Chapter 7: Claimed — The Key of Oslov

Volume 20: All the Kinds of Broken

Chapter 7 Claimed

Chapter Notes

Here’s my little experiment with Krisha’s POV. There’s a lot more info about his relationship with Gavril Ardaly in “The Trip to Harbour,” where Tilrey and Krisha finally become friends of a sort. I guess I’m trying to show here that Krisha is an asshole to Tilrey because he hates himself. He envies Tilrey for having something he lost long ago. Once they’re both happier, they work things out. (p.s. I totally want to give Krisha a hug, not that he would let me. :) )

Chapter Notes

Krisha didn’t like this.Not the salmon and orange blaze that stained the car’s windshield as the sun finally dipped below the edge of the Wastes. Krisha appreciated a pretty sunset as much as anybody. A lot of people thought he was some kind of robot because he didn’t blab about his feelings, but he felt plenty. For instance, he liked getting out on the far edge of the city, away from people and buildings. The Fir’s request for a little expedition had been fine with him. He breathed better out here, closer to his origins.What he didn’t like were the noises coming from the backseat. Fir Magistrate had started fooling around with the boy, as you’d expect. But apparently the boy hadn’t expected it, or hadn’t realized how far it would go. Sounds of mild struggle alternated with muffled pleading that Krisha couldn’t shut out.“Do we have to, Fir? Can’t we wait till we get home?” And then, the worst part: “But he’s right there, Fir.”I can fucking hear every word, Krisha wanted to yell. Instead, he closed his eyes and willed his ears to be deaf for a while. This hadn’t been his idea.In response to the boy’s complaints, Fir Magistrate whispered reassurances: “It’s fine, sweetheart. Pretend we’re at home. Krisha’s no gossip. Forget about him.”“Fir, I’m cold. I’m not comfortable. Please.”“There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”Not for the first time, Krisha wondered what the fuck was wrong with Tilrey. With those delicate sensibilities, you’d think he was the pampered scion of an Upstart family, not a criminal from the sixth sector of Thurskein.When Fir Magistrate took in Krisha, almost eight years ago, Krisha had quickly learned that “watching the sunset” actually meant “a quickie in the backseat.” And he’d complied—no protests, no questions. He certainly hadn’t cared that Malsha’s driver back then, an old scold named Erich, was sitting there the whole time. What did it matter? A fuck was a fuck whether you had an audience or not.The boy’s words were fraying into token grunts of protest. He was strong enough to resist Fir Magistrate, even overpower him, but he wasn’t stupid enough to try. A furtive glance in the rearview mirror showed Krisha that Malsha had the boy’s trousers down and was busy getting him ready, murmuring kind words the whole time.A surge of anger left Krisha with a heaviness in his chest. Who the fuck did the kid think he was? Even Fir Magistrate seemed to think he was special, giving him all this gentling and persuasion. If Krisha had been in Malsha’s place and wanted what Malsha wanted, he might’ve given Tilrey a few good smacks and flipped him over.Malsha didn’t hit, though. Even with Krisha he’d been kind, much kinder than he needed to be. The worst he ever did was call him “my little Outer” or “my big barbarian brute”—private pet names to remind Krisha that his Oslov citizenship was of recent vintage.Those names made Krisha fantasize about hurting Fir Magistrate from time to time. But he knew he’d gotten lucky—very, very lucky—so he shut up and rolled over.The less lucky part of his life was something he didn’t dwell on. He liked to imagine he’d buried his past in an iron box in the Wastes, two meters deep, and walked away. The only person who ever tried to dig it up was Sergeant Gavril Ardaly, who’d been in charge of the desolate base where Krisha spent most of his adolescence. He still insisted on seeing Krisha whenever he had a leave in Redda, “just to check on you.”Those visits weren’t easy. But Krisha was grateful to Fir Sergeant, too. Gavril had been the beginning of his lucky streak, the first man who looked at him and saw something more than a piece of barbarian ass. Gavril had convinced him to speak again after four years of near-muteness.And so, when Gavril was in Redda, Krisha always went to his room in the officers’ club and always offered himself. Gavril usually wanted to talk and hold him instead of fucking, but Krisha couldn’t help that. At least he’d tried to pay his debt.Why hadn’t he brought headphones, earplugs—anything to make this more bearable? He studiously avoided the rearview, but he could tell Fir Magistrate was full-on fucking the boy now, and the boy was whimpering just audibly on each thrust. Krisha knew that particular whimper: There was no arousal or physical pain in it, only hopelessness. He’d made that sound himself, though he couldn’t remember when.Have some pride, he wanted to