan. How’d you get out? He okay?”“Yes!” Ceill hoped so, anyway. He gave Karl a quick summary of what had happened in the Funnel and what Bror had told him about Stefan’s speech.“Good for Stefan! I always knew he had it in ’im!” The cook’s eyes glowed. Like everyone in the Brothel, he seemed to stand a little taller now that Upstarts were no longer ordering him around.Ceill wondered what had happened to all the patrons who’d been here when the lights went off, but he had no time to ask. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he said, “could I have a tray of tea and dumplings? Einara asked me to check on Fir Examining Magistrate and bring him something to eat.” An easy lie. “His mom needs to know he’s not being mistreated.”“Of course!” Karl spooned steamed dumplings onto a plate, then turned on the electric kettle. “You look like you should eat, too. I’ll give you enough for three, eh?”Ceill wondered who the third person was, but he only thanked the cook effusively. Once the tea was brewing, he assembled a tray and headed off to the suites for high-Level patrons.He had to admit it would be good to sit down for tea. And if Blas Lindblom had even a chance of influencing his mother, as Besha insisted, then maybe Ceill could do some good here, after all.Waiting was almost as bad as being in a cell. But in thirty minutes, he would return to Einara’s door, and he would speak to Janta. He swore it to himself.Karl had directed him to the suite where Blas was being held. Ceill found it guarded by Fredrich, a burly young man who did the lighting for Kai’s streams—and who, to his relief, was happy to see him and accepted his story without question. After pilfering a dumpling, he let Ceill inside. “Just call me if they give you any trouble!”Ceill found the sitting room empty. Tray in one hand, he tapped at the bedroom door.The slight, blond Upstart who opened up looked familiar—one of those Veráns who’d been a few years ahead of Ceill at school. His eyes widened, and he took a step backward. “Ceill? You got out of the Funnel?”“I brought this for Blas Lindblom,” Ceill said, proffering the tray. Whoever this young man was, he wasn’t in the mood to discuss his incarceration. He wondered how many people knew about it. “I need to talk to him.”“I thought you were Tilrey for a second! You look so much like him.”“So I’ve heard.” Ceill managed not to roll his eyes. “Could I see Blas, please?”“Sure, when he wakes up. I’m Detmer Verán, by the way.” Detmer took the tray. “And I’m with your dad and the True Hearth,” he added in a lower voice. “It was brave of you to be Stefan’s alibi. I was hoping you’d get out okay.”“Mersha?” a husky voice called from the room behind them. “Who’s there?”That worried voice sounded nothing like the cold, controlled tones of the examining magistrate who had interrogated Ceill, but Ceill’s pulse sped up anyway. He didn’t want Blas Lindblom grilling him again. And was he really supposed to believe this Detmer was an ally?“It’s tea, sweetheart.” Detmer said, turning to address the unseen Blas. “Ceill Linnett brought it. Would you like to come into the sitting room, or shall I serve you there?”“Ceill Linnett?” Blas sounded alarmed. “Tell him to stay where he is.”He can’t hurt me now. Trying to ignore his nerves, Ceill sat on the sofa and poured for all three of them.He was out of the Funnel now, safe among friends, he reminded himself. Blas was the prisoner. But Blas was still a Judicial official. And his tone brought back all the events of just two days ago—or was it three?Ceill had waited in a windowless room for what felt like hours, handcuffed, for the examining magistrate to question him about the night of Lindahl’s death. The questions had been intrusive, mortifying. Blas knew about Ceill and Janta somehow. He’d even claimed to know things Ceill didn’t—for instance, that Tilrey had been imprisoned in Int/Sec long ago. Ceill still smarted from the way the man had treated him—like a silly child, deceived by his affection for Stefan and his resentment toward his fellow Upstarts.When the bedroom door opened, he raised his chin and braced for a confrontation.But the man who emerged looked broken. He wore no tunic, his hand was bandaged, and his face was gray.Detmer guided Blas over to the sofa with a hand on his waist—a lingering, intimate gesture. Were they a couple, then?As soon as he was seated, Blas looked up at Ceill and frowned, his black brows furrowing. “Who got you out?”You’re in control now. Don’t be afraid. “The hacker.” “The hacker?” Blas’s eyes glistened feverishly. “You know who it is?”Ceill shrugged. “You’re the one locked up now. I don’t have to tell you a damn thing.”“So why are you here? Just to taunt me?”“Maybe.” Then Ceill remembered why he was here—to stop those planes from killing Janta and Aleks and setting off a chain of retaliations that might end with the whole city in flames. If he wanted to convince the General Magistrate his friends didn’t have to die, he might have to convince Blas first. And quickly.If anybody in the world can persuade her to negotiate with the True Hearth, it’s Blas, Besha had insisted. But did Blas even know yet that his own father was part of the rebellion? Or that his friend Detmer was?“It doesn’t matter who the hacker is, Blasha. Not now.” Detmer placed a tumbler in Blas’s hands. His tone was solicitous, almost crooning. “You’re not solving the case anymore. You can rest.”“You mean I can sit here and be a hostage to the psychopath who’s seized control of the city?” Blas countered. “We’re going to die here, Mersha. My mother would never willingly put herself in that madwoman’s hands. Not even to save me.”Was that true? But Davita was here in the Brothel, though Besha hadn’t explained how it had happened. When Ceill tried to imagine doubting his own mother would rush to his rescue, he found himself almost pitying Blas.Detmer sat down and wound an arm around Blas’s waist again. “Of course your mother will come for you, Blasha. She loves you.”“We’re all going to die.” Blas looked furious, his burning eyes fixed on Ceill, but he didn’t shove his friend away. Perhaps he even leaned into him a little.“We’re not going to die, Blas,” Detmer insisted. “I swear to you. I don’t trust Einara, but I have faith in Tilrey.”“Why? He’s a psychopath, too!” Blas was still looking daggers at Ceill.“He’s not!” Ceill practically shouted.“No? Maybe the Brothel director stuck the knife in Lindahl’s neck, but your father ordered it.”“Only to save himself and the True Hearth,” Detmer said, to Ceill’s surprise.“To commit treason, you mean!” Blas said. “He’s bewitched you, Mersha.”“My dad isn’t a psychopath! He wants the best for everyone! But he doesn’t actually control the city now, and neither does Einara!” Ceill blurted out. If Detmer had told Blas everything, he might as well be frank, too. “Janta does. And he isn’t a psychopath, either.”They stared at him—Blas imperious, Detmer startled. Ceill dropped his gaze. “He’s someone I care about,” he added in a mumble.Blas was instantly back in interrogator mode. “Who’s this Janta? Besides being someone you care about?”