Chapter 2: Punished — The Key of Oslov

Volume 20: All the Kinds of Broken

Chapter 2 Punished

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Artur Threindal had never been to the Ring Eight officers’ club before, but nothing about it surprised him. He was expecting the stale smell of rotgut liquor, the bleary fluorescents, the porn streams playing on giant screens, and the competitive bellows of pumped-up men and women as they shot pool or bet on some primitive racing or shooting game.Still, a shudder passed over him as he made his way to the manager’s office, carrying a bundle of neatly folded clothes under one arm. Krisha, the Magistrate’s driver, had put in a rush order for the garments with Central Supply, making sure they were tailored to the correct measurements. The Magistrate didn’t want the boy wearing anything he’d worn while he was in Jena’s house.The manager was a fish-eyed, desiccated woman in late middle age who regarded Artur without interest. “Yes, lad?”“I’m here for the boy. The one the Magistrate’s driver dropped off yesterday.”“Oh yes.” She arched a brow. “We were told not to expect the pleasure of his company for long. Pity—he could have been a real earner.” She tapped a button on her desk. “Irin can take you.”In his one year as Malsha Linnett’s kettle boy and his subsequent five years as the man’s secretary, Artur had grown accustomed to running errands that made him feel queasy. Still, he was glad Malsha hadn’t given him the task of dropping the boy off last night and letting him think this shithole was his new permanent home.“Last night was necessary,” Malsha had explained to Artur earlier this afternoon. “To placate my stupid son-in-law and his stupid notions of honor, but also for the boy’s sake. I’m too old and frail to break him in myself. I need him tenderized a little.”Artur had lofted a brow very high at that, but he hadn’t contradicted his Fir. If Malsha wanted to pretend to be “old and frail,” that was his prerogative. Artur knew better, as Malsha was well aware.Irin turned out to be a scrawny, sickly-looking boy, barely out of his teens, with ash-colored hair and a thick muffler around his neck. He took one look at Artur’s neat jerkin and boots and rolled his eyes. “What can I do for you?”“Room number seventeen, Rinsha,” said the manager.Irin nodded, a perma-scowl on his face. “You’re taking him out of here?” he asked Artur.The manager cleared her throat loudly. “This is Strutter business. No questions. The count?”“Seven,” Irin said. He turned on his heel and led Artur down a dingy, windowless white hall, then down a second one at a right angle, moving so fast it took Artur a few moments to catch up.“I’m here to take the kid, yeah,” he said when they were walking abreast. “How’s he doing?”“Well, he can walk,” Irin said, staring straight ahead. “He walked to the showers this morning. I asked him to help me sweep and mop—that’s part of our duties, you know. But he wasn’t up to it, so I let him stay in bed.”Artur’s throat tightened. “Was he . . . difficult?” Malsha had said something about a Dissident offense in Thurskein. If the boy turned out to be a firebrand who refused to be “tenderized,” Artur was the one who’d have to deal with it—or instruct Krisha to—and the last thing he wanted was to have to mete out punishment to someone who’d already endured last night. For both their sakes, he hoped the kid was docile.Irin grimaced, stopping before a door. “Well, it’s hard the first time. The officers are good lads mostly, but they can be rough when they’re drinking. And they do drink.”No doubt. Artur tensed as the door swung open to reveal a cell-like room furnished only with a bed. The strong disinfectant didn’t entirely cover the reek of liquor, urine, and other odors Artur preferred not to identify. There was an unmoving hump under the blankets.Irin bent over the bed, but Artur waved him away. “I’ll take it from here.” He handed Irin a full vial of sap, per Malsha’s instructions (“Tip everyone”), and set the bundle of clothes on the foot of the bed. A few strands of lank, dark-gold hair trailed across the mattress. “Are you awake?” he asked. “I’ve brought some clothes for you.”The boy’s body curled more tightly into itself.“You can sit up now, lad,” Irin said, hovering in the doorway. “Nothing to fear. He ain’t a patron.”Artur was about to rebuke him for interfering when the Skeinsha boy sat up, his movements tight with pain and wariness. The first thing Artur noticed was the bruises, lurid on the pale skin—not just the expected love bites, but a fat lip, a purple lump on the temple.He sucked in his breath and turned on Irin. “What the fuck? He wasn’t supposed to be physically damaged!”Irin backed away. “We don’t do that shit here. He came in with those!”“It’s true,” the boy said almost in a whisper.He was tall and broad-shouldered for his age, but otherwise slim and reedy. He wore only a robe. Unsurprisingly, he had the kind of fresh, pale, heavy-lidded beauty that Malsha and most other Councillors found irresistible.How fucking predictable. Artur tried and failed to suppress a rush of pity. Malsha had demanded only one year of intimate service from him, but he had a feeling this boy wouldn’t be so lucky.As Irin finally left them, still scowling, Artur unrolled his bundle and pulled out a pair of trousers. “My name is Artur Threindal,” he said in his formal Sector voice. “I’m Fir Magistrate Linnett’s secretary, and I’m here to escort you to his apartment, where you’ll live henceforth as his personal secretary. His kettle boy, to be blunt.” He tugged another vial of sap from his jerkin. “Would a nip be helpful? Are you in any pain?”Wide, cobalt blue eyes stared at him. “I don’t understand, Fir,” the boy said hoarsely. “He said I would stay here—the driver did.”Yeah, well, that’s how mind games work. Artur tossed briefs and an undershirt at the boy, who flinched. “Let me know if you need help dressing. Otherwise, I’ll turn my back and give you your privacy.” Which is probably the last time you’ll have it for a while.After a moment, the boy said, “I don’t need help, Fir.” He had a soft Skeinsha burr.Artur turned his back and waited. Not for the first time, he said a silent prayer of gratitude that his nose was prominent, his complexion patchy, and his eyes a touch beady. He wasn’t unattractive, just ordinary.“Your impertinence was your main attraction,” Malsha had told him once. “When I came into the research library, and you asked me to put away my handheld and stared me down as if I were nobody, I knew at once I had to have you.” The memory of those words—delivered fondly, as if he and the Magistrate were actual lovers reminiscing about their first meeting—still sent chills down Artur’s spine.If this kid turned out to be thick-headed or weak-willed or eagerly submissive, he might still escape Malsha’s clutches, beauty or not. Malsha liked a challenge. Artur hoped for the boy’s sake he wasn’t one.