tell Tilrey—but maybe too much of that was the kid’s problem. Once you lost that brittle, sensitive kind of pride, then you lost shame, and everything got easier. Eventually you grew a different pride, a kind no one could take from you. You didn’t feel anything unless you wanted to.Krisha wished he could explain all this to Gavril, who called fucking “making love” and kept trying to make him come. Last time they fucked, Krisha had been so frustrated with the man’s gentleness that he growled, “Just use me. I don’t need to like it.”Fir Sergeant hadn’t been insulted or pissed off, as Krisha expected. He’d said, “But I want you to like it.”Because he was so kind, Krisha had been unusually honest: “I won’t. It’s not you. I just don’t.”And the Sergeant had rolled right over and said, “If you don’t like being fucked, then fuck me. Be as rough as you want.”Krisha obeyed. He always obeyed Oslovs, even when the order made no sense. He fucked the sergeant hard. And for the first time since he’d started burying his memories in the Wastes, the sex was good. Gavi. His throat went dry as he remembered how the sergeant’s cropped sandy-blond hair had felt under his palm, how hot and tight he’d been inside.Afterward, Gavril kissed him and thanked him (for what?) and promised to come back as soon as he could. But promises could go fuck themselves as far as Krisha was concerned. Oslovs didn’t have to keep their word to Outers. And Krisha was still an Outer, no matter what his ID chip said.Even Tilrey—stupid, spoiled Tilrey—could hear the Wastes in Krisha’s speech. No matter how many years Krisha lived among Oslovs, he couldn’t talk right, some vowels too broad and others too nasal. It didn’t matter if he bleached his hair. He looked like an Outer, and he talked like one.Fir Magistrate was close to finishing. Krisha knew from the sounds. The blaze in the sky had faded to a distant bonfire on the horizon. The boy had stopped whimpering, but his harsh indrawn breaths were almost as bad.Stop being such a fucking fool, Krisha wanted to beg him. It was fine for Bror Birun to go on about dignity. Bror Birun had about a thousand relatives in this city. He’d chosen to be a kettle boy and could stop any time he wanted.Tilrey had no one. Why did he have to keep fighting? The stubborn resistance made Krisha want to put his arms around the boy, and it made him want to stomp on him. Just break already, he wanted to say. Don’t give him the fun of drawing it out.Once you stopped reacting, Malsha stopped provoking you. He was a predator that craved live prey. He’d quickly given up on trying to drag reactions out of Krisha, but Tilrey would give him sport for a long, long time.As Fir Magistrate reached his climax, his breath suspended for a long moment, Tilrey went silent. That was a relief. Krisha scrubbed his hands over his face and watched the light disappear.The ride back to the core of the city took place without words or touching. Tilrey pressed himself against the door and gazed out at the darkening buildings, tears drying sticky on his cheeks. At least he’d managed to put his clothes in order.He knew he was stupid. After that night with the seven officers, all watching and egging one another on, how could he complain about Krisha’s presence? But he’d gotten used to the privacy of Malsha’s bed; only the intimacy made the things they did there bearable. Malsha had shattered that—on purpose, no doubt.He stayed where he was while Krisha docked the car in the garage, cut the engine, and stepped out. The driver opened the door on Malsha’s side, then came around to Tilrey’s.Fuck, no. He didn’t need any help. He got the door open before Krisha could and half stepped, half fell out. Krisha reached out to steady him, but Tilrey gave him a glare that stopped him in his tracks. I’m fine. Don’t fucking touch me. He walked over to Malsha, stiff-legged, and allowed the Magistrate to take his arm and lead him indoors.In the coldroom, his strength left him again, and he let Malsha strip off his coat, unwind his scarf, and kneel to unlace his boots. If the Fir wanted to treat him like a child or an invalid, why fight it?He was still smarting from what had happened in the car, raw all over in the way he’d thought he was done with. He could still feel the shameful begging bubbling up in his throat and hear the sounds he’d made. But that wasn’t the worst part; the worst part was how quickly he’d stopped resisting. He’d barely even tried. He’d slipped so easily into his new role.As they entered the warmth of the apartment proper, Malsha released him. “I’m going to get us some tea, and you some dinner. Wait for me in bed, but don’t undress or wash, all right, love?”Tilrey nodded.Sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in his lap, he indulged in one of his fleeting fantasies about strangling the Magistrate. But they always ended the same way: with Krisha hauling him to the Constabulary.How would he face the driver tomorrow when they went to the gym? Tilrey had mocked Krisha’s accent; if Krisha chose to taunt him about tonight, it would be only fair. He should never have been so arrogant. At least Krisha, unlike him, was free to move around the city as he pleased.Malsha joined him at last, bearing a tray thick with steam and looking satisfied. He settled the tray on the nightstand, shed his robe and tunic, and climbed into bed. “Go stand at the foot.”Tilrey did. The stickiness between his thighs made him want to retch.