Chapter 15: Tested — The Key of Oslov

Volume 20: All the Kinds of Broken

Chapter 15 Tested

Chapter Notes

If you’ve ever wondered how Tilrey got trained to be “responsive,” this is how. And I’m introducing a character who preceded Tilrey as a protagonist in my Oslov head-canon. Here he’s definitely no hero, just an example of how the system can break Upstarts, too.I’ve got another chapter coming soon and plan to get to work on the sequel to “Crosscurrents and Consequences” as well. Thanks so much for reading! <3

Chapter Notes

I’ve got another chapter coming soon and plan to get to work on the sequel to “Crosscurrents and Consequences” as well. Thanks so much for reading! <3

Summer passed into fall passed into winter, so much darker and deeper in Redda than Tilrey was used to. Only a daily flicker of twilight at the horizon relieved the blackness. The winter festivals, which featured wild drinking, dancing, and music in Thurskein, were more muted here. But sometimes a full moon shone over the city, casting the ornate old apartment blocks in an unearthly glow. Fairy lights—silver, blue, magenta—twinkled in the windows of public buildings, trying desperately to fight the gloom.After the solstice and before the New Year’s recess, Tilrey went to the Hall of Records and took his E-Squareds in an empty classroom, monitored by a teacher who looked eager to get away on holiday. He’d studied diligently, and the test frightened him no more than the practice tests had, but afterward he couldn’t remember anything about it—questions or answers. He evaded Malsha’s inquiries and took a certain private pleasure in the Magistrate’s furrowed brow. Was Malsha worried that his “jewel” didn’t sparkle as brightly as he’d hoped?One night in mid-January, a knock came on the door of his room. Tilrey opened up expecting Krisha, since it wasn’t a free-night. Malsha stood there holding a bottle, an odd tightness to his mouth.“Aren’t you proud of me for knocking?” the Magistrate asked, stepping in without being asked. “I do try to respect your time off. But I received your test scores an hour ago, and I thought you’d like to know.”Were they bad, then? Either way, Tilrey knew better than to show a reaction. “Thank you, Fir,” he said, inclining his head.“Verdant hells, you’re so cold these days. Sometimes you remind me of an Islander.” Malsha raised the bottle—a corked one, clearly a Harbourer import. “Do you know what this is, love?”“Wine?” Tilrey asked doubtfully. They’d had that a few times, but it was red and this liquid was pale yellow.“Not just any wine.” Malsha popped out the cork, and white foam spilled over his hands. “This is sparkling wine. What the Tangle folk used to call Champagne.”Tilrey had taken a step back, alarmed. But the flow waned, the bottle managing not to explode. He followed the Magistrate through the living room into the kitchen, where Malsha poured the foamy stuff into vodka glasses.“A traditional wine of celebration,” Malsha added, handing one to Tilrey. “Before we drink, we raise these and clink them—see?”The wine popped and sparkled on Tilrey’s tongue, sweet and bitter at once. It tingled going down his throat and made him cough, but he wanted another sip at once. “So what about the scores, then, Fir?” he asked, once he could speak again.Malsha’s grimace became a widening smile. “Oh, you’re the cool one, aren’t you? For a moment you had me thinking you didn’t care.”Tilrey gulped more wine. The fire in his chest made him pleasantly bold, and he said, “For a moment you had me thinking I didn’t place in the top third.”Malsha stared at him, pupils dilating, cheeks already flushed from the wine. “You placed in Redda’s top tenth. You’re much stronger on the verbal than the technical sections, true. But if we used a simple score cutoff instead of Notification Boards, you’d probably be an Upstart next spring.” Another smile for the sheer absurdity. “Come here, love. Let me offer my heartfelt congratulations.”So the only real effect of Tilrey’s high scores was that his off night turned into a work night. The sparkling wine helped; by the time Malsha led him into the bedroom, he barely minded. He closed his eyes and focused on the delicious spinning in his head. By now, everything he had to contribute was automatic. Tongue, fingers, and cock inside various parts of him were only distant distractions.Afterward, Malsha poured more wine. He held the glass to Tilrey’s lips, then tousled his hair and pulled him close. “Still so good,” he said in the dreamy, thick voice he always had after sex. “Some say that too much dallying with pretty boys makes a leader go soft-headed, but for me it’s the opposite. I need incentives. Have I ever told you that, before you came along, I couldn’t find it in myself to give a fuck about anything that happened in the Council?”Tilrey was curious despite himself. “How did you manage that, Fir? Being the General Magistrate and all?”“Oh, it’s easier than you think.” Malsha stroked his forehead. “Many GMs are basically figureheads. I let Tollmann handle policy and sent Artur to all those deadly committee meetings as my proxy. I didn’t need a kettle boy while other party elders were handling the business of keeping our coalition in line.”“And then, Fir?” Tilrey was starting to sober up, but his head still felt heavy.A soft kiss in his hair. “Then you came along and gave me back my ambition. I could have simply kept you, of course, without making you my kettle boy. There are ways. But what’s the fun of having a jewel if you can’t show it off and make your rivals seethe with jealousy?”