“You can turn around now, Fir.”Dressed, the boy didn’t look like the sort of troublemaker who might seduce a General Magistrate’s granddaughter. He looked shaky on his feet, meek, and a little terrified. “You needn’t call me Fir,” Artur said, slowly and clearly in case the boy couldn’t understand his Reddan speech. “I’m a Drudge just like you.” He offered his arm. “Remind me of your name?”“Bronn, Tilhard Edvard, Fir.”“I told you, I’m not a Fir.” Artur took hold of the boy—who went rigid, but didn’t resist—and steered him toward the door.“Personally, I’d like to ditch this shithole. Wouldn’t you?” He kept talking as he led the boy down the corridor, perhaps more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. “Krisha has your outergear—I couldn’t carry it all. He’s in the garage.” He adjusted his pace, trying not to notice the boy’s bow-legged gait. “We ordered you a full wardrobe based on the measurements Fir Jena had taken. All custom-made, not off the rack—that’s how my Fir likes it. Starting tomorrow, I’ll get time off from my work in the Sector to teach you your new duties.”Those words sent a shiver through the boy’s arm, and Artur added hastily, “Not that. I mean brewing the tea, setting the table, that stuff. What should I call you? Till? Varsha for Edvard?”Instead of answering, the boy froze in place, dragging Artur backward. Five reeking officers sauntered out of a gaming room and directly into their path, loudly congratulating each other on a win. One paused for a quick leer at the boy before proceeding down the hall.Artur could feel the boy’s terror fluttering under the skin. “C’mon,” he said, patting the boy’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”The boy didn’t speak until they stepped into the clammy garage. Then he said, “You can call me Tilrey.”“And you can call me Turshka, if you like.” Artur kept tight hold of the boy’s arm (“He could be feeling self-destructive,” Malsha had warned) until Krisha came over carrying the heavy coat, scarf, hat, and boots.The hulking young driver didn’t like to make eye contact. Artur sensed Tilrey shrinking from Krisha as he had from the soldiers—maybe they had similar physical builds.“It’s okay,” he coaxed, holding out the coat for the boy to slip into. “Krisha’s job is to protect you. From now on, no one’s allowed to touch you without permission.”Meaning Fir Magistrate’s permission, not his own—but if the boy didn’t already know that, he had more problems than Artur could help him with. As he shepherded Tilrey into the backseat, Artur hoped to everything green that the boy really was “tenderized,” so tenderized there was nothing left for Malsha to sink his teeth into.Fir Magistrate was on the couch drinking tea when they came in. “Hello,” he said, smiling charmingly. “Please join me.”Tilrey’s legs stopped working. He left it to the tall redheaded Laborer who acted and dressed like an Upstart to get him over to the couch and seated beside the Fir. He tried not to wince.Artur. Turshka. He seemed nice enough. Nice was good. Tilrey had to be nice now, to try to be nice, to cooperate, and maybe then people would be nice back. He had a memory of trying to impress people and caring about his dignity, but that felt like a while ago.Fir Magistrate was smiling again like a grandfather, like Supervisor Fernei—approving and kind, without a trace of lust or malice. If he could tell that sitting down hurt Tilrey, he didn’t show it, only said, “Turshka, tea for you both, please. And freshen up mine.”The old man’s closeness was a bonfire, singeing Tilrey around the edges. He didn’t let himself inch away, only dropped his eyes. The key was not to react, to stay half-present. It hadn’t entirely worked last night, but maybe it had helped.Artur stood still, not obeying the order. “You didn’t tell me he was bruised, Fir,” he said in a surprisingly insolent tone.“For green’s sake, Turshka, I didn’t do it!” The old man’s voice quavered. “My fool son-in-law isn’t capable of understanding that his daughter has a mind of her own. He took it out on the boy.” As Artur went into the kitchen, he said to Tilrey, “Look at me.”I’m just a stupid Skeinsha. I don’t hear. I don’t understand. That had worked on Jena, at least at first.The Magistrate’s voice sharpened. “Don’t play dumb with me.”Before he knew what he was doing, Tilrey found himself looking into the blue eyes of the most powerful man in Oslov. They were steady and sincere, with a core of iron.He blinked and looked away, and the Magistrate said, “No. No games.” A hand lifted Tilrey’s chin, and those eyes locked on his again as the Magistrate said, “I’m very sorry about last night. Jena’s brutality I don’t take responsibility for. The rest I do. Jena seemed to think your spirit needed breaking, and—” A shrug. “This was the best way I knew to preserve the rest of you.”What was Tilrey supposed to do? Accept the apology? He nodded.The Fir kept tight hold of him. “Now, you have a bit of explaining of your own to do. I’ve seen your academic record. You’re highly intelligent, yet you don’t seem to have a word to say for yourself. Tell me, were you playing my son-in-law for a fool? What was your endgame?”Endgame? Tilrey shook his head. It was no longer easy to remember even a few days back. Last night was vast, oceanic, a pool of blackness where he drowned over and over.Every time he relaxed his vigilant grip on the here and now, he felt them again—the hands. Not just in the expected places, but circling his ankle or stroking the back of his neck or the sole of his foot. He heard the guffaws, giggles, moans. He remembered thinking, This isn’t so bad, I can take this, and then later not thinking anything.The Magistrate cleared his throat.“I didn’t.” It came in a whisper. “I wasn’t playing anything.”Artur popped his head through the kitchen doorway. “I don’t think he’s hiding anything, Fir. I think he’s just shy.”Shy. That was what Dal and Pers always said, teasing him until he blushed like a bonfire. That girl likes you, Tilrey. Why don’t you go talk to her? You’re so shy it’s ridiculous. Until he admitted to Dal how he felt about her, and the teasing stopped.The word seemed to have an odd effect on Fir Magistrate. “Shy,” he said, releasing Tilrey’s chin. “I suppose that tracks with what I’ve seen. Although you weren’t so shy with my granddaughter, were you?”The blush came unbidden. “I’m sorry. It just . . . happened.”“That’s the way of such things, isn’t it?” A light pat on his knee. “Tell me, Rishka, was it Vera’s idea?”“People don’t call me Rishka, Fir.” It slipped out automatically, because that nickname was reserved for his mother.