“You saw him at the Communal Meal. You asked me about him in the Funnel. We pretend he’s Gersha’s kettle boy, but he isn’t. He’s a genius.” Ceill knew it all sounded absurd, but he barreled on. “And Janta doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He’s not like Einara. He just wants to do what he’s best at—write code.”“Gersha’s kettle boy,” Blas said. “The reason you claimed to be at the Brothel in the first place was that Tilrey had been harsh to Janta and driven him away. But you didn’t tell the whole truth, did you, lad?”“So that kid is Tilrey’s secret weapon,” Detmer said, looking impressed. “I wondered.”Ceill remembered Janta saying, I don’t plan to let anyone use me. And then If I don’t try it, I’ll be like a plant that withers without the sun. “Janta’s not anyone’s weapon! Because he’s a Laborer, using his gift is forbidden. So he’s been doing it in secret. He only took over the Net to stop Stefan from being executed for a crime he didn’t commit.”His voice trembled, and he knew how he must sound to Blas—like a boy with a crush. If only there were a better way to persuade the examining magistrate, something Blas would actually respect. But Janta was who mattered to Ceill. He mattered.Ceill drew himself up. “And now your mom is sending planes to try to kill Janta. Is that fair?”Blas looked just as skeptical as Ceill had known he would. “Tilrey controls this Janta—and the Brothel director, I imagine. And maybe Gersha controls all of them.”“Gersha doesn’t control Tilrey, love,” Detmer said firmly. “Tilrey’s his own man. Give up your prejudices about that.”“So what does Tilrey want, then?” Blas continued to address Ceill. “Or what does this Janta want?”“They want to negotiate!” Ceill trembled with the need to make this stubborn authority figure listen to him. “All they want is to sit down at the table and figure out how to improve things for everybody. Aleks Snowblind, too! He’s out there with Janta. He never hurt anyone. He doesn’t deserve to die.”“Aleks Snowblind? The Free Northman leader?” Blas looked startled. “But he’s dead. He’s just a symbol for the people.” “He’s not dead! He’s hiding in the Wastes. But if you let him come back, if you let him just sit down and talk, his followers will know you value them.” Did Blas care about Aleks’s followers? About any Laborers? Doubtful. But Ceill saw from Detmer’s face that he, at least, understood. “They’ll calm down. Aleks is a good person, like Janta. He’s my friend.”“You know Aleks Snowblind?”Ceill nodded frantically. He knew he still sounded childish to Blas, but he wasn’t Tilrey or Gersha, and he had no eloquent speeches planned. Those planes might be launching right now.“I’ve known him since I was a kid,” he barged on. “I know I seem naïve to you, Fir Lindblom. But I know my dads, and I know Aleks and Janta. They want what’s best for Oslov, even if it means compromising with Upstarts. I don’t think Einara wants to compromise, and I bet your mother doesn’t. And now the two of them are locked up together, and I’m worried they’ll end up killing first Janta, then all of us. If we don’t—”Blas had disentangled himself from Detmer and leapt to his feet. “What do you mean, they’re locked up together? My mother’s here?”“She came for you, Blasha, just like I said,” Detmer said. “She wasn’t going to let you die.”“No! No!” Blas looked really horrified. “She doesn’t know this is all my fault! If I hadn’t told you about Stefan, if I hadn’t been with you in the first place…” He sighed. “I forgive you, Mersha. You’re weak. But I can’t choose you over the Republic. Not again.”Blas cares for him. Ceill saw it as the two of them locked eyes. The way I care for Janta.Maybe he could use that.“I’m afraid for Janta,” he said, his words coming fast now. “I told you the truth, Blas—he’s the reason I went to the Brothel that night. I love him, but he wouldn’t stay with me. Tilrey was taking too long with the revolution, and Janta wanted to speed it up.” He didn’t have to fake the quaver in his voice. “Now I’m afraid he’s going to die for it.”“If this Janta hacked the city, he deserves to die,” Blas said icily. “He’s no innocent.”“You don’t mean that!” Detmer clasped Blas’s hand. “I know this is a lot to take in, Blas, but I know you. You cared enough to save Stefan. Could you talk to your mom, maybe? Ask her to call off these planes and at least give Tilrey a hearing?”“She’ll never do that,” Blas snapped. But he looked pale and uncertain. “No concessions to traitors.”“These aren’t traitors,” Detmer said. “Blas, the people are rising because they think the government is corrupt. That means nothing to you?”“It means you’re brainwashed.”Ceill said, “If you don’t try, then—”He broke off as the door hissed open. Fredrich, the steward, and another staffer burst into the room.Ceill expected Blas to face them defiantly. Instead, the examining magistrate turned away and clutched at Detmer, whose arms tightened protectively around him.“You’re coming with us, Fir Lindblom,” the steward said as the other two tore Blas from Detmer’s clinging grasp. “Your mother wants to see you, now.”Tilrey woke to a sound he’d never heard before—a cascade of small booms, like sharp-edged rocks plummeting from the sky onto the roof of their vacation villa.Except they weren’t in the villa. They were in the basement of the Sector, cold and chained up and locked in.“They’re shooting!” he cried, jerking upright in Gersha’s arms—and then writhed with pain as his injured hand jogged against his husband’s body.“Shh, sweetheart. No one’s shooting in here.” But Gersha sounded alarmed, too. “I think our forces are attacking.”Another volley of distant reports made Tilrey shudder against Gersha. “How long did I sleep?”“Not that long, but you missed some of it. The shooting started maybe fifteen minutes ago.”“I didn’t dream this time.” Tilrey wished he had. “Is that really the Hearth? How did Bror and Mirella get all those guns?” With traffic in and out of Redda tightly controlled, sourcing weapons had always been one of the True Hearth’s biggest problems.A dull but louder boom sounded above them, this one so forceful that Tilrey could swear the ancient stone of the building vibrated in protest. “Shit. Is that us? I hope it’s not their helicopters again.”Gersha pressed Tilrey close as if to shield him from the reverberations, rocking him gently. “Could be a cannon or grenade. Bror said something about looting the Constabularies for ordnance. With the lights off and all those rioters on the street, they must outnumber the gray-jackets.”The gunfire came almost continuously now, a blanket of noise like hail hitting the windows. Tilrey tried to breathe evenly, but he tasted the acid of fear.Another boom jolted him against Gersha. “Atteivian’s troops won’t surrender. They think they’re fighting for the Republic’s survival. How many of us are they killing out there?”“Ordinary soldiers are Laborers, remember. With all the crises going on, they might not want to fire on their own kind.”