Chapter 32: Reeling — The Key of Oslov

Volume 20: All the Kinds of Broken

Chapter 32 Reeling

Chapter Notes

Warning: There’s some bad stuff in this chapter, some physical abuse that gets a little worse than we’ve seen before. This is the beginning of the last and worst phase of the “breaking,” though it won’t be this intense all the time.

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for more notes

Tilrey was just developing a tolerable routine when the solstice holiday disrupted things.For the first four days, he and Vlastor were left blissfully alone in the apartment while Verán spent time with his family in the Southern Range. Tilrey ventured out of his room, made himself tea, and even watched a few mindless streams on the sitting-room cylinder. Vlastor stopped policing his meals.But then Vlastor said, “Pack your things.” And it was time to fly south and stay in the villa and entertain Verán’s friends.Every evening, the majority leader welcomed four or five people into his sitting room, usually a mix of intimates and Councillors from whom he wanted favors. He gave Tilrey plenty of sap, and Tilrey never objected, though sometimes he spat half the dose surreptitiously into his own palm and wiped it off on his clothes.He was already well acquainted with most of Verán’s friends and allies. But on this night, along with Besha and Councillor Svallgren, two strangers attended the soirée, and one of them was a rarity at these gatherings—a woman! Not only that, but a woman who dared to tease Verán.“I think it’s a crime what you did to the boy’s hair,” she said, peering at Tilrey from her perch beside them on the couch. “At least the roots seem to be growing out.”Verán had been absently stroking Tilrey’s thigh, as he often did. He always seemed more at ease when his kettle boy was half awake, drooping on his shoulder, so Tilrey had learned to feign being in a stupor most of the time.Now the majority leader pushed him upright and examined a strand of his hair. “You’re right, my sweet Davita. Dark blond suits him. But I suppose I’ve made my point.”So this was Councillor Davita Lindblom. Now he thought about it, Tilrey realized he’d seen her a few times in the Lounge—a tall, stunning woman with light brown skin and a river of black hair. Each time, Malsha had shaken his head and said something along the lines of “What was Davita thinking when she married Besha Linbeck? She’s nearly a decade his senior and could have had anyone.”Besha’s wife, then, though they didn’t seem very affectionate tonight. Tilrey also wondered what she saw in him.“You have made your point.” Besha wobbled over to the sofa and flopped down beside his wife. He’d already had a little too much of the sap-laced mulled wine. “Now leave his hair alone, please. I liked it the way it was.”Verán laughed. “You’re just desperate to have him, aren’t you?”Besha made a face, then kissed his wife on the cheek. “When I have this goddess at home?”Davita pushed him away. “Don’t suck up to me, love. You know I hate that.”“It was a sincere expression of my feelings!”“He can suck up to me,” Verán said, patting Besha’s knee. “I don’t mind.”He was always so affectionate with Besha, touching him casually the way he did Tilrey. Back when Tilrey was sapping heavily, he hadn’t noticed. But now that he was more alert—and bored—he wondered exactly how much sucking up Besha had done.Malsha had told him plenty of Upstarts slept with other Upstarts in exchange for favors—better postings, a leg up in the system. Besha’s marriage to Davita had certainly advanced him in the world. But Tilrey couldn’t imagine a situation in which he would care enough about a job to choose to give himself to Verán. No, not even to be a Councillor like Besha, who had been elected last year.Davita turned to the second stranger, who sat on the other sofa. “I hope we aren’t putting you off marriage, Tollsha! Personally, I’m a huge fan.”Tollsha, a burly, handsome young man with pale blond hair, looked a little dazzled by her smile. “I can’t honestly say I’ve thought about it yet.”“Your older sisters are both married,” Besha pointed out. Tilrey suspected that the younger man annoyed him.Davita countered, “Oh, but you’re still a child, Tollsha. You need to have fun.”Tollsha blushed as if she were flirting with him—was she? Tilrey couldn’t tell. He seldom saw any women except Celinda, who alternated between a strange, hostile brand of flirtation and anger at the whole world.Now that he wasn’t draped over Verán anymore, he wasn’t sure where to look. It felt uncomfortable sitting silently while Davita chatted up Tollsha about his job and his dating history. He could tell that both of them were making an effort not to look at him. As for Besha and Svallgren, their eyes rested on him long and often, longer than he liked.Sap had made everything easier. He slumped back against Verán and let his eyelids sag, pretending to be drowned in pleasant numbness.Naturally, Besha noticed. “Don’t let the boy fall asleep!” he cried. “What will Linden think?”Verán chuckled. “Linden can wake him up.”Edmond Linden. The new General Magistrate, whom Tilrey knew only from glimpses in the Lounge. Was he headed to that man’s bed tonight? That was news to him.Apparently to Davita, too. “Has Mosha recovered enough to entertain a kettle boy?” she asked, her rich voice full of cloying sympathy. “Since he hasn’t been back to the Council chamber since the stroke, I thought, well . . .”“He’s much better now—mobile, and his speech is back to normal. The doctors just want him to take it easy for a month or so.”That was Tollsha. Observing him through his lashes, Tilrey realized the boy and Linden had a family resemblance. He must be here because he was the Magistrate’s son or grandson or nephew.“I invited Mosha tonight,” Verán said, “but he says he’s conserving his energy for his return to the chamber next session.” He slipped his arm around Tilrey. “I think it’s time he enjoyed our spoils of war. He was gladder to get rid of Malsha than any of us.”“There’s nothing worse than an ally turned enemy,” Besha said in his nasty, knowing way.Tilrey remembered what Adelbert Verán had told him: that Malsha and the Islanders had once been allies. He wondered what had gone wrong between them—was it just Malsha’s seduction of Adelbert? That didn’t seem like something Verán would forgive, even though he had deliberately pimped out his rebellious nephew to his colleague.Davita deflected the conversation: “Visha, weren’t you planning for the boy to live with Linden as soon as he was recovered?”“Of course!” Verán replied. “The Island’s kettle boy must live with the leader of the party, and he will.” There was an edge on his voice; he wasn’t feeling as smug as usual. “As soon as Mosha has fully recovered from his unfortunate condition.”“Meanwhile, you’ve taken the responsibility on yourself.” Davita was back in teasing mode, but there was a sharpness to her tone. “It must be such a burden, Visha, having a stunning creature like Linnett’s boy in your bed whenever you want him.”“Don’t call him ‘Linnett’s boy,’” Verán said peevishly.“Why not? Didn’t Malsha pluck him from the depths of Karkei or wherever it was?”“Thurskein,” Besha corrected.“What does it matter? He’s here now, and we call him Nettsha to honor his unsavory origins.” Verán shoved Tilrey upright again. “Open your eyes, you lout. You’re sweet-drowned and doing no work at all.”Tilrey opened his eyes. Tollsha’s gaze darted away instantly—did the situation embarrass him? Poor boy, Tilrey thought acidly.“They’re bewitching eyes, aren’t they?” Verán said. “Have you ever seen a blue like that?”Tilrey knew the old man was annoyed because Davita had suggested—subtly and playfully, but still—that he was monopolizing Tilrey when Linden had a better claim to him. If there was one thing Verán hated, it was any suggestion that he had overreached or claimed more than he was entitled to. In his mind, everything he had was deserved, including the enthusiastic sexual compliance of his inferiors. Tilrey doubted it had ever occurred to him that kettle boys like Ansha, who moaned and complimented his prowess, were just playing along.Well observed, Malsha whispered. So, you know what the old fool wants—what he expects. Why can’t you give it to him?

Why should I if I don’t want to?