“I see.” The Magistrate sounded amused. “But you’re evading the question. Was it my granddaughter’s idea?”Tilrey tried to think back. Was the question a trap to see whether he’d betray an Upstart to save himself? “I don’t really know, Fir,” he admitted. “I mean, she kissed me, but—I don’t know. I guess it was my fault. Fir Jena said so.”The Magistrate chuckled grimly. “You may have noticed Fir Jena is an ass. I’ll forever regret that he had you before I did. He did have you, didn’t he?”The question was too much, too soon, but “playing dumb” would get him in trouble. Tilrey nodded, thumbnail digging into his index finger.“Let me guess. The way he was oversapping you, you were unconscious when it happened?”To Tilrey’s intense relief, Artur was back with the tea. The steam felt good on his face. He barely nodded.“You keep pushing him too hard, Malsha,” the secretary said, pouring with brisk, graceful motions. “Give him some time to find his footing.”“Very well.” The old man sighed like a scolded child. “I just can’t bear the thought of Jena’s hands on him. The man barely even seems to have a libido. He must have forced himself to do what he considered his duty.”The description was disturbingly apt. Jena had done everything he did to Tilrey with a constrained, uncomfortable expression on his face, apologizing at intervals. Tilrey hadn’t understood it then and didn’t now. “His duty, Fir?” he found himself asking.“He had to present you to me as his kettle boy, and make it convincing, before we could strike the deal he hoped for.” The old man sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to give him that stupid committee chair he wanted, now that I’m going to keep you.”“It would be prudent,” Artur said.Tilrey was still struggling to put the pieces together. “Yesterday . . . Fir Jena said he’d rather see me dead than anyone’s kettle boy.”The Magistrate laughed. “The chair will stop his complaining. But you may as well know, sweetheart, I’ve never given a fuck what Jena thinks. If he had any power over me, if anyone did, you might have reason to worry about that little charge of shirking on your record.”Tilrey’s bowels turned to ice. “I thought Fir Jena—”“Expunged it? Well, he tried. You translated a whole bulletin from Resurgence, if I’m not mistaken? People have spent years in Int/Sec for less. But I understand and forgive youthful indiscretions. When you belong to me, you’re safe. So don’t fret about Jena.”Tilrey understood the threat of Int/Sec, knew what the Magistrate was telling him. But it was the word sweetheart that sent shivers winding down his spine. For an instant, that pool of blackness closed over his head again.He was sitting on the lap of the big one, the one they all called “birthday boy.” A meaty thigh bounced under him, making him painfully aware of the man’s arousal. They kept giving him beer from their own glasses, and it made his head spin, but never enough. Warm, stinky breath came with a whisper: You’ll be sweet for me, won’t you? I’ll be sweet to you.He came up gasping. It was a vast relief to be sitting on the white couch with no one touching him except Artur’s fingers grazing his as they handed him a tumbler.The tea felt good sliding down his raw throat. He tasted sap in it, and that made him take a bigger swallow. Sap made things easier, made him numb. He would need it soon.By the fourth or fifth sip, he was starting to feel a pleasant buzz, a heaviness in his limbs. He looked up of his own accord and saw the Magistrate watching him.“I calibrated the dose, you know,” the man said. “We can’t have you turning into a corpse like you were with Fir Jena.”Too bad. Tilrey took another sip. The recessed lights were gathering a fuzzy glow. The aches from yesterday and last night were receding, and everything was starting to feel very good. Even when the Magistrate ran a hand through his hair, stroking it back from his face, he didn’t pull away. The touch was gentle. Gentle was good.I can take this. I can. He hadn’t cried last night, not once. Well, maybe he’d felt wetness on his cheeks, but there’d been no sobbing, no begging, no theatrics; he was proud of that.Pride was good. His mother was proud. You should be proud of yourself, she’d said when she showed him the printout of his tenth-year scores, and no, he was not going to think about that day or her, not anymore or possibly ever again. That life was over.“Tell me, child,” the Magistrate asked in his ear, “how much experience with sap did you have before you came to Redda?”“None.”“Not even a taste?” The Magistrate’s lips were nuzzling his hair, moving down his neck. “I don’t think you know how lovely you are.”From somewhere in the distance came a rushing sound like a waterfall. Tilrey let the Fir take the tipping tumbler away from him. He accepted the man’s lips against his, let his mouth fall open to the slick, exploring tongue. Let his knees fall open to the exploring hand. Felt nothing except the pleasant thrum of the sap in his veins. Half-here. When you belong to me, you’re safe.At some point Artur spoke to the Magistrate in the distance, then closer. Then Tilrey was being raised to his feet and guided into another room, tiled and bright and full of steam. The rushing had been a bath.Careful hands unfastened his collar—Artur’s hands. Tilrey stiffened and tried to writhe away, despite the sap, but Artur whispered in his ear, “Shhh, it’ll be okay. Just a bath.”Then he was naked, and Artur was guiding him down the slippery steps. His grip was brotherly, nothing clinging or suggestive about it. Tilrey eased himself into the bath. The hot, foaming water felt good on his aches, just like the tea in his throat. He was aware that the Magistrate was sitting inches away from him, but he was too comfortable to care.The old man held out his hand, a puddle of black in the palm. “A little more?”Tilrey had been made to drink sap from Jena’s hand. He knew what to do. But this was the first time he hadn’t wanted to spit it out. He licked it up and swallowed, and when the Magistrate reached out and tugged him closer, he didn’t pull away.The sap drew him into a vortex of its own, warm and red-dark and vibrating. There was more kissing, more tongue, teeth nipping his neck, but it was all easy to tune out.Something slithered across his earlobe, activating sensitive nerve endings. Tilrey jerked awake—and felt a hand capture his cock.For an instant, he twisted in the man’s arms, desperate to escape. Not again, please, not yet, not again—Then the hand began pumping, and the lips and tongue sucked on his earlobe, and somehow the combination of the two sensations, one heavy and blunt and the other almost painfully precise, made his cock lurch upright between his legs. He moaned in protest—I don’t want to feel this, I don’t want to feel anything. But he stopped struggling.