“Mmm.” Tilrey’s thoughts were starting to wander. This position was comfortable; maybe the wine would put him to sleep. Once he was actually out, Malsha generally let him stay that way.Fingers in his hair, patting and soothing. “I was thinking of retiring, if you can believe that. Now I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m back in the game and enjoying the sport like I never have before. Which is why—” his voice shifted into a lower, darker gear; Tilrey heard that warning note even through his lethargy— “it’s so important for me to hold on to our friend Saldegren’s support. And you know, sweetheart, lately he’s had complaints about you.”Tilrey’s eyes snapped open while his mind was still struggling back to full awareness. “Complaints? Vanya? What did he say?” He raised his head from Malsha’s shoulder. “He never told me, Fir.” Saldegren never seemed anything but fully satisfied by their nights together.Malsha looked mildly amused—he’d gotten his reaction at last. “It’s nothing to be upset about, my love. But you do have a certain tendency to lie there like a dead fish, and you can’t expect us not to notice.”Tilrey’s face burned. Malsha had never once objected to the way he “lay there,” never done anything but encourage it. “I don’t, though,” he said, unable to meet the Magistrate’s eye. “I mean, I do everything you want. I’m good with my mouth.”There was so much else he did, too, simply because it was expected. Get on his hands and knees. Raise his hips. Throw back his head and arch his back. Not show any discomfort. He blinked away angry tears. Just last ten-day, Councillor István had said he “submitted beautifully.”Malsha seemed positively tickled by his discomfiture. “No one’s disputing your oral skills, my boy. That’s not what bothers Saldegren. His problem is that when he’s fucking you he wants you to enjoy it.”That. Saldegren was always grabbing his cock, trying to get him hard and eager in situations where he preferred to be numb. Tilrey asked, “That’s not what you want, though, is it?”They both knew the answer. Malsha liked boys to endure his attentions in stiff or wincing obedience; the reluctance was part of what turned him on. If he’d wanted Tilrey to come, he would have demanded it long ago.Malsha sighed. “Vanya and I have different tastes. But he has a point: We’ve never worked properly on your responsiveness. And he’s not the only man who likes an enthusiastic partner. I think it’s time to give it some focused attention.”Tilrey’s dread must have shown on his face. Malsha tousled his hair again. “Come now. If you’ve mastered calculus and the G group of programming languages—things you’ll never actually use, by the way—you can master this.” He reached down and gave Tilrey’s cock a knowing squeeze. “Anyway, I have made you come before, and I imagine Saldegren has, too. Our task now is to make sure you come when you’re supposed to, and not before.”Tilrey squirmed away, remembering how helpless he felt whenever Saldegren insisted on manipulating him. “I can’t. Control it, I mean. It just happens.”A gentle smile. “Of course it does. You’re a healthy eighteen-year-old boy. Wouldn’t you like to learn to control it, though?”Tilrey rolled over and curled into himself, hoping they wouldn’t have to start tonight. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t know where to start.”“Luckily, I do.”They began on the next free-night, and it was as embarrassing as Tilrey had feared. In a few hours, he whined and flinched and protested enough to make up for all the preceding months of proud, stone-faced submission.The worst part was that he ought to like it. Malsha’s fingers were firm and expert when they tightened around Tilrey’s cock. A few pumps were enough to make him rock-hard and moaning for more, feeling the tremors of need all the way to his toes.“Nothing wrong with those responses,” Malsha said smugly, then gave Tilrey’s cock a hard swat. Tilrey doubled up in pain and tried to roll over, but Malsha said, “Breathe through it” and pressed his shoulder down and held him fast.Tilrey breathed through it, willing the arousal to ebb away. Just when he finally seemed to have it under control, just when his aching cock was wilting, Malsha gave it a long, agonizing pump, and he was right back to struggling with a desperate, toe-curling need for release.The third time Malsha repeated this torture, Tilrey came the instant the Magistrate’s hand began to move again—warm and sticky, all over his own chest. When Malsha returned with a washcloth, he was balled up with his face in the pillow, trying not to think.Malsha made Tilrey turn over so he could sponge up the mess. “That wasn’t bad for a start,” he said. “But the goal is for you to hold yourself back rather than relying on an aversive stimulus from your partner. You need to expect the pain.”Tilrey nodded, jaw clenched. He didn’t want to learn any of this, didn’t, but it would be easier if he did, and having control was always better than not having control, and he couldn’t help remembering how Malsha had beamed at him, full of admiration, when he revealed the test scores. It was like having the sun shine directly on you.“How do I learn to do that?” he asked roughly.“I’ve never been trained this way myself. But I would guess . . . practice?”So they practiced. Twice that free-night and twice the next. Malsha experimented with different sorts of “aversive stimuli” to keep Tilrey from coming: twisting his balls, pinching his shoulder or thigh, once even slapping his face. Tilrey managed to hold out through four rounds, then five, then six, before he came the moment he was touched.He squeezed his eyes shut and lay stiff as a ramrod and dug his nails into his palms and thought of all the least arousing things he could. He thought of the loose skin at Malsha’s neck and belly. He thought of Lindahl forcing him to recite prime numbers and square roots. He thought of the smell of boiled cabbage. But in the end, his cock simply would not cooperate.Until now, he’d prided himself on his self-control, his ability to lie calmly and endure whatever others chose to inflict on him. What an idiot. Submission was nothing—it was easy.And the worst part was knowing that Malsha loved this. The Magistrate’s cock went utterly neglected during these sessions. Yet, when he finally allowed Tilrey to rest, drawing Tilrey into his arms and petting and stroking him, the old man was practically purring.“You mustn’t be too hard on yourself, sweetheart,” he said on their second night of practice, pressing Tilrey’s face against his chest. “I’m hardly an experienced trainer, but I think this takes a while. How about this? Once you get that unruly organ of yours under control, you’ll get a reward. To fuck me.”“I—what?” Tilrey thought he must have misheard. Malsha had never asked for so much as a finger inside him. He tried to imagine mounting the old man, but the thought made him cringe with disgust, or perhaps just dread. “You wouldn’t enjoy that, though, Fir.”