Chapter 3: Trained — The Key of Oslov

Volume 20: All the Kinds of Broken

Chapter 3 Trained

Chapter Notes

Being a kettle boy isn’t all about sex, so this chapter has a lot less awfulness and a lot more tea brewing and solidarity. Thank you so much to mugi_says_eep for the idea of Oslovs keeping bonsai tea trees, which I did not even know were a thing until now. And thanks to everyone for reading! <3

Chapter Notes

The doors of his new home were locked. They were all locked.The door of the bedroom, first of all. He woke up there alone, his face sticky with dried tears, and climbed out of bed and showered until his skin was raw. Then he dressed, and then he tried to open the door to the rest of the apartment. When he couldn’t, he pounded on it, panicking. What if the building caught fire?Artur opened up. “Would you like some breakfast?” As Tilrey came out—fell out, really—the secretary added, “It’s just us. He’s in the Sector.”Tilrey ate his porridge without argument. He made minimal responses to Artur’s talk about the snowstorm predicted for today. He bided his time, waiting for the moment when Artur would be distracted and he could try the door that led into the coldroom, and from there to the garage and outside.Plan? He was all done with plans. His body was telling him it needed to get away.When Artur took the dishes into the kitchen, Tilrey got his chance. A few steps down the hallway, and then he was yanking on the heavy sliding door.It didn’t budge, and he quickly saw why: It had a scan panel, like the fire doors in Thurskein, so only an authorized person could leave. Tilrey’s mom had had authorization for their floor of Sector Six, making her one of the designated rescuers in an emergency; when he was little, this made him feel very important.Now he pressed the back of his right hand, where a chip had been implanted on his second day in Redda, to the scanner. The panel flickered, reading the chip, and showed red instead of green.He slapped the door. “Fuck.”“You don’t have coming-and-going privileges just yet,” said Artur’s calm voice. “Those’ll come.”Tilrey couldn’t stop himself from cringing back a little. Please don’t hit me. Then he squared his shoulders and walked back into the living room as if nothing had happened. “I just wanted to know.”Artur shrugged. “Want to come and see the bonsai?”The bonsai tea trees lived on a deep window ledge in the kitchen. There were five of them, handed down through Malsha’s family over generations, and only the Magistrate himself was allowed to tend them, prune them, and harvest the leaves for tea.“Don’t get any ideas about hacking them up or smashing them against the wall,” Artur said when he’d finished explaining the subtly different varieties of brew that each Camellia sinensis yielded. “I was tempted more than a few times when I lived here, but I don’t want to know what punishments he’d come up with.”Tilrey had no desire to harm the tiny trees, precious to the Magistrate or not. Their potting soil had a rich, prickly smell that reminded him of being outdoors in Thurskein in the summer. They were as much prisoners here as he was.“You used to live here?” he asked as Artur moved on to show him the air-tight canisters of brew-ready tea leaves, side by side on top of the cabinets.“Yeah.” The tall redhead didn’t meet his eyes. “I was his kettle boy for a year, which is why I’m training you. He hasn’t had one since me, because he’s picky.”So Artur, who was now so well spoken and well dressed that Tilrey had confused him with an Upstart, had lain with the Magistrate in that same bed where they’d been last night. He’d dressed in these stupid, fussy tunics and brewed and poured the Magistrate’s tea. Tilrey felt a wave of dread and empathy at once.He was quiet as Artur showed him how to clean and warm the kettle, how many leaves to add, where to get the proper water, how to boil it, and how to wait till it was just slightly off-boil before pouring. “You’ll be processing the leaves, too,” the secretary said. “Most of them you can just crush and dry, but there’s one that has to be smoked over pinewood, and it’s his favorite. I’ll show you when he harvests a new batch. Now, the next step is adding butter or milk, whatever he and his guests want. The steamer’s right here—”“Why’d you stop after a year?”Artur deposited the steaming kettle on a pad on the counter. “We made a deal, the Fir and I,” he said. “I was older than you then—twenty-four, with a good posting in the Library system. I never wanted to be his piece, and I made that clear. But he offered me something that changed my mind.”“What?” Tilrey felt his throat go dry. Fir Jena kept insisting that Fir Magistrate was powerful, so powerful that anyone should be happy to be his kettle boy. But the words meant nothing to him.“In exchange for my sharing his bed for one year, he Raised my younger sister. She’s an Upstart now.” Artur poured water from the kettle to the teapot, looking amused by Tilrey’s quizzical expression. “Do you not realize how much that means to my whole family? But you’re a Skeinsha—maybe it’s different there.”“He can just decide to do that? Raise somebody? I thought a committee judged each candidate anonymously.”Artur laughed. “Well, that’s the way it works in theory. And sometimes in practice. The important thing is, Malsha’s not always easy to live with. But if he likes you, you’re set for life. Any posting you want, any privileges for your family back in Thurskein—ask and he’ll give it to you, provided it doesn’t interfere with his own plans. He likes to be generous.”Tilrey didn’t like to imagine what his mother would think of “privileges” he’d bought this way. Knowing her, she’d sooner disown him. He crossed his arms. “I don’t have a choice like you did, though. Do I?”Artur pulled a packet from the fridge. Inside was something white and squishy, which he sliced onto a plate. “Synth-butter. You don’t have this in Thurskein, do you?”