Chapter 2

Volume 2: Sleeping Arrangements

Chapter 2

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

Chapter Notes

See the end of the chapter for notes

August, year 348

“Why on earth would we do that?” Councillor Verán said peevishly. “No, of course not.”Gersha was sweating, and it wasn’t just from the roaring gas fire in the majority leader’s vacation villa. He couldn’t seem to remember all the arguments he’d been carefully preparing for the past year.“Tilrey—” He broke off, remembering that the other Islanders insisted on calling Tilrey by that vile shortening of Malsha Linnett’s name. There was a good chance Verán had forgotten the boy even had a name of his own. “Nettsha has served the party for five years now. And since Bettova is retiring this fall, leaving me without a secretary, I thought maybe . . .”Verán dipped his finger into a vial and sucked it dry. “The boy can’t replace your Bettova.”“She’s a gem, yes, with decades of experience. But she could train him. And don’t you think it’s time for the boy to move on to a posting where his talents can be more useful? ”“I can’t imagine where Nettsha could be more useful than he is now. The boy was born with beauty, not brains.”Don’t correct him. Don’t get angry. Gersha swallowed hard. If he was going to liberate Tilrey from his position as the Island’s kettle boy, he had to remain calm. Reasonable. Sweetly earnest, even, in the way Verán liked him to be.“Maybe you underestimate our Nettsha,” he said. “Have you seen his E-Squareds?”Verán arched a brow. “First I’ve heard that he even took them.”“It was Malsha’s idea, I think. But—”“If it was Malsha’s idea for his piece to take the test, then Malsha doctored his scores.” Verán’s tone was scolding and fond at once; he seemed to enjoy setting Gersha straight about how the world worked. “A Councillor’s secretary needs passable E-Squareds, and Malsha always did enjoy converting his whores into his secretaries. Maybe it turned him on, dressing them up and sitting them down at a desk. Personally, though, I like to keep business and pleasure separate. Do you want a secretary so slow on the uptake you have to do half his work for him?”Gersha bit down on his lip. Tilrey’s “slowness” was a deception Tilrey himself had perpetrated. “I don’t think he’s quite as slow as you think. I’m sure he can handle basic office management tasks.”“Maybe.” Verán looked skeptical. “You’d have to wean him off his normal dose, though.”“That wouldn’t be a problem.” Tilrey hardly even drank sap unless Verán gave it to him.“But the whole discussion is moot, because there’s no reason to take Nettsha out of circulation.” Verán poked his finger in the vial again. “He may not be fresh or exciting, but he’s reliable. He helps me keep the loyalists happy and the swing voters in line.” His brow furrowed as if he were going over the Island’s roster in his head. “Lindahl, for instance—we need that silly prig for the budget vote, and he’s very fond of Nettsha. I packed the boy off to his villa tonight.”Gersha didn’t want to think about Tilrey spending the night with Enrik Lindahl. “Aren’t you always saying Nettsha’s too sulky for your taste?”He winced inwardly at the insult to Tilrey. When they were alone, Tilrey sometimes made Gersha laugh by doing a spot-on impression of Verán scolding him for being sulky, sullen, slow, a downer, spacy, passive, out of it. Privately, though, Gersha found all these epithets too unjust to be funny.“Sulky, yes. He stalks around like a prisoner; it brings down the mood. But my taste doesn’t matter.” The majority leader sighed long-sufferingly. “As long as the others like him, getting a new kettle boy is an unnecessary hassle.”The sweat on Gersha’s temples had gone ice-cold. He had no brilliant arguments left. He spoke without thinking: “The boy turns twenty-five next month. It just seems like time for him to move on.”When he looked up again, the old man was staring at him, his refined features drawn with horror. “Twenty-five, you say?”“Yes.” He’d assumed Verán knew Tilrey’s age, but then again, Verán didn’t even know Tilrey’s name.