“I hope not.” But Tilrey shuddered, remembering the foul-breathed soldier who had beaten and tried to violate him.They sat quiet for a while, listening to the irregular blizzard of gunshots and the occasional larger impacts that echoed through the stone walls and seemed to resonate in the frozen earth itself. Clearly neither side was retreating.Tilrey knew he should be excited by the prospect of victory. But he kept imagining explosions razing the Council hall to the ground. He rested his cheek on Gersha’s chest and tried to imagine they were in bed at home, not cowering in a basement with this stifling sense of helplessness.Gersha had been right when he said negotiating across the Council table was something Tilrey understood. He might have a chance of making peace happen, if only both sides were willing to sit down and talk. But he’d never faced gunfire. What sort of courage did it take to be one of those rebelling workers or students right now? They weren’t trained soldiers, either. How could they face down government troops and attack helicopters and the close proximity of death?And Bror would be in the thick of it. Tilrey knew him too well to think otherwise. Bror would never send others into danger without facing it himself.Please let him be okay. He didn’t know any prayers, didn’t know whom to pray to, so he simply repeated in his head, Don’t let him be hurt. Keep him safe.Finally the patches of gunfire thinned out, like a retreating storm. The louder booms went silent.Now was the moment of truth. Tilrey stirred in Gersha’s arms and sat up, wincing with every movement. “Our people are retreating, they’re overcome. Or else they’re inside.”Gersha stroked his back rhythmically. “If they’ve been overcome, Janta will help them. Don’t forget, he has the real power here. Relax, Rishka. We’ll know soon.”But Gersha couldn’t relax, either. Tilrey felt his tension in every muscle. When footsteps thudded outside in the hallway, they both went rigid, not breathing.The door burst open. Tilrey almost sobbed when he saw the red uniforms.It was his old friend Fish Breath, now with a new companion.Gersha moved more swiftly than Tilrey had ever seen him do before. He levered Tilrey off his lap, propped him up against the wall, and jumped in front of him with a jangle of chains, barring the way. “If you touch him again—”But the two young soldiers swept Gersha aside before he could finish. “Unlock the Fir from the wall,” Fish Breath said, tossing a key to his friend. “I’ll take the other. We need to get upstairs to the chamber before they lock the fucking doors.”Inaudible shouts sounded in the distance, followed by gunshots that were closer now—inside the building. Tilrey gasped and barely stifled a cry as Fish Breath hauled him to his feet. The soldier unfastened the cuffs from the wall, crushing Tilrey’s mangled hand against his body.“You’ve already lost,” Tilrey said when he managed to catch his breath, understanding suddenly what their urgency meant. “You want us for hostages so you can make a last stand.”Struggling fiercely with the other soldier, Gersha protested, “You’ll regret it if you hurt him again!”“You wish, asshole!” Fish Breath dragged Tilrey toward the door, talking to him or to both of them. “Any minute now, when those planes fly, things’ll turn around!”At the door, the soldiers came to an abrupt halt. Tilrey’s legs still worked, at least. He took advantage of the pause to twist and try to kick his captor, ignoring a biting pain in his crushed ribs.Fish Breath seemed too distracted to react. A shot clapped outside, savagely loud, sending metallic smoke wafting into the room. It stung, and Tilrey closed his eyes.He heard footsteps pounding into the room—two more people, three? And then a familiar voice said, “Drop him, or I shoot you in the head.”Tilrey opened his eyes.He saw Bror, impossibly tall and solid in a smoke-stained parka, aiming a rifle straight at his friend’s captor. There was the face Tilrey had feared he would never see again: strong chin and broad mouth and worried blue eyes.Had he slipped back into dreams? No, this was real. And things were happening way too fast.Fish Breath laughed—a strangled noise. He loosened his hold on Tilrey to reach for something. “Not if I shoot the traitor first. Give us safe passage, and these two live. For now.”Tilrey spotted the glint of a gun in the man’s hand and knew it would be at his temple in the next instant. “Fuck that,” he said and bucked and kicked viciously, aiming for the shin with his foot and the gut with his elbow. “Not gonna be your hostage.”Fish Breath didn’t let go, but he did recoil. Bror was on them like lightning.Tilrey could barely register what had happened. He knew only that his captor’s gun was suddenly scudding across the floor, and he was free, stumbling backward.He watched dizzily as Bror slammed Fish Breath against the wall and delivered a blistering punch to the man’s jaw. “No more hostages for you, assholes!” Then he turned to Tilrey, his eyes widening with horror as he took in the damage. “Did this shitstain do that to you?”Tilrey leaned against the wall, his knees buckling. He’d used all his strength on those kicks. “I’m okay now, Brorsha. Thank everything green you’re here. Watch out—”With a harsh cry, Fish Breath pushed off the wall and launched himself at Bror. But two more True Hearthers were already on him and his friend, wresting their arms behind their backs and shoving them down on their knees.Tilrey heard the clink of handcuffs. As he slumped dizzily toward the floor himself, Gersha dived in to support him. “He needs medical care, now!”Then stronger arms reached under Tilrey’s thighs and around his back, scooping him up. “Rishka! Goddamnit, wish we’d been here sooner.”Tilrey wanted to stand up straight and look his friend in the eye and say it was enough that Bror was here now, more than enough. But all he had the strength to say was “It’s okay, Brorsha. I’m okay.”From a distance came the bark of orders and the jangle of chains—the rebels must be shackling the soldiers in his and Gersha’s place. But Tilrey couldn’t focus on that. Bror held him in his arms, warming him with his body, keeping him safe the way he used to do in the old days, and nothing else mattered.Bror was saying, “Ceill’s fine. I found him out on the street—he ran away from his guards. Smart kid. He’s with his friends in the Brothel. Wants to see you.”“Thank everything green,” Gersha breathed.The news was more than Tilrey could have hoped for. “Thank you.” His own voice sounded far away. “You won, Bror. Knew you could do it.”Bror grinned down at him. “We won, but the game’s not over yet. The general’s holed up in the Council chamber with his inner circle, so we don’t have a surrender. But it won’t be long.”“I knew you could do it,” Tilrey repeated. He should be processing what Bror was saying and making plans. But right now he knew only that they were safe. They had won.“I dreamed of you,” he said as a rushing rose in his ears. “And here you are.”