“Shh, sweetheart.” A whisper tickled his ear. Then the suckling and the pumping began again—clever, knowing movements, rhythms dovetailing. On and on it went, until all he could feel was a single intense heat pressing down on him. And then, in an endless, shameful instant, he came.When he managed to open his eyes again, Fir Magistrate was gone. Artur’s strong hands helped him up the steps and wrapped him in a towel, then in a robe. Artur led him into a room dominated by a large bed with a severe rectangular canopy. When they reached the edge of the bed, Artur said, “Sit.”Tilrey did as he was told. He seemed to be under a spell, his limbs not under his control. It had felt good, so good, and it shouldn’t have, but could he help wanting to feel good?“Isn’t he exquisite?” that velvety voice said. Fir Magistrate had come to sit at the foot of the bed, also in a robe. The recessed lights of the canopy glinted on his glasses.“That’s your business, not mine,” said Artur, sounding uncomfortable. “Time for me to leave, Fir?”Tilrey blinked and looked away. He was still riding the buzz of sap and orgasm, but it wouldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, he knew, there’d be a rude awakening.Fir Magistrate was talking again, practically lecturing, something about what had to happen to a kettle boy on his first night in a new house and why. Tilrey didn’t bother to listen. Knowing perfectly well where this was going, he lay back, closed his eyes, and didn’t stop the robe from falling open. I’m not actually here.Artur’s voice woke him from the haze; it was strident and borderline angry. “Really? That’s what you want?”“I don’t want him like this, and not just for the obvious reasons.” The Magistrate sounded almost defensive. “He needs to—what did you say? He needs to find his footing first.”“I’m not doing it, Fir. Like I said, that’s your business.”“My business is your business,” the Fir said icily. “Aren’t you my proxy in committee meetings?”They argued back and forth, the Magistrate growing more imperious and Artur’s resolve flagging, until Tilrey’s sap-weary brain finally grasped what the Fir wanted Artur to do. He opened his eyes and said to the bright canopy, “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”Artur had been kind, and Tilrey didn’t want to get Artur in trouble, didn’t want him to lose his job over something that was inevitably going to happen anyway. He rolled over and braced himself on his forearms and did his best to offer himself the way Jena had told him to. (“You’re supposed to want it,” the Councillor had said, a frantic undertone in his voice. “You do want it.”)He said, “Just do it, please.”“You heard him,” the Magistrate said.Artur muttered, “Fuck. Look at him. Don’t know if I can even get it up.”Then those careful hands were on Tilrey again, and they were slick and opening him. He did his best to lean into the pressure and not show it hurt. Artur used a different lube from the one the officers had, with a less medicinal and a more botanical smell. Good. That was good.“Oh yes,” the Magistrate was saying. “If you need help standing to attention, Turshka, I’m here.”Artur grunted and climbed on top of Tilrey. “Fuck you, old man. No help needed.” He bent and whispered in Tilrey’s ear, “I’m sorry. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but it won’t be gentle enough. Push out, okay? And breathe.”Tilrey nodded. He was ready.Artur woke in the dark to distant sobbing. It took him a moment to remember where he was—Malsha’s apartment, spare bedroom—and why.Fuck. Memories rushed back: the boy rolling over, spreading his legs. The way he’d grimaced while it was happening, wedging a knuckle between his teeth. Artur had wanted to stop, but by that time he was getting close, and anyway, if he did stop, things might go worse for them both. And so, like a fucking toadie coward, he’d kept on.It’ll be better for him in the long run, he’d told himself, the way it was for you, but he wasn’t sure he believed it.After they were done, Malsha had banished them to the small room that had once been Artur’s private space and was now Tilrey’s. It wasn’t a free-night, and the Magistrate needed a proper night’s rest for tomorrow’s Council session. He instructed Artur to sleep on the outside of the single bed. One arch of the brows said it all: Don’t let him hurt himself.And now Artur was alone.The sobs came from the small connected bathroom. He threw off the blankets, barreled in there, and flicked on the light.The boy crouched on the floor by the vanity, naked and curled up, his shoulders heaving. Each sob made him convulse as if something were trying to force its way out of him.“Hey.” Artur’s throat closed as he bent over Tilrey, not sure he should touch him. That might make things worse. “Hey, it’s okay. Come back to bed. You need your sleep.”Tilrey’s head snapped up. Then he was on his feet, a flicker of metal in his hand—shit.Artur backed away, heart thudding, as Tilrey brandished a nail file at him. “Don’t touch me,” the boy said hoarsely.Artur raised his hands, every nerve suddenly alight as his mind raced, trying to gauge Tilrey’s degree of resolution. “You don’t want to do that,” he said levelly. “Put it down.”Tilrey’s eyes were glassy with tears, but his hand looked steady as he shook his head. “I won’t do this anymore. I’m done. I’d rather . . .”“What? You’d rather go back to the officers’ club and get fucked by another seven soldiers tomorrow night?”Artur’s heart twisted as he uttered the words, but they worked. Tilrey faltered, his weapon hand shaking, and Artur seized his advantage. He grabbed the boy’s thin wrist and held on, tightening his grip until the nail file clattered to the tile.He snatched it and scrambled away, but Tilrey didn’t come after him. He sank back onto the floor and hugged his knees, shuddering.“Stay right there.” Artur’s brief search of the cabinets came up with a razor and some painkillers. Satisfied that the room was safe now, he locked Tilrey inside and went to hide the items in Krisha’s toolshed in the garage.When he returned, he found Tilrey in the exact same position.“Come on. Come.” He unfolded the boy from his fetal huddle and walked him into the dark bedroom again.Tilrey didn’t resist when Artur sat him on the bed, nudged him against the wall, and tucked him in. He curled up and resumed his sobbing, quietly this time.“It’s all right, lad. It’s all right.” Gingerly, because he wasn’t sure how Tilrey would react, Artur slid both arms around the trembling form. “That won’t happen again,” he said. “Not with me, I mean. Promise you. You’re not actually my type,” he added, making a stab at levity.A long shudder went through the boy’s body. Then he relaxed all at once into Artur’s arms, pressing his head against Artur’s chest. The contact brought back memories of earlier tonight, and Artur tensed—but no, this was different. He wasn’t hurting the boy now. It was all right.He stroked Tilrey’s hair with one hand, the other rubbing his back, as the boy wept into his shoulder. “It’s all right. Nothing to worry about now, and it gets better. It does. You’re fine. You’re safe. Let it all out.”