“Verdant hells. That is old.” Verán took a swallow of tea. “I mean, I’ve heard of older ones, but I thought Nettsha was closer to twenty.” He grimaced as if his tea had been spiked with something bitter. “How time flies. I suppose he has been battered around a bit, hasn’t he?”Gersha winced again, thinking of the bruises Fir Magistrate Linden used to leave on Tilrey. “That’s true,” he forced himself to say evenly. “Not that he’s unattractive, mind you. You know how grateful I am to you for your gift.”Verán smiled indulgently. “The responsibility’s been good for you. You’ve blossomed, Gersha. You’re more assertive in the Council than you ever were before.”Because he inspires me. Because he cares about this political bullshit more than I ever will. “I’m very happy right now, Visha. I’m far from complaining.”“Maybe you want to turn the boy into your secretary so you don’t have to share him with anyone. Eh?” The old man winked.Gersha forced himself to smile. His heart was thudding. “You’ve found me out.”“Hah, yes. You naughty hedonist. Still.” Verán frowned. “Twenty-five—that’s so close to thirty. Nothing stays fresh forever.”Gersha knew he was doing the right thing, even if he hated this whole conversation. He took a deep breath, silently begged Tilrey’s forgiveness, and said, “Maybe you could improve morale by finding something fresher.”“Maybe. Hmm.” Verán pursed his lips. “But I’ve got no time for these trifles. Tell you what, Gersha my love. You find me a replacement that’s young, sweet-tempered, stunning, preferably untouched, and not too dense—ask Besha, he’s sure to have leads—and then we’ll see about turning poor old Nettsha into your secretary before his hair goes gray.”Tilrey’s hair was still very decidedly golden, just as his cheeks were rosy. But when he saw the guest in Councillor Lindahl’s living room, he blanched. A third party was always an unwelcome sight when he was trying to do his job.And this third party was a Laborer—a Sector desk worker, judging by his attire and age. What the fuck was he doing here?Then, all at once, Tilrey remembered a complaint that Lindahl’s kettle boy, Ansha, had made over a card game in the Café: It’s not my fault my Fir would rather fuck his secretary than me . . .Ah. This must be the secretary in question. Wasn’t he a little old for Lindahl, though? Late thirties, by the looks of him—almost as old as the Councillor himself.“I brought you something,” Lindahl told the secretary imperiously. Releasing Tilrey’s arm, he jabbed a finger at the sofa. “Sit.”The secretary lowered the book he’d been reading—an old copy of Council Procedure. He said to Lindahl as if to an equal, “What the fuck, Enrishka.”Navigating delicate social situations was never Councillor Lindahl’s strong suit. He glared at Tilrey, who hadn’t moved. “Sit.”Tilrey sat. He kept his distance from the secretary, sizing him up from the corner of his eye. The man was certainly attractive enough to be the Councillor’s bed partner, with curvy lips and a lush mop of red-gold curls. But he sat on the sofa with his feet up and his clothes in disarray, just like a family member. A half-empty vial poked from his front pocket.“What the fuck,” he repeated. “You brought me the Island’s kettle boy?”If Tilrey had ever taken that tone with Lindahl, the Councillor might have slapped him. But now Lindahl’s handsome face showed only concern. “This one’s nothing like Ansha,” he told the secretary soothingly. “He’s a well-educated boy, a discreet boy. He’ll be nice to you.”“Well, in that case.” The secretary sat up and held his hand out to Tilrey. “I’m charmed to make your acquaintance, well-educated, discreet boy. I’m Svanner, Eivan. Fir Councillor’s secretary. And you—well, you’re the Island’s most precious jewel, aren’t you? The one Verán brags about fucking on the Council table. Was that hard on your knees?”“Eivanka.” But Lindahl sounded tired, as if he were used to this behavior. “He is the Island’s most precious jewel. Try to be polite.”Eivan gave Tilrey a frank sizing up. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was something loose and volatile about his manner. “How very honored I am,” he said. “Imagine, a wretched creature like me socializing with such a vision.”Councillor Lindahl was gloomy and unsociable by nature, and Tilrey had endured plenty of his bad moods. But he’d never seen Lindahl animated by the tension that was visible in his body now as he stalked the room, looking ready to strike his secretary or kiss him.“This is a gift,” he said. “You’re always complaining that I abandon you to pursue my pleasures, so I thought I’d share one of those pleasures with you.”