“I’ve heard of it,” Tilrey said defensively. He wasn’t an utter idiot.Artur poured two tumblers of tea. “When I said I didn’t want to be Malsha’s kettle boy, I understated the case. I didn’t want to be within a hundred meters of him. Our first time together, he invited me over on a pretext and then drugged me and raped me while I was out cold. He didn’t even try to seduce me—he knew I didn’t want him.” He didn’t look at Tilrey, his keen, hooded eyes gazing into the distance.Tilrey realized he’d been holding his breath. “Jena,” he said in a low voice. “Did that. Said it was easier. It was my first time, and I don’t even remember.”“Sucks, doesn’t it? Well, I wasn’t going to file a charge; Malsha wasn’t GM yet then, but he was a powerful Councillor, and it was my word against his. But I hated his guts, and I never wanted to see his face again. If it hadn’t been for my sister, I never would have.”Tilrey wondered if he could have made such a sacrifice for a sibling. Maybe, as an only child, he couldn’t understand.“Anyway.” Artur took two pats of butter from the dish and set one afloat in each tumbler. “My point is, having a ‘choice’ didn’t make me feel any better about it. But I gritted my teeth, and I put on that tunic, and I poured that tea, and I learned to suck his cock the way he likes, and you know what? It wasn’t so bad.” His eyes met Tilrey’s now. “I got used to him—every twist and turn of him, every nasty little perversion. And I found out he has his good points, too. He lets me speak frankly to the point of insolence. He has genuine respect for me, even when he’s treating me like shit.”Like last night. Tilrey remembered how Artur had argued with the Magistrate, and a chill spread through him.Artur was still talking: “I learned to anticipate his next move, to work him a bit, and I think I came out on top. So will you, Tilrey.”“Why?” It was all he could think of to say. “Last night, why did he make you . . . do that instead of doing it himself?”Instead of answering, Artur passed him a tumbler. “I think you need this. Try it.”The tea was good—hot and smoky and strong, with a wash of salty cream from the butter. Tilrey took another swallow. Good, yes, but it was missing something he was already used to. The need for it tugged at him, growing stronger as the day wore on. “Can I have some sap in it?”Artur shook his head. “Fir Jena dosed you like there was no tomorrow. Consider this a detox. The Magistrate doesn’t want you sapping unless it comes straight from his hand.”For a moment, Tilrey almost wanted to hit him. “You still have to do what he says, don’t you? Even now?”Artur gave him a hard look. “Last night, Malsha was playing a little game. He likes to set people against each other. I was the bad guy then, and I’m the bad guy now, denying you what you want. So when Malsha considerately waits a whole ten-day before taking you to bed himself, and gives you a palmful of sap to make it easier, he’ll be the good guy.”“I’m not stupid.”“I know you’re not.” Artur loaded the teapot and five tumblers onto a heavy stonework tray. “And once he knows that for sure, you’ll really have to watch out. C’mon. Let’s practice the service.”They moved into the living room, where Tilrey watched Artur demonstrate how to set the tray down, how to kneel while he poured, and even where to look so he didn’t make the Fir’s guests uncomfortable. “Now you try.”Tilrey poured and poured, but he was hopelessly awkward. “No,” Artur said, laughing. “Don’t let the tunic get tangled up between your thighs. When you kneel, flip it over your knee like this. You don’t have it belted tight enough, either.” He cinched the tunic until Tilrey could barely breathe. “The whole point is to show off your slim waist.”“I don’t want to.” Tilrey sat down on the floor. Tears stung his eyes—but no, after last night’s debacle, he was never crying again. Not a single fucking tear. He might be shy, but he wasn’t weak.“I don’t think I can do this, Turshka,” he said, barely keeping his voice steady. “It’s just—I can’t.”He expected the response to be worried or surprised, but Artur only said, “Yeah. That’s why he picked you.”Tilrey hugged his knees, trying to ignore the waistband’s crushing grip on his ribs. “I don’t understand.”Artur took a guzzle from one of the tumblers. “You’re from a good family in Thurskein, aren’t you? I’m guessing you’ve been raised a certain way. Sheltered. Even a little privileged.”Tilrey’s cheeks flushed; Dal used to tease him about being soft and spoiled. “My mom’s the Lieutenant Supervisor, but I wouldn’t say I’m—”“It’s not an insult! I was the same. Malsha likes a certain type of boy—a Laborer who’s been raised almost like an Upstart. Proud. Studious. Sensitive. He likes to take that pride and break it—or just to implant tiny, strategic cracks till we break of our own accord.”Tilrey tried to imagine how that would work, but all he could think of was last night and the night before. If Malsha wanted to “break” him, he hadn’t been exactly subtle about it.“Now I’ve told you one of his biggest secrets,” Artur said. “You need to remember that, okay?”Tilrey remembered how the Magistrate’s hand had wrapped itself around his cock in the bath and made him come. He imagined himself as one of the stonework tumblers, only lying in pieces on the floor. “I think I’m . . . well, as broken as I’m going to get.”Artur laughed darkly. “Wrong. It’s just starting, and you need to be ready. Never, ever open up to him.”