Volume 1: A Serviceable Boy
Chapter 28
The Report
Inside the house again, Gersha kept shivering, and Tilrey made a tremendous fuss about it. He insisted on lighting the gas stove—which, it turned out, wasn’t purely ornamental—seating Gersha beside it, and fetching a blanket to drape over his shoulders. Then he vanished into the kitchen and returned with a steel pitcher of something thick, black, and steamy, with an aroma that Gersha remembered from his childhood.“Licorice root,” he said, as Tilrey poured it into two tumblers. “I haven’t had that since I was ten. Isn’t it dreadfully sweet?”“Not when you make it right, Fir. And it’s very good for warming you up.”Sure enough, the sticky, spicy licorice went down smooth, warming him to his core, and Gersha felt the chills recede.On the walk back, he’d still tasted Tilrey at the back of his throat, savoring him, and he reminded himself it wouldn’t be the last time. Now that he knew what to do, how to make Tilrey come, he wanted another chance to do it better, enjoy it longer, tantalize the boy and make him writhe and moan the way he did to Gersha. Maybe even receive the full, warm rush of semen in his throat—a prospect that suddenly didn’t seem repellent at all.Tilrey was peering at him. “Any better, Fir? I’d never forgive myself if you took the cold.”“I’m fine!” Gersha held out his now-steady hand in illustration. “It was my fault for, uh, taking my gloves off.”He dropped his eyes then, because he couldn’t say what he had done with his gloves off now that they were back in the brightly lit house, flanked by the dwellings of his fellow Councillors. Out there in the woods, in the snow, he’d nearly spoken the dangerous words that had risen to his lips unbidden. I love you.Tilrey only laughed softly, knowingly. “I’m glad you did.” And then his hand was on Gersha’s knee, sliding up under the tunic, taking firm, expert hold. “And now it’s my turn.”The touch had Gersha achingly hard in an instant. He closed his eyes and gave himself to the motion, groaning quietly as Tilrey worked him through his trousers. The little stove washed his face with mild, trembling heat, and he felt the boy’s every exhale on his cheek, slow and steady despite the exertion.When Tilrey dropped to his knees, though, he pulled away and sat up, afraid to abandon himself again quite so quickly. “In a moment, but—Rishka, we need to talk about Besha. About tomorrow.” He patted the sofa. “Come sit up here again. I’m . . . worried.”It cost him something to say those words aloud, to a Laborer, and Tilrey seemed to understand. He returned to his former place and asked, “What are you worried about, Fir, exactly? When you come down to it, you didn’t do anything wrong.”Gersha had thought so, too—from the legal point of view, anyway—but now he wasn’t so sure. Guiltily he remembered complaining to Verán about the supposed corruption of Int/Sec under Karishkov’s management. What had he and Ranek done if not exploited that corruption? “I allowed my friend to do an interrogation off the books, without proper monitoring. I asked him to. It was a waste and misuse of resources.”And much worse, I hurt you for no reason, but he couldn’t say those words aloud.Tilrey didn’t look reproachful, though. His eyes were canny and faraway, almost like Verán’s when he was meditating on some political maneuver. “Verán won’t care about that, Fir,” he said. “You could call him up right now and confess, and I guarantee all he’d say is ‘You’re abominably paranoid, Gersha. I could have told you the boy’s too slow to be a shirker. I can’t imagine what he was doing with those books, probably looking at the pictures, but who cares? You didn’t damage him, did you?’”Tilrey’s impression of the majority leader was so accurate that Gersha laughed, a little painfully. “The books you borrowed don’t have pictures.”“You expect Verán to know that? And then you’ll say no, I’m not physically damaged, and then he’ll probably suggest you ban me from the Library, but he’ll never check to make sure you actually do it. So, no harm done. Do you want to tell him, Fir?”It was still the last thing Gersha wanted. “Besha said something else odd, though, remember? About that Valde girl being involved in your interrogation.”“Oh. Right.”“It’s probably nonsense, because Ranek didn’t mention anything of the kind, and the girl was a traitor, but . . .” He broke off when he saw the thoughtful, almost troubled look on Tilrey’s face. “It’s not nonsense, is it?”When their gazes met, the furrow between the boy’s brows smoothed itself out quickly—too quickly, Gersha thought. But Tilrey only said, “You should discuss that with your friend, Fir. I’m sure he could answer all your concerns. It’s not my place . . .”“To question his methods. I know.” Gersha tapped two fingers impatiently on his knee, remembering Ranek’s stupid file he’d refused to read. All the answers were in there, no doubt. “But if Ranek did do something truly questionable—it doesn’t seem likely, but I can’t rule it out—then Besha might use that against me.”