Volume 19: Oslov Unraveled
Chapter 18
His Responsibility
28 October, year 374, 6:17 a.m.
“What is this?” Tilrey glared at the radio that one of Atteivian’s captured officers had handed him. It was staticking furiously. “I told you to connect me to Captain Lundhard at the base. I’m hearing dead air.”It felt strange to give orders, even to other Laborers. But Gersha wasn’t stepping in, and Bror kept deferring to Tilrey as if Tilrey were in charge, so he might have to get used to it.“I’m sorry, Fir.” The officer took the radio from Tilrey and fiddled with it, his expression stoic. He didn’t seem to care that he wasn’t dealing with an Upstart. “I had a clear line to them earlier. Must be the storm.”“Storm’s over.” Bror turned to Atteivian, who sat, flanked by guards, on the sofa opposite Tilrey. “Did you give the base an order to turn off their comms before we captured you?”The general gazed at him in obdurate silence.“Yeah, you’re a big help.” Bror turned back to Tilrey. “Maybe Janta actually did it—blew them up. We need to talk to somebody with a clear view of the base. Can you contact the perimeter tower?” he asked the officer, who nodded and began fiddling with the radio again.“Your hacker’s probably already dead,” Atteivian said clearly into the silence. “We’ll have control of our city back in a moment. We’ll hunt you down in the streets and drive you all into the Funnel where you belong.” A sharp exhale that might have been a chuckle. “This is absurd. A kettle boy hacker. A fuck-piece storming the Sector, and another pretending to command it.” His eyes raked over Tilrey. “A Brothel for a prison. A revolution of whores.”Bror grinned, unbothered. “Whores are efficient, Fir General. We get the job done, and we don’t leave loose ends. Maybe this’ll teach you to have a little more respect for the folks you share your bed with.”Atteivian didn’t dignify this with an answer. Tilrey could guess what he was thinking—that there would be no more bedroom pleasures for him unless those planes killed Janta. He must think he was headed for exile or, at best, a cell. If they didn’t watch him carefully, the man might seize his first opportunity to take Soldrid.The old government had disposed of its enemies without mercy. If Tilrey and his friends wanted the new one to be different, they would have to restrain the vengeful Einaras in their ranks. Rather than humiliating Upstarts, he hoped to win over the more open-minded ones with diplomacy.Whores were good at that, too. “You’re an efficient man yourself, Fir General,” Tilrey said, keeping his tone neutral. “If you chose to retain your command in the new government’s forces, I think you’d be welcome. Davita works well with you.”That got through to the general. His cheeks reddened. He worked his mouth and made a valiant attempt to spit at Tilrey, but the missile fell short. “She’ll never work with you, shirker. The only way you should be working is on your knees.”Bror shook his head. “Again with the schoolyard insults. You know, Fir General, I can’t believe I used to think you Strutters really were smarter than we are, as a rule.”“We thought if we convinced ourselves, we could convince you,” Gersha said ruefully.Atteivian just shook his head in disgust.Tilrey returned his attention to the officer, who held the radio to his ear. “Did you reach—”Before he could finish the sentence, an echoing voice asked, “Tilrey?”“Janta!” Tilrey looked wildly at the officer’s radio, then around at the walls. For an instant, he wondered if he were succumbing to delirium. But a glance at the others’ faces showed him they’d heard it, too.Then he remembered the internal PA that occasionally droned in the tea lounge, calling the Councillors back to the chamber. Janta must have taken over the channel.“You’re okay!” He craned his neck to address the ceiling, knowing he probably looked ridiculous. “Janta, have those planes flown yet? Can you stop them?”“Four of them hit their targets.” Janta sounded even more remote than usual, almost robotic, as if he had truly merged with the Net. “The fifth one took off and immediately aborted the mission and crashed into the base, neutralizing its capacity to launch further planes. Based on surveillance footage, I believe the pilot of this plane was Fir Councillor Niko Karishkov.”The collective gasp brought Tilrey back to himself. He looked around and saw Atteivian gaping with horror, his face gone gray.The officer and Bror looked just as stunned. “Why would he…?” Bror whispered.“It makes no sense,” Atteivian hissed.“Someone Niko loved was in that bunker.” When Tilrey met Gersha’s eyes, he saw recognition there—and a touch of sadness. Their nemesis had kept his promise and saved Aleks, after all.“Niko. A traitor.” Atteivian’s voice was hollow, as if the world had ceased to make sense to him.For an instant, Tilrey pitied the general. It must be so hard to have your world turned upside down. He could relate. Though his brain told him they’d won, his battered body kept bracing for more pain.Then he realized that he was following the old kettle-boy impulse to keep himself safe by absorbing the feelings of the most powerful Upstart in the room. And those tactics had no place here. He didn’t need to comfort or placate Attevian. All the Laborers in the lounge were looking at him, waiting for him to take control of the situation and deliver the last word.He was their leader. They were his responsibility now.He drew a breath, pushing the pain and weakness down deep inside. “You’ve done well, Janta. Redda belongs to you—until you choose to transfer control of it to the new government that we hope to form with the cooperation of the current General Magistrate of Oslov.”He expected Atteivian to object audibly to that, but the man just stared into space. Tilrey reminded himself it didn’t matter how the general reacted. He had no say here.He turned to Bror and spoke the way he’d learned to do in the Council—because old habits die hard, and because the formalities soothed him. “Fir Birun, could you go personally to the Brothel and return here with Fir’n Lindblom? Take an escort to ensure her safety. We all need sleep right now. In twenty-four hours, I’d like to receive her surrender in the Council chamber.”Bror grinned broadly. “Copy that, Fir Bronn.”“She’ll die first,” Atteivian muttered.Tilrey pretended not to notice. Addressing the ceiling, he said, “Janta, I hereby formally invite you back to Redda, where you’ll have stewardship of the Net from the Programmers’ complex. Aleks Snowblind—Aleks Thulver, I mean—and his Free Northmen friends will receive full pardons for their transgressions against the previous government. Please invite Fir Thulver to Redda, so he may attend the memorial of his honored father, who died saving his life. I hope to see you both at the Council table in twenty-four hours—you representing the new Council of Eight, and Aleks representing Sector Four of Thurskein.”As he finished this speech, Tilrey heard Malsha chuckling somewhere deep in the darkness of his mind. Davita couldn’t have phrased it better. Are you going to take her place now? Will you crown yourself General Magistrate?He knew he was hearing only a residue, a figment of memory and imagination. Janta had helped him grasp that.And it was Janta who mattered right now. The young man must have experienced a whirlwind of experience and emotion in the past twenty-four hours. They would need to keep him safely under guard, lest someone try to assassinate him. But they would also need to give him a degree of normalcy, so he didn’t buckle under the pressures of his new role. Perhaps Ceill could help with that.“Thanks. I want to come back to Redda, yes.” Janta sounded more human than he had at first—faltering, unsure of himself. “Aleks says he’ll come, too—if he can bring Lasha.” And then, in a rush: “I want to see Ceill. He’s with Einara. But he should see you and Gersha first.”Yes. He should. Tilrey reached out to take his husband’s hand. “Brorsha, could you bring Ceill back to us, too?”