*Over the next ten-day, Tilrey learned more than he felt like he’d learned his whole last term at school. He learned the schedule of the Sector: which nights of a given ten-day were free-nights, when he’d be expected to work; and which were work-nights, when no Upstart would bother him. He learned how to smoke tea leaves, how to pour properly, how to froth milk, how to kneel. He learned the proper forms of address (“Fir Councillor X” or “Fir X,” not “Councillor X”), how to brush his new haircut and apply subtle concealer to blemishes, and how to look smart and impeccable in R-11 clothes.The lessons distracted him from the tug of his need for sap. It weakened a little every day, but when he was alone in his room with only a book for company, the need sometimes made his head spin with a raw, aching emptiness. He didn’t want to be sweet-drowned; everyone knew how ugly addiction could get. But if he could have just a nip . . .Some pieces of his education were mortifying: He learned how to “clean” himself and how to “prep” himself, the latter being a service that Malsha would request if he wanted it. “Usually he likes to prep you himself,” Artur explained. “But some men won’t want to bother, so you should be ready.” Artur always used a bored, clinical tone when he talked about the sexual aspects of the job, as if determined to convince Tilrey not to be ashamed. “Would you stop blushing?” he said once. “It’s just a posting like any other, work you can do well or badly. It’s not a dirty secret.”Tilrey couldn’t see it as just a posting. He was doing a good job of staying away from the dark vortex during the day, but he still woke most nights to find his throat raw and the bedclothes on the floor. He didn’t remember the dreams in detail—just men’s laughter and hands everywhere, and that was enough.Even though he’d come to trust Artur, there were times when the young man got too close to him—and suddenly Tilrey was back there, facedown in the Magistrate’s bed with Artur’s breath rasping against his neck. He knew Artur hadn’t meant to crowd him, hadn’t wanted to make him remember, but he had to move away.That was in the past. He was stronger now. Whatever came next, he could take it.On his fifth day in Malsha’s apartment, Artur didn’t come to unlock his room in the morning as usual. Instead, the door opened to reveal the hulking young driver, Krisha, who said in his awkward way, “After breakfast, gonna take you to the gym. Fir’s orders.”Krisha’s size and bulk set Tilrey’s nerves on edge in that way he could no longer control. But the driver had a sullen, distant manner that was somewhat reassuring. He rarely made eye contact with Tilrey, let alone leered.And Krisha, like him, was an outsider. The man’s thick accent reminded Tilrey of Dal’s cousins from Karkei, Thurskein’s sister city to the north. There was a foreign edge to it, though, that he struggled to identify—a nasal tinge to the vowels.When they stepped outside at last, Tilrey forgot Krisha existed in the thrill of being free, of breathing fresh air and seeing buildings and views he’d never seen before. He glued himself to the window of the mag-car and took in the angles and spires of Redda like a starving man with a bowl of rice.When they disembarked at the gym, Krisha caught hold of his arm. “Fir says to stay close to you.”“Fine,” Tilrey muttered. Had the Magistrate guessed that every step he took outside would be a temptation to run? Not today—Krisha’s grip was too tight—but someday. There had to be places indoors he could hide. Maybe he could find some shirkers who would help him to—But there the fantasy ended, because he couldn’t imagine a single way to get back to Thurskein or what to tell his mother if he did. Artur might call being a kettle boy just a job, but to his mother it was shame and decadence—an unfortunate facet of Oslov society, an ugly tradition of mutual exploitation. And he was training diligently to be exploited.The gym was sparsely populated—a relief, because it was a swanky pine-paneled establishment for Councillors and other high Upstarts, people Tilrey wasn’t eager to meet. Even in the locker room, Krisha didn’t leave him alone. But he did turn his back while Tilrey changed, just as Artur always did. He seemed almost as unhappy with the whole situation as Tilrey was.In the weight room, Krisha explained, “He wants you to bulk up. Not too much, though.” He produced a print-out: a whole program of machines and free-weight lifts for Tilrey to follow, with the weight and reps increasing over time.It was boring—nothing like his favorite forms of exercise, skiing and swimming. But with Krisha silently spotting him, Tilrey soon found he enjoyed the exertion and the subsequent endorphin rush. He imagined being strong enough to fight off any conceivable attacker.The worst part was the other men in the weight room—most clearly trying to beef up their frail frames, a few already beefier than he could ever dream of being. When they bothered to notice him, their arched brows suggested they knew exactly what he was.One of the beefy ones, a thick-necked young man with wide-set blue eyes in a brutishly handsome face, kept staring. Not leering exactly, but every time Tilrey looked up, there he was. And the whole time he stared, he effortlessly lifted quantities that made Tilrey feel like a sniveling little boy.“Hey! Concentrate!” Krisha steadied the barbell as it nearly slipped from his sweaty grasp.Tilrey got it back on the stand and sat up. The thick-necked young man was standing right by them, casually scratching his muscular ass. He grinned at Tilrey and asked Krisha, “Gonna introduce me?”“This is the Magistrate’s new boy,” Krisha said. “Obviously.”Tilrey tensed, but the stranger’s grin widened into a radiant smile. “Hey, kid,” he said, extending his hand. “Same gig. I’m Fir István’s boy, Bror Birun. What’s your name?”Somehow it hadn’t occurred to Tilrey to wonder how other kettle boys would look and act. If he had, he wouldn’t have predicted this open friendliness. He clasped Bror’s hand. “I’m Tilrey Bronn.”