“You’ll have sap once you’ve undressed.” Malsha poured himself a tumbler. “Start with the tunic.”It took Tilrey only a few seconds to unfasten the heavy garment—neck, chest, waist—and let it fall to the floor. Now he could breathe better, at least. He kept his eyes on the far wall.“Now your shirt. Turn around. No, slower. Hands behind your back.” Malsha took a long swallow. “Starting to see some definition, aren’t we? That Bror must be a good trainer.”“Krisha does most of it, Fir.” Don’t let him know Bror is your friend. You aren’t supposed to have friends. “Bror’s a little full of himself.”“Hmm, yes. He thinks he’s more charming than he is. I don’t like to be played that way. Slippers and socks, then trousers.”Tilrey was shivering a little now, but he managed to kick off the slippers, pull down the socks and trousers, and toss them aside.“Fold them, sweetheart. Do you know how much labor goes into laundry and ironing? One wants to make clothes last as long as possible. The tunic, too. Show me you respect what I’ve given you.”Tilrey bent to retrieve the garments and folded them, then deposited them on a chair. From now on he would always follow this procedure, he decided.“Hands behind your back again. Turn. Slower.” Malsha drank from the steaming tumbler, his eyes steady on Tilrey. “I know tonight at the Lounge was hard for you, sweetheart, but it was a great success. And I like how attentive you were, how you noticed things and used your head. When the time comes, you’ll make me an excellent secretary.”I won’t. He hadn’t been told to turn again, so he stayed still, jutting out his hip as if he didn’t care that he was nearly naked.“Do you have any questions about what happened at the Lounge? I don’t want you in the dark about anything.”Was this a test? Tilrey didn’t give a fuck whether he passed anymore, but he was curious. “What did Fir Verán mean?”“That old prick didn’t frighten you, did he, with what he said about Saldegren? Vanya Saldegren’s a soft touch when it comes to pretty boys—far nicer than I am. Don’t fret about him.”Tilrey lowered his head, but he couldn’t hide the color in his cheeks. “I didn’t mean about me and Saldegren, Fir. I meant about the ‘Harbourer agenda.’”“Ahh.” Malsha laughed, stretching languidly. “Well, that takes us into more complicated territory. I’m happy to begin your education in foreign policy, but first things first.” He patted the bed beside him. “Come and have your sap.”The sap was warm in Malsha’s palm. It set Tilrey’s head buzzing almost instantly. He stretched out on the duvet and let the Magistrate kiss him and fondle him through his briefs.Eventually the fondling became more purposeful, and Tilrey’s cock hardened under a firm, knowing hand. He made a brief effort to think of the least arousing things he could—the Magistrate’s cock, for instance, or his wrinkly knees. It didn’t work, but he was pleased when he came swiftly, with no sound except quickened breathing.He lay still while Malsha cleaned him with a warm, damp towel, tender and meticulous as always. “Now,” the Magistrate said, pulling the lid off one of the dishes on the tray, “you’ll eat. We can’t have you wasting away.”Tilrey still wasn’t hungry—his stomach felt shriveled, his head full of static—but he shoved a dumpling in his mouth. Then another. Then a swallow of tea.Malsha lounged against the opposite bedpost, watching him. “The thing about Harbour,” he said, “is that the Islanders dislike our dependence on its raw materials. We’ve had an embassy and a trading post there for less than a century. They see it as a decadent novelty.”“Are we dependent on raw materials from Harbour, Fir?” Tilrey had always thought Oslov could provide for its own needs, but then, he hadn’t even known about the Harbourer trade until recently.Malsha handed him a bowl of seaweed salad and a fork. “They taught you the gospel of self-sufficiency in school, didn’t they? I have some news for you, lad—no great power is an island. Not even Oslov.”Again Tilrey felt that strange surge of exhilaration he’d felt in the Lounge when he realized he could understand things. “But that message I translated from Harbour—that was from an enemy of our government. It was encouraging Laborers to revolt. So how is Harbour our ally?”Malsha’s smile became mildly condescending. “When we say ‘Harbour,’ we’re actually talking about an entire continent of warring powers—some our allies, some our enemies, some barely aware we exist. Bettevy is our trading partner. The message you translated was from Resurgence.”The strange names