Still, a shudder passed over him as he made his way to the manager’s office, carrying a bundle of neatly folded clothes under one arm. Krisha, the Magistrate’s driver, had put in a rush order for the garments with Central Supply, making sure they were tailored to the correct measurements. The Magistrate didn’t want the boy wearing anything he’d worn while he was in Jena’s house.

The manager was a fish-eyed, desiccated woman in late middle age who regarded Artur without interest. “Yes, lad?”

“I’m here for the boy. The one the Magistrate’s driver dropped off yesterday.”

“Oh yes.” She arched a brow. “We were told not to expect the pleasure of his company for long. Pity—he could have been a real earner.” She tapped a button on her desk. “Irin can take you.”

In his one year as Malsha Linnett’s kettle boy and his subsequent five years as the man’s secretary, Artur had grown accustomed to running errands that made him feel queasy. Still, he was glad Malsha hadn’t given him the task of dropping the boy off last night and letting him think this shithole was his new permanent home.

“Last night was necessary,” Malsha had explained to Artur earlier this afternoon. “To placate my stupid son-in-law and his stupid notions of honor, but also for the boy’s sake. I’m too old and frail to break him in myself. I need him tenderized a little.”

Artur had lofted a brow very high at that, but he hadn’t contradicted his Fir. If Malsha wanted to pretend to be “old and frail,” that was his prerogative. Artur knew better, as Malsha was well aware.

Irin turned out to be a scrawny, sickly-looking boy, barely out of his teens, with ash-colored hair and a thick muffler around his neck. He took one look at Artur’s neat jerkin and boots and rolled his eyes. “What can I do for you?”

“Room number seventeen, Rinsha,” said the manager.

Irin nodded, a perma-scowl on his face. “You’re taking him out of here?” he asked Artur.

The manager cleared her throat loudly. “This is Strutter business. No questions. The count?”

“Seven,” Irin said. He turned on his heel and led Artur down a dingy, windowless white hall, then down a second one at a right angle, moving so fast it took Artur a few moments to catch up.

“I’m here to take the kid, yeah,” he said when they were walking abreast. “How’s he doing?”

“Well, he can walk,” Irin said, staring straight ahead. “He walked to the showers this morning. I asked him to help me sweep and mop—that’s part of our duties, you know. But he wasn’t up to it, so I let him stay in bed.”

Artur’s throat tightened. “Was he . . . difficult?” Malsha had said something about a Dissident offense in Thurskein. If the boy turned out to be a firebrand who refused to be “tenderized,” Artur was the one who’d have to deal with it—or instruct Krisha to—and the last thing he wanted was to have to mete out punishment to someone who’d already endured last night. For both their sakes, he hoped the kid was docile.

Irin grimaced, stopping before a door. “Well, it’s hard the first time. The officers are good lads mostly, but they can be rough when they’re drinking. And they do drink.”

No doubt. Artur tensed as the door swung open to reveal a cell-like room furnished only with a bed. The strong disinfectant didn’t entirely cover the reek of liquor, urine, and other odors Artur preferred not to identify. There was an unmoving hump under the blankets.

Irin bent over the bed, but Artur waved him away. “I’ll take it from here.” He handed Irin a full vial of sap, per Malsha’s instructions (“Tip everyone”), and set the bundle of clothes on the foot of the bed. A few strands of lank, dark-gold hair trailed across the mattress. “Are you awake?” he asked. “I’ve brought some clothes for you.”

The boy’s body curled more tightly into itself.

“You can sit up now, lad,” Irin said, hovering in the doorway. “Nothing to fear. He ain’t a patron.”

Artur was about to rebuke him for interfering when the Skeinsha boy sat up, his movements tight with pain and wariness. The first thing Artur noticed was the bruises, lurid on the pale skin—not just the expected love bites, but a fat lip, a purple lump on the temple.

He sucked in his breath and turned on Irin. “What the fuck? He wasn’t supposed to be physically damaged!”

Irin backed away. “We don’t do that shit here. He came in with those!”

“It’s true,” the boy said almost in a whisper.

He was tall and broad-shouldered for his age, but otherwise slim and reedy. He wore only a robe. Unsurprisingly, he had the kind of fresh, pale, heavy-lidded beauty that Malsha and most other Councillors found irresistible.

How fucking predictable. Artur tried and failed to suppress a rush of pity. Malsha had demanded only one year of intimate service from him, but he had a feeling this boy wouldn’t be so lucky.

As Irin finally left them, still scowling, Artur unrolled his bundle and pulled out a pair of trousers. “My name is Artur Threindal,” he said in his formal Sector voice. “I’m Fir Magistrate Linnett’s secretary, and I’m here to escort you to his apartment, where you’ll live henceforth as his personal secretary. His kettle boy, to be blunt.” He tugged another vial of sap from his jerkin. “Would a nip be helpful? Are you in any pain?”

Wide, cobalt blue eyes stared at him. “I don’t understand, Fir,” the boy said hoarsely. “He said I would stay here—the driver did.”

Yeah, well, that’s how mind games work. Artur tossed briefs and an undershirt at the boy, who flinched. “Let me know if you need help dressing. Otherwise, I’ll turn my back and give you your privacy.” Which is probably the last time you’ll have it for a while.

After a moment, the boy said, “I don’t need help, Fir.” He had a soft Skeinsha burr.

Artur turned his back and waited. Not for the first time, he said a silent prayer of gratitude that his nose was prominent, his complexion patchy, and his eyes a touch beady. He wasn’t unattractive, just ordinary.

“Your impertinence was your main attraction,” Malsha had told him once. “When I came into the research library, and you asked me to put away my handheld and stared me down as if I were nobody, I knew at once I had to have you.” The memory of those words—delivered fondly, as if he and the Magistrate were actual lovers reminiscing about their first meeting—still sent chills down Artur’s spine.

If this kid turned out to be thick-headed or weak-willed or eagerly submissive, he might still escape Malsha’s clutches, beauty or not. Malsha liked a challenge. Artur hoped for the boy’s sake he wasn’t one.

“You can turn around now, Fir.”

Dressed, the boy didn’t look like the sort of troublemaker who might seduce a General Magistrate’s granddaughter. He looked shaky on his feet, meek, and a little terrified. “You needn’t call me Fir,” Artur said, slowly and clearly in case the boy couldn’t understand his Reddan speech. “I’m a Drudge just like you.” He offered his arm. “Remind me of your name?”

“Bronn, Tilhard Edvard, Fir.”

“I told you, I’m not a Fir.” Artur took hold of the boy—who went rigid, but didn’t resist—and steered him toward the door.