“From ’Skein, eh?” Bror ran a hand through his short, sweaty dirty-blond hair. His direct gaze was a floodlight. “You’re not what I expected. But in a good way. Hey, can I spot you?”“I’m supposed to do it,” Krisha said.Bror shot the driver another winning smile. “I know you always do your duty to the letter, Krisha, but I’m not some stranger, for green’s sake. Malsha knows me.” He winked in a cheerful way that left no doubt about the nature of that knowledge. “And you can stand right here and monitor our conversation.”Krisha gave in. As Bror took his place (“Okay, kid, you can do this! It’s just ten more pounds!”), Tilrey found himself wondering if anyone ever said no to Bror. This must be how kettle boys were supposed to be: magnetic and charismatic, spreading happiness. Nothing he could ever imagine being.And Bror had evidently slept with the Magistrate. Tilrey had trouble imagining it, maybe because his brain shut off whenever he thought about returning to Malsha’s bed. He knew how to lie still, how to endure, but was that what you were supposed to do? Did Bror do that? Or did he pretend to enjoy it, or even enjoy it for real?Bror was probably good at sucking cock, something that Fir Jena had informed Tilrey he was not good at, in the least. “This is a vital skill,” the Councillor had complained, and then attempted to “teach” him by jamming it down his throat. The officers had used the same tactic.For a crazy instant, Tilrey imagined asking Bror how you were supposed to do it without choking. He must know tricks, and you could tell he wouldn’t be shy about sharing them.No, not in a million years. It was the kind of question he was too ashamed to ask even Artur, who’d seen him at his worst.“There you go, laddie. Nice, nice!” Bror was saying. “We’ll bulk up those skinny arms in no time.”Tilrey’s cheeks burned, but it felt good to be praised for something other than his looks. “I think I can do another ten,” he said.After basking in the glow of Bror’s attention, it was harder to endure the cold, the darkness, and the ride home with Krisha, who didn’t say a word the whole way. When the door of the coldroom closed behind them with a final hiss, Tilrey shivered, though he was back in the lush warmth of the Magistrate’s domain. Him and the poor stunted tea trees.Krisha fetched him lunch, then hovered above him with a notebook and pen. “Fir Magistrate says to tell me what books you want. I’ll write them down and fetch them from the Library.”“Books?” Until now, Tilrey had been making do with a few volumes that somebody, presumably Artur, had left in his room, but he’d already read most of them. How did the Magistrate know he’d want more? Had Artur told him Tilrey liked to read?He hoped not; he didn’t like to imagine them discussing him. But the lure of more choices was irresistible, so he said, “Okay.”He named only safe titles—novels and histories, nothing that could be construed as the slightest bit seditious. This could be a test.When he was done eating, Krisha escorted him back to his room and hovered again. “We’ll go back to the gym tomorrow. Fir wants you to swim a bunch of laps every week, too.”Tilrey nodded neutrally. Artur had said not to open up. The pleasure he took in swimming—or reading, for that matter—was his business.“You oughtta maybe be careful of that Bror Birun, though,” Krisha said, staring at the wall above Tilrey’s head. “He was angling to be Fir Magistrate’s kettle boy before you came along.”Sitting on the bed—where he seemed to spend most of his time now—Tilrey crossed his arms. “Good for him.” And I wish Bror was in this room instead of me, though I can’t imagine why he’d want to be.“I’m just saying, be careful.” Krisha cleared his throat. “Don’t tell Bror anything about the Fir’s business. That’s all.”Did Krisha think he was an idiot? For a moment, Tilrey was so fed up that punching the wall of the room—the cell—seemed like a good idea. He swallowed the impulse and said blandly, innocently, “Where’re you from, anyway, Krisha? I can barely understand you sometimes.”Krisha’s shoulders tensed; it clearly wasn’t the first time he’d heard this question. “Karkei.”“No, no, you can’t be. I know people from there. I’m thinking north of Karkei—Clearwater, maybe. One of those weird little backwaters where soldiers interbreed with Outers.”“I’m from Karkei. Right in the city.” This time it was a growl—a threat. Krisha’s hooded eyes fixed on Tilrey, mismatched with his obviously dyed white-blond hair. “Think you’re smart, huh, kid?”Tilrey shrugged, letting his mouth form an insolent grin. He’d seen his friends Dal and Pers do this occasionally—taunt a kid they didn’t like, trying to get a rise out of them. Tilrey had never joined in, finding it cruel even when the target was richly deserving. But now he was enjoying it.Maybe Krisha would get so riled up he’d swing that monster arm back and knock Tilrey into the wall. So fucking what? He’d been hit before. And Krisha might be punished for bruising him, for damaging the Magistrate’s “property.” Tilrey almost wanted to see if he could make it happen, but something held him back.“I guess I’m about as smart as I need to be,” he said.Which wasn’t much of a comeback, but Krisha seemed to take it as a further insult. “Back with your dinner later,” he said, voice so tight with rage that his accent intensified. He went out and slammed the door.After the click of the lock, Tilrey stretched flat on his back and stared at the ceiling. Back in prison. But he couldn’t deny that had been kind of fun.Five more days, Artur had said. Five more days till the free-night when he’d have to dress up and serve tea to Malsha and demonstrate everything he’d learned.The pleasure he’d gotten from Krisha’s anger faded fast. He found his book, opened it, and tried to make sense of the words on the page.Five more days. This time he wouldn’t fucking cry.