“My pleasure.”“Hold Fir Atteivian and his officers in the conference rooms for now. Keep them comfortable.” Pain and fatigue were rising again, resisting Tilrey’s control. He needed to rest without the general glaring at him.After that, there would be work to do—so much work that he struggled to wrap his brain around it. Best not to try for now.As everyone scrambled to obey his orders, a small but piercing voice said, “Haven’t you forgotten something, Rishka? The city’s still dark. And very, very cold.”Trust Besha to be practical. “Of course,” Tilrey said, feeling foolish. “Janta, if you don’t mind, would you turn on the power in the residential and academic blocks? You will, of course, turn it off again if we don’t receive the General Magistrate’s formal surrender once she’s had time to rest and know her own mind.” Because we all need a respite after this long night. To Bror, he said, “Make sure she knows that’s a condition.”And to the Malsha who waited inside his head, he said silently, Too bad you’re dead. You said I was the key to Oslov. But you’ll never know the person I’ve become—the one who helped unravel it. The one who will knit it all back together, if I can. With my friends’ help.Malsha was fidgeting. Unsatisfied. I prepared you for this moment. Me. No one else.Maybe. But I won’t be running my government the way you ran yours.“Drink that,” Davita said, placing a glass of good Harbourer apple brandy in front of her son. She had bullied the Painted Boy into bringing it from the bar. He still responded well to a commanding tone of voice, she found.Einara was sequestered in the private room with Ceill, presumably talking to her hacker friend. Any moment she might return and put her knife to Blas’s throat again. And this time she seemed likely to use it.Davita could not kneel to a terrorist, could not capitulate in any way. She didn’t for an instant think yielding to Einara’s demands would save her son. And if Blas must die, she wanted him to die proud of her and himself. She would do the same, when the madwoman inevitably turned the knife on her.A little liquid courage might help them both. Or at least numb them.Blas scowled at the glass. “No thanks, Mother. You really think you’ll change my opinion with a little booze?”“It’s to steady you, sweetheart. You look shaky.”She leaned across the table, wanting to stroke his hand to remind him how much she loved him. But that damned Detmer clung to Blas, whispering sweet nothings in his ear and taking all his attention. She couldn’t believe she’d ever thought the little Verán was a good match for him.Blas took a small sip, then pushed the glass away. “Stop treating me like a child. I don’t want to die, and drinking myself to oblivion won’t help. If you think I’m a traitor for wanting to negotiate, say so.”“Of course she doesn’t think that,” Detmer said soothingly but not quite accurately, resting his head on Blas’s shoulder. “Your mother loves you—just like I do.”“He’s right.” Davita decided it was time to take a different tack, since Blas was clearly under his boyfriend’s sway. She needed to show him she loved him more than Detmer did, even if it was a tougher sort of love.She took a swallow of brandy. Maybe the fire in her chest would perk her up; exhaustion was hazing her vision again. “I love you, Blasha. You’re nothing like your father. You’re loyal and upright and good. Anyway,” she added in an undertone, bending closer to him, “we just have to wait this out. Our planes could destroy the hacker any moment now.”She doubted that would happen in time to save either of them, but thinking so might give her son some backbone. She couldn’t bear to see him die cowering.Blas didn’t look convinced. “And then what? Even if we get back control of the Net, the workers will still be rioting in the streets. They’ll still hate us.” He nuzzled the top of Detmer’s head, black hair mingling with blond. “Do you really want to send hundreds of people to the Funnel, Mother? Thousands?”“Of course I don’t relish that. But it was their choice to betray the Republic.” Davita imagined Tilrey going into exile. Dying under torture. Neither of the images gave her any pleasure, but punishment was the only way to restore order. “You can’t have a society without Levels and laws, Blas. You can’t just sweep all the laws away and hope for the best.”“You can reform the laws, though,” Detmer offered.She gave him a scathing look. “You’ll regret this soon, young man. Your grandfather would be horrified if he could see you joining these shirkers, may his last moment be bright.”The young Verán was undeterred. “My grandfather was an arrogant prick—may his last moment be bright, of course—and Tilrey told me you always secretly hated him. Anyway, Whyberg himself drew up a tentative blueprint for a more evolved stage of society where Laborers would have Council representation. He wrote in his Ninth Epistle that he hoped Levels would eventually become obsolete.”Davita had to give it to the boy—he knew his Whyberg. But the Ninth Epistle was an aberration, the fond dream of an aging visionary. No one who mattered took it seriously. “Without Levels, we would become like the Tangle,” she reminded him. “A blizzard of information governed by constant competition, everyone trying to push their way ahead. If you let people buy their way to high status instead of earning it with their skills, then currency becomes the supreme value. Is that what you want?”She paused, thinking of the unseen hacker who held all their lives in his grip. He had skills. So did Tilrey, much as she wished she could deny it. She herself had publicly admitted he would have made a fine Upstart—what had she been thinking?“Skills, fine,” Detmer countered. “But birth? Whyberg says status shouldn’t be hereditary. But look at us today, Davita. We’ve been strangling social mobility for generations because Upstarts are terrified of being forced to give up their privilege. All our talk of ‘high names’—we’re talking about bloodlines. Whyberg would turn over in his grave.”He’s right. But Whyberg had gone overboard with his anti-eugenics rhetoric, in Davita’s view. Some qualities were inherited—who could deny that? “You don’t believe any of this nonsense, do you, Blas?”Blas stroked Detmer’s hair. “Mersha’s speaking Dissent, but he’s not wrong. We do overvalue bloodlines.”“And we’ve imprisoned ourselves in a frozen shithole for no real reason,” Detmer continued, clearly emboldened by Blas’s approval. “Tilrey thinks more people should be able to visit Harbour. Even settle there. I agree.”Now that was beyond Dissent. It was Dissidence. “Mass contact with Harbour would lead to conquest and colonization,” Davita said through a tight jaw.“Is that your way of admitting no one actually wants to live here?”“I doubt anyone’s suggesting we colonize Harbour.” Blas’s tone had gone coaxing. “But we could open the borders a bit. Haven’t you always wanted to see the place where those fancy robes and perfumes of yours come from?”Long ago, when she was young and silly, Davita had indeed fantasized about visiting the temperate south. Strolling through fields of flowers, swimming in swift rivers, feeling the wind on her bare skin. “No,” she said.But she closed her eyes for a few seconds, letting herself indulge the fantasy. It was too bad she would have to die today, without one glimpse of Harbour. She was so tired.“You’re having a moment of weakness, Blasha,” she said. “Gather your strength. Is this really how you want to…?” But she couldn’t seem to finish the sentence.“Mother.” Blas’s voice had gone hard again. “They’re back.”Davita opened her eyes and found herself facing Einara and Ceill. They made a study in contrasts: the boy looked happy and excited, while the woman was chillingly glum. She gazed at Davita as if she couldn’t quite remember why they’d been arguing.Mentally ill people sometimes lost focus that way, Davita had heard, and then they snapped back into their obsession, which meant the knife would come out again. The worst you can do is kill my son. I’m not afraid.Before either of them could speak, the Painted Boy hurried over. “What’s Janta say? What’s happening?”Einara’s gaze remained on Davita. “It’s over,” she said in a dead voice. “Our old friend Karishkov crashed the plane. Janta’s won. We’ve won.”