“Never seen eyes like Nettsha’s in my life,” Besha said, sucking up to Verán again. He knew how the game was played.A dry chuckle, and Verán gave Tilrey a push. “Get up, boy—time to earn your keep. Go to Besha.”Tilrey stood up, but he stopped short when he saw Davita’s aggressively raised eyebrow. Even Besha seemed startled, a pink flush across his freckled nose making him look younger.“No, wait, that won’t do,” Verán amended. “Besha, go sit in the armchair.”“Oh, my.” Besha shot an apologetic look at his wife as he obeyed the order. “What on earth do you have in mind, Visha? It’s not my birthday.”“You’ve done good work getting the stragglers in line this session. Nettsha, go to him.” Verán made a gesture Tilrey knew well, palm to the floor. On your knees.Tilrey swallowed. In his peripheral vision, he saw Tollsha crossing his arms and averting his gaze, while Svallgren leaned in, a half smile on his lips. Not everyone wanted to see this, apparently.It was easy for them. They could choose to look away.“Go.” Verán’s voice was a whiplash.The old Tilrey hated being a spectacle, but Nettsha couldn’t afford to be so sensitive. Sensitivities were for Strutters, and it wasn’t a real crowd scene if he was only obliging Besha. Anyway, saying no would embarrass Verán. Saying no would mean losing privileges.Tilrey crossed the carpet in a few paces—it felt longer—and knelt in front of Besha’s armchair. Keeping his gaze down, he nudged the young Councillor’s knees apart and fumbled under his tunic.Behind him, someone inhaled sharply—Tollsha, probably. Even Besha gave a little start. But he didn’t resist when Tilrey stroked him through his trousers, and he was hard within seconds.Focus. They aren’t here. Tilrey willed himself to be aware of only Besha’s increasing arousal—not Verán’s or Svallgren’s excitement, not Tollsha’s mortification, not Davita’s cold scrutiny. He unbuttoned Besha’s fly and got a good grip on his cock. It was nothing too impressive, but the little Councillor probably had all sorts of clever ways of pleasing his beautiful, high-named wife.Besha threw his head back, his breath already coming in anguished gasps. “Green hells—that’s good. Mouth now. Please.” Then he seemed to realize his mistake, and he glanced over at Verán. “Please, could I?”“You’re embarrassing yourself, darling,” Davita said. But she sounded resigned to the situation—and perhaps a little aroused herself, Tilrey thought.“Let him take his time,” Verán said magnanimously. “The boy knows what he’s doing.”When I’m touching someone’s cock, suddenly I know things. Suddenly I’m good for something. Tilrey wanted to stop, but his body was on autopilot, palming Besha’s cock as he crept in between the man’s knees. He didn’t choose the moment when he bent and ran his tongue around the tip; it just happened.A thrill ran through Besha from head to toe, as if he’d been electrified. “Don’t stop,” he moaned under his breath.Was he performing a bit, too? Tilrey wondered as he licked a stripe up the man’s straining organ, then bent to flick the balls with his tongue. He thanked everything green that his body knew what it was doing, granting his mind free rein.In the background, Svallgren and Verán chuckled over something, but he willed himself to pay no attention. They didn’t matter. He teased Besha’s cock for a minute or so longer, until the young Councillor was straining and arching his back and cursing, before he took the full length into his throat.Besha wasn’t one of those men who could maintain a stoic exterior. A stifled cry burst from him, and then he was pumping his hips shamelessly.The thrusting pressure gave Tilrey a visceral flashback to the night of the Spring Fling—being held down and choked, over and over. But he knew how to handle those memories now. He stamped on them and locked them in an imaginary trunk and sat on it.Anyway, he was in control tonight. When Besha tangled fingers in his hair and pressed Tilrey down on his cock till he couldn’t breathe, Tilrey let it happen—but only for a few seconds. Then he yanked away, freeing himself enough to use his tongue again.Another cry, and Besha’s grip loosened. The man was close to his climax, and he wouldn’t do anything to endanger it.I know you better than you know yourself. Besha would want to be teased first; he would want to beg for it. Verán would want to see him do that, too.And so Tilrey teased for what felt like a good half hour, though it was probably less than five minutes. He gave the man his whole mouth and then pulled back to play with the cockhead and balls again, making Besha squirm and convulse and even sob.When he finally allowed Besha to come, gushing into his throat, he was tired. Besha uttered a strangled scream and collapsed as if he’d been mortally wounded.Well. That was interesting. Tilrey swallowed, pulled out, and gave the Councillor a rapid cleaning with his tongue. Then he sat back on his haunches and tucked Besha into his briefs and trousers. The young Councillor lay limp, face slack and skin grayish.“I think you’ve killed my husband.” Davita’s tone was ironic, but Tilrey thought he caught a hint of admiration. “Visha, do you even realize what you’ve unleashed? Our child and future children need a father.”Besha grunted something Tilrey couldn’t make out—“Not now,” perhaps. He still seemed incapable of opening his eyes, much less fixing his clothes, so Tilrey tugged the skirt of the man’s tunic back down and scooted away.When he turned his eyes to Verán, he wasn’t surprised to see the majority leader holding out a palmful of sap.He rose and returned to his original seat, stiff-legged. His throat ached, but not in any serious way. He bent and licked up the sticky black puddle from his Fir’s hand, while Verán said, “Maybe you’re not so lazy after all.”*Fir Magistrate Linden’s villa was only a few steps away. Tilrey followed Tollsha up the snowy path, grateful for a few seconds under the stars, even if the midwinter night was cold enough to kill them both.“Is Fir Magistrate your grandfather, Fir?” he asked through the scarf that protected his face.Tollsha didn’t answer until they’d climbed the salted steps of the villa and reached the safety of the coldroom. “He’s my uncle,” he said, sitting down to pull off his boots. “Listen, be careful with him, okay? He’s not like Besha.”What did that mean? “I’m used to older men, Fir,” Tilrey assured the young Upstart, stripping off his own outergear. “And I know he’s been ill. Do you mean . . . well, are there things it’s not safe for him to do?”Tollsha looked disgusted by the suggestion. “No! I mean, what would I know about it? The doctor didn’t say anything was off-limits. What I mean is, my uncle . . . well, he’s not very adaptable, and he doesn’t appreciate teasing.”“I don’t tease, Fir.” Or not with words, anyway—Davita was the one who did that.Tollsha looked Tilrey up and down. The room was too dim for Tilrey to get a good look at his features, but wariness and contempt radiated from him. “You’re big,” he said, “and you hold up your head like an Upstart, at least when you aren’t sweet-drowned. You might confuse him. Uncle mixes me up with my father sometimes. My father’s dead.”Tilrey struggled to understand what these different facts had to do with each other. Did he really hold his head higher than he should? Malsha had always told him not to hang his head, not to slouch. “I understand, Fir.”“I’m not talking about dementia. So don’t go and tell Verán that! They tested him, and he remembers things like Council procedure just fine.” Tollsha hit the button, and the inner door hissed open. “Uncle gets confused about people, that’s all. I think he’s reached an age where he can’t be bothered. So don’t do anything that could upset him.”Tilrey followed him inside, blinking in the brightness. They found the Magistrate by the gas fire in the sitting room, reading the Council Record with a tea tumbler beside him.Mosha Linden had been a sleek, corpulent man when Tilrey saw him in the Lounge, but age or illness had shrunken him. His head was still large and round, his cheeks doughy and disturbingly pale, but his body disappeared inside the white dressing gown. He took no notice of their approach. Tollsha had to say, “Uncle, I’ve brought the boy. Uncle!” before he looked up.Linden’s eyes were large and silvery blue like Tollsha’s. They didn’t quite seem to focus. “What boy?”“Verán’s boy. The Island’s boy. Verán wants you to have him tonight.” The old man still looked blank, and Tollsha cleared his throat and said, “Linnett’s boy.”Linden’s eyes narrowed, as if he were finally seeing Tilrey. “Malsha,” he said in a knowing way. “But of course.”“Yes, Malsha’s.” Tollsha gave Tilrey a nudge forward—the first time he had touched him.“How did Visha seem?” the old man asked his nephew, his gaze leaving Tilrey. “Did he talk about the greenhouse provision in the budget?”