28 October, year 374, 5:36 a.m.
Snow still scoured the long runways of the Sixth Battalion’s airbase, but the flakes came less thickly now. The storm was winding down.
Niko Karishkov strode into the hangar, his legs shaky after the turbulent ride from the Sector. He hated helicopters—that wasn’t real flying.
Uniformed personnel hurried back and forth in the corridors, readying fighter jets for their flights to the Bureau of Preparedness terminals. They had scrambled their best pilots, he knew, ones who could navigate by the stars and landmarks visible in the dark. A predawn flight over the Wastes was risky, but so was waiting for sunrise, still several hours away. Who knew what the hacker might do to the city in those hours—especially if the rebels surrounding the Sector seized their chance to attack?
And so the pilots had their mission of death. He had his.
“Where’s Captain Lundhard?” he snapped at the nearest flunky.
The man gaped, clearly surprised to see a Councillor. “In the command office, Fir. Two floors up. Lift’s right there.”
“Thank you.” Niko stabbed the lift button.
On the copter ride, buffeted by storm winds, he hadn’t been able to think. He’d been conscious only of constant roiling, a tempest inside his body that mirrored the one outside. Stomach, head, brain, all in disorder.
Now, alone in the quiet lift, he finally had a minute to collect himself. He closed his eyes, breathed, and silently recited a prayer he had learned decades ago:
Oh, wild and free Spark. Fire in the darkness, light of the world. Guide my steps on the trail that leads me to my loved ones.
He summoned faces to his mind. Aleks, his son. Vreni, his first and true wife. Then his legal wife, Leontina, and their daughters, Sverike and Nella—they were dear to him, too, though perhaps he’d never loved them quite as fiercely as his original family. You could never match the emotions of youth.
Light up my last moment. Destroy me, oh Spark, but only to preserve me. A Feudal prayer that no good Oslov should even know. A prayer for the dead that doubled easily as a prayer for and by the dying.
He had recited that prayer over and over, aloud and then silently, during his time in moral rehab many years ago, after his ignominious return from undercover service in Thurskein.
Niko’s Int/Sec handler and his family friend Gurya Keikorannen had agreed to cover up his treachery and paint him as a hero who had foiled a band of neo-Feudal rebels. Only they knew that he had willingly joined the shirkers. To keep his name clean, to redeem himself and shield his Laborer family from harm, he was forced to betray his other Skeinsha comrades and then undergo a discreet course of “rest therapy,” as his handler put it.
He had spent two ten-days in a white-walled, windowless room, alone except for occasional visits from Keikorannen and a clinician who gave him cryptic tests and grilled him on his state of mind. Niko was no fool. He answered all the questions the way he was supposed to. He renounced belief in the Spark and proclaimed his absolute faith in Edvard Whyberg, knowing it was the only way to protect Vreni and his son. When Keikorannen was there, he accused himself of being a besotted fool, seduced by a beautiful woman into participating in absurd rituals. He even wept.
Deep down in his heart, he never forgot he had signed a solstice scroll, a blood oath of unity with Vreni’s clan. That could not be recanted or erased.
Over time, as Niko left moral rehab and resumed his life as an Upstart, his faith in Vreni’s old ways waned. He stopped praying regularly. But whenever he was under stress, the old refrains returned to comfort him.
Make me thy tinder, o Spark, as the trees of the forest are. Burn with my light. Be thou, spirit fierce, my spirit.
He needed to calm his mind now, to make it all readiness for what was coming. The words helped.
But as the lift stopped with a jerk on the second floor, an unwelcome image popped into his head: Tilrey Bronn with a blood-streaked face, one eye swollen shut and the other glazed with pain.
Damn that man! He had dogged Niko for so long, using the secrets of Niko’s past to extort favors from him. Well, whatever became of Tilrey now, he wouldn’t be able to hurt Niko anymore.
And maybe, if Tilrey and his rebels had an ounce of sense (which Niko was only very cautiously optimistic about), they would remake the Republic into a place where Vreni and her kin could practice their old faith openly. Imagine a future where Aleks could stop hiding and come to Redda and meet his half sisters and perhaps even (though this might be going too far) hold a seat on the Council like his father. He was a natural leader. People would listen to him.
Niko had grown out of idealism during his stint in moral rehab, but he supposed one could dream.
He finished the prayer. Scatter ashes and sparks around me, from now till the Great Darkness rises and bears us all away. Hear, oh hear.
The lift door opened.