“What?” The exclamation slipped out before Davita could stop it. Karishkov in a plane? He was a friend of these people? Won? How?Just as Davita had predicted, Einara abruptly seemed to remember her purpose. She strode toward them, knife in hand.“And since you have nothing left to bargain with, I think your time’s up, Magistrate.”Killing Davita would solve nothing. But Einara was already savoring the bite of her blade into the woman’s neck, already seeing the flow of blood, when a tall figure stepped between them and blocked her way.“Don’t! Leave her!”Ceill Linnett. Meddling again, just like his father. If Einara had been less tired, she would have swept him violently aside.She raised the knife, but it was no good. Even as she enjoyed a flash of undisguised terror on Davita’s face, her bloodlust was ebbing. Ceill’s intervention had distracted her.With a sigh, she lowered the weapon and tried to muster a reason for what she was about to do. “Don’t speak for her, Ceill. She’s had her chance to surrender.”Davita wasn’t Colonel Thibault, but she shared her arrogance. She’d come into the Brothel as a hostage and treated the place as if she owned it, ordering the staffers around. Did any of them have to tolerate that high-handedness now?Ceill didn’t move. His eyes shone with all the resoluteness of youth. “She has to surrender. It’s the only way the lights will ever go back on, the only way to stop more people from dying. Janta’s safe now, but the government has to formally capitulate.”All this political maneuvering. Boring. Irrelevant. Einara tried not to look at Kai, who stood frozen as if debating whether to intervene. “Death will do as well as a surrender.”“In cold blood, though?” Kai asked in a low, worried tone.Einara loved him, in her way. But his softheartedness was a problem. “Why not?”“I don’t like murder happening ten yards from our bar.”“It didn’t bother you when I killed Lindahl.”“It did, actually. And killing her will freak out every Upstart in the city. They’ll think we’re coming for all of them, knives in hand.”“Good,” Einara said. “Let them be afraid for once.”To her credit, Davita rose from her seat and stood firm, chin lifted, as if she were deliberately making herself an easier target. “It’s always the quiet ones. You want to start a trail of blood? Start it here.”Einara appealed to Ceill. “You see her attitude? And Tilrey doesn’t know how to deal with her. If she does surrender, he’ll want to keep her alive—free or locked up, it doesn’t matter. As long as she breathes, she threatens all of us.”Ceill’s resolute look wavered, but only for an instant. “We aren’t murderers. Enough people have died already.”“Enough of us have died. Maybe it’s their turn.”“Wait, wait, wait! Don’t hurt her!” Blas sprang up from the banquette. “Are you saying that if my mother surrenders, the hacker could turn the lights back on?”“No one’s saying that. You’re in a position to demand nothing.” Einara tilted the knife blade to catch the light. Her appetite for murder was leaching away, and she needed something to replace it. For a terrible instant she wished the planes had succeeded in killing Janta, because then a bonfire of rage would have swept away all scruples and negotiations.She was fond of Janta. But dying to avenge him would have been so much more satisfying than whatever this was.That irritating Ceill was telling Blas, “My father wants the lights on! He doesn’t want more people to be hurt.”Blas turned to his mother, just as urgent. “People are dying out there. Freezing! You can help them!”Davita stared back at him, looking as stony as Einara felt. “You heard what she said, Blasha. They think they’ve won. No negotiation.”“So you’re going to die out of spite? When you could live and help build a new Republic? A renewed one?” Blas’s eyes flashed. “That doesn’t sound like you, Mother.”“The Republic doesn’t need renewing, and if it did, these barbarians certainly couldn’t do it. She’ll kill me regardless.” There was the slightest softening in Davita’s dark eyes, though—a hint of fear, or just resignation. “Won’t you?” she asked Einara. “You’re thirsty for blood.”“And you seem eager for the blade.” Einara raised the knife again, imagining slicing through the soft skin of the woman’s throat.Just like with Lindahl. For an instant, she would see only a perfect, silky slit in the skin. Then blood would pour out, a single drop becoming a spurt becoming a ruby flood. She would stand in it, bathe in it, and know the simple satisfaction of killing an enemy. She would watch light ebb from the woman’s eyes.But she knew the thrill would be over quickly, more fleeting even than an orgasm. “We’re a perfect match,” she said, her tone thick with disgust.“Stop it! Stop this, both of you!” And Ceill was suddenly on Einara—attacking her, prying her knife hand open.She was so startled that the knife tumbled from her hand and clattered to the floor. She tried to bend and retrieve it, but Ceill held her fast, his big hands like iron around her wrists.“I won’t let you kill anyone. It could hurt the revolution, and that means all of us.”The lad had certainly grown since he came to the Brothel as a teenager. He was as strong as his father now, his blue eyes sparking fiercely. “If you want revenge, why don’t you kill Besha?” he added, not loosening his punishing grip on her. “Or go back to Harbour and face that Colonel woman? Tilrey can take you there. Nothing’s stopping him now.”Struggling was boring and useless, so Einara stopped. She gazed at her hands imprisoned in Ceill’s and wondered why she’d imagined murder would cure her listless misery.No vengeance could fill the echoing hollowness inside. No amount of bloodshed would stop the dark tide of depression from rising at odd moments and making her go still and stare into space, groping for a reason to draw the next breath.Taunting Davita Lindblom had made life worth living for a moment or two. Killing her would be just as pointless.“Tilrey did promise he would take me to Harbour once,” she said absently. “A long time ago. He wanted something in return.”“He’ll take you now, Nara! Look at all you’ve done for him!” Kai was at her side, slinging a protective arm around her waist as Ceill finally released her. “I’ll go with you! I’ve always wanted to see the summer country.”Poor boy. Had he forgotten that just stepping outside the Brothel gave Einara sweaty palms and a racing heart? Whether Tilrey and his rebels remade Oslov or not, she would be a prisoner for the rest of her days.”If Tilrey promised to take you to Harbour, he’ll do it,” Ceill said, no trace of doubt in his tone.Davita laughed, though there was no triumph on her face. She didn’t seem to realize how thoroughly she’d beaten Einara. “Tilrey’s a good liar.”“Maybe,” Detmer said, “but he keeps his promises.”Einara gazed up at Ceill. She noted dispassionately that he was as golden and beautiful as his father, particularly when he wanted something. Maybe he, too, would make a good politician someday.“Please,” he begged her. “For the sake of the revolution, give Davita a chance to surrender. And you!” He turned to address Davita, who cocked a mocking brow at him. “Do it for the people. They’re shivering, freezing. Wouldn’t it be good if the sun could rise tomorrow over a city where everything works again?”