“No, he didn’t talk shop at all. The Lindblom woman and her husband were there, and they sapped and gossiped, mostly.”Linden sighed—a wheezing sound that seemed to traverse his whole body. “That wretched hussy thinks the world revolves around her. Spoiled. And her husband is a no-name. At least your father had the sense not to get into politics—not that I would ever have supported that kind of foolishness.”Tollsha shot a glance at Tilrey, as if the mention of his father embarrassed him. “No need to speak ill of the dead.”The Magistrate drank from his tumbler and set it down. “Your father knew his place, Tollsha. More of us should. He was a handsome, gaudy man who married my sister for her name, and he never pretended otherwise. I do wish there weren’t so much of him in you.”Tollsha fidgeted with his scarf. “Uncle, it’s late.”“Next time, notice more when you’re at Visha’s. He’s a show-off, and he surrounds himself with an audience of cawing crows who chatter and covet and don’t know how to hide it.”“They’re your allies, Uncle.”“Yes.” Linden sighed again, as if he regretted the alliance deeply. “In my youth, both parties were purer. Pay better attention next time.”“I’ll try.” Tollsha looked as if he were itching to escape. “Well, I’m going upstairs to bed, unless you want more tea?”“No, I’m fine, boy. Go.”As Tollsha fled up the stairs, those pale eyes locked on Tilrey again. “Tiresome. Everything so tiresome,” the old man said.And then, as Tilrey met his gaze, he cried, “Eyes down!”Tilrey obeyed, clasping his hands behind his back. The elderly Magistrate seemed fragile, like a relic of past centuries. Yet he spoke with such force that it was hard to know whether to be vexed or amused.Linden continued to talk—but quietly, as if to himself. “Crows. Ravens. Socialites. Chatterers! They ruin everything they touch. Drudges, Upstarts, everything beautiful. Even a fine youth like Adelbert.”The name made Tilrey lift his head again. In all his time in Verán’s house, he couldn’t recall having heard the majority leader’s rebellious nephew mentioned. “Do you mean Adelbert Verán, Fir?”He froze when he saw the look on the Magistrate’s face—a mixture of shock and revulsion, as if one of the armchairs had spoken to him.“I don’t abide gaudy-feathered birds here,” the man said after a moment. He snapped his fingers so loudly that Tilrey flinched. “Bedroom.”With that, the Magistrate rose laboriously from the sofa. Tilrey made a brief attempt to assist him, as he’d learned to do with Verán. But one look at Linden’s forbidding expression stopped him dead.He trailed behind Linden to a large first-floor bedroom that was the twin of Verán’s and Malsha’s, with its lofty, raftered ceiling. The Magistrate flicked on the recessed ceiling lights. The bed was unmade, and a whiff of disinfectant lingered in the air.Linden plumped himself down on the bed and pointed upward. “Those off again.” He indicated the bedside lamp. “Just that.”“Yes, Fir.” Tilrey turned out the overheads and flicked on the lamp, hoping he’d understood the order correctly. Linden sat in the single pool of light now, while he stood in darkness, which emboldened him to say, “I meant no disrespect, Fir. Only, I met Fir Adelbert Verán a year or so ago, and I wondered—”“Shh!” An angry hiss. Linden snapped his fingers again, silencing Tilrey. Then he made the familiar slash of thumb and forefinger through the air: Undress.This at least was well-worn territory, though the order was abrupt. Keeping his gaze down, Tilrey stripped swiftly and smoothly, folding his clothes the way Malsha had taught him and placing them neatly on the carpet.When he looked up, he saw the Magistrate wasn’t even watching. He was frowning at his handheld. Tilrey had to wait another minute or so, naked and struggling not to fidget, before Linden put the device down and surveyed him from head to toe.“Hmm.” The frown did not vanish. “Malsha’s. Bror Malkien Linnett’s.” He seemed to enjoy pronouncing each syllable of the full name that Malsha had hated. But if Tilrey’s body interested him, he gave no sign. “He always did like the tall ones, the strong ones. The brutes.”“I’m not . . .” This time the words died in Tilrey’s throat. Just as he could see into Verán’s mind, with its hunger for fawning attention, he already knew Linden wanted him to follow orders in silence, like a machine. “Sorry, Fir.”Linden inhaled sharply through his nose, then flapped a hand at the floor the way Verán had done earlier. “Here, lad.”On my knees for the second time in an hour. But Tilrey was relieved. This would be a lot less awkward than standing naked in the middle of the room.He went to the Magistrate, knelt before him, and lifted the hem of his dressing gown. Linden’s hand caught his and guided it.For a few minutes, everything was easier as autopilot kicked in again. Stroke, squeeze, tease, fondle. The old man sat like a stone as Tilrey worked, the opposite of the excitable Besha. But his cock did harden, albeit slowly, and eventually Tilrey decided it was time to dip his head and slide the stiff length into his mouth.He worked diligently, using all his tricks—the tongue around the head, the firm grip on the base, the gentlest strokes and squeezes to the vulnerable testicles. He went through the whole roster, then repeated it in a slightly different order.The Magistrate tensed and made a humming sound when Tilrey deep-throated him, but otherwise he barely reacted. It was like sucking off a fat raw daikon.Why was it taking so long? Old men sometimes failed to reach completion when they fucked him, but his mouth usually got the job done. Maybe he should have had more appreciation for Besha’s responsiveness.As he ran through all his maneuvers again—his tongue stiff and heavy with the sustained effort—he wondered about Besha. Had the young Councillor really lost control, or had he been performing for Verán’s sake? The majority leader had certainly enjoyed watching them together, though Tilrey wasn’t so sure about Besha’s wife.He cupped Linden’s balls in his free hand, desperate to find the man’s path to climax. Was he one of those who liked a finger in his ass? Surely he would have said so. His position precluded experimenting, even if Tilrey had dared.He should have thought ahead and asked Bror or Ansha about the Magistrate’s preferences. He saw them at the Café a few days out of every ten now, usually after the Gym. Sometimes Vlastor even allowed Bror to be the one to chaperone Tilrey home. He was nearly back to his normal weight, and soon he hoped to be allowed to walk around the city by himself.That would be nice, especially as the days lengthened—to walk for hours with no destination. Maybe he and Bror could go to the Restaurant, where Bror’s cousin worked, and scavenge leftovers from the kitchen. Or they could go lounge in the Vacants the way they used to, far from Upstart eyes.From the others’ hints, Tilrey knew that all sorts of recreational sex happened in the Vacants. Bror had always tried to distance him from those activities. But he was older now, and there was no need to protect him. He had been with Ansha—why not the others? Why not Bror himself?If only he were sucking Bror’s cock right now. That would be so much easier—even nice! Bror would gasp and grab Tilrey’s head the way Besha had, but then he would release it, because Bror cared about Tilrey’s comfort. Bror would tell him how good it felt. Bror would thank him and kiss him and hold him afterward.Why was it taking so long? His throat was numb. The stale smell of Linden’s sweat made his stomach turn over. And was it his imagination, or was the Magistrate’s cock softening?Shit! Please, no—but these things happened to every man, didn’t they? Maybe it was better to admit defeat.Tilrey popped the man’s flabby organ out of his mouth with a shudder he couldn’t repress. He sat back. “I’m sorry, Fir. It happens. Maybe if we waited a little—”Linden smacked him across the face.Verán slapped Tilrey now and then, when he backtalked or was slow to do something. But those smacks were token, just making a point. This one was meant to cause pain.Tilrey rocked back on his haunches, cheeks and nose stinging. He wasn’t really hurt, of course—an old man couldn’t hurt him. But he felt the impact of Linden’s palm on his cheek. An oddly smooth, plump palm, like a child’s, not something that should be able to injure anyone.