fascinated Tilrey. He opened his mouth to ask for details, but Malsha cut him short. “Before we go on, tell me, why did obliging me in the car bother you so particularly? Was it the setting, or was it really just Krisha’s presence?”Tilrey nearly choked on a slimy, salty mouthful. I could stab you with this fork. Right in the carotid.But he wasn’t going to do it, and it was no use pretending he might. He took another bite. “Does it matter? You knew it would bother me, Fir. That’s why you did it.”Waiting for the answer, he didn’t tense for a rebuke or a blow. He wasn’t surprised when Malsha only chuckled softly and said, “You do notice things. I like that about you, Rishka.”No one calls me Rishka. Only my mother. Tilrey bit back the words, knowing the reminder would only make Malsha use the nickname more often.Malsha left the foot of the bed, taking his time, and crawled up to sit beside Tilrey. His eyes never seemed to leave Tilrey, holding him fast. “Now, I’ve visited several parts of Harbour, but the only one where I’ve lived is Bettevy. Shall I tell you about it? Or is this tiresome?“Tell me,” Tilrey said. “Please.” He was learning.On the terrace outside the gym, Krisha waited, crossing his arms and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Tilrey and Bror were still saying their goodbyes.It hadn’t been fun chaperoning the boy today. Tilrey kept his eyes averted and exchanged the bare minimum of words. When Krisha spotted Bror in the weightroom, he was actually relieved. The kid needed a distraction.It wasn’t my fault, he wanted to tell Tilrey. I didn’t want to overhear. Sorry. But no fucking way was he going to apologize for doing his duty.So, instead, Krisha let the older kettle boy glom onto Tilrey and take him through the stations. He watched them race each other in the pool. He sat stiffly in the gym lobby, a table away, while they drank vitamin-rich smoothies and Bror flirted with the girl who worked in the kiosk. Sometimes he could swear the two of them were shooting glances at him and laughing.Whatever. Krisha had had worse afternoons. Anyway, the kid probably needed to let off steam, and it was safer for him to mock Krisha than Fir Magistrate. Krisha was nothing.Now it was past time to get in the car and go home for dinner. But the summer day was mild enough for a brief outdoor conversation, so Krisha let Bror and Tilrey linger on the terrace.He was enjoying the fresh air himself. The sky was full of soft, feathery clouds, and light glazed the black granite spires. The wind on his cheeks—cold, but not frostbite-cold—reminded him of summer days in the Wastes when he and Sergeant Ardaly would hike over the ridge.Gavril had a thing for outdoor exercise; he was the first Oslov Krisha had ever known who didn’t seem spooked by wide open spaces. They’d walk for hours, just their footprints snaking through the barren hills and valleys. Sometimes they’d rest and drink tea from a thermos, and Gavril would look into Krisha’s eyes and kiss him. He was always so serious in those moments that Krisha wanted to laugh, but he never did. None of the others kissed him.Staring out at the city, he heard Bror say so long at last, his voice ringing across the flagstones. Bror sounded so affectionate already, after an acquaintance of less than two months—way more affectionate than he’d ever been to Krisha. But then, it was easy for a lad like Tilrey to make fast friends. Everyone wanted to be near him.Would Gavril get in touch next time he came to the city? Or was he bored with Krisha? Or maybe even steamed at Krisha for obeying his order too enthusiastically? He hadn’t seemed mad when they were lying in bed afterward, just the opposite, but you could never be sure. Oslovs loved their precious dignity, even the Drudges.Speaking of which, what was Tilrey waiting for? Krisha swung around. “Hey, time to—”He stopped short, scanning the empty terrace. Had the kid gone back inside the gym? No. Footsteps in the dusting of snow led toward the stairs down to the tram platform.Krisha didn’t easily lose his cool, but his heart took a hard jolt now. What would Fir Magistrate do to him if he lost the precious “sweetheart”?A small knot of people stood waiting for the tram, but Tilrey wasn’t among them. The footsteps led around them to a bank of heavy glass doors. Inside, Krisha knew, was the escalator that took you all the way down to the Underground City, whose tunnels connected everything to everything else.He slammed through two layers of doors and traversed nine levels of the moving stairway in what felt like seconds, his pulse thudding. He ignored death glares from stiff-necked Programmers who were trying to ride sedately to their work levels. This is it. He’s making a break for it.At the bottom, the subterranean tunnel was a well of echoing voices and moving bodies. Krisha fought his way through them, shouldering people of all Levels effortlessly aside, scanning the crowd for Tilrey’s blue-gray tweed coat. Where in seven green hells was he?