“Mother!” Blas had an arm around Davita’s waist, holding her the way Kai was holding Einara. “He’s right.”Davita stared at the floor a long moment. Einara was almost curious to see whether she would give in.Then she stopped caring, and her gaze fell to the knife. It would be easy to seize it again, while Ceill was distracted, and punch it straight into Davita’s neck.But what was the point?When she raised her head, she saw Davita leaning on her son, letting him support part of her weight. As if the burden of events had finally overwhelmed the Magistrate, and Blas’s defection was the last straw.She said, “I will surrender. To Tilrey or Gersha. Not to you. For now, if you aren’t going to kill me, please let me sleep.”Einara felt a stale relief that it was over. Sleep would feel good to her, too. Perhaps, once she was rested, the knife could still find a use.“Then Tilrey has what he wants,” she told Ceill, bitterness rising in her throat, “and I won’t stand in the way.”Ceill wanted to walk back to the Sector alone, but Kai wouldn’t allow it, warning him there were still soldiers out there who hadn’t heard any order to surrender. So he wandered around the Brothel looking for an escort.In the foyer, he ran into Bror, who’d just come in with a few other rebels and was brushing snow from his parka.“You did it! You took the Sector!” Ceill hugged the older man, suddenly shaking with all the fear he hadn’t allowed himself to feel earlier. “I was so fucking scared.”“Shouldn’t have been,” Bror scolded gently, tousling Ceill’s hair. “Got your outdoor clothes? I’m here to bring Davita to the Sector—and you to your dads.”Ceill nodded. He needed to tell Gersha he hadn’t meant to give them a fright or get himself arrested. And Tilrey—well, he had even more things to tell Tilrey. “Davita’s sleeping right now. But she says she’ll surrender to Tilrey or Gersha. I don’t think she’ll change her mind.”Bror stared at him. “You made the General Magistrate agree to surrender?”Ceill ducked his head. “Not really. Her son was the one who persuaded her, just like Besha said he would.”Never mind that he’d put the idea in Blas’s head—or tried to. Maybe Blas would have done the same thing either way. As for stopping Einara from stabbing Davita, Ceill hadn’t planned that. He just didn’t want to watch anyone die.Bror seemed to be struggling to absorb everything he’d heard. “Tilrey was afraid the GM would try to hurt herself. Is she under guard?”“Blas and Detmer are with her. They won’t let her do anything.” Ceill still didn’t like Blas, but he trusted him to take care of his own mother. And Ceill was beginning to like Detmer, who’d been polite to him and the Brothel staffers alike. “I think you should let her sleep before dragging her over there. If she’s rested, there’s a better chance she’ll listen.”“Tilrey thinks the same.” Bror himself looked skeptical about the possibility of Davita listening to them. “Okay, then. I’ll set a guard outside her room.”“There are hostages, too—Upstart patrons, in the basement.” Ceill had heard his Brothel friends whispering about them, wondering if Einara might order their deaths now she’d been robbed of the General Magistrate’s blood. “Some of them are Councillors. Can you make sure they don’t get hurt?”Bror nodded. “No harm will come to any of them unless they try to harm us. We need at least ten Councillors there for the surrender—Tilrey says that’s some kind of rule. He knows their weird rigmarole backward and forward. Get your coat and meet me?”And so Bror and Ceill hiked back through the Core, which was still dark under the stars. Bror insisted on an armed guard to ensure Ceill’s safety, but she walked a few paces ahead, giving them their privacy.Dawn was only a few hours away, but the cold and darkness somehow felt even intenser than they had earlier in the night. The frenzy of action had died down as everyone exhausted themselves, rebels and troops alike. Most of the bonfires had burnt to ash. The residents of the Core huddled quietly around the few that remained.Ceill was tired, too, but warmth and hot tea had given him a second wind. He kept up with Bror easily as they tramped through the silent streets, snow crunching under their boots. Anemic snowflakes drifted through the air and brushed their exposed skin, but the storm’s fury was over.Ceill had so many questions. “How are they? My dads? Are they hurt?”“Gersha’s fine. Just shaken. Tilrey was hurt pretty bad, but he’ll mend. He’s sitting up and talking and even giving orders, though he should be resting.”The word hurt had opened a pit in Ceill’s stomach. “He knows I’m okay?”“He knows. They’re both proud of you, Ceill. What you did, running away from your guards—well, maybe it was a little harebrained, but if you’d been in the Sector as a hostage, everything would’ve gone a lot worse. Karishkov was an interrogator by trade.”Ceill didn’t want to think about what Karishkov might have done to him in an effort to make Tilrey talk. “But he ended up being on our side. He did it for Aleks, didn’t he?”Bror nodded soberly. “Tilrey thinks so. The guy died for his son. And he took out at least half the base with him.”How many people had died on that base? How many had died storming the Sector? Ceill wasn’t ready to think about those numbers yet. Just for a moment, he wanted to savor the fact that they’d won.As they passed the Library and Café, with the Quiet Revolution monument looming in the background, the lights blinked back on.One moment, all was cold and darkness. The next, windows blazed around them. Mag-grids crisscrossed the spaces between buildings, their guardlights glowing green and purple. Machines and ducts rumbled. Doors hissed and snapped shut. Buttery track lighting shone in the windows of the Café.For a stunned second, utter silence.Then Reddans began cheering and whistling—in ragged bursts, near and far, from bonfires and warming stations and refuges in building foyers. The street, which had seemed deserted, was suddenly loud with relief and rejoicing. Their True Hearth escort pumped her fist in the air and yelled.Only Bror and Ceill made no sound. Bror picked up the pace, casting a wary glance over his shoulder. Ceill covered his face with his parka hood. “I’m glad I got to see it it happen. When the power went out, I was underground.”“Yeah, it’s something, right?” Bror sounded too worn down to be excited. “Now Redda’s alive again. And the real work begins.”Bror brought Ceill straight to the tea lounge.When Gersha finally released him from a bone-crushing hug, Ceill looked down and saw a man with a mangled face sleeping on a sofa, covered in a blanket. With a terrible jolt, he recognized his father.He clung to Gersha. “What did they do to him?”“Everything they could,” Gersha said grimly, drawing Ceill away so they wouldn’t have to whisper. “But he’ll mend soon, Ceillsha. Your father’s strong.”Despite their efforts not to wake him, Tilrey turned over and tried to sit up. His good eye opened, piercing blue. “Ceill!” he said in a hoarse voice. “Let me see him.”Ceill didn’t know what to do. With Tilrey lying there all bandaged, hugging seemed out of the question. He sat down beside his father, on the very edge of the sofa, and clasped Tilrey’s good left hand.A hot pressure rose behind his eyes, and then tears poured down his cheeks. He made no effort to stop them. “I’m so sorry, Tilrey—Dad. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going. I’m sorry. I didn’t trust you.”“Shh.” Gersha stood behind Ceill, a steady hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Ceill. We were afraid to tell you so many things for so long.”Tilrey squeezed Ceill’s hand, then tugged him into an awkward, one-handed hug. “I know you were angry about Janta. I shouldn’t have locked him up.”Ceill did remember being angry, but it seemed like something that had happened years ago. Soon he’d see Janta again.“It’s okay,” he said, kissing his father’s forehead and knowing that losing either of them would have destroyed him. “Bror told me everything. I’m so proud. I love you both so much.”
28 October, year 374, 6:17 a.m.
“What is this?” Tilrey glared at the radio that one of Atteivian’s captured officers had handed him. It was staticking furiously. “I told you to connect me to Captain Lundhard at the base. I’m hearing dead air.”