The doors of his new home were locked. They were all locked.

The door of the bedroom, first of all. He woke up there alone, his face sticky with dried tears, and climbed out of bed and showered until his skin was raw. Then he dressed, and then he tried to open the door to the rest of the apartment. When he couldn’t, he pounded on it, panicking. What if the building caught fire?

Artur opened up. “Would you like some breakfast?” As Tilrey came out—fell out, really—the secretary added, “It’s just us. He’s in the Sector.”

Tilrey ate his porridge without argument. He made minimal responses to Artur’s talk about the snowstorm predicted for today. He bided his time, waiting for the moment when Artur would be distracted and he could try the door that led into the coldroom, and from there to the garage and outside.

Plan? He was all done with plans. His body was telling him it needed to get away.

When Artur took the dishes into the kitchen, Tilrey got his chance. A few steps down the hallway, and then he was yanking on the heavy sliding door.

It didn’t budge, and he quickly saw why: It had a scan panel, like the fire doors in Thurskein, so only an authorized person could leave. Tilrey’s mom had had authorization for their floor of Sector Six, making her one of the designated rescuers in an emergency; when he was little, this made him feel very important.

Now he pressed the back of his right hand, where a chip had been implanted on his second day in Redda, to the scanner. The panel flickered, reading the chip, and showed red instead of green.

He slapped the door. “Fuck.”

“You don’t have coming-and-going privileges just yet,” said Artur’s calm voice. “Those’ll come.”

Tilrey couldn’t stop himself from cringing back a little. Please don’t hit me. Then he squared his shoulders and walked back into the living room as if nothing had happened. “I just wanted to know.”

Artur shrugged. “Want to come and see the bonsai?”

The bonsai tea trees lived on a deep window ledge in the kitchen. There were five of them, handed down through Malsha’s family over generations, and only the Magistrate himself was allowed to tend them, prune them, and harvest the leaves for tea.

“Don’t get any ideas about hacking them up or smashing them against the wall,” Artur said when he’d finished explaining the subtly different varieties of brew that each Camellia sinensis yielded. “I was tempted more than a few times when I lived here, but I don’t want to know what punishments he’d come up with.”

Tilrey had no desire to harm the tiny trees, precious to the Magistrate or not. Their potting soil had a rich, prickly smell that reminded him of being outdoors in Thurskein in the summer. They were as much prisoners here as he was.

“You used to live here?” he asked as Artur moved on to show him the air-tight canisters of brew-ready tea leaves, side by side on top of the cabinets.

“Yeah.” The tall redhead didn’t meet his eyes. “I was his kettle boy for a year, which is why I’m training you. He hasn’t had one since me, because he’s picky.”

So Artur, who was now so well spoken and well dressed that Tilrey had confused him with an Upstart, had lain with the Magistrate in that same bed where they’d been last night. He’d dressed in these stupid, fussy tunics and brewed and poured the Magistrate’s tea. Tilrey felt a wave of dread and empathy at once.

He was quiet as Artur showed him how to clean and warm the kettle, how many leaves to add, where to get the proper water, how to boil it, and how to wait till it was just slightly off-boil before pouring. “You’ll be processing the leaves, too,” the secretary said. “Most of them you can just crush and dry, but there’s one that has to be smoked over pinewood, and it’s his favorite. I’ll show you when he harvests a new batch. Now, the next step is adding butter or milk, whatever he and his guests want. The steamer’s right here—”

“Why’d you stop after a year?”

Artur deposited the steaming kettle on a pad on the counter. “We made a deal, the Fir and I,” he said. “I was older than you then—twenty-four, with a good posting in the Library system. I never wanted to be his piece, and I made that clear. But he offered me something that changed my mind.”

“What?” Tilrey felt his throat go dry. Fir Jena kept insisting that Fir Magistrate was powerful, so powerful that anyone should be happy to be his kettle boy. But the words meant nothing to him.

“In exchange for my sharing his bed for one year, he Raised my younger sister. She’s an Upstart now.” Artur poured water from the kettle to the teapot, looking amused by Tilrey’s quizzical expression. “Do you not realize how much that means to my whole family? But you’re a Skeinsha—maybe it’s different there.”

“He can just decide to do that? Raise somebody? I thought a committee judged each candidate anonymously.”

Artur laughed. “Well, that’s the way it works in theory. And sometimes in practice. The important thing is, Malsha’s not always easy to live with. But if he likes you, you’re set for life. Any posting you want, any privileges for your family back in Thurskein—ask and he’ll give it to you, provided it doesn’t interfere with his own plans. He likes to be generous.”

Tilrey didn’t like to imagine what his mother would think of “privileges” he’d bought this way. Knowing her, she’d sooner disown him. He crossed his arms. “I don’t have a choice like you did, though. Do I?”

Artur pulled a packet from the fridge. Inside was something white and squishy, which he sliced onto a plate. “Synth-butter. You don’t have this in Thurskein, do you?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Tilrey said defensively. He wasn’t an utter idiot.

Artur poured two tumblers of tea. “When I said I didn’t want to be Malsha’s kettle boy, I understated the case. I didn’t want to be within a hundred meters of him. Our first time together, he invited me over on a pretext and then drugged me and raped me while I was out cold. He didn’t even try to seduce me—he knew I didn’t want him.” He didn’t look at Tilrey, his keen, hooded eyes gazing into the distance.