Krisha didn’t like this.

Not the salmon and orange blaze that stained the car’s windshield as the sun finally dipped below the edge of the Wastes. Krisha appreciated a pretty sunset as much as anybody. A lot of people thought he was some kind of robot because he didn’t blab about his feelings, but he felt plenty. For instance, he liked getting out on the far edge of the city, away from people and buildings. The Fir’s request for a little expedition had been fine with him. He breathed better out here, closer to his origins.

What he didn’t like were the noises coming from the backseat. Fir Magistrate had started fooling around with the boy, as you’d expect. But apparently the boy hadn’t expected it, or hadn’t realized how far it would go. Sounds of mild struggle alternated with muffled pleading that Krisha couldn’t shut out.

“Do we have to, Fir? Can’t we wait till we get home?” And then, the worst part: “But he’s right there, Fir.”

I can fucking hear every word, Krisha wanted to yell. Instead, he closed his eyes and willed his ears to be deaf for a while. This hadn’t been his idea.

In response to the boy’s complaints, Fir Magistrate whispered reassurances: “It’s fine, sweetheart. Pretend we’re at home. Krisha’s no gossip. Forget about him.”

“Fir, I’m cold. I’m not comfortable. Please.”

“There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

Not for the first time, Krisha wondered what the fuck was wrong with Tilrey. With those delicate sensibilities, you’d think he was the pampered scion of an Upstart family, not a criminal from the sixth sector of Thurskein.

When Fir Magistrate took in Krisha, almost eight years ago, Krisha had quickly learned that “watching the sunset” actually meant “a quickie in the backseat.” And he’d complied—no protests, no questions. He certainly hadn’t cared that Malsha’s driver back then, an old scold named Erich, was sitting there the whole time. What did it matter? A fuck was a fuck whether you had an audience or not.

The boy’s words were fraying into token grunts of protest. He was strong enough to resist Fir Magistrate, even overpower him, but he wasn’t stupid enough to try. A furtive glance in the rearview mirror showed Krisha that Malsha had the boy’s trousers down and was busy getting him ready, murmuring kind words the whole time.

A surge of anger left Krisha with a heaviness in his chest. Who the fuck did the kid think he was? Even Fir Magistrate seemed to think he was special, giving him all this gentling and persuasion. If Krisha had been in Malsha’s place and wanted what Malsha wanted, he might’ve given Tilrey a few good smacks and flipped him over.

Malsha didn’t hit, though. Even with Krisha he’d been kind, much kinder than he needed to be. The worst he ever did was call him “my little Outer” or “my big barbarian brute”—private pet names to remind Krisha that his Oslov citizenship was of recent vintage.

Those names made Krisha fantasize about hurting Fir Magistrate from time to time. But he knew he’d gotten lucky—very, very lucky—so he shut up and rolled over.

The less lucky part of his life was something he didn’t dwell on. He liked to imagine he’d buried his past in an iron box in the Wastes, two meters deep, and walked away. The only person who ever tried to dig it up was Sergeant Gavril Ardaly, who’d been in charge of the desolate base where Krisha spent most of his adolescence. He still insisted on seeing Krisha whenever he had a leave in Redda, “just to check on you.”

Those visits weren’t easy. But Krisha was grateful to Fir Sergeant, too. Gavril had been the beginning of his lucky streak, the first man who looked at him and saw something more than a piece of barbarian ass. Gavril had convinced him to speak again after four years of near-muteness.

And so, when Gavril was in Redda, Krisha always went to his room in the officers’ club and always offered himself. Gavril usually wanted to talk and hold him instead of fucking, but Krisha couldn’t help that. At least he’d tried to pay his debt.

Why hadn’t he brought headphones, earplugs—anything to make this more bearable? He studiously avoided the rearview, but he could tell Fir Magistrate was full-on fucking the boy now, and the boy was whimpering just audibly on each thrust. Krisha knew that particular whimper: There was no arousal or physical pain in it, only hopelessness. He’d made that sound himself, though he couldn’t remember when.

Have some pride, he wanted to tell Tilrey—but maybe too much of that was the kid’s problem. Once you lost that brittle, sensitive kind of pride, then you lost shame, and everything got easier. Eventually you grew a different pride, a kind no one could take from you. You didn’t feel anything unless you wanted to.