It felt strange to give orders, even to other Laborers. But Gersha wasn’t stepping in, and Bror kept deferring to Tilrey as if Tilrey were in charge, so he might have to get used to it.
“I’m sorry, Fir.” The officer took the radio from Tilrey and fiddled with it, his expression stoic. He didn’t seem to care that he wasn’t dealing with an Upstart. “I had a clear line to them earlier. Must be the storm.”
“Storm’s over.” Bror turned to Atteivian, who sat, flanked by guards, on the sofa opposite Tilrey. “Did you give the base an order to turn off their comms before we captured you?”
The general gazed at him in obdurate silence.
“Yeah, you’re a big help.” Bror turned back to Tilrey. “Maybe Janta actually did it—blew them up. We need to talk to somebody with a clear view of the base. Can you contact the perimeter tower?” he asked the officer, who nodded and began fiddling with the radio again.
“Your hacker’s probably already dead,” Atteivian said clearly into the silence. “We’ll have control of our city back in a moment. We’ll hunt you down in the streets and drive you all into the Funnel where you belong.” A sharp exhale that might have been a chuckle. “This is absurd. A kettle boy hacker. A fuck-piece storming the Sector, and another pretending to command it.” His eyes raked over Tilrey. “A Brothel for a prison. A revolution of whores.”
Bror grinned, unbothered. “Whores are efficient, Fir General. We get the job done, and we don’t leave loose ends. Maybe this’ll teach you to have a little more respect for the folks you share your bed with.”
Atteivian didn’t dignify this with an answer. Tilrey could guess what he was thinking—that there would be no more bedroom pleasures for him unless those planes killed Janta. He must think he was headed for exile or, at best, a cell. If they didn’t watch him carefully, the man might seize his first opportunity to take Soldrid.
The old government had disposed of its enemies without mercy. If Tilrey and his friends wanted the new one to be different, they would have to restrain the vengeful Einaras in their ranks. Rather than humiliating Upstarts, he hoped to win over the more open-minded ones with diplomacy.
Whores were good at that, too. “You’re an efficient man yourself, Fir General,” Tilrey said, keeping his tone neutral. “If you chose to retain your command in the new government’s forces, I think you’d be welcome. Davita works well with you.”
That got through to the general. His cheeks reddened. He worked his mouth and made a valiant attempt to spit at Tilrey, but the missile fell short. “She’ll never work with you, shirker. The only way you should be working is on your knees.”
Bror shook his head. “Again with the schoolyard insults. You know, Fir General, I can’t believe I used to think you Strutters really were smarter than we are, as a rule.”
“We thought if we convinced ourselves, we could convince you,” Gersha said ruefully.
Atteivian just shook his head in disgust.
Tilrey returned his attention to the officer, who held the radio to his ear. “Did you reach—”
Before he could finish the sentence, an echoing voice asked, “Tilrey?”
“Janta!” Tilrey looked wildly at the officer’s radio, then around at the walls. For an instant, he wondered if he were succumbing to delirium. But a glance at the others’ faces showed him they’d heard it, too.
Then he remembered the internal PA that occasionally droned in the tea lounge, calling the Councillors back to the chamber. Janta must have taken over the channel.
“You’re okay!” He craned his neck to address the ceiling, knowing he probably looked ridiculous. “Janta, have those planes flown yet? Can you stop them?”
“Four of them hit their targets.” Janta sounded even more remote than usual, almost robotic, as if he had truly merged with the Net. “The fifth one took off and immediately aborted the mission and crashed into the base, neutralizing its capacity to launch further planes. Based on surveillance footage, I believe the pilot of this plane was Fir Councillor Niko Karishkov.”
The collective gasp brought Tilrey back to himself. He looked around and saw Atteivian gaping with horror, his face gone gray.
The officer and Bror looked just as stunned. “Why would he…?” Bror whispered.
“It makes no sense,” Atteivian hissed.
“Someone Niko loved was in that bunker.” When Tilrey met Gersha’s eyes, he saw recognition there—and a touch of sadness. Their nemesis had kept his promise and saved Aleks, after all.
“Niko. A traitor.” Atteivian’s voice was hollow, as if the world had ceased to make sense to him.
For an instant, Tilrey pitied the general. It must be so hard to have your world turned upside down. He could relate. Though his brain told him they’d won, his battered body kept bracing for more pain.
Then he realized that he was following the old kettle-boy impulse to keep himself safe by absorbing the feelings of the most powerful Upstart in the room. And those tactics had no place here. He didn’t need to comfort or placate Attevian. All the Laborers in the lounge were looking at him, waiting for him to take control of the situation and deliver the last word.
He was their leader. They were his responsibility now.
He drew a breath, pushing the pain and weakness down deep inside. “You’ve done well, Janta. Redda belongs to you—until you choose to transfer control of it to the new government that we hope to form with the cooperation of the current General Magistrate of Oslov.”
He expected Atteivian to object audibly to that, but the man just stared into space. Tilrey reminded himself it didn’t matter how the general reacted. He had no say here.
He turned to Bror and spoke the way he’d learned to do in the Council—because old habits die hard, and because the formalities soothed him. “Fir Birun, could you go personally to the Brothel and return here with Fir’n Lindblom? Take an escort to ensure her safety. We all need sleep right now. In twenty-four hours, I’d like to receive her surrender in the Council chamber.”
Bror grinned broadly. “Copy that, Fir Bronn.”
“She’ll die first,” Atteivian muttered.
Tilrey pretended not to notice. Addressing the ceiling, he said, “Janta, I hereby formally invite you back to Redda, where you’ll have stewardship of the Net from the Programmers’ complex. Aleks Snowblind—Aleks Thulver, I mean—and his Free Northmen friends will receive full pardons for their transgressions against the previous government. Please invite Fir Thulver to Redda, so he may attend the memorial of his honored father, who died saving his life. I hope to see you both at the Council table in twenty-four hours—you representing the new Council of Eight, and Aleks representing Sector Four of Thurskein.”
As he finished this speech, Tilrey heard Malsha chuckling somewhere deep in the darkness of his mind. Davita couldn’t have phrased it better. Are you going to take her place now? Will you crown yourself General Magistrate?
He knew he was hearing only a residue, a figment of memory and imagination. Janta had helped him grasp that.
And it was Janta who mattered right now. The young man must have experienced a whirlwind of experience and emotion in the past twenty-four hours. They would need to keep him safely under guard, lest someone try to assassinate him. But they would also need to give him a degree of normalcy, so he didn’t buckle under the pressures of his new role. Perhaps Ceill could help with that.
“Thanks. I want to come back to Redda, yes.” Janta sounded more human than he had at first—faltering, unsure of himself. “Aleks says he’ll come, too—if he can bring Lasha.” And then, in a rush: “I want to see Ceill. He’s with Einara. But he should see you and Gersha first.”
Yes. He should. Tilrey reached out to take his husband’s hand. “Brorsha, could you bring Ceill back to us, too?”
“My pleasure.”
“Hold Fir Atteivian and his officers in the conference rooms for now. Keep them comfortable.” Pain and fatigue were rising again, resisting Tilrey’s control. He needed to rest without the general glaring at him.