Tilrey realized he’d been holding his breath. “Jena,” he said in a low voice. “Did that. Said it was easier. It was my first time, and I don’t even remember.”

“Sucks, doesn’t it? Well, I wasn’t going to file a charge; Malsha wasn’t GM yet then, but he was a powerful Councillor, and it was my word against his. But I hated his guts, and I never wanted to see his face again. If it hadn’t been for my sister, I never would have.”

Tilrey wondered if he could have made such a sacrifice for a sibling. Maybe, as an only child, he couldn’t understand.

“Anyway.” Artur took two pats of butter from the dish and set one afloat in each tumbler. “My point is, having a ‘choice’ didn’t make me feel any better about it. But I gritted my teeth, and I put on that tunic, and I poured that tea, and I learned to suck his cock the way he likes, and you know what? It wasn’t so bad.” His eyes met Tilrey’s now. “I got used to him—every twist and turn of him, every nasty little perversion. And I found out he has his good points, too. He lets me speak frankly to the point of insolence. He has genuine respect for me, even when he’s treating me like shit.”

Like last night. Tilrey remembered how Artur had argued with the Magistrate, and a chill spread through him.

Artur was still talking: “I learned to anticipate his next move, to work him a bit, and I think I came out on top. So will you, Tilrey.”

“Why?” It was all he could think of to say. “Last night, why did he make you . . . do that instead of doing it himself?”

Instead of answering, Artur passed him a tumbler. “I think you need this. Try it.”

The tea was good—hot and smoky and strong, with a wash of salty cream from the butter. Tilrey took another swallow. Good, yes, but it was missing something he was already used to. The need for it tugged at him, growing stronger as the day wore on. “Can I have some sap in it?”

Artur shook his head. “Fir Jena dosed you like there was no tomorrow. Consider this a detox. The Magistrate doesn’t want you sapping unless it comes straight from his hand.”

For a moment, Tilrey almost wanted to hit him. “You still have to do what he says, don’t you? Even now?”

Artur gave him a hard look. “Last night, Malsha was playing a little game. He likes to set people against each other. I was the bad guy then, and I’m the bad guy now, denying you what you want. So when Malsha considerately waits a whole ten-day before taking you to bed himself, and gives you a palmful of sap to make it easier, he’ll be the good guy.”

“I’m not stupid.”

“I know you’re not.” Artur loaded the teapot and five tumblers onto a heavy stonework tray. “And once he knows that for sure, you’ll really have to watch out. C’mon. Let’s practice the service.”

They moved into the living room, where Tilrey watched Artur demonstrate how to set the tray down, how to kneel while he poured, and even where to look so he didn’t make the Fir’s guests uncomfortable. “Now you try.”

Tilrey poured and poured, but he was hopelessly awkward. “No,” Artur said, laughing. “Don’t let the tunic get tangled up between your thighs. When you kneel, flip it over your knee like this. You don’t have it belted tight enough, either.” He cinched the tunic until Tilrey could barely breathe. “The whole point is to show off your slim waist.”

“I don’t want to.” Tilrey sat down on the floor. Tears stung his eyes—but no, after last night’s debacle, he was never crying again. Not a single fucking tear. He might be shy, but he wasn’t weak.

“I don’t think I can do this, Turshka,” he said, barely keeping his voice steady. “It’s just—I can’t.”

He expected the response to be worried or surprised, but Artur only said, “Yeah. That’s why he picked you.”

Tilrey hugged his knees, trying to ignore the waistband’s crushing grip on his ribs. “I don’t understand.”

Artur took a guzzle from one of the tumblers. “You’re from a good family in Thurskein, aren’t you? I’m guessing you’ve been raised a certain way. Sheltered. Even a little privileged.”

Tilrey’s cheeks flushed; Dal used to tease him about being soft and spoiled. “My mom’s the Lieutenant Supervisor, but I wouldn’t say I’m—”

“It’s not an insult! I was the same. Malsha likes a certain type of boy—a Laborer who’s been raised almost like an Upstart. Proud. Studious. Sensitive. He likes to take that pride and break it—or just to implant tiny, strategic cracks till we break of our own accord.”

Tilrey tried to imagine how that would work, but all he could think of was last night and the night before. If Malsha wanted to “break” him, he hadn’t been exactly subtle about it.

“Now I’ve told you one of his biggest secrets,” Artur said. “You need to remember that, okay?”

Tilrey remembered how the Magistrate’s hand had wrapped itself around his cock in the bath and made him come. He imagined himself as one of the stonework tumblers, only lying in pieces on the floor. “I think I’m . . . well, as broken as I’m going to get.”

Artur laughed darkly. “Wrong. It’s just starting, and you need to be ready. Never, ever open up to him.”

Over the next ten-day, Tilrey learned more than he felt like he’d learned his whole last term at school. He learned the schedule of the Sector: which nights of a given ten-day were free-nights, when he’d be expected to work; and which were work-nights, when no Upstart would bother him. He learned how to smoke tea leaves, how to pour properly, how to froth milk, how to kneel. He learned the proper forms of address (“Fir Councillor X” or “Fir X,” not “Councillor X”), how to brush his new haircut and apply subtle concealer to blemishes, and how to look smart and impeccable in R-11 clothes.