“Against us, Fir.”A blush spread over Gersha’s face. Of course Tilrey had reason to side with him; he’d rather live with Gersha than with Besha or Verán or one of the others. But that throb in the boy’s voice suggested there was more at stake than just preferring not to be ordered or slapped around. Almost as if he really did care for Gersha.He shoved the thought away roughly (I don’t deserve it, not now) and echoed, “Against us.”Tilrey leaned forward, his knee nudging Gersha’s. “If we need Besha to be quiet, I think I have a way to keep him quiet. But let me ask you a question first, Fir.”As always, the boy’s closeness made the very air between them vibrate; Gersha wasn’t sure he could think straight with those pale eyes fixed on him. “Go on.”Tilrey didn’t break the gaze. “Besha is attracted to you, Fir. I’m quite sure of it. Have you ever felt attracted to him?”The question was so unexpected, and so unwelcome, that Gersha felt his whole body draw inward as his cheeks flamed. “No! Why would you even ask that?” A dark thought slithered into his mind: Had he done anything to suggest he didn’t despise Besha as a nasty, coarse little bully? Had Tilrey read something in their interactions that he himself wasn’t aware of?But Tilrey only said, “It’s possible to be attracted to your nemesis, Fir. In fact, it’s not terribly uncommon.”“Well, I—I’m not.” His face still painfully red, Gersha summoned a raft of mental images of Besha—as schoolboy, University student, Defense functionary, Councillor. At every age, the image was dominated by an insinuating smirk, a hateful smugness, both reflecting a talent for playing on Gersha’s weaknesses. It had never even occurred to him to wonder whether his rival was attractive in an objective sense. “I wouldn’t call him my nemesis,” he said. “That’s very dramatic.”“Your enemy, then.”“Still giving him too much credit.” Gersha forced himself to visualize Besha without the smirk—not easy—and saw a lean, boyish face with high cheekbones, full lips, and keen, steely blue eyes. Yes, all right, maybe.The instant he spotted a flicker of beauty in the mental image, the smirk returned to it—enemy—and Gersha recoiled. “I don’t hate Besha,” he insisted. “He’s the one who hates. He’s hateful and spiteful and he’s always had it in for me, ever since we were children, and honestly, I have no idea why.”Tilrey sounded tired. “Because he’s envious of you, Fir. Your name, your skills, maybe even your looks. We’ve been over this before. Just tell me one thing. That day he came to deliver the files, why’d you invite him in?”That day. Remembering what else had happened that day—afterward, in bed—Gersha felt his cheeks flush again. We never finished what we started.But now, at least, he could be honest. “I guess I was a little afraid to be alone with you, after knowing about the books. I wanted you so badly it scared me.” He was already blushing, so why not admit it? “I knew Besha would be a distraction.”“You were keyed up, and you took it out on him.” Tilrey was training that canny, Verán-like gaze on him again. “You ordered him around, practically insulted him.”Gersha started to justify himself, but Tilrey stopped him with a sharp dart of his head. “I’m not saying you were wrong. Besha’s given you plenty of provocation. What I find interesting is that he took it. Once you started striking back at him, he rolled over.”“He always does that. It’s his method—provoke me and then play the innocent.” But Gersha hadn’t missed the sexual connotation of roll over, and Tilrey’s face told him it had been intentional. “I know you’ve said it before, but . . . you don’t seriously think he wants that from me? It doesn’t make sense.”“Well, he wants something.” Instead of pressing the point, Tilrey rose and started gathering the dishes. “I didn’t mean to agitate you, Fir. If you don’t want him that way, or any way, then you don’t. There are plenty of other ways to neutralize him.”Gersha didn’t like the sound of that, or the weary certainty in Tilrey’s voice; it made him think of the handcuffs again. “You don’t want him, either,” he pointed out as Tilrey returned from the kitchen.The boy came around behind the couch and rested warm fingers on Gersha’s nape, massaging it. “I’m forgetting myself, love. This is still our day. Why don’t I run a bath for us?”“Don’t try to . . . manage me. I’m not like Besha or Verán; I know how smart you are.” Despite his words, Gersha was leaning into the touch. “What you want matters. I won’t let you sacrifice yourself to ‘neutralize’ Besha, and that’s my last word.”“Then I’m sure you’ll think of a better idea, Fir.” Tilrey tugged Gersha’s head back gently and kissed him on the forehead. “Right now, a bath?”And, feeling a bit soothed even though he knew Tilrey wanted him to feel that way, Gersha nodded.While the tub was filling and Tilrey was in the other room, he fished his handheld from his pocket. He still didn’t leave it lying around, though he didn’t really expect Tilrey to misappropriate it, and a few times he’d even checked his mail while the boy sat on the couch beside him.Verán had sent a curt reminder about delivering Tilrey to Besha’s tomorrow afternoon and to Saldegren’s the evening after, which made his jaw clench, but there was no backlog of messages. Ah, vacation. And then, before he could stop himself, Gersha was clicking back into older messages and finding Ranek’s file and opening it.He’d been a coward long enough. Whatever it said, he needed to know.The report was thirteen pages long, single-spaced, and it started with a welter of Int/Sec jargon that Gersha skimmed because it was basically unreadable. Halfway down the second page, he caught the name “Celinda Valde” and backtracked.