“I’m sorry, Fir.” He hung his head. Hadn’t the man heard his apology the first time? What was he supposed to do, suck on a limp cock all night? “My fault. I’ll try again if you like—”This time, he didn’t see the blow coming. A sharp cuff on the right side of his head jolted him sideways, making his ears ring.As he righted himself, everything seemed to come into sharper focus—the muted colors, the disinfectant smell, the glow of the lamp. There was nothing in the world but this room and his own naked, crouching body and the white slug of the Magistrate hunched before him.He felt different, as if the two blows had knocked him out of a deep sleep. His whole body was alive now, from his sinuses to his fingertips, and he knew that if he’d wanted to, he could have hauled the old man out of bed and dashed his brains out on the bedside table.He didn’t want to, of course. He preferred to live, so he stayed where he was, waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside. This time he held his tongue.So he wasn’t expecting the third blow, either—a cuff on the left to match the one on the right. Or the fourth blow: a second frontal smack, harder than the first, that left him clutching his nose and tasting blood.That was enough. Bruises were out of bounds. Tilrey scuttled backward and rose to his feet. “I told you I was sorry, Fir!”No, that wasn’t good enough—he needed to salvage the old man’s pride. “I’ve had too much sap tonight. I’m just not my best.” His tongue and throat moved sluggishly; it was hard to talk. “Please let me try again!”The sharp snap of Linden’s fingers cut through his apologies. “Down,” the man ordered, pointing to the floor in front of him.I can’t suck you off any more. I can’t, I can’t. But he’d asked to try again, so Tilrey returned to his knees. His sensitive skin smarted, but nothing was broken. He would humiliate himself, if that was what the old fool got off on. He would laugh about it with Bror later.That soft hand seized his jaw, squeezing, and pulled him closer. “Brute,” Linden said, his nails digging into Tilrey’s skin. “He speaks when he’s spoken to from now on. He looks where he’s told to look. Understood?”It was an archaic form of address, used in Feudal times from superiors to inferiors—a way to avoid saying you. Tilrey had never heard it from an Upstart before.I could shake him off. I could crush him. It was such an effort to stay still that tears rose to his eyes. When Linden repeated the question, he nodded.The Magistrate released him, then delivered two more open-handed slaps, fore- and back-hand. Tilrey barely felt them this time. He was floating, dizzy with the strange, sick effort of not fighting back.What was he supposed to do, hit the General Magistrate of the Republic? Pin his arms? Sit on him? This frail, elderly man? No. Verán, Tollsha, none of them would understand. Anyway, Tilrey could do so much better than that. He could just not care.The sense of effort melted away. He felt bizarrely powerful, knowing he could absorb Linden’s anger and so much more. He closed his eyes and silently dared the Magistrate: Do it. Hit me again, use your fist, break my nose. See how much it matters to me.But no more blows arrived. Tilrey brought his knees to his chest and sat for a bit, barely conscious of blood trickling down his chin. He heard Linden rising and moving around the room, the door opening, then low voices. Linden and a younger man. Tollsha?Footsteps approached. A hand, not the Magistrate’s, lifted his chin. “Oh shit, he’s bleeding, Fir! I better clean him up.”Not Tollsha after all. The young man spoke with an accent so familiar it brought fresh tears to Tilrey’s eyes. He was a Laborer, a Skeinsha, and he sounded like Dal’s family, like every factory family in Sector Six. Once Tilrey must have sounded that way himself, at least to Reddan ears.“Bring him to your room,” the Magistrate said from the bed. “I’ve had enough.”The fellow Skeinsha helped Tilrey to his feet. He wore a driver’s uniform, but he lacked Vlastor’s military posture and officious manner. “Where are your clothes?” he asked, then snagged them from the floor. “’S okay,” he added under his breath as he guided Tilrey to the door with a hand placed lightly on his back. “This way. Gonna be fine.”Tilrey tried to dress in the sitting room, but the driver hurried him to the bathroom and gave him a robe, then sat him down and swabbed the drying blood from his lip. “Just a nick,” he said, rubbing in some cream. “Won’t last.”“The bruises will.” Tilrey’s hoarse voice sounded barely human to him. He could already see an indigo smudge forming on his left cheek. Because he knew it wasn’t the driver’s fault, he added, “I’m . . . Nettsha, I guess. What’s your name?”“Jorning, Boris.” The driver had a shock of light brown hair and a nice, open young face. He was almost as big as Bror. “Everybody calls me Jorning.”“What sector are you from?” Tilrey asked, letting a little of the Thurskein sneak back into his own syllables.Jorning’s face lit up. “You too? Or are you just taking the piss?”“Born and raised in Sector Six.”“No kidding! I’m Seven.”Jorning had a room in the back of the villa, no bigger than Tilrey’s room at home. “I was kinda snoozing when the Fir buzzed me,” he said apologetically as they entered, gesturing at the messy single bed. “You can take that, and I’ll take the floor.”“We’ll share. You don’t scare me.” Tilrey got into bed and slid over against the wall.Jorning brought him a painkiller tablet and a glass of water, then got into bed with him and turned out the lights. “How long since you were home?” he asked.“Two and a half years.” Why did it feel so much longer?“You’re young.” Jorning was carefully keeping space between himself and Tilrey. “Eight years for me. I enlisted, but I didn’t like it, so I came here to be a mechanic. Then Fir Magistrate’s old driver asked me to replace him.”“So you’ve been with him a while.”“Almost four years.” Jorning sounded drowsy. “It’s okay, mostly—not much to do. When I was in the army, they had me patrolling every night in the frozen ass-end of nowhere. Here, y’know, the food’s good, and I don’t get frostbite.”Tilrey didn’t want to keep the driver up, but he needed to talk. While the cream had numbed his lip, the rest of his body still sang with adrenaline. “Jorning,” he said, “has he ever . . . well, have you ever seen him do what he did tonight? Does he do it to you?”Tollsha had tried to warn him, he realized belatedly. But the young Upstart hadn’t been nearly clear enough.Jorning’s long form tensed in the darkness. “He gives me a wallop sometimes, when I’m slow. Never made me bleed. Been worse since the stroke, though, like he’s always angry. Guess he feels Brother Owl sneaking up on him.”Brother Owl was death—an old phrase that Tilrey had only ever heard in Thurskein. “I tried, you know,” he said in a low voice. The bed was pleasantly warm from Jorning’s body, and he was starting to feel sleepy despite himself. “But I . . . couldn’t.”Jorning’s nod showed he guessed what had happened in the bedroom. “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Green knows, a body like yours would give a boner to a dead man.” He shifted, widening the distance between them. “Sorry, shouldna said that. I respect you, promise.”Tilrey laughed. He could almost see the scarlet on Jorning’s cheeks—such an innocent. “I told you, you don’t scare me. But I need my sleep, so if you try anything, I’ll sock you in the nose.”To his relief, Jorning laughed back. “You just try. I used to box when I was in the regiment.”“Maybe you could teach me a few things.” If he really did have to live with Linden, Tilrey might need the knowledge. But he pushed the thought away—not now. Deal with it later.Verán’s household, which had seemed hellish to him a few hours ago, was now somewhere he was eager to escape back to. The majority leader was unpleasant, but he was consistent and manageable. What could you do with a man who took out his rage at his own impotence on you?Jorning said, “I bet you’d learn quick, a strong lad like you.”“I bet I would.” Tilrey was good at his job. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen. He added, “Tell me, do you . . . well, you probably wouldn’t. But do you know any reliable way to get him off?”Jorning didn’t seem to take offense to the question. “Before the stroke, he’d have whores in sometimes. I helped him with them. It wasn’t good, what he wanted me to do to them,” he added after a moment’s reflection. “I didn’t like it. But I made sure they didn’t get hurt bad. No bruises that would show.”“Could you ‘help him’ with me next time?” Tilrey wanted to ask what he was letting himself in for, but he told himself it didn’t matter. I’ll figure Linden out. I won’t let this happen again. If he had to be hurt, he would know it was coming.“Sure.” Jorning sighed heavily. “I was hoping the Fir was done with all that.”“Maybe he is. But with these old men, you know, sometimes it’s more about pride than desire.” Tilrey thought of Verán, desperate to prove his prowess; Linden might claim to be contemptuous of his colleague, but he still wanted his respect.“I’ll help you if I can,” Jorning said. “It’s good to meet somebody from home. Night, Nettsha.”“Night.”