After that, there would be work to do—so much work that he struggled to wrap his brain around it. Best not to try for now.
As everyone scrambled to obey his orders, a small but piercing voice said, “Haven’t you forgotten something, Rishka? The city’s still dark. And very, very cold.”
Trust Besha to be practical. “Of course,” Tilrey said, feeling foolish. “Janta, if you don’t mind, would you turn on the power in the residential and academic blocks? You will, of course, turn it off again if we don’t receive the General Magistrate’s formal surrender once she’s had time to rest and know her own mind.” Because we all need a respite after this long night. To Bror, he said, “Make sure she knows that’s a condition.”
And to the Malsha who waited inside his head, he said silently, Too bad you’re dead. You said I was the key to Oslov. But you’ll never know the person I’ve become—the one who helped unravel it. The one who will knit it all back together, if I can. With my friends’ help.
Malsha was fidgeting. Unsatisfied. I prepared you for this moment. Me. No one else.
Maybe. But I won’t be running my government the way you ran yours.
“Drink that,” Davita said, placing a glass of good Harbourer apple brandy in front of her son. She had bullied the Painted Boy into bringing it from the bar. He still responded well to a commanding tone of voice, she found.
Einara was sequestered in the private room with Ceill, presumably talking to her hacker friend. Any moment she might return and put her knife to Blas’s throat again. And this time she seemed likely to use it.
Davita could not kneel to a terrorist, could not capitulate in any way. She didn’t for an instant think yielding to Einara’s demands would save her son. And if Blas must die, she wanted him to die proud of her and himself. She would do the same, when the madwoman inevitably turned the knife on her.
A little liquid courage might help them both. Or at least numb them.
Blas scowled at the glass. “No thanks, Mother. You really think you’ll change my opinion with a little booze?”
“It’s to steady you, sweetheart. You look shaky.”
She leaned across the table, wanting to stroke his hand to remind him how much she loved him. But that damned Detmer clung to Blas, whispering sweet nothings in his ear and taking all his attention. She couldn’t believe she’d ever thought the little Verán was a good match for him.
Blas took a small sip, then pushed the glass away. “Stop treating me like a child. I don’t want to die, and drinking myself to oblivion won’t help. If you think I’m a traitor for wanting to negotiate, say so.”
“Of course she doesn’t think that,” Detmer said soothingly but not quite accurately, resting his head on Blas’s shoulder. “Your mother loves you—just like I do.”
“He’s right.” Davita decided it was time to take a different tack, since Blas was clearly under his boyfriend’s sway. She needed to show him she loved him more than Detmer did, even if it was a tougher sort of love.
She took a swallow of brandy. Maybe the fire in her chest would perk her up; exhaustion was hazing her vision again. “I love you, Blasha. You’re nothing like your father. You’re loyal and upright and good. Anyway,” she added in an undertone, bending closer to him, “we just have to wait this out. Our planes could destroy the hacker any moment now.”
She doubted that would happen in time to save either of them, but thinking so might give her son some backbone. She couldn’t bear to see him die cowering.
Blas didn’t look convinced. “And then what? Even if we get back control of the Net, the workers will still be rioting in the streets. They’ll still hate us.” He nuzzled the top of Detmer’s head, black hair mingling with blond. “Do you really want to send hundreds of people to the Funnel, Mother? Thousands?”
“Of course I don’t relish that. But it was their choice to betray the Republic.” Davita imagined Tilrey going into exile. Dying under torture. Neither of the images gave her any pleasure, but punishment was the only way to restore order. “You can’t have a society without Levels and laws, Blas. You can’t just sweep all the laws away and hope for the best.”
“You can reform the laws, though,” Detmer offered.
She gave him a scathing look. “You’ll regret this soon, young man. Your grandfather would be horrified if he could see you joining these shirkers, may his last moment be bright.”
The young Verán was undeterred. “My grandfather was an arrogant prick—may his last moment be bright, of course—and Tilrey told me you always secretly hated him. Anyway, Whyberg himself drew up a tentative blueprint for a more evolved stage of society where Laborers would have Council representation. He wrote in his Ninth Epistle that he hoped Levels would eventually become obsolete.”
Davita had to give it to the boy—he knew his Whyberg. But the Ninth Epistle was an aberration, the fond dream of an aging visionary. No one who mattered took it seriously. “Without Levels, we would become like the Tangle,” she reminded him. “A blizzard of information governed by constant competition, everyone trying to push their way ahead. If you let people buy their way to high status instead of earning it with their skills, then currency becomes the supreme value. Is that what you want?”
She paused, thinking of the unseen hacker who held all their lives in his grip. He had skills. So did Tilrey, much as she wished she could deny it. She herself had publicly admitted he would have made a fine Upstart—what had she been thinking?
“Skills, fine,” Detmer countered. “But birth? Whyberg says status shouldn’t be hereditary. But look at us today, Davita. We’ve been strangling social mobility for generations because Upstarts are terrified of being forced to give up their privilege. All our talk of ‘high names’—we’re talking about bloodlines. Whyberg would turn over in his grave.”
He’s right. But Whyberg had gone overboard with his anti-eugenics rhetoric, in Davita’s view. Some qualities were inherited—who could deny that? “You don’t believe any of this nonsense, do you, Blas?”
Blas stroked Detmer’s hair. “Mersha’s speaking Dissent, but he’s not wrong. We do overvalue bloodlines.”
“And we’ve imprisoned ourselves in a frozen shithole for no real reason,” Detmer continued, clearly emboldened by Blas’s approval. “Tilrey thinks more people should be able to visit Harbour. Even settle there. I agree.”
Now that was beyond Dissent. It was Dissidence. “Mass contact with Harbour would lead to conquest and colonization,” Davita said through a tight jaw.
“Is that your way of admitting no one actually wants to live here?”
“I doubt anyone’s suggesting we colonize Harbour.” Blas’s tone had gone coaxing. “But we could open the borders a bit. Haven’t you always wanted to see the place where those fancy robes and perfumes of yours come from?”
Long ago, when she was young and silly, Davita had indeed fantasized about visiting the temperate south. Strolling through fields of flowers, swimming in swift rivers, feeling the wind on her bare skin. “No,” she said.
But she closed her eyes for a few seconds, letting herself indulge the fantasy. It was too bad she would have to die today, without one glimpse of Harbour. She was so tired.
“You’re having a moment of weakness, Blasha,” she said. “Gather your strength. Is this really how you want to…?” But she couldn’t seem to finish the sentence.
“Mother.” Blas’s voice had gone hard again. “They’re back.”
Davita opened her eyes and found herself facing Einara and Ceill. They made a study in contrasts: the boy looked happy and excited, while the woman was chillingly glum. She gazed at Davita as if she couldn’t quite remember why they’d been arguing.
Mentally ill people sometimes lost focus that way, Davita had heard, and then they snapped back into their obsession, which meant the knife would come out again. The worst you can do is kill my son. I’m not afraid.
Before either of them could speak, the Painted Boy hurried over. “What’s Janta say? What’s happening?”