Following the protocol set by Case No. 59345-CK (Gurnal/Nilssen), the Agent actualized an entrapment scenario utilizing Room 472-B and Subject 662831-GB (Celinda Valde), who has confessed to Treason Level 381-D in accordance with Protocol H-86 and is cooperating with the State.
After that it descended into jargon again, all case numbers and vagueness—until suddenly, on page four, Gersha found himself reading a perfectly comprehensible dialogue:
VALDE: Bror told me, you know—about what happened your first night in Verán’s house. What he made you do. Is it true they made you suck off every member of the Island Party?
BRONN: They tried.
VALDE: Green hells, you must want to murder the lot of them.
BRONN: (dull voice) I don’t want to murder anyone. It was a bad night, that’s all.
VALDE: The way they treat you—it’s just wrong. You never even chose this life, did you?
BRONN: Not exactly.
VALDE: The word is “no.”
Something was churning in Gersha’s gut, and his sinuses ached. He knew he should stop reading, but he seemed to have lost the ability: his eyes raced over the words, line after line, and his finger kept scrolling.The dialogue went on for pages. Here and there the report’s author inserted comments in numbing bureaucratese, essentially saying (if Gersha understood correctly) that Valde had been instructed to lure Tilrey into saying something subversive. She did this by prying into his personal history, alternately expressing sympathy and taunting him, until he gave in and began making confessions that turned Gersha’s whole body to ice.I don’t want to read this. I don’t want to know these things. He wouldn’t want me to. But his eyes refused to obey, and his brain kept absorbing the words, the stories, the images it would never be able to erase:
BRONN: So you really want to know? Fir Jena brought me home and gave me a whole vial and fucked me while I was out cold. That was my first time. After that he had his driver hold me down.
And the worst of it was, the tears swelling in Gersha’s eyes were disingenuous tears, tears of willful naïveté. He should have known these things—well, not the specifics, but he could easily have guessed the general outlines of Tilrey’s history. Should have guessed, should have known. He’d seen plenty for himself: the bruises, Election Night, Verán’s casual cruelties.But when they were together, the boy always seemed so smooth and knowing, so firmly in control, and Gersha had let himself be deceived. Now here was the truth in black and white: a frightened schoolboy taken to a strange city and strong-armed into a Councillor’s bed. You could use all the euphemisms and jargon you wanted, but it was a story of repeated rape, of myriad forms of coercion.And the report clearly implied that Tilrey’s stoic endurance of all this, his lack of desire for revenge or redress, his refusal to take Valde’s bait, was proof of his loyalty and good character. It was obscene. Gersha, who’d never had a subversive thought in his life, wanted to shout at Tilrey to be angry, goddamn it, to stand up for himself, to join Valde’s Dissident cell, perhaps even to garrote Verán the way she’d invited him to—“Fir? The water’s going to get cold.”It was all Gersha could do not to drop the handheld. He blanked the screen, tossed it away, and rose heavily to his feet, struggling to wipe the evidence of his feelings from his face. “Coming.”Naturally, Tilrey wasn’t fooled. “What’s wrong, Fir? Did Besha . . .”“No. Not a word from him.” He walked past the boy into the steaming bathroom and began numbly to remove his clothes. “I’m fine. Shall we bathe?”