“Oh?” Eivan pointed at Tilrey, then at himself, his eyes wide with surprise that might have been sarcastic or genuine. “You want . . . us? To be together?”Tilrey was certainly surprised. Being shared with a Councillor’s secretary was nothing new for him—Malsha had seen to that—but he hadn’t expected Lindahl to go in for threesomes or voyeurism. He wished he’d had advance warning, but that wasn’t Lindahl’s style.“I’m at your disposal, Fir. Both of you,” he said, dropping his eyes to make the secretary a little more comfortable. This night would be unbearable if they didn’t help each other through it.Eivan barked a laugh. “Isn’t he obliging. Is that what you want, Enrishka? To watch me have the Island’s jewel? Or to watch him have me?”The Councillor seemed intensely uncomfortable with this situation of his own creation. “I don’t want to watch you with anyone,” he snapped. “You know that. He’s your gift, so why don’t you go in the bedroom and enjoy him?”Eivan grinned nastily. “What a sexy invitation, Fir Councillor. You’ve really got me in the mood now.”While Tilrey was trying to decide what to do next, the Councillor whipped his head upright to show them both the angry elegance of his high-Upstart features. “I said go. Both of you. Out of my sight. Eivanka, you’ve been moping this whole trip, and you’re working my last nerve. You’re supposed to make me laugh.” His jaw quivered. “And you.” He pointed at Tilrey. “I don’t want to see your face again till you’ve made him happy.”The amusement had melted from Eivan’s face. He stood up and offered his arm to Tilrey. “We better do as the Fir says.”Tilrey shot a glance at Lindahl to make sure the man wasn’t testing him in some perverse way. But Lindahl wasn’t looking back. His eyes were on Eivan, and the liquid wistfulness in them was surprisingly familiar.Gersha. Gersha looked at Tilrey in that longing way.The surprise of seeing that expression on Lindahl’s face made Tilrey forget his objections. “Of course, Fir,” he said, rising to let the secretary lead him into the bedroom.Better to service one man than both of them. Too bad, though, that the secretary seemed to despise him.Once they were inside, Eivan dropped Tilrey’s arm as if it burned him. He closed the door behind them and locked it.Then he went to the Councillor’s bed, flopped down full length as if it were his own, and slipped the vial out of his pocket. “Verdant fucking hells,” he said, dipping a finger in. “I hope you really are discreet, kid. My Fir’s not quite himself tonight.”Tilrey sat down on the edge of the bed, relieved that Eivan agreed with him. “Is Fir Councillor okay?”“Oh, Fir Councillor’s just fine. Top of the world. Hunky-dory.” Eivan sucked sap from his finger. “I don’t know if you heard, but he had a loss in the family. It’s taking him a while to get over it.”Verán had mentioned something about that, but it was back in the dark days before Gersha that all merged in Tilrey’s head. And Lindahl himself never discussed personal affairs with a kettle boy. “His nephew died?” Tilrey asked.“Right.” The secretary’s eyes were a little too bright. “His favorite nephew. Garsha. Don’t pretend you haven’t heard the whole story.”“The Hargist boy who wandered out into the Wastes.” And then, putting together two fuzzy memories, Tilrey added, “It was him and the Linnett boy together, wasn’t it?”“That’s right. You know the Linnett kid?”“A little.” Valgund Linnett—Malsha’s grandson, Vera’s brother. When the boys were brought back from their abortive attempt to escape the city, Verán practically crowed over this new source of shame for the family of his nemesis. But the Linnett boy had survived his hike into the Wastes, while the other one—young Garsha Lindahl—had not.“It’s better for the family this way,” Verán had told his inner circle, his voice thick with unconvincing sympathy. “That child was an embarrassment to them from the moment of his conception.”And one Councillor muttered to another, just loud enough for Tilrey to hear, “Misbirth.”At the time, Tilrey hadn’t thought much of it, but now he couldn’t make things add up. If Councillor Lindahl’s nephew was really a misbirth, how had the prim and proper Councillor tolerated his existence? That didn’t square with what Eivan had just said, not at all.