Tilrey was just developing a tolerable routine when the solstice holiday disrupted things.

For the first four days, he and Vlastor were left blissfully alone in the apartment while Verán spent time with his family in the Southern Range. Tilrey ventured out of his room, made himself tea, and even watched a few mindless streams on the sitting-room cylinder. Vlastor stopped policing his meals.

But then Vlastor said, “Pack your things.” And it was time to fly south and stay in the villa and entertain Verán’s friends.

Every evening, the majority leader welcomed four or five people into his sitting room, usually a mix of intimates and Councillors from whom he wanted favors. He gave Tilrey plenty of sap, and Tilrey never objected, though sometimes he spat half the dose surreptitiously into his own palm and wiped it off on his clothes.

He was already well acquainted with most of Verán’s friends and allies. But on this night, along with Besha and Councillor Svallgren, two strangers attended the soirée, and one of them was a rarity at these gatherings—a woman! Not only that, but a woman who dared to tease Verán.

“I think it’s a crime what you did to the boy’s hair,” she said, peering at Tilrey from her perch beside them on the couch. “At least the roots seem to be growing out.”

Verán had been absently stroking Tilrey’s thigh, as he often did. He always seemed more at ease when his kettle boy was half awake, drooping on his shoulder, so Tilrey had learned to feign being in a stupor most of the time.

Now the majority leader pushed him upright and examined a strand of his hair. “You’re right, my sweet Davita. Dark blond suits him. But I suppose I’ve made my point.”

So this was Councillor Davita Lindblom. Now he thought about it, Tilrey realized he’d seen her a few times in the Lounge—a tall, stunning woman with light brown skin and a river of black hair. Each time, Malsha had shaken his head and said something along the lines of “What was Davita thinking when she married Besha Linbeck? She’s nearly a decade his senior and could have had anyone.”

Besha’s wife, then, though they didn’t seem very affectionate tonight. Tilrey also wondered what she saw in him.

“You have made your point.” Besha wobbled over to the sofa and flopped down beside his wife. He’d already had a little too much of the sap-laced mulled wine. “Now leave his hair alone, please. I liked it the way it was.”

Verán laughed. “You’re just desperate to have him, aren’t you?”

Besha made a face, then kissed his wife on the cheek. “When I have this goddess at home?”

Davita pushed him away. “Don’t suck up to me, love. You know I hate that.”

“It was a sincere expression of my feelings!”

“He can suck up to me,” Verán said, patting Besha’s knee. “I don’t mind.”

He was always so affectionate with Besha, touching him casually the way he did Tilrey. Back when Tilrey was sapping heavily, he hadn’t noticed. But now that he was more alert—and bored—he wondered exactly how much sucking up Besha had done.

Malsha had told him plenty of Upstarts slept with other Upstarts in exchange for favors—better postings, a leg up in the system. Besha’s marriage to Davita had certainly advanced him in the world. But Tilrey couldn’t imagine a situation in which he would care enough about a job to choose to give himself to Verán. No, not even to be a Councillor like Besha, who had been elected last year.

Davita turned to the second stranger, who sat on the other sofa. “I hope we aren’t putting you off marriage, Tollsha! Personally, I’m a huge fan.”

Tollsha, a burly, handsome young man with pale blond hair, looked a little dazzled by her smile. “I can’t honestly say I’ve thought about it yet.”

“Your older sisters are both married,” Besha pointed out. Tilrey suspected that the younger man annoyed him.

Davita countered, “Oh, but you’re still a child, Tollsha. You need to have fun.”

Tollsha blushed as if she were flirting with him—was she? Tilrey couldn’t tell. He seldom saw any women except Celinda, who alternated between a strange, hostile brand of flirtation and anger at the whole world.

Now that he wasn’t draped over Verán anymore, he wasn’t sure where to look. It felt uncomfortable sitting silently while Davita chatted up Tollsha about his job and his dating history. He could tell that both of them were making an effort not to look at him. As for Besha and Svallgren, their eyes rested on him long and often, longer than he liked.

Sap had made everything easier. He slumped back against Verán and let his eyelids sag, pretending to be drowned in pleasant numbness.

Naturally, Besha noticed. “Don’t let the boy fall asleep!” he cried. “What will Linden think?”

Verán chuckled. “Linden can wake him up.”

Edmond Linden. The new General Magistrate, whom Tilrey knew only from glimpses in the Lounge. Was he headed to that man’s bed tonight? That was news to him.

Apparently to Davita, too. “Has Mosha recovered enough to entertain a kettle boy?” she asked, her rich voice full of cloying sympathy. “Since he hasn’t been back to the Council chamber since the stroke, I thought, well . . .”

“He’s much better now—mobile, and his speech is back to normal. The doctors just want him to take it easy for a month or so.”

That was Tollsha. Observing him through his lashes, Tilrey realized the boy and Linden had a family resemblance. He must be here because he was the Magistrate’s son or grandson or nephew.

“I invited Mosha tonight,” Verán said, “but he says he’s conserving his energy for his return to the chamber next session.” He slipped his arm around Tilrey. “I think it’s time he enjoyed our spoils of war. He was gladder to get rid of Malsha than any of us.”

“There’s nothing worse than an ally turned enemy,” Besha said in his nasty, knowing way.

Tilrey remembered what Adelbert Verán had told him: that Malsha and the Islanders had once been allies. He wondered what had gone wrong between them—was it just Malsha’s seduction of Adelbert? That didn’t seem like something Verán would forgive, even though he had deliberately pimped out his rebellious nephew to his colleague.

Davita deflected the conversation: “Visha, weren’t you planning for the boy to live with Linden as soon as he was recovered?”

“Of course!” Verán replied. “The Island’s kettle boy must live with the leader of the party, and he will.” There was an edge on his voice; he wasn’t feeling as smug as usual. “As soon as Mosha has fully recovered from his unfortunate condition.”

“Meanwhile, you’ve taken the responsibility on yourself.” Davita was back in teasing mode, but there was a sharpness to her tone. “It must be such a burden, Visha, having a stunning creature like Linnett’s boy in your bed whenever you want him.”

“Don’t call him ‘Linnett’s boy,’” Verán said peevishly.

“Why not? Didn’t Malsha pluck him from the depths of Karkei or wherever it was?”

“Thurskein,” Besha corrected.

“What does it matter? He’s here now, and we call him Nettsha to honor his unsavory origins.” Verán shoved Tilrey upright again. “Open your eyes, you lout. You’re sweet-drowned and doing no work at all.”

Tilrey opened his eyes. Tollsha’s gaze darted away instantly—did the situation embarrass him? Poor boy, Tilrey thought acidly.

“They’re bewitching eyes, aren’t they?” Verán said. “Have you ever seen a blue like that?”

Tilrey knew the old man was annoyed because Davita had suggested—subtly and playfully, but still—that he was monopolizing Tilrey when Linden had a better claim to him. If there was one thing Verán hated, it was any suggestion that he had overreached or claimed more than he was entitled to. In his mind, everything he had was deserved, including the enthusiastic sexual compliance of his inferiors. Tilrey doubted it had ever occurred to him that kettle boys like Ansha, who moaned and complimented his prowess, were just playing along.

Well observed, Malsha whispered. So, you know what the old fool wants—what he expects. Why can’t you give it to him?

Why should I if I don’t want to?

“Never seen eyes like Nettsha’s in my life,” Besha said, sucking up to Verán again. He knew how the game was played.

A dry chuckle, and Verán gave Tilrey a push. “Get up, boy—time to earn your keep. Go to Besha.”

Tilrey stood up, but he stopped short when he saw Davita’s aggressively raised eyebrow. Even Besha seemed startled, a pink flush across his freckled nose making him look younger.

“No, wait, that won’t do,” Verán amended. “Besha, go sit in the armchair.”

“Oh, my.” Besha shot an apologetic look at his wife as he obeyed the order. “What on earth do you have in mind, Visha? It’s not my birthday.”

“You’ve done good work getting the stragglers in line this session. Nettsha, go to him.” Verán made a gesture Tilrey knew well, palm to the floor. On your knees.

Tilrey swallowed. In his peripheral vision, he saw Tollsha crossing his arms and averting his gaze, while Svallgren leaned in, a half smile on his lips. Not everyone wanted to see this, apparently.

It was easy for them. They could choose to look away.

“Go.” Verán’s voice was a whiplash.

The old Tilrey hated being a spectacle, but Nettsha couldn’t afford to be so sensitive. Sensitivities were for Strutters, and it wasn’t a real crowd scene if he was only obliging Besha. Anyway, saying no would embarrass Verán. Saying no would mean losing privileges.