“Of course I would. Or should, if you’re doing it right.” After a moment, Malsha sighed. “I haven’t given enough attention to stimulating you that way, have I? I’ve been selfish. Well, rest assured, you can enjoy a cock inside you. And when I’m done with you, you’ll know how to make a partner enjoy it, too.”Tilrey had seen men in porn streams squirming in ecstasy when their prostates were stimulated; he’d felt twinges of that pleasure himself. But to make someone else feel it? While he himself was keeping his cock under control?He hid his face against the Magistrate’s collarbone. “It’s not a reward you’re offering, then. It’s more work.”Malsha laughed gleefully. “How right you are. But in the end, love, you may like it more than you expect. A big lad like you, growing bigger every day—oh yes, men are going to want you to stick that great big thing inside them. I can’t say I haven’t thought about it myself. And I’d hate for you to lose that particular virginity with anyone but me.”The rest of January passed this way, then half of February. Once Malsha had a goal in his head, he was ruthless about accomplishing it.It was hard for Tilrey not to blame Vanya Saldegren, just a little. He tried not to let on, but during one of their nights together, the man noticed his moodiness and asked what was wrong.“Nothing, Fir.” Telling the truth would make Tilrey look like a sulky child. Vanya might ask Malsha to let up on him, and Malsha would give him a cold lecture about discretion. “I’m fine.”Saldegren looked mournful, but he didn’t ask again.Bror noticed Tilrey’s lowness, too—he always did. For a few days, Tilrey considered asking his friend for help. Bror had made passing mentions of fucking some of the Councillors he obliged, and of his particular skill at giving women pleasure that way. He was probably an expert cocksman, holding out for hours and coming on command—unlike Malsha, whose knowledge was all second hand.But it was too humiliating, and anyway, Tilrey and Bror had never been intimate that way, despite Tilrey’s attempt on the wretched sap-drowned afternoon. If it was going to happen, ever, Tilrey wanted it to be something good for them both, not a lesson that would remind him of Malsha.“Doin’ okay, Rishka?” Bror asked on a gray afternoon in the Café. He was playing his usual endless card game with Lus and Ansha while Tilrey sat huddled above them on the deep windowseat, watching flakes fling themselves through the twilight.Bror waggled the toe of Tilrey’s boot, and Tilrey answered him: “Sure.” He’d brought a book up here as an excuse, but he hadn’t opened it. “I just wish I was . . . somewhere else.”“Don’t we all,” Lus said, sticking his finger in a vial.“Somewhere it’s summer,” Bror said. “Sunny all day. Can’t you walk outdoors, Tilrey, in Thurskein in the summer? Just like in the Southern Range?”“Yeah.” Tilrey couldn’t let himself think about his summer days with Dal—sneaking over the barrier and hiking through the trees and along the thawed, burbling river. “In Harbour,” he said, “it must be sunny already.”“Oh, we’re dreaming of Harbour again.” Ansha rolled his eyes. “My Councillor says the Magistrate gets so many luxuries from Bettevy it should be illegal. A taste for Harbourer goods is weak; we have enough for ourselves.”Bror guffawed. “Does your Councillor Lindahl say the same thing when he’s eating a whole Harbourer brook trout, the way I saw him doing at the Restaurant the other night?”“So, he’s human.” Ansha’s eyes hadn’t moved from Tilrey. “It’s funny, Rishka, the way you’re always on about Harbour. You seem to hate the Magistrate, but you sound more and more like him.”The barb was trivial, like the slaps Malsha gave Tilrey to keep him from release. But seething frustration had been building inside Tilrey with every free-night. He saw himself slapping Ansha so hard the chair toppled backward. He felt the sting on his palm, his satisfaction as the other boy stumbled up from the floor with a look of disbelief. Oh yes.He stayed put, of course. He wasn’t stupid. “It’s kind of sad, Ansha, the way you talk about Councillor Lindahl—like you worship him. He thinks you’re a brainless little piece. He told me so in bed.”They were always slinging barbs at each other, but maybe they didn’t expect that from Tilrey, because the table went silent. Ansha reddened like he had been hit. “Lindahl’s an ass,” Bror murmured, after a moment.Ansha recovered enough to say, “And I guess Lindahl thinks you’re brilliant.”“Brilliant enough that he makes me recite the times table while he’s fucking me, anyhow.” Tilrey slid down from the windowseat. He’d just been indiscreet, giving Ansha ammunition for later battles, but he didn’t care. “My point isn’t that Lindahl likes me better—I don’t think he likes any of us. My point is that you shouldn’t idolize him just because he’s a Councillor and you have to suck his dick. Have some fucking pride.”With that, he scooped up his book and strode across the polished pine floor and into the passage that led to the Library, ignoring Ansha’s outraged “Who the fuck does he think he is?” and Lus’s lazy drawl: “What crawled up that boy’s ass?”Bror caught up to him in the passage. “Rishka, wait. He was being a prick, I know, but you gotta understand, he’s—”“Jealous and insecure. Right.” Tilrey crossed his arms, still shaking a little from the thrill of speaking his mind. “And I’m just in a shitty mood. So neither of us is to blame, right?”Bror looked grieved. “If you’re in a shitty mood, you can talk about it. You can tell me things.”Not always. Tilrey was tired of being soothed like a child. “I stand by what I said. Ansha spends all his time shooting down any Drudge he thinks is more favored than he is. It’s sad.”Bror spread his hands, still with the glum expression that looked wrong on him. “I know,” he said. “We all know. And the reason Ansha’s such a prick—well, one reason—is that he started out like you. He was the youngest, the newest, the favorite. All the Councillors doted on him. But after a few months they got bored of him and moved on, the way they always do. And now . . .”Heat flushed Tilrey’s face. “I am not like him. I’ll never be like him. Don’t you remember what he tried to do to me in the Vacants?”