“Personally, I’d like to ditch this shithole. Wouldn’t you?” He kept talking as he led the boy down the corridor, perhaps more for his own benefit than anyone else’s. “Krisha has your outergear—I couldn’t carry it all. He’s in the garage.” He adjusted his pace, trying not to notice the boy’s bow-legged gait. “We ordered you a full wardrobe based on the measurements Fir Jena had taken. All custom-made, not off the rack—that’s how my Fir likes it. Starting tomorrow, I’ll get time off from my work in the Sector to teach you your new duties.”

Those words sent a shiver through the boy’s arm, and Artur added hastily, “Not that. I mean brewing the tea, setting the table, that stuff. What should I call you? Till? Varsha for Edvard?”

Instead of answering, the boy froze in place, dragging Artur backward. Five reeking officers sauntered out of a gaming room and directly into their path, loudly congratulating each other on a win. One paused for a quick leer at the boy before proceeding down the hall.

Artur could feel the boy’s terror fluttering under the skin. “C’mon,” he said, patting the boy’s arm. “Let’s get out of here.”

The boy didn’t speak until they stepped into the clammy garage. Then he said, “You can call me Tilrey.”

“And you can call me Turshka, if you like.” Artur kept tight hold of the boy’s arm (“He could be feeling self-destructive,” Malsha had warned) until Krisha came over carrying the heavy coat, scarf, hat, and boots.

The hulking young driver didn’t like to make eye contact. Artur sensed Tilrey shrinking from Krisha as he had from the soldiers—maybe they had similar physical builds.

“It’s okay,” he coaxed, holding out the coat for the boy to slip into. “Krisha’s job is to protect you. From now on, no one’s allowed to touch you without permission.”

Meaning Fir Magistrate’s permission, not his own—but if the boy didn’t already know that, he had more problems than Artur could help him with. As he shepherded Tilrey into the backseat, Artur hoped to everything green that the boy really was “tenderized,” so tenderized there was nothing left for Malsha to sink his teeth into.

Fir Magistrate was on the couch drinking tea when they came in. “Hello,” he said, smiling charmingly. “Please join me.”

Tilrey’s legs stopped working. He left it to the tall redheaded Laborer who acted and dressed like an Upstart to get him over to the couch and seated beside the Fir. He tried not to wince.

Artur. Turshka. He seemed nice enough. Nice was good. Tilrey had to be nice now, to try to be nice, to cooperate, and maybe then people would be nice back. He had a memory of trying to impress people and caring about his dignity, but that felt like a while ago.

Fir Magistrate was smiling again like a grandfather, like Supervisor Fernei—approving and kind, without a trace of lust or malice. If he could tell that sitting down hurt Tilrey, he didn’t show it, only said, “Turshka, tea for you both, please. And freshen up mine.”

The old man’s closeness was a bonfire, singeing Tilrey around the edges. He didn’t let himself inch away, only dropped his eyes. The key was not to react, to stay half-present. It hadn’t entirely worked last night, but maybe it had helped.

Artur stood still, not obeying the order. “You didn’t tell me he was bruised, Fir,” he said in a surprisingly insolent tone.

“For green’s sake, Turshka, I didn’t do it!” The old man’s voice quavered. “My fool son-in-law isn’t capable of understanding that his daughter has a mind of her own. He took it out on the boy.” As Artur went into the kitchen, he said to Tilrey, “Look at me.”

I’m just a stupid Skeinsha. I don’t hear. I don’t understand. That had worked on Jena, at least at first.

The Magistrate’s voice sharpened. “Don’t play dumb with me.”

Before he knew what he was doing, Tilrey found himself looking into the blue eyes of the most powerful man in Oslov. They were steady and sincere, with a core of iron.

He blinked and looked away, and the Magistrate said, “No. No games.” A hand lifted Tilrey’s chin, and those eyes locked on his again as the Magistrate said, “I’m very sorry about last night. Jena’s brutality I don’t take responsibility for. The rest I do. Jena seemed to think your spirit needed breaking, and—” A shrug. “This was the best way I knew to preserve the rest of you.”

What was Tilrey supposed to do? Accept the apology? He nodded.

The Fir kept tight hold of him. “Now, you have a bit of explaining of your own to do. I’ve seen your academic record. You’re highly intelligent, yet you don’t seem to have a word to say for yourself. Tell me, were you playing my son-in-law for a fool? What was your endgame?”

Endgame? Tilrey shook his head. It was no longer easy to remember even a few days back. Last night was vast, oceanic, a pool of blackness where he drowned over and over.

Every time he relaxed his vigilant grip on the here and now, he felt them again—the hands. Not just in the expected places, but circling his ankle or stroking the back of his neck or the sole of his foot. He heard the guffaws, giggles, moans. He remembered thinking, This isn’t so bad, I can take this, and then later not thinking anything.

The Magistrate cleared his throat.

“I didn’t.” It came in a whisper. “I wasn’t playing anything.”

Artur popped his head through the kitchen doorway. “I don’t think he’s hiding anything, Fir. I think he’s just shy.”

Shy. That was what Dal and Pers always said, teasing him until he blushed like a bonfire. That girl likes you, Tilrey. Why don’t you go talk to her? You’re so shy it’s ridiculous. Until he admitted to Dal how he felt about her, and the teasing stopped.

The word seemed to have an odd effect on Fir Magistrate. “Shy,” he said, releasing Tilrey’s chin. “I suppose that tracks with what I’ve seen. Although you weren’t so shy with my granddaughter, were you?”

The blush came unbidden. “I’m sorry. It just . . . happened.”

“That’s the way of such things, isn’t it?” A light pat on his knee. “Tell me, Rishka, was it Vera’s idea?”

“People don’t call me Rishka, Fir.” It slipped out automatically, because that nickname was reserved for his mother.

“I see.” The Magistrate sounded amused. “But you’re evading the question. Was it my granddaughter’s idea?”

Tilrey tried to think back. Was the question a trap to see whether he’d betray an Upstart to save himself? “I don’t really know, Fir,” he admitted. “I mean, she kissed me, but—I don’t know. I guess it was my fault. Fir Jena said so.”

The Magistrate chuckled grimly. “You may have noticed Fir Jena is an ass. I’ll forever regret that he had you before I did. He did have you, didn’t he?”