Tilrey crossed the carpet in a few paces—it felt longer—and knelt in front of Besha’s armchair. Keeping his gaze down, he nudged the young Councillor’s knees apart and fumbled under his tunic.

Behind him, someone inhaled sharply—Tollsha, probably. Even Besha gave a little start. But he didn’t resist when Tilrey stroked him through his trousers, and he was hard within seconds.

Focus. They aren’t here. Tilrey willed himself to be aware of only Besha’s increasing arousal—not Verán’s or Svallgren’s excitement, not Tollsha’s mortification, not Davita’s cold scrutiny. He unbuttoned Besha’s fly and got a good grip on his cock. It was nothing too impressive, but the little Councillor probably had all sorts of clever ways of pleasing his beautiful, high-named wife.

Besha threw his head back, his breath already coming in anguished gasps. “Green hells—that’s good. Mouth now. Please.” Then he seemed to realize his mistake, and he glanced over at Verán. “Please, could I?”

“You’re embarrassing yourself, darling,” Davita said. But she sounded resigned to the situation—and perhaps a little aroused herself, Tilrey thought.

“Let him take his time,” Verán said magnanimously. “The boy knows what he’s doing.”

When I’m touching someone’s cock, suddenly I know things. Suddenly I’m good for something. Tilrey wanted to stop, but his body was on autopilot, palming Besha’s cock as he crept in between the man’s knees. He didn’t choose the moment when he bent and ran his tongue around the tip; it just happened.

A thrill ran through Besha from head to toe, as if he’d been electrified. “Don’t stop,” he moaned under his breath.

Was he performing a bit, too? Tilrey wondered as he licked a stripe up the man’s straining organ, then bent to flick the balls with his tongue. He thanked everything green that his body knew what it was doing, granting his mind free rein.

In the background, Svallgren and Verán chuckled over something, but he willed himself to pay no attention. They didn’t matter. He teased Besha’s cock for a minute or so longer, until the young Councillor was straining and arching his back and cursing, before he took the full length into his throat.

Besha wasn’t one of those men who could maintain a stoic exterior. A stifled cry burst from him, and then he was pumping his hips shamelessly.

The thrusting pressure gave Tilrey a visceral flashback to the night of the Spring Fling—being held down and choked, over and over. But he knew how to handle those memories now. He stamped on them and locked them in an imaginary trunk and sat on it.

Anyway, he was in control tonight. When Besha tangled fingers in his hair and pressed Tilrey down on his cock till he couldn’t breathe, Tilrey let it happen—but only for a few seconds. Then he yanked away, freeing himself enough to use his tongue again.

Another cry, and Besha’s grip loosened. The man was close to his climax, and he wouldn’t do anything to endanger it.

I know you better than you know yourself. Besha would want to be teased first; he would want to beg for it. Verán would want to see him do that, too.

And so Tilrey teased for what felt like a good half hour, though it was probably less than five minutes. He gave the man his whole mouth and then pulled back to play with the cockhead and balls again, making Besha squirm and convulse and even sob.

When he finally allowed Besha to come, gushing into his throat, he was tired. Besha uttered a strangled scream and collapsed as if he’d been mortally wounded.

Well. That was interesting. Tilrey swallowed, pulled out, and gave the Councillor a rapid cleaning with his tongue. Then he sat back on his haunches and tucked Besha into his briefs and trousers. The young Councillor lay limp, face slack and skin grayish.

“I think you’ve killed my husband.” Davita’s tone was ironic, but Tilrey thought he caught a hint of admiration. “Visha, do you even realize what you’ve unleashed? Our child and future children need a father.”

Besha grunted something Tilrey couldn’t make out—“Not now,” perhaps. He still seemed incapable of opening his eyes, much less fixing his clothes, so Tilrey tugged the skirt of the man’s tunic back down and scooted away.

When he turned his eyes to Verán, he wasn’t surprised to see the majority leader holding out a palmful of sap.

He rose and returned to his original seat, stiff-legged. His throat ached, but not in any serious way. He bent and licked up the sticky black puddle from his Fir’s hand, while Verán said, “Maybe you’re not so lazy after all.”

Fir Magistrate Linden’s villa was only a few steps away. Tilrey followed Tollsha up the snowy path, grateful for a few seconds under the stars, even if the midwinter night was cold enough to kill them both.

“Is Fir Magistrate your grandfather, Fir?” he asked through the scarf that protected his face.

Tollsha didn’t answer until they’d climbed the salted steps of the villa and reached the safety of the coldroom. “He’s my uncle,” he said, sitting down to pull off his boots. “Listen, be careful with him, okay? He’s not like Besha.”

What did that mean? “I’m used to older men, Fir,” Tilrey assured the young Upstart, stripping off his own outergear. “And I know he’s been ill. Do you mean . . . well, are there things it’s not safe for him to do?”

Tollsha looked disgusted by the suggestion. “No! I mean, what would I know about it? The doctor didn’t say anything was off-limits. What I mean is, my uncle . . . well, he’s not very adaptable, and he doesn’t appreciate teasing.”

“I don’t tease, Fir.” Or not with words, anyway—Davita was the one who did that.

Tollsha looked Tilrey up and down. The room was too dim for Tilrey to get a good look at his features, but wariness and contempt radiated from him. “You’re big,” he said, “and you hold up your head like an Upstart, at least when you aren’t sweet-drowned. You might confuse him. Uncle mixes me up with my father sometimes. My father’s dead.”

Tilrey struggled to understand what these different facts had to do with each other. Did he really hold his head higher than he should? Malsha had always told him not to hang his head, not to slouch. “I understand, Fir.”

“I’m not talking about dementia. So don’t go and tell Verán that! They tested him, and he remembers things like Council procedure just fine.” Tollsha hit the button, and the inner door hissed open. “Uncle gets confused about people, that’s all. I think he’s reached an age where he can’t be bothered. So don’t do anything that could upset him.”

Tilrey followed him inside, blinking in the brightness. They found the Magistrate by the gas fire in the sitting room, reading the Council Record with a tea tumbler beside him.

Mosha Linden had been a sleek, corpulent man when Tilrey saw him in the Lounge, but age or illness had shrunken him. His head was still large and round, his cheeks doughy and disturbingly pale, but his body disappeared inside the white dressing gown. He took no notice of their approach. Tollsha had to say, “Uncle, I’ve brought the boy. Uncle!” before he looked up.

Linden’s eyes were large and silvery blue like Tollsha’s. They didn’t quite seem to focus. “What boy?”

“Verán’s boy. The Island’s boy. Verán wants you to have him tonight.” The old man still looked blank, and Tollsha cleared his throat and said, “Linnett’s boy.”

Linden’s eyes narrowed, as if he were finally seeing Tilrey. “Malsha,” he said in a knowing way. “But of course.”

“Yes, Malsha’s.” Tollsha gave Tilrey a nudge forward—the first time he had touched him.

“How did Visha seem?” the old man asked his nephew, his gaze leaving Tilrey. “Did he talk about the greenhouse provision in the budget?”

“No, he didn’t talk shop at all. The Lindblom woman and her husband were there, and they sapped and gossiped, mostly.”

Linden sighed—a wheezing sound that seemed to traverse his whole body. “That wretched hussy thinks the world revolves around her. Spoiled. And her husband is a no-name. At least your father had the sense not to get into politics—not that I would ever have supported that kind of foolishness.”

Tollsha shot a glance at Tilrey, as if the mention of his father embarrassed him. “No need to speak ill of the dead.”

The Magistrate drank from his tumbler and set it down. “Your father knew his place, Tollsha. More of us should. He was a handsome, gaudy man who married my sister for her name, and he never pretended otherwise. I do wish there weren’t so much of him in you.”

Tollsha fidgeted with his scarf. “Uncle, it’s late.”

“Next time, notice more when you’re at Visha’s. He’s a show-off, and he surrounds himself with an audience of cawing crows who chatter and covet and don’t know how to hide it.”

“They’re your allies, Uncle.”

“Yes.” Linden sighed again, as if he regretted the alliance deeply. “In my youth, both parties were purer. Pay better attention next time.”