Krisha wished he could explain all this to Gavril, who called fucking “making love” and kept trying to make him come. Last time they fucked, Krisha had been so frustrated with the man’s gentleness that he growled, “Just use me. I don’t need to like it.”

Fir Sergeant hadn’t been insulted or pissed off, as Krisha expected. He’d said, “But I want you to like it.”

Because he was so kind, Krisha had been unusually honest: “I won’t. It’s not you. I just don’t.”

And the Sergeant had rolled right over and said, “If you don’t like being fucked, then fuck me. Be as rough as you want.”

Krisha obeyed. He always obeyed Oslovs, even when the order made no sense. He fucked the sergeant hard. And for the first time since he’d started burying his memories in the Wastes, the sex was good. Gavi. His throat went dry as he remembered how the sergeant’s cropped sandy-blond hair had felt under his palm, how hot and tight he’d been inside.

Afterward, Gavril kissed him and thanked him (for what?) and promised to come back as soon as he could. But promises could go fuck themselves as far as Krisha was concerned. Oslovs didn’t have to keep their word to Outers. And Krisha was still an Outer, no matter what his ID chip said.

Even Tilrey—stupid, spoiled Tilrey—could hear the Wastes in Krisha’s speech. No matter how many years Krisha lived among Oslovs, he couldn’t talk right, some vowels too broad and others too nasal. It didn’t matter if he bleached his hair. He looked like an Outer, and he talked like one.

Fir Magistrate was close to finishing. Krisha knew from the sounds. The blaze in the sky had faded to a distant bonfire on the horizon. The boy had stopped whimpering, but his harsh indrawn breaths were almost as bad.

Stop being such a fucking fool, Krisha wanted to beg him. It was fine for Bror Birun to go on about dignity. Bror Birun had about a thousand relatives in this city. He’d chosen to be a kettle boy and could stop any time he wanted.

Tilrey had no one. Why did he have to keep fighting? The stubborn resistance made Krisha want to put his arms around the boy, and it made him want to stomp on him. Just break already, he wanted to say. Don’t give him the fun of drawing it out.

Once you stopped reacting, Malsha stopped provoking you. He was a predator that craved live prey. He’d quickly given up on trying to drag reactions out of Krisha, but Tilrey would give him sport for a long, long time.

As Fir Magistrate reached his climax, his breath suspended for a long moment, Tilrey went silent. That was a relief. Krisha scrubbed his hands over his face and watched the light disappear.

The ride back to the core of the city took place without words or touching. Tilrey pressed himself against the door and gazed out at the darkening buildings, tears drying sticky on his cheeks. At least he’d managed to put his clothes in order.

He knew he was stupid. After that night with the seven officers, all watching and egging one another on, how could he complain about Krisha’s presence? But he’d gotten used to the privacy of Malsha’s bed; only the intimacy made the things they did there bearable. Malsha had shattered that—on purpose, no doubt.

He stayed where he was while Krisha docked the car in the garage, cut the engine, and stepped out. The driver opened the door on Malsha’s side, then came around to Tilrey’s.

Fuck, no. He didn’t need any help. He got the door open before Krisha could and half stepped, half fell out. Krisha reached out to steady him, but Tilrey gave him a glare that stopped him in his tracks. I’m fine. Don’t fucking touch me. He walked over to Malsha, stiff-legged, and allowed the Magistrate to take his arm and lead him indoors.

In the coldroom, his strength left him again, and he let Malsha strip off his coat, unwind his scarf, and kneel to unlace his boots. If the Fir wanted to treat him like a child or an invalid, why fight it?

He was still smarting from what had happened in the car, raw all over in the way he’d thought he was done with. He could still feel the shameful begging bubbling up in his throat and hear the sounds he’d made. But that wasn’t the worst part; the worst part was how quickly he’d stopped resisting. He’d barely even tried. He’d slipped so easily into his new role.

As they entered the warmth of the apartment proper, Malsha released him. “I’m going to get us some tea, and you some dinner. Wait for me in bed, but don’t undress or wash, all right, love?”

Tilrey nodded.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, hands clasped in his lap, he indulged in one of his fleeting fantasies about strangling the Magistrate. But they always ended the same way: with Krisha hauling him to the Constabulary.

How would he face the driver tomorrow when they went to the gym? Tilrey had mocked Krisha’s accent; if Krisha chose to taunt him about tonight, it would be only fair. He should never have been so arrogant. At least Krisha, unlike him, was free to move around the city as he pleased.

Malsha joined him at last, bearing a tray thick with steam and looking satisfied. He settled the tray on the nightstand, shed his robe and tunic, and climbed into bed. “Go stand at the foot.”