Einara’s gaze remained on Davita. “It’s over,” she said in a dead voice. “Our old friend Karishkov crashed the plane. Janta’s won. We’ve won.”
“What?” The exclamation slipped out before Davita could stop it. Karishkov in a plane? He was a friend of these people? Won? How?
Just as Davita had predicted, Einara abruptly seemed to remember her purpose. She strode toward them, knife in hand.
“And since you have nothing left to bargain with, I think your time’s up, Magistrate.”
Killing Davita would solve nothing. But Einara was already savoring the bite of her blade into the woman’s neck, already seeing the flow of blood, when a tall figure stepped between them and blocked her way.
“Don’t! Leave her!”
Ceill Linnett. Meddling again, just like his father. If Einara had been less tired, she would have swept him violently aside.
She raised the knife, but it was no good. Even as she enjoyed a flash of undisguised terror on Davita’s face, her bloodlust was ebbing. Ceill’s intervention had distracted her.
With a sigh, she lowered the weapon and tried to muster a reason for what she was about to do. “Don’t speak for her, Ceill. She’s had her chance to surrender.”
Davita wasn’t Colonel Thibault, but she shared her arrogance. She’d come into the Brothel as a hostage and treated the place as if she owned it, ordering the staffers around. Did any of them have to tolerate that high-handedness now?
Ceill didn’t move. His eyes shone with all the resoluteness of youth. “She has to surrender. It’s the only way the lights will ever go back on, the only way to stop more people from dying. Janta’s safe now, but the government has to formally capitulate.”
All this political maneuvering. Boring. Irrelevant. Einara tried not to look at Kai, who stood frozen as if debating whether to intervene. “Death will do as well as a surrender.”
“In cold blood, though?” Kai asked in a low, worried tone.
Einara loved him, in her way. But his softheartedness was a problem. “Why not?”
“I don’t like murder happening ten yards from our bar.”
“It didn’t bother you when I killed Lindahl.”
“It did, actually. And killing her will freak out every Upstart in the city. They’ll think we’re coming for all of them, knives in hand.”
“Good,” Einara said. “Let them be afraid for once.”
To her credit, Davita rose from her seat and stood firm, chin lifted, as if she were deliberately making herself an easier target. “It’s always the quiet ones. You want to start a trail of blood? Start it here.”
Einara appealed to Ceill. “You see her attitude? And Tilrey doesn’t know how to deal with her. If she does surrender, he’ll want to keep her alive—free or locked up, it doesn’t matter. As long as she breathes, she threatens all of us.”
Ceill’s resolute look wavered, but only for an instant. “We aren’t murderers. Enough people have died already.”
“Enough of us have died. Maybe it’s their turn.”
“Wait, wait, wait! Don’t hurt her!” Blas sprang up from the banquette. “Are you saying that if my mother surrenders, the hacker could turn the lights back on?”
“No one’s saying that. You’re in a position to demand nothing.” Einara tilted the knife blade to catch the light. Her appetite for murder was leaching away, and she needed something to replace it. For a terrible instant she wished the planes had succeeded in killing Janta, because then a bonfire of rage would have swept away all scruples and negotiations.
She was fond of Janta. But dying to avenge him would have been so much more satisfying than whatever this was.
That irritating Ceill was telling Blas, “My father wants the lights on! He doesn’t want more people to be hurt.”
Blas turned to his mother, just as urgent. “People are dying out there. Freezing! You can help them!”
Davita stared back at him, looking as stony as Einara felt. “You heard what she said, Blasha. They think they’ve won. No negotiation.”
“So you’re going to die out of spite? When you could live and help build a new Republic? A renewed one?” Blas’s eyes flashed. “That doesn’t sound like you, Mother.”
“The Republic doesn’t need renewing, and if it did, these barbarians certainly couldn’t do it. She’ll kill me regardless.” There was the slightest softening in Davita’s dark eyes, though—a hint of fear, or just resignation. “Won’t you?” she asked Einara. “You’re thirsty for blood.”
“And you seem eager for the blade.” Einara raised the knife again, imagining slicing through the soft skin of the woman’s throat.
Just like with Lindahl. For an instant, she would see only a perfect, silky slit in the skin. Then blood would pour out, a single drop becoming a spurt becoming a ruby flood. She would stand in it, bathe in it, and know the simple satisfaction of killing an enemy. She would watch light ebb from the woman’s eyes.
But she knew the thrill would be over quickly, more fleeting even than an orgasm. “We’re a perfect match,” she said, her tone thick with disgust.
“Stop it! Stop this, both of you!” And Ceill was suddenly on Einara—attacking her, prying her knife hand open.
She was so startled that the knife tumbled from her hand and clattered to the floor. She tried to bend and retrieve it, but Ceill held her fast, his big hands like iron around her wrists.
“I won’t let you kill anyone. It could hurt the revolution, and that means all of us.”
The lad had certainly grown since he came to the Brothel as a teenager. He was as strong as his father now, his blue eyes sparking fiercely. “If you want revenge, why don’t you kill Besha?” he added, not loosening his punishing grip on her. “Or go back to Harbour and face that Colonel woman? Tilrey can take you there. Nothing’s stopping him now.”
Struggling was boring and useless, so Einara stopped. She gazed at her hands imprisoned in Ceill’s and wondered why she’d imagined murder would cure her listless misery.
No vengeance could fill the echoing hollowness inside. No amount of bloodshed would stop the dark tide of depression from rising at odd moments and making her go still and stare into space, groping for a reason to draw the next breath.
Taunting Davita Lindblom had made life worth living for a moment or two. Killing her would be just as pointless.
“Tilrey did promise he would take me to Harbour once,” she said absently. “A long time ago. He wanted something in return.”
“He’ll take you now, Nara! Look at all you’ve done for him!” Kai was at her side, slinging a protective arm around her waist as Ceill finally released her. “I’ll go with you! I’ve always wanted to see the summer country.”
Poor boy. Had he forgotten that just stepping outside the Brothel gave Einara sweaty palms and a racing heart? Whether Tilrey and his rebels remade Oslov or not, she would be a prisoner for the rest of her days.
“If Tilrey promised to take you to Harbour, he’ll do it,” Ceill said, no trace of doubt in his tone.
Davita laughed, though there was no triumph on her face. She didn’t seem to realize how thoroughly she’d beaten Einara. “Tilrey’s a good liar.”
“Maybe,” Detmer said, “but he keeps his promises.”
Einara gazed up at Ceill. She noted dispassionately that he was as golden and beautiful as his father, particularly when he wanted something. Maybe he, too, would make a good politician someday.
“Please,” he begged her. “For the sake of the revolution, give Davita a chance to surrender. And you!” He turned to address Davita, who cocked a mocking brow at him. “Do it for the people. They’re shivering, freezing. Wouldn’t it be good if the sun could rise tomorrow over a city where everything works again?”
“Mother!” Blas had an arm around Davita’s waist, holding her the way Kai was holding Einara. “He’s right.”
Davita stared at the floor a long moment. Einara was almost curious to see whether she would give in.
Then she stopped caring, and her gaze fell to the knife. It would be easy to seize it again, while Ceill was distracted, and punch it straight into Davita’s neck.
But what was the point?