“Garsha was the Fir’s favorite?” he asked, curious now. “That must have been hard for him.”Eivan shot him a cold glance. “Don’t pretend you care. I could tell the second you walked in here that you don’t give a fuck about my Fir.”Tilrey was feeling more and more muddled. Until tonight, he’d known Enrik Lindahl mainly as a person who got off on making him recite square roots in bed. It was hard to imagine anyone caring for the man. “Out there, when you were mouthing off to him, you didn’t seem to care much about him, either.”“You don’t know the first thing about us.” It came out in a snarl.“I know. I’m sorry.” The situation was more complicated than he’d realized. Maybe he should retreat to safe territory. “But I could make you happy, Eivan, like the Fir said. If you like. He seems to care about you.”“He does.” Eivan sighed. “Too much.”Again Tilrey couldn’t help being curious. “Do you feel the same way about him?”After a silent moment, Eivan whooped with laughter. He sat up and offered the vial to Tilrey. “You some kind of romantic, kid?”Tilrey refused it. “Of course not. But you said—”“Like I said, you don’t know anything about the Fir and me.” Eivan emptied the vial down his gullet and drew his knees to his chest, his eyes swimming with tears. “Are you friends with Ansha? You must be. All you pieces stick together. What’d he tell you?”“Nothing much.” Now Tilrey saw a way in. “And we’re not friends. Ansha’s a dick. He hates me because I get more attention than he does. I’m guessing he feels the same way about you? Because you and the Fir are close?”Eivan nodded. “That little bastard thinks I’m a climber, a parasite on the Lindahl family, because that’s what he is.”“He’s such a brown-noser. The way he fawns on Strutters.”Tilrey had never complained about Ansha before; it felt wrong to badmouth a fellow kettle boy, bad blood or not. But he sensed a dark and thorny subtext in everything Eivan said, and he wanted to bring it to light. It might be useful to him and Gersha the way his discoveries about Besha and Niko Karishkov had been.“Huh. Yeah. Ansha wants the Fir to adore him, and he doesn’t know the first thing about Enrishka. Or about me.” Eivan looked straight at Tilrey. “Do you think I’m a parasite on the Lindahl family?”“I just met you. Why would I think that?”“Everybody does.” A small shrug. “They think I took advantage of Enrishka and his sister. They can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to be kept from your own son.”All of a sudden, the missing piece snapped into the puzzle. Feeling very stupid, Tilrey said, “You’re Garsha Lindahl’s father. He was a misbirth. You and the Councillor’s sister . . .”“I was her secretary first.” Eivan reached over, opened a drawer in the headboard, and pulled out a fresh vial. “It happens sometimes, you know—a mistake. A miscalculation with the contraceptives. After she found out, she dismissed me from her service. Wouldn’t speak to me, wouldn’t tell me anything, wouldn’t let me see him—our son. My Garsha. She passed him off as her husband’s. Wouldn’t even let me come to my son’s cremation.”He poured at least a quarter-vial into his palm and popped it in his mouth. “I can’t believe you don’t already know this. It’s not a secret in our circles, you know.”Of course. Verán knew; it was part of the subtext of his spiteful reaction to poor Garsha’s death. “It was before my time, I guess.” Tilrey felt an unexpected jab of empathy for the secretary. “Is that why you stayed close to Councillor Lindahl? To be closer to your son?”“Enrishka was the only one who was decent to me. He found ways for Garsha and me to see each other.” Eivan licked his palm, his eyes swimming again. “She didn’t want us to. Thought it was safer. I would never have known my kid without the Fir.”And you gave him your love and your body in return. Based on what he’d seen in the living room, Tilrey could tell Lindahl had done a lot more than just take pity on Eivan. He’d taken advantage of the situation—until it got out of his control.He couldn’t shake the memory of Lindahl’s voice saying, “You’re supposed to make me laugh.” “Forgive me,” he said, “but it’s a little hard for me to imagine Lindahl being that . . . decent.”“You think he’s a cold prig, huh? No emotions? Believe me, he’s got sides you don’t know.”And I don’t want to. But plenty of people thought Gersha was a cold prig with no emotions, too. Maybe Lindahl and Eivan had shared forms of tenderness Tilrey knew all too well.