He found Captain Lundhard sitting at a desk in the midst of controlled chaos. To their right, a wide window showed the needle-nosed jets being loaded with their lethal cargo.
Niko said, “I want to fly a plane.”
“You want to what, Fir?” Lundhard stared as if he’d spoken in a foreign tongue. Though she was trying to show respect, she clearly had no time to coddle a Councillor’s vanity between taking reports and barking orders at her inferiors. “But we’ve already assigned our best pilots. Of course.”
“I am a pilot, Captain. I obtained certification as part of my undercover service. I even flew training runs with your battalion.” Niko’s cover identity, Nikolai Svod, had come to Thurskein from air force service and flew frequent supply runs, an easy pretext for returning to Redda for debriefings with his handler. “I’ve kept it up as a hobby. I never feel freer than when I’m in the air.”
That was true, at least.
“I appreciate your expertise, Fir Councillor. But these are state-of-the-art fighter jets, not hobby planes!” The captain looked confounded—understandably. “If the exile mobilizes drones against us, we’ll have to execute defensive manueuvers!”
Niko knew she was right about his inadequacy for the task. He also knew that defensive measures would not become an issue, because he had no intention of flying even a kilometer beyond the base.
He drew himself up to his full height and stared down the captain with all the cold superiority of the bearer of a high name. “General Atteivian himself gave the order for me to deploy the ordnance on the Southern Range bunker. That terrain can be tricky, especially with squalls in the mountain passes this time of year. It happens to be precisely the area where I fly recreationally. I’ve made a study of it.”
Lundhard looked shaken, but not quite persuaded. “Atteivian ordered this? Really?”
“He did, once I assured him that I know the east side of the Range like the back of my hand.” Niko raised his right hand to illustrate, praying she didn’t radio Atteivian to confirm. “Do you have any pilot who can say the same?”
Lundhard pressed her lips together. “You do realize, Fir, how risky these blind flights are? We’ve been candid with our pilots about the dangers. Those who volunteered know this could be their last mission.”
When Niko volunteered to go undercover for Int/Sec, his superior had told him something similar. He had accepted the risks gladly, eager to prove himself.
And yet you somehow managed to save yourself, too, along the way. Who had said that to him? Look at you, Nikolsha. Look at your life. Your power.
It must have been his wife, Vreni. She was always mocking him for his hypocrisy in the years after he had to leave her behind in Thurskein.
But no, not Vreni. He was remembering the Brothel director, the woman he had hired to impersonate the love of his life so he could cry in her arms. The woman who had betrayed him to Tilrey Bronn.
In a scathing voice, the Brothel director had reproached Niko with his selfish cowardice. He knew now that, shirker or not, she was right. Yes, he had protected his son all these years, but it had cost him nothing. Niko had never sacrificed anything meaningful for Aleks, not even his own freedom, until Tilrey managed to turn the tables on him.
He was ready to change that. He only wished he wouldn’t have to sacrifice innocents in the process.
He opened his mouth to say he was comfortable flying a suicide mission, but Lundhard was no longer focused on him. All over the office, radios were crackling to life. Personnel clustered around them, listening.
A white-faced lieutenant dashed up to Lundhard’s desk. “Fir’n, have you heard? The rebels are storming the Sector! Firing on our troops!”
“Yes, we heard, Lieutenant.” Lundhard’s expression was calm, but her jaw was set hard, as if she were tamping down panic. “I assume all our copters have been deployed to scatter the mob.”
“They have, Fir’n Captain.”
“Then tell General Atteivian to hold fast. We’ll have these planes in the air by oh-six-fifteen.”
As the lieutenant darted out again, Lundhard wheeled to face Niko. She looked coldly furious.
“You really want to risk your life for Oslov, Fir Councillor? Fine, you get your chance. I’d honestly rather lose you than one of my prize pilots. Suit up, and let’s go.”
Ceill went straight to the Brothel kitchen, where he found the cook stirring a vat of broth. “Hey, Karlsha!”
“Ceill! Young Fir, I mean!” The cook dropped his ladle to give Ceill a hearty pat on the back. “They said you were in the Funnel with Stefan. How’d you get out? He okay?”
“Yes!” Ceill hoped so, anyway. He gave Karl a quick summary of what had happened in the Funnel and what Bror had told him about Stefan’s speech.
“Good for Stefan! I always knew he had it in ’im!” The cook’s eyes glowed. Like everyone in the Brothel, he seemed to stand a little taller now that Upstarts were no longer ordering him around.
Ceill wondered what had happened to all the patrons who’d been here when the lights went off, but he had no time to ask. “If it’s not too much trouble,” he said, “could I have a tray of tea and dumplings? Einara asked me to check on Fir Examining Magistrate and bring him something to eat.” An easy lie. “His mom needs to know he’s not being mistreated.”
“Of course!” Karl spooned steamed dumplings onto a plate, then turned on the electric kettle. “You look like you should eat, too. I’ll give you enough for three, eh?”
Ceill wondered who the third person was, but he only thanked the cook effusively. Once the tea was brewing, he assembled a tray and headed off to the suites for high-Level patrons.
He had to admit it would be good to sit down for tea. And if Blas Lindblom had even a chance of influencing his mother, as Besha insisted, then maybe Ceill could do some good here, after all.
Waiting was almost as bad as being in a cell. But in thirty minutes, he would return to Einara’s door, and he would speak to Janta. He swore it to himself.
Karl had directed him to the suite where Blas was being held. Ceill found it guarded by Fredrich, a burly young man who did the lighting for Kai’s streams—and who, to his relief, was happy to see him and accepted his story without question. After pilfering a dumpling, he let Ceill inside. “Just call me if they give you any trouble!”
Ceill found the sitting room empty. Tray in one hand, he tapped at the bedroom door.
The slight, blond Upstart who opened up looked familiar—one of those Veráns who’d been a few years ahead of Ceill at school. His eyes widened, and he took a step backward. “Ceill? You got out of the Funnel?”