The question was too much, too soon, but “playing dumb” would get him in trouble. Tilrey nodded, thumbnail digging into his index finger.

“Let me guess. The way he was oversapping you, you were unconscious when it happened?”

To Tilrey’s intense relief, Artur was back with the tea. The steam felt good on his face. He barely nodded.

“You keep pushing him too hard, Malsha,” the secretary said, pouring with brisk, graceful motions. “Give him some time to find his footing.”

“Very well.” The old man sighed like a scolded child. “I just can’t bear the thought of Jena’s hands on him. The man barely even seems to have a libido. He must have forced himself to do what he considered his duty.”

The description was disturbingly apt. Jena had done everything he did to Tilrey with a constrained, uncomfortable expression on his face, apologizing at intervals. Tilrey hadn’t understood it then and didn’t now. “His duty, Fir?” he found himself asking.

“He had to present you to me as his kettle boy, and make it convincing, before we could strike the deal he hoped for.” The old man sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to give him that stupid committee chair he wanted, now that I’m going to keep you.”

“It would be prudent,” Artur said.

Tilrey was still struggling to put the pieces together. “Yesterday . . . Fir Jena said he’d rather see me dead than anyone’s kettle boy.”

The Magistrate laughed. “The chair will stop his complaining. But you may as well know, sweetheart, I’ve never given a fuck what Jena thinks. If he had any power over me, if anyone did, you might have reason to worry about that little charge of shirking on your record.”

Tilrey’s bowels turned to ice. “I thought Fir Jena—”

“Expunged it? Well, he tried. You translated a whole bulletin from Resurgence, if I’m not mistaken? People have spent years in Int/Sec for less. But I understand and forgive youthful indiscretions. When you belong to me, you’re safe. So don’t fret about Jena.”

Tilrey understood the threat of Int/Sec, knew what the Magistrate was telling him. But it was the word sweetheart that sent shivers winding down his spine. For an instant, that pool of blackness closed over his head again.

He was sitting on the lap of the big one, the one they all called “birthday boy.” A meaty thigh bounced under him, making him painfully aware of the man’s arousal. They kept giving him beer from their own glasses, and it made his head spin, but never enough. Warm, stinky breath came with a whisper: You’ll be sweet for me, won’t you? I’ll be sweet to you.

He came up gasping. It was a vast relief to be sitting on the white couch with no one touching him except Artur’s fingers grazing his as they handed him a tumbler.

The tea felt good sliding down his raw throat. He tasted sap in it, and that made him take a bigger swallow. Sap made things easier, made him numb. He would need it soon.

By the fourth or fifth sip, he was starting to feel a pleasant buzz, a heaviness in his limbs. He looked up of his own accord and saw the Magistrate watching him.

“I calibrated the dose, you know,” the man said. “We can’t have you turning into a corpse like you were with Fir Jena.”

Too bad. Tilrey took another sip. The recessed lights were gathering a fuzzy glow. The aches from yesterday and last night were receding, and everything was starting to feel very good. Even when the Magistrate ran a hand through his hair, stroking it back from his face, he didn’t pull away. The touch was gentle. Gentle was good.

I can take this. I can. He hadn’t cried last night, not once. Well, maybe he’d felt wetness on his cheeks, but there’d been no sobbing, no begging, no theatrics; he was proud of that.

Pride was good. His mother was proud. You should be proud of yourself, she’d said when she showed him the printout of his tenth-year scores, and no, he was not going to think about that day or her, not anymore or possibly ever again. That life was over.

“Tell me, child,” the Magistrate asked in his ear, “how much experience with sap did you have before you came to Redda?”

“None.”

“Not even a taste?” The Magistrate’s lips were nuzzling his hair, moving down his neck. “I don’t think you know how lovely you are.”

From somewhere in the distance came a rushing sound like a waterfall. Tilrey let the Fir take the tipping tumbler away from him. He accepted the man’s lips against his, let his mouth fall open to the slick, exploring tongue. Let his knees fall open to the exploring hand. Felt nothing except the pleasant thrum of the sap in his veins. Half-here. When you belong to me, you’re safe.

At some point Artur spoke to the Magistrate in the distance, then closer. Then Tilrey was being raised to his feet and guided into another room, tiled and bright and full of steam. The rushing had been a bath.

Careful hands unfastened his collar—Artur’s hands. Tilrey stiffened and tried to writhe away, despite the sap, but Artur whispered in his ear, “Shhh, it’ll be okay. Just a bath.”

Then he was naked, and Artur was guiding him down the slippery steps. His grip was brotherly, nothing clinging or suggestive about it. Tilrey eased himself into the bath. The hot, foaming water felt good on his aches, just like the tea in his throat. He was aware that the Magistrate was sitting inches away from him, but he was too comfortable to care.

The old man held out his hand, a puddle of black in the palm. “A little more?”

Tilrey had been made to drink sap from Jena’s hand. He knew what to do. But this was the first time he hadn’t wanted to spit it out. He licked it up and swallowed, and when the Magistrate reached out and tugged him closer, he didn’t pull away.

The sap drew him into a vortex of its own, warm and red-dark and vibrating. There was more kissing, more tongue, teeth nipping his neck, but it was all easy to tune out.

Something slithered across his earlobe, activating sensitive nerve endings. Tilrey jerked awake—and felt a hand capture his cock.

For an instant, he twisted in the man’s arms, desperate to escape. Not again, please, not yet, not again—

Then the hand began pumping, and the lips and tongue sucked on his earlobe, and somehow the combination of the two sensations, one heavy and blunt and the other almost painfully precise, made his cock lurch upright between his legs. He moaned in protest—I don’t want to feel this, I don’t want to feel anything. But he stopped struggling.

“Shh, sweetheart.” A whisper tickled his ear. Then the suckling and the pumping began again—clever, knowing movements, rhythms dovetailing. On and on it went, until all he could feel was a single intense heat pressing down on him. And then, in an endless, shameful instant, he came.

When he managed to open his eyes again, Fir Magistrate was gone. Artur’s strong hands helped him up the steps and wrapped him in a towel, then in a robe. Artur led him into a room dominated by a large bed with a severe rectangular canopy. When they reached the edge of the bed, Artur said, “Sit.”

Tilrey did as he was told. He seemed to be under a spell, his limbs not under his control. It had felt good, so good, and it shouldn’t have, but could he help wanting to feel good?