Tilrey did. The stickiness between his thighs made him want to retch.

“You’ll have sap once you’ve undressed.” Malsha poured himself a tumbler. “Start with the tunic.”

It took Tilrey only a few seconds to unfasten the heavy garment—neck, chest, waist—and let it fall to the floor. Now he could breathe better, at least. He kept his eyes on the far wall.

“Now your shirt. Turn around. No, slower. Hands behind your back.” Malsha took a long swallow. “Starting to see some definition, aren’t we? That Bror must be a good trainer.”

“Krisha does most of it, Fir.” Don’t let him know Bror is your friend. You aren’t supposed to have friends. “Bror’s a little full of himself.”

“Hmm, yes. He thinks he’s more charming than he is. I don’t like to be played that way. Slippers and socks, then trousers.”

Tilrey was shivering a little now, but he managed to kick off the slippers, pull down the socks and trousers, and toss them aside.

“Fold them, sweetheart. Do you know how much labor goes into laundry and ironing? One wants to make clothes last as long as possible. The tunic, too. Show me you respect what I’ve given you.”

Tilrey bent to retrieve the garments and folded them, then deposited them on a chair. From now on he would always follow this procedure, he decided.

“Hands behind your back again. Turn. Slower.” Malsha drank from the steaming tumbler, his eyes steady on Tilrey. “I know tonight at the Lounge was hard for you, sweetheart, but it was a great success. And I like how attentive you were, how you noticed things and used your head. When the time comes, you’ll make me an excellent secretary.”

I won’t. He hadn’t been told to turn again, so he stayed still, jutting out his hip as if he didn’t care that he was nearly naked.

“Do you have any questions about what happened at the Lounge? I don’t want you in the dark about anything.”

Was this a test? Tilrey didn’t give a fuck whether he passed anymore, but he was curious. “What did Fir Verán mean?”

“That old prick didn’t frighten you, did he, with what he said about Saldegren? Vanya Saldegren’s a soft touch when it comes to pretty boys—far nicer than I am. Don’t fret about him.”

Tilrey lowered his head, but he couldn’t hide the color in his cheeks. “I didn’t mean about me and Saldegren, Fir. I meant about the ‘Harbourer agenda.’”

“Ahh.” Malsha laughed, stretching languidly. “Well, that takes us into more complicated territory. I’m happy to begin your education in foreign policy, but first things first.” He patted the bed beside him. “Come and have your sap.”

The sap was warm in Malsha’s palm. It set Tilrey’s head buzzing almost instantly. He stretched out on the duvet and let the Magistrate kiss him and fondle him through his briefs.

Eventually the fondling became more purposeful, and Tilrey’s cock hardened under a firm, knowing hand. He made a brief effort to think of the least arousing things he could—the Magistrate’s cock, for instance, or his wrinkly knees. It didn’t work, but he was pleased when he came swiftly, with no sound except quickened breathing.

He lay still while Malsha cleaned him with a warm, damp towel, tender and meticulous as always. “Now,” the Magistrate said, pulling the lid off one of the dishes on the tray, “you’ll eat. We can’t have you wasting away.”

Tilrey still wasn’t hungry—his stomach felt shriveled, his head full of static—but he shoved a dumpling in his mouth. Then another. Then a swallow of tea.

Malsha lounged against the opposite bedpost, watching him. “The thing about Harbour,” he said, “is that the Islanders dislike our dependence on its raw materials. We’ve had an embassy and a trading post there for less than a century. They see it as a decadent novelty.”

“Are we dependent on raw materials from Harbour, Fir?” Tilrey had always thought Oslov could provide for its own needs, but then, he hadn’t even known about the Harbourer trade until recently.

Malsha handed him a bowl of seaweed salad and a fork. “They taught you the gospel of self-sufficiency in school, didn’t they? I have some news for you, lad—no great power is an island. Not even Oslov.”

Again Tilrey felt that strange surge of exhilaration he’d felt in the Lounge when he realized he could understand things. “But that message I translated from Harbour—that was from an enemy of our government. It was encouraging Laborers to revolt. So how is Harbour our ally?”

Malsha’s smile became mildly condescending. “When we say ‘Harbour,’ we’re actually talking about an entire continent of warring powers—some our allies, some our enemies, some barely aware we exist. Bettevy is our trading partner. The message you translated was from Resurgence.”

The strange names fascinated Tilrey. He opened his mouth to ask for details, but Malsha cut him short. “Before we go on, tell me, why did obliging me in the car bother you so particularly? Was it the setting, or was it really just Krisha’s presence?”