“I brought this for Blas Lindblom,” Ceill said, proffering the tray. Whoever this young man was, he wasn’t in the mood to discuss his incarceration. He wondered how many people knew about it. “I need to talk to him.”
“I thought you were Tilrey for a second! You look so much like him.”
“So I’ve heard.” Ceill managed not to roll his eyes. “Could I see Blas, please?”
“Sure, when he wakes up. I’m Detmer Verán, by the way.” Detmer took the tray. “And I’m with your dad and the True Hearth,” he added in a lower voice. “It was brave of you to be Stefan’s alibi. I was hoping you’d get out okay.”
“Mersha?” a husky voice called from the room behind them. “Who’s there?”
That worried voice sounded nothing like the cold, controlled tones of the examining magistrate who had interrogated Ceill, but Ceill’s pulse sped up anyway. He didn’t want Blas Lindblom grilling him again. And was he really supposed to believe this Detmer was an ally?
“It’s tea, sweetheart.” Detmer said, turning to address the unseen Blas. “Ceill Linnett brought it. Would you like to come into the sitting room, or shall I serve you there?”
“Ceill Linnett?” Blas sounded alarmed. “Tell him to stay where he is.”
He can’t hurt me now. Trying to ignore his nerves, Ceill sat on the sofa and poured for all three of them.
He was out of the Funnel now, safe among friends, he reminded himself. Blas was the prisoner. But Blas was still a Judicial official. And his tone brought back all the events of just two days ago—or was it three?
Ceill had waited in a windowless room for what felt like hours, handcuffed, for the examining magistrate to question him about the night of Lindahl’s death. The questions had been intrusive, mortifying. Blas knew about Ceill and Janta somehow. He’d even claimed to know things Ceill didn’t—for instance, that Tilrey had been imprisoned in Int/Sec long ago. Ceill still smarted from the way the man had treated him—like a silly child, deceived by his affection for Stefan and his resentment toward his fellow Upstarts.
When the bedroom door opened, he raised his chin and braced for a confrontation.
But the man who emerged looked broken. He wore no tunic, his hand was bandaged, and his face was gray.
Detmer guided Blas over to the sofa with a hand on his waist—a lingering, intimate gesture. Were they a couple, then?
As soon as he was seated, Blas looked up at Ceill and frowned, his black brows furrowing. “Who got you out?”
You’re in control now. Don’t be afraid. “The hacker.”
“The hacker?” Blas’s eyes glistened feverishly. “You know who it is?”
Ceill shrugged. “You’re the one locked up now. I don’t have to tell you a damn thing.”
“So why are you here? Just to taunt me?”
“Maybe.” Then Ceill remembered why he was here—to stop those planes from killing Janta and Aleks and setting off a chain of retaliations that might end with the whole city in flames. If he wanted to convince the General Magistrate his friends didn’t have to die, he might have to convince Blas first. And quickly.
If anybody in the world can persuade her to negotiate with the True Hearth, it’s Blas, Besha had insisted. But did Blas even know yet that his own father was part of the rebellion? Or that his friend Detmer was?
“It doesn’t matter who the hacker is, Blasha. Not now.” Detmer placed a tumbler in Blas’s hands. His tone was solicitous, almost crooning. “You’re not solving the case anymore. You can rest.”
“You mean I can sit here and be a hostage to the psychopath who’s seized control of the city?” Blas countered. “We’re going to die here, Mersha. My mother would never willingly put herself in that madwoman’s hands. Not even to save me.”
Was that true? But Davita was here in the Brothel, though Besha hadn’t explained how it had happened. When Ceill tried to imagine doubting his own mother would rush to his rescue, he found himself almost pitying Blas.
Detmer sat down and wound an arm around Blas’s waist again. “Of course your mother will come for you, Blasha. She loves you.”
“We’re all going to die.” Blas looked furious, his burning eyes fixed on Ceill, but he didn’t shove his friend away. Perhaps he even leaned into him a little.
“We’re not going to die, Blas,” Detmer insisted. “I swear to you. I don’t trust Einara, but I have faith in Tilrey.”
“Why? He’s a psychopath, too!” Blas was still looking daggers at Ceill.
“He’s not!” Ceill practically shouted.
“No? Maybe the Brothel director stuck the knife in Lindahl’s neck, but your father ordered it.”
“Only to save himself and the True Hearth,” Detmer said, to Ceill’s surprise.
“To commit treason, you mean!” Blas said. “He’s bewitched you, Mersha.”
“My dad isn’t a psychopath! He wants the best for everyone! But he doesn’t actually control the city now, and neither does Einara!” Ceill blurted out. If Detmer had told Blas everything, he might as well be frank, too. “Janta does. And he isn’t a psychopath, either.”
They stared at him—Blas imperious, Detmer startled. Ceill dropped his gaze. “He’s someone I care about,” he added in a mumble.
Blas was instantly back in interrogator mode. “Who’s this Janta? Besides being someone you care about?”
“You saw him at the Communal Meal. You asked me about him in the Funnel. We pretend he’s Gersha’s kettle boy, but he isn’t. He’s a genius.” Ceill knew it all sounded absurd, but he barreled on. “And Janta doesn’t want to hurt anyone. He’s not like Einara. He just wants to do what he’s best at—write code.”
“Gersha’s kettle boy,” Blas said. “The reason you claimed to be at the Brothel in the first place was that Tilrey had been harsh to Janta and driven him away. But you didn’t tell the whole truth, did you, lad?”
“So that kid is Tilrey’s secret weapon,” Detmer said, looking impressed. “I wondered.”
Ceill remembered Janta saying, I don’t plan to let anyone use me. And then If I don’t try it, I’ll be like a plant that withers without the sun. “Janta’s not anyone’s weapon! Because he’s a Laborer, using his gift is forbidden. So he’s been doing it in secret. He only took over the Net to stop Stefan from being executed for a crime he didn’t commit.”
His voice trembled, and he knew how he must sound to Blas—like a boy with a crush. If only there were a better way to persuade the examining magistrate, something Blas would actually respect. But Janta was who mattered to Ceill. He mattered.