Inside the house again, Gersha kept shivering, and Tilrey made a tremendous fuss about it. He insisted on lighting the gas stove—which, it turned out, wasn’t purely ornamental—seating Gersha beside it, and fetching a blanket to drape over his shoulders. Then he vanished into the kitchen and returned with a steel pitcher of something thick, black, and steamy, with an aroma that Gersha remembered from his childhood.
“Licorice root,” he said, as Tilrey poured it into two tumblers. “I haven’t had that since I was ten. Isn’t it dreadfully sweet?”
“Not when you make it right, Fir. And it’s very good for warming you up.”
Sure enough, the sticky, spicy licorice went down smooth, warming him to his core, and Gersha felt the chills recede.
On the walk back, he’d still tasted Tilrey at the back of his throat, savoring him, and he reminded himself it wouldn’t be the last time. Now that he knew what to do, how to make Tilrey come, he wanted another chance to do it better, enjoy it longer, tantalize the boy and make him writhe and moan the way he did to Gersha. Maybe even receive the full, warm rush of semen in his throat—a prospect that suddenly didn’t seem repellent at all.
Tilrey was peering at him. “Any better, Fir? I’d never forgive myself if you took the cold.”
“I’m fine!” Gersha held out his now-steady hand in illustration. “It was my fault for, uh, taking my gloves off.”
He dropped his eyes then, because he couldn’t say what he had done with his gloves off now that they were back in the brightly lit house, flanked by the dwellings of his fellow Councillors. Out there in the woods, in the snow, he’d nearly spoken the dangerous words that had risen to his lips unbidden. I love you.
Tilrey only laughed softly, knowingly. “I’m glad you did.” And then his hand was on Gersha’s knee, sliding up under the tunic, taking firm, expert hold. “And now it’s my turn.”
The touch had Gersha achingly hard in an instant. He closed his eyes and gave himself to the motion, groaning quietly as Tilrey worked him through his trousers. The little stove washed his face with mild, trembling heat, and he felt the boy’s every exhale on his cheek, slow and steady despite the exertion.
When Tilrey dropped to his knees, though, he pulled away and sat up, afraid to abandon himself again quite so quickly. “In a moment, but—Rishka, we need to talk about Besha. About tomorrow.” He patted the sofa. “Come sit up here again. I’m . . . worried.”
It cost him something to say those words aloud, to a Laborer, and Tilrey seemed to understand. He returned to his former place and asked, “What are you worried about, Fir, exactly? When you come down to it, you didn’t do anything wrong.”
Gersha had thought so, too—from the legal point of view, anyway—but now he wasn’t so sure. Guiltily he remembered complaining to Verán about the supposed corruption of Int/Sec under Karishkov’s management. What had he and Ranek done if not exploited that corruption? “I allowed my friend to do an interrogation off the books, without proper monitoring. I asked him to. It was a waste and misuse of resources.”
And much worse, I hurt you for no reason, but he couldn’t say those words aloud.
Tilrey didn’t look reproachful, though. His eyes were canny and faraway, almost like Verán’s when he was meditating on some political maneuver. “Verán won’t care about that, Fir,” he said. “You could call him up right now and confess, and I guarantee all he’d say is ‘You’re abominably paranoid, Gersha. I could have told you the boy’s too slow to be a shirker. I can’t imagine what he was doing with those books, probably looking at the pictures, but who cares? You didn’t damage him, did you?’”
Tilrey’s impression of the majority leader was so accurate that Gersha laughed, a little painfully. “The books you borrowed don’t have pictures.”
“You expect Verán to know that? And then you’ll say no, I’m not physically damaged, and then he’ll probably suggest you ban me from the Library, but he’ll never check to make sure you actually do it. So, no harm done. Do you want to tell him, Fir?”
It was still the last thing Gersha wanted. “Besha said something else odd, though, remember? About that Valde girl being involved in your interrogation.”
“Oh. Right.”
“It’s probably nonsense, because Ranek didn’t mention anything of the kind, and the girl was a traitor, but . . .” He broke off when he saw the thoughtful, almost troubled look on Tilrey’s face. “It’s not nonsense, is it?”
When their gazes met, the furrow between the boy’s brows smoothed itself out quickly—too quickly, Gersha thought. But Tilrey only said, “You should discuss that with your friend, Fir. I’m sure he could answer all your concerns. It’s not my place . . .”