“Of course, and I told him if he ever tried that again, I’ll rearrange his pretty face in ways that would end his career. But—”“But you’re still his friend. Or maybe you just feel sorry for him the way you do for me.”Bror reached out, but Tilrey backed away. “Is that why you’re here?” he added. “To make sure I don’t end up like Ansha?”Bror shook his head. “You’re nothing like him. Didn’t mean that. But I do worry about you.”Tilrey had heard and seen enough. Bror’s woeful expression was starting to look a lot like pity. “Well, you shouldn’t,” he said, and turned briskly toward the stacks again. “Unlike Ansha, I’ve got a functioning backbone and test scores like a fucking Strutter’s, and I’ll be fine. Now, do me a favor and leave me alone.”*Tilrey fled several flights down to Research Collections, where Bror was less likely to find him, but he couldn’t concentrate on any book he picked up. He flipped through pictures of flora and fauna from the Tangle era, his mind on what had happened upstairs.Would Bror take his request to be let alone seriously? He hadn’t meant forever. He wasn’t sure he could get through a ten-day without his friend’s easy laugh.“Excuse me. Is that the American Southwest Field Guide?”Tilrey looked up to find a young man carrying a stack of books. His first impression after the voice—assertive like an Upstart’s—was of eyes that reminded him of photos of the ocean swelling between icebergs, liquid and shocking turquoise.“Yes, Fir.” He closed the book and pushed it across the table. “You can have it.”“No, no!” The young man backed away a step, sounding less confident now. He might have been in his twenties or thirties; it was hard to tell from his slender, boyish figure. His tunic was loose and unflattering, with a low neck—a Discourser or Biologist, certainly not a Sector Diplomat.“I was only curious because I recognized the picture.” The stranger came back and flipped through the book until he found the page Tilrey had been senselessly staring at. “That high ridge is called a mesa. And those are cacti. It’s like our Wastes, but as dry as they’re wet. And so hot. I’d love to go there, even just for a day, to feel that heat. To see that pink mesa.”The Upstart sighed in a dramatic way that matched his appearance—those blue eyes set off by a pale face and jet-black hair. “Wouldn’t you?”Tilrey was still smarting from Ansha’s comments about Harbour. (Did he really sound like Malsha?) “That’s a picture from the Tangle, Fir,” he said. “Hundreds of years ago. It’s probably all gone.”“Oh, there are still deserts in the south. Malsha visited one on a diplomatic mission. You should ask him about it.”Malsha? Was he everywhere, inescapable? Tilrey’s heart thudded. For an instant he thought the young man had read his mind, but then he remembered how visible he was as Malsha’s kettle boy. “I’m sorry, Fir. It seems you know me, but I don’t know you.”“No, I’m sorry. I’ve been awfully rude.” The young man flashed him a conspiratorial, surprisingly radiant smile. “I do know who you are. I confess with chagrin, I’ve been watching you.” He held out his hand. “Adelbert Verán.”The family name of Malsha’s arch-enemy bit into Tilrey like an icy wind, but he offered his hand and let the young Verán clasp his knuckles. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be talking to Islanders, Fir.”“Oh, I’m no politician!” Again the beautiful smile. “My uncle’s the Island majority leader, right, but I never go near the Sector. I’m a mere Discourser.” He mimed ferocious typing. “I compose summaries of judicial decisions to go in Records. Pretty silly work, really. Mostly propaganda, spinning things the way the Sector wants them.” In a casual tone, he added, “I guess Malsha hasn’t mentioned me?”“Not that I recall, Fir.”All the animation left Adelbert. He slumped into a chair and scrubbed his palms across his face. “Not once?”“I don’t think so.” Who was this man?For a moment, silence. Then Adelbert said, “I’m not surprised. It’s been ten years since we lived together. Would you believe it? I used to sleep in the bed where you’re sleeping now.”Oh. Somehow it had never occurred to Tilrey that Malsha might have had Upstart lovers, ones he couldn’t boss around. “I didn’t know,” he said, wondering why this handsome, high-named youth had chosen to share Malsha’s bed. “Artur didn’t mention you, Fir.”“I was well before Artur’s time. I was only nineteen when I moved in, and twenty-two when I moved out.” The blue eyes were scrutinizing Tilrey openly now, moving from his face down his body. “But you’re even younger, aren’t you? He does like them young.”The inspection made Tilrey’s skin crawl, but he was curious, too. He wished he were bold enough to ask Adelbert pointed questions: Has he always been like this? Was it better for you?“Young, pretty, bright, and innocent. And a bit twitchy.” Adelbert’s lip curled. “You’re not Reddan, though, are you? That’s an interesting variation. Maybe his tastes are evolving.”Heat rose to Tilrey’s cheeks, and he stood up with a jolt. “I should be going, Fir. It’s a free-night, and I—I . . .”“Of course. You need to go serve his tea.” Adelbert didn’t sneer, as Strutters so often did; he said it matter-of-factly. “Look,” he said, gazing up at Tilrey. “I know you’re not supposed to speak to strangers, and I shouldn’t have been watching you. But I can’t help wondering, do you sometimes need someone to talk to?”Tilrey swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Why would I . . . ? I’m fine, Fir.”“Of course you are! Of course!” Those striking eyes stayed on him. “But you know, I used to say the same thing. And I was not fine.”Neither am I. Help me. Tilrey stuck his hands in his pockets and managed to keep his face blank. Clearly things had ended poorly between Malsha and Adelbert, and Adelbert was resentful and possibly jealous, which meant the two of them shouldn’t be talking. Kettle boy ethics were simple: You never gave the time of day to anyone your patron was unhappy with.But he couldn’t seem to walk away.After a furtive look around the reading room, Adelbert added, “I don’t want to get you in trouble. It’s just—well, I’ve watched you before.”He slid a scrap of folded paper from his tunic and held it out to Tilrey. “That’s my address. If you come over any fifth-day at six, we could at least talk. That helps sometimes, right? Up to you.”