“I’ll try.” Tollsha looked as if he were itching to escape. “Well, I’m going upstairs to bed, unless you want more tea?”

“No, I’m fine, boy. Go.”

As Tollsha fled up the stairs, those pale eyes locked on Tilrey again. “Tiresome. Everything so tiresome,” the old man said.

And then, as Tilrey met his gaze, he cried, “Eyes down!”

Tilrey obeyed, clasping his hands behind his back. The elderly Magistrate seemed fragile, like a relic of past centuries. Yet he spoke with such force that it was hard to know whether to be vexed or amused.

Linden continued to talk—but quietly, as if to himself. “Crows. Ravens. Socialites. Chatterers! They ruin everything they touch. Drudges, Upstarts, everything beautiful. Even a fine youth like Adelbert.”

The name made Tilrey lift his head again. In all his time in Verán’s house, he couldn’t recall having heard the majority leader’s rebellious nephew mentioned. “Do you mean Adelbert Verán, Fir?”

He froze when he saw the look on the Magistrate’s face—a mixture of shock and revulsion, as if one of the armchairs had spoken to him.

“I don’t abide gaudy-feathered birds here,” the man said after a moment. He snapped his fingers so loudly that Tilrey flinched. “Bedroom.”

With that, the Magistrate rose laboriously from the sofa. Tilrey made a brief attempt to assist him, as he’d learned to do with Verán. But one look at Linden’s forbidding expression stopped him dead.

He trailed behind Linden to a large first-floor bedroom that was the twin of Verán’s and Malsha’s, with its lofty, raftered ceiling. The Magistrate flicked on the recessed ceiling lights. The bed was unmade, and a whiff of disinfectant lingered in the air.

Linden plumped himself down on the bed and pointed upward. “Those off again.” He indicated the bedside lamp. “Just that.”

“Yes, Fir.” Tilrey turned out the overheads and flicked on the lamp, hoping he’d understood the order correctly. Linden sat in the single pool of light now, while he stood in darkness, which emboldened him to say, “I meant no disrespect, Fir. Only, I met Fir Adelbert Verán a year or so ago, and I wondered—”

“Shh!” An angry hiss. Linden snapped his fingers again, silencing Tilrey. Then he made the familiar slash of thumb and forefinger through the air: Undress.

This at least was well-worn territory, though the order was abrupt. Keeping his gaze down, Tilrey stripped swiftly and smoothly, folding his clothes the way Malsha had taught him and placing them neatly on the carpet.

When he looked up, he saw the Magistrate wasn’t even watching. He was frowning at his handheld. Tilrey had to wait another minute or so, naked and struggling not to fidget, before Linden put the device down and surveyed him from head to toe.

“Hmm.” The frown did not vanish. “Malsha’s. Bror Malkien Linnett’s.” He seemed to enjoy pronouncing each syllable of the full name that Malsha had hated. But if Tilrey’s body interested him, he gave no sign. “He always did like the tall ones, the strong ones. The brutes.”

“I’m not . . .” This time the words died in Tilrey’s throat. Just as he could see into Verán’s mind, with its hunger for fawning attention, he already knew Linden wanted him to follow orders in silence, like a machine. “Sorry, Fir.”

Linden inhaled sharply through his nose, then flapped a hand at the floor the way Verán had done earlier. “Here, lad.”

On my knees for the second time in an hour. But Tilrey was relieved. This would be a lot less awkward than standing naked in the middle of the room.

He went to the Magistrate, knelt before him, and lifted the hem of his dressing gown. Linden’s hand caught his and guided it.

For a few minutes, everything was easier as autopilot kicked in again. Stroke, squeeze, tease, fondle. The old man sat like a stone as Tilrey worked, the opposite of the excitable Besha. But his cock did harden, albeit slowly, and eventually Tilrey decided it was time to dip his head and slide the stiff length into his mouth.

He worked diligently, using all his tricks—the tongue around the head, the firm grip on the base, the gentlest strokes and squeezes to the vulnerable testicles. He went through the whole roster, then repeated it in a slightly different order.

The Magistrate tensed and made a humming sound when Tilrey deep-throated him, but otherwise he barely reacted. It was like sucking off a fat raw daikon.

Why was it taking so long? Old men sometimes failed to reach completion when they fucked him, but his mouth usually got the job done. Maybe he should have had more appreciation for Besha’s responsiveness.

As he ran through all his maneuvers again—his tongue stiff and heavy with the sustained effort—he wondered about Besha. Had the young Councillor really lost control, or had he been performing for Verán’s sake? The majority leader had certainly enjoyed watching them together, though Tilrey wasn’t so sure about Besha’s wife.

He cupped Linden’s balls in his free hand, desperate to find the man’s path to climax. Was he one of those who liked a finger in his ass? Surely he would have said so. His position precluded experimenting, even if Tilrey had dared.

He should have thought ahead and asked Bror or Ansha about the Magistrate’s preferences. He saw them at the Café a few days out of every ten now, usually after the Gym. Sometimes Vlastor even allowed Bror to be the one to chaperone Tilrey home. He was nearly back to his normal weight, and soon he hoped to be allowed to walk around the city by himself.

That would be nice, especially as the days lengthened—to walk for hours with no destination. Maybe he and Bror could go to the Restaurant, where Bror’s cousin worked, and scavenge leftovers from the kitchen. Or they could go lounge in the Vacants the way they used to, far from Upstart eyes.

From the others’ hints, Tilrey knew that all sorts of recreational sex happened in the Vacants. Bror had always tried to distance him from those activities. But he was older now, and there was no need to protect him. He had been with Ansha—why not the others? Why not Bror himself?

If only he were sucking Bror’s cock right now. That would be so much easier—even nice! Bror would gasp and grab Tilrey’s head the way Besha had, but then he would release it, because Bror cared about Tilrey’s comfort. Bror would tell him how good it felt. Bror would thank him and kiss him and hold him afterward.

Why was it taking so long? His throat was numb. The stale smell of Linden’s sweat made his stomach turn over. And was it his imagination, or was the Magistrate’s cock softening?

Shit! Please, no—but these things happened to every man, didn’t they? Maybe it was better to admit defeat.

Tilrey popped the man’s flabby organ out of his mouth with a shudder he couldn’t repress. He sat back. “I’m sorry, Fir. It happens. Maybe if we waited a little—”

Linden smacked him across the face.

Verán slapped Tilrey now and then, when he backtalked or was slow to do something. But those smacks were token, just making a point. This one was meant to cause pain.

Tilrey rocked back on his haunches, cheeks and nose stinging. He wasn’t really hurt, of course—an old man couldn’t hurt him. But he felt the impact of Linden’s palm on his cheek. An oddly smooth, plump palm, like a child’s, not something that should be able to injure anyone.

“I’m sorry, Fir.” He hung his head. Hadn’t the man heard his apology the first time? What was he supposed to do, suck on a limp cock all night? “My fault. I’ll try again if you like—”

This time, he didn’t see the blow coming. A sharp cuff on the right side of his head jolted him sideways, making his ears ring.

As he righted himself, everything seemed to come into sharper focus—the muted colors, the disinfectant smell, the glow of the lamp. There was nothing in the world but this room and his own naked, crouching body and the white slug of the Magistrate hunched before him.

He felt different, as if the two blows had knocked him out of a deep sleep. His whole body was alive now, from his sinuses to his fingertips, and he knew that if he’d wanted to, he could have hauled the old man out of bed and dashed his brains out on the bedside table.

He didn’t want to, of course. He preferred to live, so he stayed where he was, waiting for the ringing in his ears to subside. This time he held his tongue.

So he wasn’t expecting the third blow, either—a cuff on the left to match the one on the right. Or the fourth blow: a second frontal smack, harder than the first, that left him clutching his nose and tasting blood.

That was enough. Bruises were out of bounds. Tilrey scuttled backward and rose to his feet. “I told you I was sorry, Fir!”

No, that wasn’t good enough—he needed to salvage the old man’s pride. “I’ve had too much sap tonight. I’m just not my best.” His tongue and throat moved sluggishly; it was hard to talk. “Please let me try again!”