The lessons distracted him from the tug of his need for sap. It weakened a little every day, but when he was alone in his room with only a book for company, the need sometimes made his head spin with a raw, aching emptiness. He didn’t want to be sweet-drowned; everyone knew how ugly addiction could get. But if he could have just a nip . . .

Some pieces of his education were mortifying: He learned how to “clean” himself and how to “prep” himself, the latter being a service that Malsha would request if he wanted it. “Usually he likes to prep you himself,” Artur explained. “But some men won’t want to bother, so you should be ready.” Artur always used a bored, clinical tone when he talked about the sexual aspects of the job, as if determined to convince Tilrey not to be ashamed. “Would you stop blushing?” he said once. “It’s just a posting like any other, work you can do well or badly. It’s not a dirty secret.”

Tilrey couldn’t see it as just a posting. He was doing a good job of staying away from the dark vortex during the day, but he still woke most nights to find his throat raw and the bedclothes on the floor. He didn’t remember the dreams in detail—just men’s laughter and hands everywhere, and that was enough.

Even though he’d come to trust Artur, there were times when the young man got too close to him—and suddenly Tilrey was back there, facedown in the Magistrate’s bed with Artur’s breath rasping against his neck. He knew Artur hadn’t meant to crowd him, hadn’t wanted to make him remember, but he had to move away.

That was in the past. He was stronger now. Whatever came next, he could take it.

On his fifth day in Malsha’s apartment, Artur didn’t come to unlock his room in the morning as usual. Instead, the door opened to reveal the hulking young driver, Krisha, who said in his awkward way, “After breakfast, gonna take you to the gym. Fir’s orders.”

Krisha’s size and bulk set Tilrey’s nerves on edge in that way he could no longer control. But the driver had a sullen, distant manner that was somewhat reassuring. He rarely made eye contact with Tilrey, let alone leered.

And Krisha, like him, was an outsider. The man’s thick accent reminded Tilrey of Dal’s cousins from Karkei, Thurskein’s sister city to the north. There was a foreign edge to it, though, that he struggled to identify—a nasal tinge to the vowels.

When they stepped outside at last, Tilrey forgot Krisha existed in the thrill of being free, of breathing fresh air and seeing buildings and views he’d never seen before. He glued himself to the window of the mag-car and took in the angles and spires of Redda like a starving man with a bowl of rice.

When they disembarked at the gym, Krisha caught hold of his arm. “Fir says to stay close to you.”

“Fine,” Tilrey muttered. Had the Magistrate guessed that every step he took outside would be a temptation to run? Not today—Krisha’s grip was too tight—but someday. There had to be places indoors he could hide. Maybe he could find some shirkers who would help him to—

But there the fantasy ended, because he couldn’t imagine a single way to get back to Thurskein or what to tell his mother if he did. Artur might call being a kettle boy just a job, but to his mother it was shame and decadence—an unfortunate facet of Oslov society, an ugly tradition of mutual exploitation. And he was training diligently to be exploited.

The gym was sparsely populated—a relief, because it was a swanky pine-paneled establishment for Councillors and other high Upstarts, people Tilrey wasn’t eager to meet. Even in the locker room, Krisha didn’t leave him alone. But he did turn his back while Tilrey changed, just as Artur always did. He seemed almost as unhappy with the whole situation as Tilrey was.

In the weight room, Krisha explained, “He wants you to bulk up. Not too much, though.” He produced a print-out: a whole program of machines and free-weight lifts for Tilrey to follow, with the weight and reps increasing over time.

It was boring—nothing like his favorite forms of exercise, skiing and swimming. But with Krisha silently spotting him, Tilrey soon found he enjoyed the exertion and the subsequent endorphin rush. He imagined being strong enough to fight off any conceivable attacker.

The worst part was the other men in the weight room—most clearly trying to beef up their frail frames, a few already beefier than he could ever dream of being. When they bothered to notice him, their arched brows suggested they knew exactly what he was.

One of the beefy ones, a thick-necked young man with wide-set blue eyes in a brutishly handsome face, kept staring. Not leering exactly, but every time Tilrey looked up, there he was. And the whole time he stared, he effortlessly lifted quantities that made Tilrey feel like a sniveling little boy.

“Hey! Concentrate!” Krisha steadied the barbell as it nearly slipped from his sweaty grasp.

Tilrey got it back on the stand and sat up. The thick-necked young man was standing right by them, casually scratching his muscular ass. He grinned at Tilrey and asked Krisha, “Gonna introduce me?”

“This is the Magistrate’s new boy,” Krisha said. “Obviously.”

Tilrey tensed, but the stranger’s grin widened into a radiant smile. “Hey, kid,” he said, extending his hand. “Same gig. I’m Fir István’s boy, Bror Birun. What’s your name?”

Somehow it hadn’t occurred to Tilrey to wonder how other kettle boys would look and act. If he had, he wouldn’t have predicted this open friendliness. He clasped Bror’s hand. “I’m Tilrey Bronn.”

“From ’Skein, eh?” Bror ran a hand through his short, sweaty dirty-blond hair. His direct gaze was a floodlight. “You’re not what I expected. But in a good way. Hey, can I spot you?”