After the solstice and before the New Year’s recess, Tilrey went to the Hall of Records and took his E-Squareds in an empty classroom, monitored by a teacher who looked eager to get away on holiday. He’d studied diligently, and the test frightened him no more than the practice tests had, but afterward he couldn’t remember anything about it—questions or answers. He evaded Malsha’s inquiries and took a certain private pleasure in the Magistrate’s furrowed brow. Was Malsha worried that his “jewel” didn’t sparkle as brightly as he’d hoped?

One night in mid-January, a knock came on the door of his room. Tilrey opened up expecting Krisha, since it wasn’t a free-night. Malsha stood there holding a bottle, an odd tightness to his mouth.

“Aren’t you proud of me for knocking?” the Magistrate asked, stepping in without being asked. “I do try to respect your time off. But I received your test scores an hour ago, and I thought you’d like to know.”

Were they bad, then? Either way, Tilrey knew better than to show a reaction. “Thank you, Fir,” he said, inclining his head.

“Verdant hells, you’re so cold these days. Sometimes you remind me of an Islander.” Malsha raised the bottle—a corked one, clearly a Harbourer import. “Do you know what this is, love?”

“Wine?” Tilrey asked doubtfully. They’d had that a few times, but it was red and this liquid was pale yellow.

“Not just any wine.” Malsha popped out the cork, and white foam spilled over his hands. “This is sparkling wine. What the Tangle folk used to call Champagne.”

Tilrey had taken a step back, alarmed. But the flow waned, the bottle managing not to explode. He followed the Magistrate through the living room into the kitchen, where Malsha poured the foamy stuff into vodka glasses.

“A traditional wine of celebration,” Malsha added, handing one to Tilrey. “Before we drink, we raise these and clink them—see?”

The wine popped and sparkled on Tilrey’s tongue, sweet and bitter at once. It tingled going down his throat and made him cough, but he wanted another sip at once. “So what about the scores, then, Fir?” he asked, once he could speak again.

Malsha’s grimace became a widening smile. “Oh, you’re the cool one, aren’t you? For a moment you had me thinking you didn’t care.”

Tilrey gulped more wine. The fire in his chest made him pleasantly bold, and he said, “For a moment you had me thinking I didn’t place in the top third.”

Malsha stared at him, pupils dilating, cheeks already flushed from the wine. “You placed in Redda’s top tenth. You’re much stronger on the verbal than the technical sections, true. But if we used a simple score cutoff instead of Notification Boards, you’d probably be an Upstart next spring.” Another smile for the sheer absurdity. “Come here, love. Let me offer my heartfelt congratulations.”

So the only real effect of Tilrey’s high scores was that his off night turned into a work night. The sparkling wine helped; by the time Malsha led him into the bedroom, he barely minded. He closed his eyes and focused on the delicious spinning in his head. By now, everything he had to contribute was automatic. Tongue, fingers, and cock inside various parts of him were only distant distractions.

Afterward, Malsha poured more wine. He held the glass to Tilrey’s lips, then tousled his hair and pulled him close. “Still so good,” he said in the dreamy, thick voice he always had after sex. “Some say that too much dallying with pretty boys makes a leader go soft-headed, but for me it’s the opposite. I need incentives. Have I ever told you that, before you came along, I couldn’t find it in myself to give a fuck about anything that happened in the Council?”

Tilrey was curious despite himself. “How did you manage that, Fir? Being the General Magistrate and all?”

“Oh, it’s easier than you think.” Malsha stroked his forehead. “Many GMs are basically figureheads. I let Tollmann handle policy and sent Artur to all those deadly committee meetings as my proxy. I didn’t need a kettle boy while other party elders were handling the business of keeping our coalition in line.”

“And then, Fir?” Tilrey was starting to sober up, but his head still felt heavy.

A soft kiss in his hair. “Then you came along and gave me back my ambition. I could have simply kept you, of course, without making you my kettle boy. There are ways. But what’s the fun of having a jewel if you can’t show it off and make your rivals seethe with jealousy?”

“Mmm.” Tilrey’s thoughts were starting to wander. This position was comfortable; maybe the wine would put him to sleep. Once he was actually out, Malsha generally let him stay that way.

Fingers in his hair, patting and soothing. “I was thinking of retiring, if you can believe that. Now I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m back in the game and enjoying the sport like I never have before. Which is why—” his voice shifted into a lower, darker gear; Tilrey heard that warning note even through his lethargy— “it’s so important for me to hold on to our friend Saldegren’s support. And you know, sweetheart, lately he’s had complaints about you.”

Tilrey’s eyes snapped open while his mind was still struggling back to full awareness. “Complaints? Vanya? What did he say?” He raised his head from Malsha’s shoulder. “He never told me, Fir.” Saldegren never seemed anything but fully satisfied by their nights together.

Malsha looked mildly amused—he’d gotten his reaction at last. “It’s nothing to be upset about, my love. But you do have a certain tendency to lie there like a dead fish, and you can’t expect us not to notice.”

Tilrey’s face burned. Malsha had never once objected to the way he “lay there,” never done anything but encourage it. “I don’t, though,” he said, unable to meet the Magistrate’s eye. “I mean, I do everything you want. I’m good with my mouth.”