“To question his methods. I know.” Gersha tapped two fingers impatiently on his knee, remembering Ranek’s stupid file he’d refused to read. All the answers were in there, no doubt. “But if Ranek did do something truly questionable—it doesn’t seem likely, but I can’t rule it out—then Besha might use that against me.”
“Against us, Fir.”
A blush spread over Gersha’s face. Of course Tilrey had reason to side with him; he’d rather live with Gersha than with Besha or Verán or one of the others. But that throb in the boy’s voice suggested there was more at stake than just preferring not to be ordered or slapped around. Almost as if he really did care for Gersha.
He shoved the thought away roughly (I don’t deserve it, not now) and echoed, “Against us.”
Tilrey leaned forward, his knee nudging Gersha’s. “If we need Besha to be quiet, I think I have a way to keep him quiet. But let me ask you a question first, Fir.”
As always, the boy’s closeness made the very air between them vibrate; Gersha wasn’t sure he could think straight with those pale eyes fixed on him. “Go on.”
Tilrey didn’t break the gaze. “Besha is attracted to you, Fir. I’m quite sure of it. Have you ever felt attracted to him?”
The question was so unexpected, and so unwelcome, that Gersha felt his whole body draw inward as his cheeks flamed. “No! Why would you even ask that?” A dark thought slithered into his mind: Had he done anything to suggest he didn’t despise Besha as a nasty, coarse little bully? Had Tilrey read something in their interactions that he himself wasn’t aware of?
But Tilrey only said, “It’s possible to be attracted to your nemesis, Fir. In fact, it’s not terribly uncommon.”
“Well, I—I’m not.” His face still painfully red, Gersha summoned a raft of mental images of Besha—as schoolboy, University student, Defense functionary, Councillor. At every age, the image was dominated by an insinuating smirk, a hateful smugness, both reflecting a talent for playing on Gersha’s weaknesses. It had never even occurred to him to wonder whether his rival was attractive in an objective sense. “I wouldn’t call him my nemesis,” he said. “That’s very dramatic.”
“Your enemy, then.”
“Still giving him too much credit.” Gersha forced himself to visualize Besha without the smirk—not easy—and saw a lean, boyish face with high cheekbones, full lips, and keen, steely blue eyes. Yes, all right, maybe.
The instant he spotted a flicker of beauty in the mental image, the smirk returned to it—enemy—and Gersha recoiled. “I don’t hate Besha,” he insisted. “He’s the one who hates. He’s hateful and spiteful and he’s always had it in for me, ever since we were children, and honestly, I have no idea why.”
Tilrey sounded tired. “Because he’s envious of you, Fir. Your name, your skills, maybe even your looks. We’ve been over this before. Just tell me one thing. That day he came to deliver the files, why’d you invite him in?”
That day. Remembering what else had happened that day—afterward, in bed—Gersha felt his cheeks flush again. We never finished what we started.
But now, at least, he could be honest. “I guess I was a little afraid to be alone with you, after knowing about the books. I wanted you so badly it scared me.” He was already blushing, so why not admit it? “I knew Besha would be a distraction.”
“You were keyed up, and you took it out on him.” Tilrey was training that canny, Verán-like gaze on him again. “You ordered him around, practically insulted him.”
Gersha started to justify himself, but Tilrey stopped him with a sharp dart of his head. “I’m not saying you were wrong. Besha’s given you plenty of provocation. What I find interesting is that he took it. Once you started striking back at him, he rolled over.”
“He always does that. It’s his method—provoke me and then play the innocent.” But Gersha hadn’t missed the sexual connotation of roll over, and Tilrey’s face told him it had been intentional. “I know you’ve said it before, but . . . you don’t seriously think he wants that from me? It doesn’t make sense.”
“Well, he wants something.” Instead of pressing the point, Tilrey rose and started gathering the dishes. “I didn’t mean to agitate you, Fir. If you don’t want him that way, or any way, then you don’t. There are plenty of other ways to neutralize him.”
Gersha didn’t like the sound of that, or the weary certainty in Tilrey’s voice; it made him think of the handcuffs again. “You don’t want him, either,” he pointed out as Tilrey returned from the kitchen.
The boy came around behind the couch and rested warm fingers on Gersha’s nape, massaging it. “I’m forgetting myself, love. This is still our day. Why don’t I run a bath for us?”
“Don’t try to . . . manage me. I’m not like Besha or Verán; I know how smart you are.” Despite his words, Gersha was leaning into the touch. “What you want matters. I won’t let you sacrifice yourself to ‘neutralize’ Besha, and that’s my last word.”