Ceill drew himself up. “And now your mom is sending planes to try to kill Janta. Is that fair?”
Blas looked just as skeptical as Ceill had known he would. “Tilrey controls this Janta—and the Brothel director, I imagine. And maybe Gersha controls all of them.”
“Gersha doesn’t control Tilrey, love,” Detmer said firmly. “Tilrey’s his own man. Give up your prejudices about that.”
“So what does Tilrey want, then?” Blas continued to address Ceill. “Or what does this Janta want?”
“They want to negotiate!” Ceill trembled with the need to make this stubborn authority figure listen to him. “All they want is to sit down at the table and figure out how to improve things for everybody. Aleks Snowblind, too! He’s out there with Janta. He never hurt anyone. He doesn’t deserve to die.”
“Aleks Snowblind? The Free Northman leader?” Blas looked startled. “But he’s dead. He’s just a symbol for the people.”
“He’s not dead! He’s hiding in the Wastes. But if you let him come back, if you let him just sit down and talk, his followers will know you value them.” Did Blas care about Aleks’s followers? About any Laborers? Doubtful. But Ceill saw from Detmer’s face that he, at least, understood. “They’ll calm down. Aleks is a good person, like Janta. He’s my friend.”
“You know Aleks Snowblind?”
Ceill nodded frantically. He knew he still sounded childish to Blas, but he wasn’t Tilrey or Gersha, and he had no eloquent speeches planned. Those planes might be launching right now.
“I’ve known him since I was a kid,” he barged on. “I know I seem naïve to you, Fir Lindblom. But I know my dads, and I know Aleks and Janta. They want what’s best for Oslov, even if it means compromising with Upstarts. I don’t think Einara wants to compromise, and I bet your mother doesn’t. And now the two of them are locked up together, and I’m worried they’ll end up killing first Janta, then all of us. If we don’t—”
Blas had disentangled himself from Detmer and leapt to his feet. “What do you mean, they’re locked up together? My mother’s here?”
“She came for you, Blasha, just like I said,” Detmer said. “She wasn’t going to let you die.”
“No! No!” Blas looked really horrified. “She doesn’t know this is all my fault! If I hadn’t told you about Stefan, if I hadn’t been with you in the first place…” He sighed. “I forgive you, Mersha. You’re weak. But I can’t choose you over the Republic. Not again.”
Blas cares for him. Ceill saw it as the two of them locked eyes. The way I care for Janta.
Maybe he could use that.
“I’m afraid for Janta,” he said, his words coming fast now. “I told you the truth, Blas—he’s the reason I went to the Brothel that night. I love him, but he wouldn’t stay with me. Tilrey was taking too long with the revolution, and Janta wanted to speed it up.” He didn’t have to fake the quaver in his voice. “Now I’m afraid he’s going to die for it.”
“If this Janta hacked the city, he deserves to die,” Blas said icily. “He’s no innocent.”
“You don’t mean that!” Detmer clasped Blas’s hand. “I know this is a lot to take in, Blas, but I know you. You cared enough to save Stefan. Could you talk to your mom, maybe? Ask her to call off these planes and at least give Tilrey a hearing?”
“She’ll never do that,” Blas snapped. But he looked pale and uncertain. “No concessions to traitors.”
“These aren’t traitors,” Detmer said. “Blas, the people are rising because they think the government is corrupt. That means nothing to you?”
“It means you’re brainwashed.”
Ceill said, “If you don’t try, then—”
He broke off as the door hissed open. Fredrich, the steward, and another staffer burst into the room.
Ceill expected Blas to face them defiantly. Instead, the examining magistrate turned away and clutched at Detmer, whose arms tightened protectively around him.
“You’re coming with us, Fir Lindblom,” the steward said as the other two tore Blas from Detmer’s clinging grasp. “Your mother wants to see you, now.”
Tilrey woke to a sound he’d never heard before—a cascade of small booms, like sharp-edged rocks plummeting from the sky onto the roof of their vacation villa.
Except they weren’t in the villa. They were in the basement of the Sector, cold and chained up and locked in.
“They’re shooting!” he cried, jerking upright in Gersha’s arms—and then writhed with pain as his injured hand jogged against his husband’s body.
“Shh, sweetheart. No one’s shooting in here.” But Gersha sounded alarmed, too. “I think our forces are attacking.”
Another volley of distant reports made Tilrey shudder against Gersha. “How long did I sleep?”
“Not that long, but you missed some of it. The shooting started maybe fifteen minutes ago.”
“I didn’t dream this time.” Tilrey wished he had. “Is that really the Hearth? How did Bror and Mirella get all those guns?” With traffic in and out of Redda tightly controlled, sourcing weapons had always been one of the True Hearth’s biggest problems.
A dull but louder boom sounded above them, this one so forceful that Tilrey could swear the ancient stone of the building vibrated in protest. “Shit. Is that us? I hope it’s not their helicopters again.”
Gersha pressed Tilrey close as if to shield him from the reverberations, rocking him gently. “Could be a cannon or grenade. Bror said something about looting the Constabularies for ordnance. With the lights off and all those rioters on the street, they must outnumber the gray-jackets.”
The gunfire came almost continuously now, a blanket of noise like hail hitting the windows. Tilrey tried to breathe evenly, but he tasted the acid of fear.
Another boom jolted him against Gersha. “Atteivian’s troops won’t surrender. They think they’re fighting for the Republic’s survival. How many of us are they killing out there?”
“Ordinary soldiers are Laborers, remember. With all the crises going on, they might not want to fire on their own kind.”
“I hope not.” But Tilrey shuddered, remembering the foul-breathed soldier who had beaten and tried to violate him.
They sat quiet for a while, listening to the irregular blizzard of gunshots and the occasional larger impacts that echoed through the stone walls and seemed to resonate in the frozen earth itself. Clearly neither side was retreating.