There was so much else he did, too, simply because it was expected. Get on his hands and knees. Raise his hips. Throw back his head and arch his back. Not show any discomfort. He blinked away angry tears. Just last ten-day, Councillor István had said he “submitted beautifully.”

Malsha seemed positively tickled by his discomfiture. “No one’s disputing your oral skills, my boy. That’s not what bothers Saldegren. His problem is that when he’s fucking you he wants you to enjoy it.”

That. Saldegren was always grabbing his cock, trying to get him hard and eager in situations where he preferred to be numb. Tilrey asked, “That’s not what you want, though, is it?”

They both knew the answer. Malsha liked boys to endure his attentions in stiff or wincing obedience; the reluctance was part of what turned him on. If he’d wanted Tilrey to come, he would have demanded it long ago.

Malsha sighed. “Vanya and I have different tastes. But he has a point: We’ve never worked properly on your responsiveness. And he’s not the only man who likes an enthusiastic partner. I think it’s time to give it some focused attention.”

Tilrey’s dread must have shown on his face. Malsha tousled his hair again. “Come now. If you’ve mastered calculus and the G group of programming languages—things you’ll never actually use, by the way—you can master this.” He reached down and gave Tilrey’s cock a knowing squeeze. “Anyway, I have made you come before, and I imagine Saldegren has, too. Our task now is to make sure you come when you’re supposed to, and not before.”

Tilrey squirmed away, remembering how helpless he felt whenever Saldegren insisted on manipulating him. “I can’t. Control it, I mean. It just happens.”

A gentle smile. “Of course it does. You’re a healthy eighteen-year-old boy. Wouldn’t you like to learn to control it, though?”

Tilrey rolled over and curled into himself, hoping they wouldn’t have to start tonight. “I don’t know. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

“Luckily, I do.”

They began on the next free-night, and it was as embarrassing as Tilrey had feared. In a few hours, he whined and flinched and protested enough to make up for all the preceding months of proud, stone-faced submission.

The worst part was that he ought to like it. Malsha’s fingers were firm and expert when they tightened around Tilrey’s cock. A few pumps were enough to make him rock-hard and moaning for more, feeling the tremors of need all the way to his toes.

“Nothing wrong with those responses,” Malsha said smugly, then gave Tilrey’s cock a hard swat. Tilrey doubled up in pain and tried to roll over, but Malsha said, “Breathe through it” and pressed his shoulder down and held him fast.

Tilrey breathed through it, willing the arousal to ebb away. Just when he finally seemed to have it under control, just when his aching cock was wilting, Malsha gave it a long, agonizing pump, and he was right back to struggling with a desperate, toe-curling need for release.

The third time Malsha repeated this torture, Tilrey came the instant the Magistrate’s hand began to move again—warm and sticky, all over his own chest. When Malsha returned with a washcloth, he was balled up with his face in the pillow, trying not to think.

Malsha made Tilrey turn over so he could sponge up the mess. “That wasn’t bad for a start,” he said. “But the goal is for you to hold yourself back rather than relying on an aversive stimulus from your partner. You need to expect the pain.”

Tilrey nodded, jaw clenched. He didn’t want to learn any of this, didn’t, but it would be easier if he did, and having control was always better than not having control, and he couldn’t help remembering how Malsha had beamed at him, full of admiration, when he revealed the test scores. It was like having the sun shine directly on you.

“How do I learn to do that?” he asked roughly.

“I’ve never been trained this way myself. But I would guess . . . practice?”

So they practiced. Twice that free-night and twice the next. Malsha experimented with different sorts of “aversive stimuli” to keep Tilrey from coming: twisting his balls, pinching his shoulder or thigh, once even slapping his face. Tilrey managed to hold out through four rounds, then five, then six, before he came the moment he was touched.

He squeezed his eyes shut and lay stiff as a ramrod and dug his nails into his palms and thought of all the least arousing things he could. He thought of the loose skin at Malsha’s neck and belly. He thought of Lindahl forcing him to recite prime numbers and square roots. He thought of the smell of boiled cabbage. But in the end, his cock simply would not cooperate.

Until now, he’d prided himself on his self-control, his ability to lie calmly and endure whatever others chose to inflict on him. What an idiot. Submission was nothing—it was easy.

And the worst part was knowing that Malsha loved this. The Magistrate’s cock went utterly neglected during these sessions. Yet, when he finally allowed Tilrey to rest, drawing Tilrey into his arms and petting and stroking him, the old man was practically purring.

“You mustn’t be too hard on yourself, sweetheart,” he said on their second night of practice, pressing Tilrey’s face against his chest. “I’m hardly an experienced trainer, but I think this takes a while. How about this? Once you get that unruly organ of yours under control, you’ll get a reward. To fuck me.”

“I—what?” Tilrey thought he must have misheard. Malsha had never asked for so much as a finger inside him. He tried to imagine mounting the old man, but the thought made him cringe with disgust, or perhaps just dread. “You wouldn’t enjoy that, though, Fir.”

“Of course I would. Or should, if you’re doing it right.” After a moment, Malsha sighed. “I haven’t given enough attention to stimulating you that way, have I? I’ve been selfish. Well, rest assured, you can enjoy a cock inside you. And when I’m done with you, you’ll know how to make a partner enjoy it, too.”

Tilrey had seen men in porn streams squirming in ecstasy when their prostates were stimulated; he’d felt twinges of that pleasure himself. But to make someone else feel it? While he himself was keeping his cock under control?

He hid his face against the Magistrate’s collarbone. “It’s not a reward you’re offering, then. It’s more work.”