When she raised her head, she saw Davita leaning on her son, letting him support part of her weight. As if the burden of events had finally overwhelmed the Magistrate, and Blas’s defection was the last straw.
She said, “I will surrender. To Tilrey or Gersha. Not to you. For now, if you aren’t going to kill me, please let me sleep.”
Einara felt a stale relief that it was over. Sleep would feel good to her, too. Perhaps, once she was rested, the knife could still find a use.
“Then Tilrey has what he wants,” she told Ceill, bitterness rising in her throat, “and I won’t stand in the way.”
Ceill wanted to walk back to the Sector alone, but Kai wouldn’t allow it, warning him there were still soldiers out there who hadn’t heard any order to surrender. So he wandered around the Brothel looking for an escort.
In the foyer, he ran into Bror, who’d just come in with a few other rebels and was brushing snow from his parka.
“You did it! You took the Sector!” Ceill hugged the older man, suddenly shaking with all the fear he hadn’t allowed himself to feel earlier. “I was so fucking scared.”
“Shouldn’t have been,” Bror scolded gently, tousling Ceill’s hair. “Got your outdoor clothes? I’m here to bring Davita to the Sector—and you to your dads.”
Ceill nodded. He needed to tell Gersha he hadn’t meant to give them a fright or get himself arrested. And Tilrey—well, he had even more things to tell Tilrey. “Davita’s sleeping right now. But she says she’ll surrender to Tilrey or Gersha. I don’t think she’ll change her mind.”
Bror stared at him. “You made the General Magistrate agree to surrender?”
Ceill ducked his head. “Not really. Her son was the one who persuaded her, just like Besha said he would.”
Never mind that he’d put the idea in Blas’s head—or tried to. Maybe Blas would have done the same thing either way. As for stopping Einara from stabbing Davita, Ceill hadn’t planned that. He just didn’t want to watch anyone die.
Bror seemed to be struggling to absorb everything he’d heard. “Tilrey was afraid the GM would try to hurt herself. Is she under guard?”
“Blas and Detmer are with her. They won’t let her do anything.” Ceill still didn’t like Blas, but he trusted him to take care of his own mother. And Ceill was beginning to like Detmer, who’d been polite to him and the Brothel staffers alike. “I think you should let her sleep before dragging her over there. If she’s rested, there’s a better chance she’ll listen.”
“Tilrey thinks the same.” Bror himself looked skeptical about the possibility of Davita listening to them. “Okay, then. I’ll set a guard outside her room.”
“There are hostages, too—Upstart patrons, in the basement.” Ceill had heard his Brothel friends whispering about them, wondering if Einara might order their deaths now she’d been robbed of the General Magistrate’s blood. “Some of them are Councillors. Can you make sure they don’t get hurt?”
Bror nodded. “No harm will come to any of them unless they try to harm us. We need at least ten Councillors there for the surrender—Tilrey says that’s some kind of rule. He knows their weird rigmarole backward and forward. Get your coat and meet me?”
And so Bror and Ceill hiked back through the Core, which was still dark under the stars. Bror insisted on an armed guard to ensure Ceill’s safety, but she walked a few paces ahead, giving them their privacy.
Dawn was only a few hours away, but the cold and darkness somehow felt even intenser than they had earlier in the night. The frenzy of action had died down as everyone exhausted themselves, rebels and troops alike. Most of the bonfires had burnt to ash. The residents of the Core huddled quietly around the few that remained.
Ceill was tired, too, but warmth and hot tea had given him a second wind. He kept up with Bror easily as they tramped through the silent streets, snow crunching under their boots. Anemic snowflakes drifted through the air and brushed their exposed skin, but the storm’s fury was over.
Ceill had so many questions. “How are they? My dads? Are they hurt?”
“Gersha’s fine. Just shaken. Tilrey was hurt pretty bad, but he’ll mend. He’s sitting up and talking and even giving orders, though he should be resting.”
The word hurt had opened a pit in Ceill’s stomach. “He knows I’m okay?”
“He knows. They’re both proud of you, Ceill. What you did, running away from your guards—well, maybe it was a little harebrained, but if you’d been in the Sector as a hostage, everything would’ve gone a lot worse. Karishkov was an interrogator by trade.”
Ceill didn’t want to think about what Karishkov might have done to him in an effort to make Tilrey talk. “But he ended up being on our side. He did it for Aleks, didn’t he?”
Bror nodded soberly. “Tilrey thinks so. The guy died for his son. And he took out at least half the base with him.”
How many people had died on that base? How many had died storming the Sector? Ceill wasn’t ready to think about those numbers yet. Just for a moment, he wanted to savor the fact that they’d won.
As they passed the Library and Café, with the Quiet Revolution monument looming in the background, the lights blinked back on.
One moment, all was cold and darkness. The next, windows blazed around them. Mag-grids crisscrossed the spaces between buildings, their guardlights glowing green and purple. Machines and ducts rumbled. Doors hissed and snapped shut. Buttery track lighting shone in the windows of the Café.
For a stunned second, utter silence.
Then Reddans began cheering and whistling—in ragged bursts, near and far, from bonfires and warming stations and refuges in building foyers. The street, which had seemed deserted, was suddenly loud with relief and rejoicing. Their True Hearth escort pumped her fist in the air and yelled.
Only Bror and Ceill made no sound. Bror picked up the pace, casting a wary glance over his shoulder. Ceill covered his face with his parka hood. “I’m glad I got to see it it happen. When the power went out, I was underground.”
“Yeah, it’s something, right?” Bror sounded too worn down to be excited. “Now Redda’s alive again. And the real work begins.”
Bror brought Ceill straight to the tea lounge.
When Gersha finally released him from a bone-crushing hug, Ceill looked down and saw a man with a mangled face sleeping on a sofa, covered in a blanket. With a terrible jolt, he recognized his father.
He clung to Gersha. “What did they do to him?”
“Everything they could,” Gersha said grimly, drawing Ceill away so they wouldn’t have to whisper. “But he’ll mend soon, Ceillsha. Your father’s strong.”
Despite their efforts not to wake him, Tilrey turned over and tried to sit up. His good eye opened, piercing blue. “Ceill!” he said in a hoarse voice. “Let me see him.”
Ceill didn’t know what to do. With Tilrey lying there all bandaged, hugging seemed out of the question. He sat down beside his father, on the very edge of the sofa, and clasped Tilrey’s good left hand.
A hot pressure rose behind his eyes, and then tears poured down his cheeks. He made no effort to stop them. “I’m so sorry, Tilrey—Dad. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you where I was going. I’m sorry. I didn’t trust you.”
“Shh.” Gersha stood behind Ceill, a steady hand on his shoulder. “It’s not your fault, Ceill. We were afraid to tell you so many things for so long.”
Tilrey squeezed Ceill’s hand, then tugged him into an awkward, one-handed hug. “I know you were angry about Janta. I shouldn’t have locked him up.”
Ceill did remember being angry, but it seemed like something that had happened years ago. Soon he’d see Janta again.
“It’s okay,” he said, kissing his father’s forehead and knowing that losing either of them would have destroyed him. “Bror told me everything. I’m so proud. I love you both so much.”