Tilrey knew he should be excited by the prospect of victory. But he kept imagining explosions razing the Council hall to the ground. He rested his cheek on Gersha’s chest and tried to imagine they were in bed at home, not cowering in a basement with this stifling sense of helplessness.
Gersha had been right when he said negotiating across the Council table was something Tilrey understood. He might have a chance of making peace happen, if only both sides were willing to sit down and talk. But he’d never faced gunfire. What sort of courage did it take to be one of those rebelling workers or students right now? They weren’t trained soldiers, either. How could they face down government troops and attack helicopters and the close proximity of death?
And Bror would be in the thick of it. Tilrey knew him too well to think otherwise. Bror would never send others into danger without facing it himself.
Please let him be okay. He didn’t know any prayers, didn’t know whom to pray to, so he simply repeated in his head, Don’t let him be hurt. Keep him safe.
Finally the patches of gunfire thinned out, like a retreating storm. The louder booms went silent.
Now was the moment of truth. Tilrey stirred in Gersha’s arms and sat up, wincing with every movement. “Our people are retreating, they’re overcome. Or else they’re inside.”
Gersha stroked his back rhythmically. “If they’ve been overcome, Janta will help them. Don’t forget, he has the real power here. Relax, Rishka. We’ll know soon.”
But Gersha couldn’t relax, either. Tilrey felt his tension in every muscle. When footsteps thudded outside in the hallway, they both went rigid, not breathing.
The door burst open. Tilrey almost sobbed when he saw the red uniforms.
It was his old friend Fish Breath, now with a new companion.
Gersha moved more swiftly than Tilrey had ever seen him do before. He levered Tilrey off his lap, propped him up against the wall, and jumped in front of him with a jangle of chains, barring the way. “If you touch him again—”
But the two young soldiers swept Gersha aside before he could finish. “Unlock the Fir from the wall,” Fish Breath said, tossing a key to his friend. “I’ll take the other. We need to get upstairs to the chamber before they lock the fucking doors.”
Inaudible shouts sounded in the distance, followed by gunshots that were closer now—inside the building. Tilrey gasped and barely stifled a cry as Fish Breath hauled him to his feet. The soldier unfastened the cuffs from the wall, crushing Tilrey’s mangled hand against his body.
“You’ve already lost,” Tilrey said when he managed to catch his breath, understanding suddenly what their urgency meant. “You want us for hostages so you can make a last stand.”
Struggling fiercely with the other soldier, Gersha protested, “You’ll regret it if you hurt him again!”
“You wish, asshole!” Fish Breath dragged Tilrey toward the door, talking to him or to both of them. “Any minute now, when those planes fly, things’ll turn around!”
At the door, the soldiers came to an abrupt halt. Tilrey’s legs still worked, at least. He took advantage of the pause to twist and try to kick his captor, ignoring a biting pain in his crushed ribs.
Fish Breath seemed too distracted to react. A shot clapped outside, savagely loud, sending metallic smoke wafting into the room. It stung, and Tilrey closed his eyes.
He heard footsteps pounding into the room—two more people, three? And then a familiar voice said, “Drop him, or I shoot you in the head.”
Tilrey opened his eyes.
He saw Bror, impossibly tall and solid in a smoke-stained parka, aiming a rifle straight at his friend’s captor. There was the face Tilrey had feared he would never see again: strong chin and broad mouth and worried blue eyes.
Had he slipped back into dreams? No, this was real. And things were happening way too fast.
Fish Breath laughed—a strangled noise. He loosened his hold on Tilrey to reach for something. “Not if I shoot the traitor first. Give us safe passage, and these two live. For now.”
Tilrey spotted the glint of a gun in the man’s hand and knew it would be at his temple in the next instant. “Fuck that,” he said and bucked and kicked viciously, aiming for the shin with his foot and the gut with his elbow. “Not gonna be your hostage.”
Fish Breath didn’t let go, but he did recoil. Bror was on them like lightning.
Tilrey could barely register what had happened. He knew only that his captor’s gun was suddenly scudding across the floor, and he was free, stumbling backward.
He watched dizzily as Bror slammed Fish Breath against the wall and delivered a blistering punch to the man’s jaw. “No more hostages for you, assholes!” Then he turned to Tilrey, his eyes widening with horror as he took in the damage. “Did this shitstain do that to you?”
Tilrey leaned against the wall, his knees buckling. He’d used all his strength on those kicks. “I’m okay now, Brorsha. Thank everything green you’re here. Watch out—”
With a harsh cry, Fish Breath pushed off the wall and launched himself at Bror. But two more True Hearthers were already on him and his friend, wresting their arms behind their backs and shoving them down on their knees.
Tilrey heard the clink of handcuffs. As he slumped dizzily toward the floor himself, Gersha dived in to support him. “He needs medical care, now!”
Then stronger arms reached under Tilrey’s thighs and around his back, scooping him up. “Rishka! Goddamnit, wish we’d been here sooner.”
Tilrey wanted to stand up straight and look his friend in the eye and say it was enough that Bror was here now, more than enough. But all he had the strength to say was “It’s okay, Brorsha. I’m okay.”
From a distance came the bark of orders and the jangle of chains—the rebels must be shackling the soldiers in his and Gersha’s place. But Tilrey couldn’t focus on that. Bror held him in his arms, warming him with his body, keeping him safe the way he used to do in the old days, and nothing else mattered.
Bror was saying, “Ceill’s fine. I found him out on the street—he ran away from his guards. Smart kid. He’s with his friends in the Brothel. Wants to see you.”
“Thank everything green,” Gersha breathed.
The news was more than Tilrey could have hoped for. “Thank you.” His own voice sounded far away. “You won, Bror. Knew you could do it.”
Bror grinned down at him. “We won, but the game’s not over yet. The general’s holed up in the Council chamber with his inner circle, so we don’t have a surrender. But it won’t be long.”
“I knew you could do it,” Tilrey repeated. He should be processing what Bror was saying and making plans. But right now he knew only that they were safe. They had won.
“I dreamed of you,” he said as a rushing rose in his ears. “And here you are.”