Malsha laughed gleefully. “How right you are. But in the end, love, you may like it more than you expect. A big lad like you, growing bigger every day—oh yes, men are going to want you to stick that great big thing inside them. I can’t say I haven’t thought about it myself. And I’d hate for you to lose that particular virginity with anyone but me.”

The rest of January passed this way, then half of February. Once Malsha had a goal in his head, he was ruthless about accomplishing it.

It was hard for Tilrey not to blame Vanya Saldegren, just a little. He tried not to let on, but during one of their nights together, the man noticed his moodiness and asked what was wrong.

“Nothing, Fir.” Telling the truth would make Tilrey look like a sulky child. Vanya might ask Malsha to let up on him, and Malsha would give him a cold lecture about discretion. “I’m fine.”

Saldegren looked mournful, but he didn’t ask again.

Bror noticed Tilrey’s lowness, too—he always did. For a few days, Tilrey considered asking his friend for help. Bror had made passing mentions of fucking some of the Councillors he obliged, and of his particular skill at giving women pleasure that way. He was probably an expert cocksman, holding out for hours and coming on command—unlike Malsha, whose knowledge was all second hand.

But it was too humiliating, and anyway, Tilrey and Bror had never been intimate that way, despite Tilrey’s attempt on the wretched sap-drowned afternoon. If it was going to happen, ever, Tilrey wanted it to be something good for them both, not a lesson that would remind him of Malsha.

“Doin’ okay, Rishka?” Bror asked on a gray afternoon in the Café. He was playing his usual endless card game with Lus and Ansha while Tilrey sat huddled above them on the deep windowseat, watching flakes fling themselves through the twilight.

Bror waggled the toe of Tilrey’s boot, and Tilrey answered him: “Sure.” He’d brought a book up here as an excuse, but he hadn’t opened it. “I just wish I was . . . somewhere else.”

“Don’t we all,” Lus said, sticking his finger in a vial.

“Somewhere it’s summer,” Bror said. “Sunny all day. Can’t you walk outdoors, Tilrey, in Thurskein in the summer? Just like in the Southern Range?”

“Yeah.” Tilrey couldn’t let himself think about his summer days with Dal—sneaking over the barrier and hiking through the trees and along the thawed, burbling river. “In Harbour,” he said, “it must be sunny already.”

“Oh, we’re dreaming of Harbour again.” Ansha rolled his eyes. “My Councillor says the Magistrate gets so many luxuries from Bettevy it should be illegal. A taste for Harbourer goods is weak; we have enough for ourselves.”

Bror guffawed. “Does your Councillor Lindahl say the same thing when he’s eating a whole Harbourer brook trout, the way I saw him doing at the Restaurant the other night?”

“So, he’s human.” Ansha’s eyes hadn’t moved from Tilrey. “It’s funny, Rishka, the way you’re always on about Harbour. You seem to hate the Magistrate, but you sound more and more like him.”

The barb was trivial, like the slaps Malsha gave Tilrey to keep him from release. But seething frustration had been building inside Tilrey with every free-night. He saw himself slapping Ansha so hard the chair toppled backward. He felt the sting on his palm, his satisfaction as the other boy stumbled up from the floor with a look of disbelief. Oh yes.

He stayed put, of course. He wasn’t stupid. “It’s kind of sad, Ansha, the way you talk about Councillor Lindahl—like you worship him. He thinks you’re a brainless little piece. He told me so in bed.”

They were always slinging barbs at each other, but maybe they didn’t expect that from Tilrey, because the table went silent. Ansha reddened like he had been hit. “Lindahl’s an ass,” Bror murmured, after a moment.

Ansha recovered enough to say, “And I guess Lindahl thinks you’re brilliant.”

“Brilliant enough that he makes me recite the times table while he’s fucking me, anyhow.” Tilrey slid down from the windowseat. He’d just been indiscreet, giving Ansha ammunition for later battles, but he didn’t care. “My point isn’t that Lindahl likes me better—I don’t think he likes any of us. My point is that you shouldn’t idolize him just because he’s a Councillor and you have to suck his dick. Have some fucking pride.”

With that, he scooped up his book and strode across the polished pine floor and into the passage that led to the Library, ignoring Ansha’s outraged “Who the fuck does he think he is?” and Lus’s lazy drawl: “What crawled up that boy’s ass?”

Bror caught up to him in the passage. “Rishka, wait. He was being a prick, I know, but you gotta understand, he’s—”

“Jealous and insecure. Right.” Tilrey crossed his arms, still shaking a little from the thrill of speaking his mind. “And I’m just in a shitty mood. So neither of us is to blame, right?”

Bror looked grieved. “If you’re in a shitty mood, you can talk about it. You can tell me things.”

Not always. Tilrey was tired of being soothed like a child. “I stand by what I said. Ansha spends all his time shooting down any Drudge he thinks is more favored than he is. It’s sad.”

Bror spread his hands, still with the glum expression that looked wrong on him. “I know,” he said. “We all know. And the reason Ansha’s such a prick—well, one reason—is that he started out like you. He was the youngest, the newest, the favorite. All the Councillors doted on him. But after a few months they got bored of him and moved on, the way they always do. And now . . .”

Heat flushed Tilrey’s face. “I am not like him. I’ll never be like him. Don’t you remember what he tried to do to me in the Vacants?”

“Of course, and I told him if he ever tried that again, I’ll rearrange his pretty face in ways that would end his career. But—”

“But you’re still his friend. Or maybe you just feel sorry for him the way you do for me.”

Bror reached out, but Tilrey backed away. “Is that why you’re here?” he added. “To make sure I don’t end up like Ansha?”

Bror shook his head. “You’re nothing like him. Didn’t mean that. But I do worry about you.”