“I’m supposed to do it,” Krisha said.

Bror shot the driver another winning smile. “I know you always do your duty to the letter, Krisha, but I’m not some stranger, for green’s sake. Malsha knows me.” He winked in a cheerful way that left no doubt about the nature of that knowledge. “And you can stand right here and monitor our conversation.”

Krisha gave in. As Bror took his place (“Okay, kid, you can do this! It’s just ten more pounds!”), Tilrey found himself wondering if anyone ever said no to Bror. This must be how kettle boys were supposed to be: magnetic and charismatic, spreading happiness. Nothing he could ever imagine being.

And Bror had evidently slept with the Magistrate. Tilrey had trouble imagining it, maybe because his brain shut off whenever he thought about returning to Malsha’s bed. He knew how to lie still, how to endure, but was that what you were supposed to do? Did Bror do that? Or did he pretend to enjoy it, or even enjoy it for real?

Bror was probably good at sucking cock, something that Fir Jena had informed Tilrey he was not good at, in the least. “This is a vital skill,” the Councillor had complained, and then attempted to “teach” him by jamming it down his throat. The officers had used the same tactic.

For a crazy instant, Tilrey imagined asking Bror how you were supposed to do it without choking. He must know tricks, and you could tell he wouldn’t be shy about sharing them.

No, not in a million years. It was the kind of question he was too ashamed to ask even Artur, who’d seen him at his worst.

“There you go, laddie. Nice, nice!” Bror was saying. “We’ll bulk up those skinny arms in no time.”

Tilrey’s cheeks burned, but it felt good to be praised for something other than his looks. “I think I can do another ten,” he said.

After basking in the glow of Bror’s attention, it was harder to endure the cold, the darkness, and the ride home with Krisha, who didn’t say a word the whole way. When the door of the coldroom closed behind them with a final hiss, Tilrey shivered, though he was back in the lush warmth of the Magistrate’s domain. Him and the poor stunted tea trees.

Krisha fetched him lunch, then hovered above him with a notebook and pen. “Fir Magistrate says to tell me what books you want. I’ll write them down and fetch them from the Library.”

“Books?” Until now, Tilrey had been making do with a few volumes that somebody, presumably Artur, had left in his room, but he’d already read most of them. How did the Magistrate know he’d want more? Had Artur told him Tilrey liked to read?

He hoped not; he didn’t like to imagine them discussing him. But the lure of more choices was irresistible, so he said, “Okay.”

He named only safe titles—novels and histories, nothing that could be construed as the slightest bit seditious. This could be a test.

When he was done eating, Krisha escorted him back to his room and hovered again. “We’ll go back to the gym tomorrow. Fir wants you to swim a bunch of laps every week, too.”

Tilrey nodded neutrally. Artur had said not to open up. The pleasure he took in swimming—or reading, for that matter—was his business.

“You oughtta maybe be careful of that Bror Birun, though,” Krisha said, staring at the wall above Tilrey’s head. “He was angling to be Fir Magistrate’s kettle boy before you came along.”

Sitting on the bed—where he seemed to spend most of his time now—Tilrey crossed his arms. “Good for him.” And I wish Bror was in this room instead of me, though I can’t imagine why he’d want to be.

“I’m just saying, be careful.” Krisha cleared his throat. “Don’t tell Bror anything about the Fir’s business. That’s all.”

Did Krisha think he was an idiot? For a moment, Tilrey was so fed up that punching the wall of the room—the cell—seemed like a good idea. He swallowed the impulse and said blandly, innocently, “Where’re you from, anyway, Krisha? I can barely understand you sometimes.”

Krisha’s shoulders tensed; it clearly wasn’t the first time he’d heard this question. “Karkei.”

“No, no, you can’t be. I know people from there. I’m thinking north of Karkei—Clearwater, maybe. One of those weird little backwaters where soldiers interbreed with Outers.”

“I’m from Karkei. Right in the city.” This time it was a growl—a threat. Krisha’s hooded eyes fixed on Tilrey, mismatched with his obviously dyed white-blond hair. “Think you’re smart, huh, kid?”

Tilrey shrugged, letting his mouth form an insolent grin. He’d seen his friends Dal and Pers do this occasionally—taunt a kid they didn’t like, trying to get a rise out of them. Tilrey had never joined in, finding it cruel even when the target was richly deserving. But now he was enjoying it.

Maybe Krisha would get so riled up he’d swing that monster arm back and knock Tilrey into the wall. So fucking what? He’d been hit before. And Krisha might be punished for bruising him, for damaging the Magistrate’s “property.” Tilrey almost wanted to see if he could make it happen, but something held him back.

“I guess I’m about as smart as I need to be,” he said.

Which wasn’t much of a comeback, but Krisha seemed to take it as a further insult. “Back with your dinner later,” he said, voice so tight with rage that his accent intensified. He went out and slammed the door.

After the click of the lock, Tilrey stretched flat on his back and stared at the ceiling. Back in prison. But he couldn’t deny that had been kind of fun.

Five more days, Artur had said. Five more days till the free-night when he’d have to dress up and serve tea to Malsha and demonstrate everything he’d learned.

The pleasure he’d gotten from Krisha’s anger faded fast. He found his book, opened it, and tried to make sense of the words on the page.

Five more days. This time he wouldn’t fucking cry.