The sharp snap of Linden’s fingers cut through his apologies. “Down,” the man ordered, pointing to the floor in front of him.

I can’t suck you off any more. I can’t, I can’t. But he’d asked to try again, so Tilrey returned to his knees. His sensitive skin smarted, but nothing was broken. He would humiliate himself, if that was what the old fool got off on. He would laugh about it with Bror later.

That soft hand seized his jaw, squeezing, and pulled him closer. “Brute,” Linden said, his nails digging into Tilrey’s skin. “He speaks when he’s spoken to from now on. He looks where he’s told to look. Understood?”

It was an archaic form of address, used in Feudal times from superiors to inferiors—a way to avoid saying you. Tilrey had never heard it from an Upstart before.

I could shake him off. I could crush him. It was such an effort to stay still that tears rose to his eyes. When Linden repeated the question, he nodded.

The Magistrate released him, then delivered two more open-handed slaps, fore- and back-hand. Tilrey barely felt them this time. He was floating, dizzy with the strange, sick effort of not fighting back.

What was he supposed to do, hit the General Magistrate of the Republic? Pin his arms? Sit on him? This frail, elderly man? No. Verán, Tollsha, none of them would understand. Anyway, Tilrey could do so much better than that. He could just not care.

The sense of effort melted away. He felt bizarrely powerful, knowing he could absorb Linden’s anger and so much more. He closed his eyes and silently dared the Magistrate: Do it. Hit me again, use your fist, break my nose. See how much it matters to me.

But no more blows arrived. Tilrey brought his knees to his chest and sat for a bit, barely conscious of blood trickling down his chin. He heard Linden rising and moving around the room, the door opening, then low voices. Linden and a younger man. Tollsha?

Footsteps approached. A hand, not the Magistrate’s, lifted his chin. “Oh shit, he’s bleeding, Fir! I better clean him up.”

Not Tollsha after all. The young man spoke with an accent so familiar it brought fresh tears to Tilrey’s eyes. He was a Laborer, a Skeinsha, and he sounded like Dal’s family, like every factory family in Sector Six. Once Tilrey must have sounded that way himself, at least to Reddan ears.

“Bring him to your room,” the Magistrate said from the bed. “I’ve had enough.”

The fellow Skeinsha helped Tilrey to his feet. He wore a driver’s uniform, but he lacked Vlastor’s military posture and officious manner. “Where are your clothes?” he asked, then snagged them from the floor. “’S okay,” he added under his breath as he guided Tilrey to the door with a hand placed lightly on his back. “This way. Gonna be fine.”

Tilrey tried to dress in the sitting room, but the driver hurried him to the bathroom and gave him a robe, then sat him down and swabbed the drying blood from his lip. “Just a nick,” he said, rubbing in some cream. “Won’t last.”

“The bruises will.” Tilrey’s hoarse voice sounded barely human to him. He could already see an indigo smudge forming on his left cheek. Because he knew it wasn’t the driver’s fault, he added, “I’m . . . Nettsha, I guess. What’s your name?”

“Jorning, Boris.” The driver had a shock of light brown hair and a nice, open young face. He was almost as big as Bror. “Everybody calls me Jorning.”

“What sector are you from?” Tilrey asked, letting a little of the Thurskein sneak back into his own syllables.

Jorning’s face lit up. “You too? Or are you just taking the piss?”

“Born and raised in Sector Six.”

“No kidding! I’m Seven.”

Jorning had a room in the back of the villa, no bigger than Tilrey’s room at home. “I was kinda snoozing when the Fir buzzed me,” he said apologetically as they entered, gesturing at the messy single bed. “You can take that, and I’ll take the floor.”

“We’ll share. You don’t scare me.” Tilrey got into bed and slid over against the wall.

Jorning brought him a painkiller tablet and a glass of water, then got into bed with him and turned out the lights. “How long since you were home?” he asked.

“Two and a half years.” Why did it feel so much longer?

“You’re young.” Jorning was carefully keeping space between himself and Tilrey. “Eight years for me. I enlisted, but I didn’t like it, so I came here to be a mechanic. Then Fir Magistrate’s old driver asked me to replace him.”

“So you’ve been with him a while.”

“Almost four years.” Jorning sounded drowsy. “It’s okay, mostly—not much to do. When I was in the army, they had me patrolling every night in the frozen ass-end of nowhere. Here, y’know, the food’s good, and I don’t get frostbite.”

Tilrey didn’t want to keep the driver up, but he needed to talk. While the cream had numbed his lip, the rest of his body still sang with adrenaline. “Jorning,” he said, “has he ever . . . well, have you ever seen him do what he did tonight? Does he do it to you?”

Tollsha had tried to warn him, he realized belatedly. But the young Upstart hadn’t been nearly clear enough.

Jorning’s long form tensed in the darkness. “He gives me a wallop sometimes, when I’m slow. Never made me bleed. Been worse since the stroke, though, like he’s always angry. Guess he feels Brother Owl sneaking up on him.”

Brother Owl was death—an old phrase that Tilrey had only ever heard in Thurskein. “I tried, you know,” he said in a low voice. The bed was pleasantly warm from Jorning’s body, and he was starting to feel sleepy despite himself. “But I . . . couldn’t.”

Jorning’s nod showed he guessed what had happened in the bedroom. “You didn’t do nothin’ wrong. Green knows, a body like yours would give a boner to a dead man.” He shifted, widening the distance between them. “Sorry, shouldna said that. I respect you, promise.”

Tilrey laughed. He could almost see the scarlet on Jorning’s cheeks—such an innocent. “I told you, you don’t scare me. But I need my sleep, so if you try anything, I’ll sock you in the nose.”

To his relief, Jorning laughed back. “You just try. I used to box when I was in the regiment.”

“Maybe you could teach me a few things.” If he really did have to live with Linden, Tilrey might need the knowledge. But he pushed the thought away—not now. Deal with it later.

Verán’s household, which had seemed hellish to him a few hours ago, was now somewhere he was eager to escape back to. The majority leader was unpleasant, but he was consistent and manageable. What could you do with a man who took out his rage at his own impotence on you?

Jorning said, “I bet you’d learn quick, a strong lad like you.”

“I bet I would.” Tilrey was good at his job. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen. He added, “Tell me, do you . . . well, you probably wouldn’t. But do you know any reliable way to get him off?”

Jorning didn’t seem to take offense to the question. “Before the stroke, he’d have whores in sometimes. I helped him with them. It wasn’t good, what he wanted me to do to them,” he added after a moment’s reflection. “I didn’t like it. But I made sure they didn’t get hurt bad. No bruises that would show.”

“Could you ‘help him’ with me next time?” Tilrey wanted to ask what he was letting himself in for, but he told himself it didn’t matter. I’ll figure Linden out. I won’t let this happen again. If he had to be hurt, he would know it was coming.

“Sure.” Jorning sighed heavily. “I was hoping the Fir was done with all that.”

“Maybe he is. But with these old men, you know, sometimes it’s more about pride than desire.” Tilrey thought of Verán, desperate to prove his prowess; Linden might claim to be contemptuous of his colleague, but he still wanted his respect.

“I’ll help you if I can,” Jorning said. “It’s good to meet somebody from home. Night, Nettsha.”

“Night.”

Chapter End Notes

I’m working on the next chapter of this story as well as the final (?) story of the saga. I’ll start posting the latter once I’m at 30k; I’m about halfway there.I have to say, it’s helpful to go back and forth between the two stories. Why does Tilrey have so much trouble claiming power when he finally has a chance? This story lays the groundwork for that, I hope. And here we have the intro to Davita Lindblom, who eventually gets major antagonist status.Thank you for reading!

Chapter End Notes

I’m working on the next chapter of this story as well as the final (?) story of the saga. I’ll start posting the latter once I’m at 30k; I’m about halfway there.

I have to say, it’s helpful to go back and forth between the two stories. Why does Tilrey have so much trouble claiming power when he finally has a chance? This story lays the groundwork for that, I hope. And here we have the intro to Davita Lindblom, who eventually gets major antagonist status.

Thank you for reading!