Tilrey had heard and seen enough. Bror’s woeful expression was starting to look a lot like pity. “Well, you shouldn’t,” he said, and turned briskly toward the stacks again. “Unlike Ansha, I’ve got a functioning backbone and test scores like a fucking Strutter’s, and I’ll be fine. Now, do me a favor and leave me alone.”

Tilrey fled several flights down to Research Collections, where Bror was less likely to find him, but he couldn’t concentrate on any book he picked up. He flipped through pictures of flora and fauna from the Tangle era, his mind on what had happened upstairs.

Would Bror take his request to be let alone seriously? He hadn’t meant forever. He wasn’t sure he could get through a ten-day without his friend’s easy laugh.

“Excuse me. Is that the American Southwest Field Guide?”

Tilrey looked up to find a young man carrying a stack of books. His first impression after the voice—assertive like an Upstart’s—was of eyes that reminded him of photos of the ocean swelling between icebergs, liquid and shocking turquoise.

“Yes, Fir.” He closed the book and pushed it across the table. “You can have it.”

“No, no!” The young man backed away a step, sounding less confident now. He might have been in his twenties or thirties; it was hard to tell from his slender, boyish figure. His tunic was loose and unflattering, with a low neck—a Discourser or Biologist, certainly not a Sector Diplomat.

“I was only curious because I recognized the picture.” The stranger came back and flipped through the book until he found the page Tilrey had been senselessly staring at. “That high ridge is called a mesa. And those are cacti. It’s like our Wastes, but as dry as they’re wet. And so hot. I’d love to go there, even just for a day, to feel that heat. To see that pink mesa.”

The Upstart sighed in a dramatic way that matched his appearance—those blue eyes set off by a pale face and jet-black hair. “Wouldn’t you?”

Tilrey was still smarting from Ansha’s comments about Harbour. (Did he really sound like Malsha?) “That’s a picture from the Tangle, Fir,” he said. “Hundreds of years ago. It’s probably all gone.”

“Oh, there are still deserts in the south. Malsha visited one on a diplomatic mission. You should ask him about it.”

Malsha? Was he everywhere, inescapable? Tilrey’s heart thudded. For an instant he thought the young man had read his mind, but then he remembered how visible he was as Malsha’s kettle boy. “I’m sorry, Fir. It seems you know me, but I don’t know you.”

“No, I’m sorry. I’ve been awfully rude.” The young man flashed him a conspiratorial, surprisingly radiant smile. “I do know who you are. I confess with chagrin, I’ve been watching you.” He held out his hand. “Adelbert Verán.”

The family name of Malsha’s arch-enemy bit into Tilrey like an icy wind, but he offered his hand and let the young Verán clasp his knuckles. “I don’t think I’m supposed to be talking to Islanders, Fir.”

“Oh, I’m no politician!” Again the beautiful smile. “My uncle’s the Island majority leader, right, but I never go near the Sector. I’m a mere Discourser.” He mimed ferocious typing. “I compose summaries of judicial decisions to go in Records. Pretty silly work, really. Mostly propaganda, spinning things the way the Sector wants them.” In a casual tone, he added, “I guess Malsha hasn’t mentioned me?”

“Not that I recall, Fir.”

All the animation left Adelbert. He slumped into a chair and scrubbed his palms across his face. “Not once?”

“I don’t think so.” Who was this man?

For a moment, silence. Then Adelbert said, “I’m not surprised. It’s been ten years since we lived together. Would you believe it? I used to sleep in the bed where you’re sleeping now.”

Oh. Somehow it had never occurred to Tilrey that Malsha might have had Upstart lovers, ones he couldn’t boss around. “I didn’t know,” he said, wondering why this handsome, high-named youth had chosen to share Malsha’s bed. “Artur didn’t mention you, Fir.”

“I was well before Artur’s time. I was only nineteen when I moved in, and twenty-two when I moved out.” The blue eyes were scrutinizing Tilrey openly now, moving from his face down his body. “But you’re even younger, aren’t you? He does like them young.”

The inspection made Tilrey’s skin crawl, but he was curious, too. He wished he were bold enough to ask Adelbert pointed questions: Has he always been like this? Was it better for you?

“Young, pretty, bright, and innocent. And a bit twitchy.” Adelbert’s lip curled. “You’re not Reddan, though, are you? That’s an interesting variation. Maybe his tastes are evolving.”

Heat rose to Tilrey’s cheeks, and he stood up with a jolt. “I should be going, Fir. It’s a free-night, and I—I . . .”

“Of course. You need to go serve his tea.” Adelbert didn’t sneer, as Strutters so often did; he said it matter-of-factly. “Look,” he said, gazing up at Tilrey. “I know you’re not supposed to speak to strangers, and I shouldn’t have been watching you. But I can’t help wondering, do you sometimes need someone to talk to?”

Tilrey swallowed around the lump in his throat. “Why would I . . . ? I’m fine, Fir.”

“Of course you are! Of course!” Those striking eyes stayed on him. “But you know, I used to say the same thing. And I was not fine.”

Neither am I. Help me. Tilrey stuck his hands in his pockets and managed to keep his face blank. Clearly things had ended poorly between Malsha and Adelbert, and Adelbert was resentful and possibly jealous, which meant the two of them shouldn’t be talking. Kettle boy ethics were simple: You never gave the time of day to anyone your patron was unhappy with.

But he couldn’t seem to walk away.

After a furtive look around the reading room, Adelbert added, “I don’t want to get you in trouble. It’s just—well, I’ve watched you before.”

He slid a scrap of folded paper from his tunic and held it out to Tilrey. “That’s my address. If you come over any fifth-day at six, we could at least talk. That helps sometimes, right? Up to you.”