“Then I’m sure you’ll think of a better idea, Fir.” Tilrey tugged Gersha’s head back gently and kissed him on the forehead. “Right now, a bath?”
And, feeling a bit soothed even though he knew Tilrey wanted him to feel that way, Gersha nodded.
While the tub was filling and Tilrey was in the other room, he fished his handheld from his pocket. He still didn’t leave it lying around, though he didn’t really expect Tilrey to misappropriate it, and a few times he’d even checked his mail while the boy sat on the couch beside him.
Verán had sent a curt reminder about delivering Tilrey to Besha’s tomorrow afternoon and to Saldegren’s the evening after, which made his jaw clench, but there was no backlog of messages. Ah, vacation. And then, before he could stop himself, Gersha was clicking back into older messages and finding Ranek’s file and opening it.
He’d been a coward long enough. Whatever it said, he needed to know.
The report was thirteen pages long, single-spaced, and it started with a welter of Int/Sec jargon that Gersha skimmed because it was basically unreadable. Halfway down the second page, he caught the name “Celinda Valde” and backtracked.
Following the protocol set by Case No. 59345-CK (Gurnal/Nilssen), the Agent actualized an entrapment scenario utilizing Room 472-B and Subject 662831-GB (Celinda Valde), who has confessed to Treason Level 381-D in accordance with Protocol H-86 and is cooperating with the State.
After that it descended into jargon again, all case numbers and vagueness—until suddenly, on page four, Gersha found himself reading a perfectly comprehensible dialogue:
VALDE: Bror told me, you know—about what happened your first night in Verán’s house. What he made you do. Is it true they made you suck off every member of the Island Party?
BRONN: They tried.
VALDE: Green hells, you must want to murder the lot of them.
BRONN: (dull voice) I don’t want to murder anyone. It was a bad night, that’s all.
VALDE: The way they treat you—it’s just wrong. You never even chose this life, did you?
BRONN: Not exactly.
VALDE: The word is “no.”
Something was churning in Gersha’s gut, and his sinuses ached. He knew he should stop reading, but he seemed to have lost the ability: his eyes raced over the words, line after line, and his finger kept scrolling.
The dialogue went on for pages. Here and there the report’s author inserted comments in numbing bureaucratese, essentially saying (if Gersha understood correctly) that Valde had been instructed to lure Tilrey into saying something subversive. She did this by prying into his personal history, alternately expressing sympathy and taunting him, until he gave in and began making confessions that turned Gersha’s whole body to ice.
I don’t want to read this. I don’t want to know these things. He wouldn’t want me to. But his eyes refused to obey, and his brain kept absorbing the words, the stories, the images it would never be able to erase:
BRONN: So you really want to know? Fir Jena brought me home and gave me a whole vial and fucked me while I was out cold. That was my first time. After that he had his driver hold me down.
And the worst of it was, the tears swelling in Gersha’s eyes were disingenuous tears, tears of willful naïveté. He should have known these things—well, not the specifics, but he could easily have guessed the general outlines of Tilrey’s history. Should have guessed, should have known. He’d seen plenty for himself: the bruises, Election Night, Verán’s casual cruelties.
But when they were together, the boy always seemed so smooth and knowing, so firmly in control, and Gersha had let himself be deceived. Now here was the truth in black and white: a frightened schoolboy taken to a strange city and strong-armed into a Councillor’s bed. You could use all the euphemisms and jargon you wanted, but it was a story of repeated rape, of myriad forms of coercion.
And the report clearly implied that Tilrey’s stoic endurance of all this, his lack of desire for revenge or redress, his refusal to take Valde’s bait, was proof of his loyalty and good character. It was obscene. Gersha, who’d never had a subversive thought in his life, wanted to shout at Tilrey to be angry, goddamn it, to stand up for himself, to join Valde’s Dissident cell, perhaps even to garrote Verán the way she’d invited him to—
“Fir? The water’s going to get cold.”
It was all Gersha could do not to drop the handheld. He blanked the screen, tossed it away, and rose heavily to his feet, struggling to wipe the evidence of his feelings from his face. “Coming.”
Naturally, Tilrey wasn’t fooled. “What’s wrong, Fir? Did Besha . . .”
“No. Not a word from him.” He walked past the boy into the steaming bathroom and began numbly to remove his clothes. “I’m fine. Shall we bathe?”