“Isn’t he exquisite?” that velvety voice said. Fir Magistrate had come to sit at the foot of the bed, also in a robe. The recessed lights of the canopy glinted on his glasses.

“That’s your business, not mine,” said Artur, sounding uncomfortable. “Time for me to leave, Fir?”

Tilrey blinked and looked away. He was still riding the buzz of sap and orgasm, but it wouldn’t last forever. Sooner or later, he knew, there’d be a rude awakening.

Fir Magistrate was talking again, practically lecturing, something about what had to happen to a kettle boy on his first night in a new house and why. Tilrey didn’t bother to listen. Knowing perfectly well where this was going, he lay back, closed his eyes, and didn’t stop the robe from falling open. I’m not actually here.

Artur’s voice woke him from the haze; it was strident and borderline angry. “Really? That’s what you want?”

“I don’t want him like this, and not just for the obvious reasons.” The Magistrate sounded almost defensive. “He needs to—what did you say? He needs to find his footing first.”

“I’m not doing it, Fir. Like I said, that’s your business.”

“My business is your business,” the Fir said icily. “Aren’t you my proxy in committee meetings?”

They argued back and forth, the Magistrate growing more imperious and Artur’s resolve flagging, until Tilrey’s sap-weary brain finally grasped what the Fir wanted Artur to do. He opened his eyes and said to the bright canopy, “It’s okay. I don’t mind.”

Artur had been kind, and Tilrey didn’t want to get Artur in trouble, didn’t want him to lose his job over something that was inevitably going to happen anyway. He rolled over and braced himself on his forearms and did his best to offer himself the way Jena had told him to. (“You’re supposed to want it,” the Councillor had said, a frantic undertone in his voice. “You do want it.”)

He said, “Just do it, please.”

“You heard him,” the Magistrate said.

Artur muttered, “Fuck. Look at him. Don’t know if I can even get it up.”

Then those careful hands were on Tilrey again, and they were slick and opening him. He did his best to lean into the pressure and not show it hurt. Artur used a different lube from the one the officers had, with a less medicinal and a more botanical smell. Good. That was good.

“Oh yes,” the Magistrate was saying. “If you need help standing to attention, Turshka, I’m here.”

Artur grunted and climbed on top of Tilrey. “Fuck you, old man. No help needed.” He bent and whispered in Tilrey’s ear, “I’m sorry. I’ll be as gentle as I can, but it won’t be gentle enough. Push out, okay? And breathe.”

Tilrey nodded. He was ready.

Artur woke in the dark to distant sobbing. It took him a moment to remember where he was—Malsha’s apartment, spare bedroom—and why.

Fuck. Memories rushed back: the boy rolling over, spreading his legs. The way he’d grimaced while it was happening, wedging a knuckle between his teeth. Artur had wanted to stop, but by that time he was getting close, and anyway, if he did stop, things might go worse for them both. And so, like a fucking toadie coward, he’d kept on.

It’ll be better for him in the long run, he’d told himself, the way it was for you, but he wasn’t sure he believed it.

After they were done, Malsha had banished them to the small room that had once been Artur’s private space and was now Tilrey’s. It wasn’t a free-night, and the Magistrate needed a proper night’s rest for tomorrow’s Council session. He instructed Artur to sleep on the outside of the single bed. One arch of the brows said it all: Don’t let him hurt himself.

And now Artur was alone.

The sobs came from the small connected bathroom. He threw off the blankets, barreled in there, and flicked on the light.

The boy crouched on the floor by the vanity, naked and curled up, his shoulders heaving. Each sob made him convulse as if something were trying to force its way out of him.

“Hey.” Artur’s throat closed as he bent over Tilrey, not sure he should touch him. That might make things worse. “Hey, it’s okay. Come back to bed. You need your sleep.”

Tilrey’s head snapped up. Then he was on his feet, a flicker of metal in his hand—shit.

Artur backed away, heart thudding, as Tilrey brandished a nail file at him. “Don’t touch me,” the boy said hoarsely.

Artur raised his hands, every nerve suddenly alight as his mind raced, trying to gauge Tilrey’s degree of resolution. “You don’t want to do that,” he said levelly. “Put it down.”

Tilrey’s eyes were glassy with tears, but his hand looked steady as he shook his head. “I won’t do this anymore. I’m done. I’d rather . . .”

“What? You’d rather go back to the officers’ club and get fucked by another seven soldiers tomorrow night?”

Artur’s heart twisted as he uttered the words, but they worked. Tilrey faltered, his weapon hand shaking, and Artur seized his advantage. He grabbed the boy’s thin wrist and held on, tightening his grip until the nail file clattered to the tile.

He snatched it and scrambled away, but Tilrey didn’t come after him. He sank back onto the floor and hugged his knees, shuddering.

“Stay right there.” Artur’s brief search of the cabinets came up with a razor and some painkillers. Satisfied that the room was safe now, he locked Tilrey inside and went to hide the items in Krisha’s toolshed in the garage.

When he returned, he found Tilrey in the exact same position.

“Come on. Come.” He unfolded the boy from his fetal huddle and walked him into the dark bedroom again.

Tilrey didn’t resist when Artur sat him on the bed, nudged him against the wall, and tucked him in. He curled up and resumed his sobbing, quietly this time.

“It’s all right, lad. It’s all right.” Gingerly, because he wasn’t sure how Tilrey would react, Artur slid both arms around the trembling form. “That won’t happen again,” he said. “Not with me, I mean. Promise you. You’re not actually my type,” he added, making a stab at levity.

A long shudder went through the boy’s body. Then he relaxed all at once into Artur’s arms, pressing his head against Artur’s chest. The contact brought back memories of earlier tonight, and Artur tensed—but no, this was different. He wasn’t hurting the boy now. It was all right.

He stroked Tilrey’s hair with one hand, the other rubbing his back, as the boy wept into his shoulder. “It’s all right. Nothing to worry about now, and it gets better. It does. You’re fine. You’re safe. Let it all out.”

Chapter End Notes

So, after this one, I’ll post one chapter per week. And things will get a little better for Tilrey before getting worse again. Revisiting his friendship with Bror has been one of the happy parts of this for me! Also, spending time with Krisha, even if he and Tilrey can’t really be friends until “The Trip to Harbour.” Thanks for reading! <3

Chapter End Notes