Tilrey nearly choked on a slimy, salty mouthful. I could stab you with this fork. Right in the carotid.

But he wasn’t going to do it, and it was no use pretending he might. He took another bite. “Does it matter? You knew it would bother me, Fir. That’s why you did it.”

Waiting for the answer, he didn’t tense for a rebuke or a blow. He wasn’t surprised when Malsha only chuckled softly and said, “You do notice things. I like that about you, Rishka.”

No one calls me Rishka. Only my mother. Tilrey bit back the words, knowing the reminder would only make Malsha use the nickname more often.

Malsha left the foot of the bed, taking his time, and crawled up to sit beside Tilrey. His eyes never seemed to leave Tilrey, holding him fast. “Now, I’ve visited several parts of Harbour, but the only one where I’ve lived is Bettevy. Shall I tell you about it? Or is this tiresome?

“Tell me,” Tilrey said. “Please.” He was learning.

On the terrace outside the gym, Krisha waited, crossing his arms and shifting his weight from foot to foot. Tilrey and Bror were still saying their goodbyes.

It hadn’t been fun chaperoning the boy today. Tilrey kept his eyes averted and exchanged the bare minimum of words. When Krisha spotted Bror in the weightroom, he was actually relieved. The kid needed a distraction.

It wasn’t my fault, he wanted to tell Tilrey. I didn’t want to overhear. Sorry. But no fucking way was he going to apologize for doing his duty.

So, instead, Krisha let the older kettle boy glom onto Tilrey and take him through the stations. He watched them race each other in the pool. He sat stiffly in the gym lobby, a table away, while they drank vitamin-rich smoothies and Bror flirted with the girl who worked in the kiosk. Sometimes he could swear the two of them were shooting glances at him and laughing.

Whatever. Krisha had had worse afternoons. Anyway, the kid probably needed to let off steam, and it was safer for him to mock Krisha than Fir Magistrate. Krisha was nothing.

Now it was past time to get in the car and go home for dinner. But the summer day was mild enough for a brief outdoor conversation, so Krisha let Bror and Tilrey linger on the terrace.

He was enjoying the fresh air himself. The sky was full of soft, feathery clouds, and light glazed the black granite spires. The wind on his cheeks—cold, but not frostbite-cold—reminded him of summer days in the Wastes when he and Sergeant Ardaly would hike over the ridge.

Gavril had a thing for outdoor exercise; he was the first Oslov Krisha had ever known who didn’t seem spooked by wide open spaces. They’d walk for hours, just their footprints snaking through the barren hills and valleys. Sometimes they’d rest and drink tea from a thermos, and Gavril would look into Krisha’s eyes and kiss him. He was always so serious in those moments that Krisha wanted to laugh, but he never did. None of the others kissed him.

Staring out at the city, he heard Bror say so long at last, his voice ringing across the flagstones. Bror sounded so affectionate already, after an acquaintance of less than two months—way more affectionate than he’d ever been to Krisha. But then, it was easy for a lad like Tilrey to make fast friends. Everyone wanted to be near him.

Would Gavril get in touch next time he came to the city? Or was he bored with Krisha? Or maybe even steamed at Krisha for obeying his order too enthusiastically? He hadn’t seemed mad when they were lying in bed afterward, just the opposite, but you could never be sure. Oslovs loved their precious dignity, even the Drudges.

Speaking of which, what was Tilrey waiting for? Krisha swung around. “Hey, time to—”

He stopped short, scanning the empty terrace. Had the kid gone back inside the gym? No. Footsteps in the dusting of snow led toward the stairs down to the tram platform.

Krisha didn’t easily lose his cool, but his heart took a hard jolt now. What would Fir Magistrate do to him if he lost the precious “sweetheart”?

A small knot of people stood waiting for the tram, but Tilrey wasn’t among them. The footsteps led around them to a bank of heavy glass doors. Inside, Krisha knew, was the escalator that took you all the way down to the Underground City, whose tunnels connected everything to everything else.

He slammed through two layers of doors and traversed nine levels of the moving stairway in what felt like seconds, his pulse thudding. He ignored death glares from stiff-necked Programmers who were trying to ride sedately to their work levels. This is it. He’s making a break for it.

At the bottom, the subterranean tunnel was a well of echoing voices and moving bodies. Krisha fought his way through them, shouldering people of all Levels effortlessly aside, scanning the crowd for Tilrey’s blue-gray tweed coat. Where in seven green hells was he?