“Just now, though,” he said, rejecting the comparison. “He was so angry at you.”“He’s under a lot of stress.” Eivan wasn’t looking at him. “Things changed between us after Garsha died. Some of it’s my fault.”“It’s not, though.” Tilrey couldn’t imagine losing a child. “How can he still expect you to ‘make him laugh’? You’re both in mourning.”The older man sighed. “He tries to understand that. But he wants me to stay the way I was.”Tilrey didn’t want to believe Gersha would ever treat him the way Lindahl had treated Eivan in the living room—raging, condescending, pleading. But now he’d had the thought, he couldn’t help imagining things ending that way between them. What if he did become Gersha’s secretary, and it tore them apart?“Do you still want to be with him?” he asked. “Or will he not let you go?”Instead of answering, Eivan twisted to examine the clock on the headboard. “We should stay in here for at least an hour so he thinks you did your job.” He turned back and ran his eyes dispassionately over Tilrey. “What are you best at?”“My mouth. I can give you a quick one if you want.” The words came automatically, and then Tilrey hated himself.The secretary slid over and patted his shoulder. “I’ll tell him you sucked me off, and it was mind-blowing, but no thanks. You’re just a kid. Not much older than my Garsha would’ve been, I bet.”Tilrey stared at the duvet. “Councillor Lindahl doesn’t seem to mind my age.”“Councillors always want the young ones.” Sprawled beside him, Eivan dipped into the vial again. “There must be something special about you, though. Enrishka thinks most whores are too stupid to waste his precious time on. He won’t even fuck poor Ansha. Did you crack the top fifteen on the E-Squareds, by any chance?”“Yeah.” Tilrey remembered his first night with Lindahl. “He looked up my scores and lectured me about not living up to my potential. Does he always do that?”Eivan barked with laughter. “It’s his kink. His obsession. You’re lucky he never made you retake the fucking test with him proctoring.”Tilrey felt lucky indeed. “It’s funny how some Strutters don’t want to think we have brains, and others, it’s all they care about.”“Tell me about it. You want to hear something fucked up? The Fir tried to convince Garsha to cheat on the test. To hack it.”The words didn’t make sense. “Lindahl wanted his nephew to cheat?”“Yup, and not for the reason you think. Garsha’s Notification was never in doubt. He was always gonna ace that test. But Enrishka gave him this speech about how hacking it was a rite of passage, a way to prove you were at the tippy-top of the pyramid. Said he and his best friends did it when they were that age. I had to step in and remind him Garsha wasn’t somebody who could play games with his future.”For once, Tilrey was actually shocked. He made a mental note to ask Gersha if he’d heard of a cheating rite of passage. “If you cheat, how does that prove you’re superior?”“Don’t ask me to explain the workings of high-Upstart brains.” Eivan tipped the vial into his mouth.Before he could stop himself, Tilrey asked, “Why are you still with the Fir? If you were doing it only to see Garsha . . .”Eivan held the vial up to the light. “Relationships are messy, kid. You wouldn’t know. And you know what else is messy? Grieving your only son.”“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”“It’s okay. Enrishka, he loved Garsha like I did. We can talk to each other. We make each other’s lives a living hell, blaming each other, but at least we can talk about him.” Eivan tossed the empty vial away. “And that’s a lot better than nothing.”Tilrey wanted to retort that he understood relationships, messy ones included. But he had a dawning sense that he had a great deal to learn.“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”“You’re not all wrong.” Eivan’s eyes met his at last, cloudy with regret. “Sooner or later I’ll leave Enrik Lindahl, and giving me ‘gifts’ won’t change that, and he knows it. And he and I will probably be worse people alone than we were together, and that won’t stop me. I’m just . . . not ready yet.”Gersha was determined not to be defeated by Verán’s requirements for a new kettle boy. If finding one meant asking Besha for leads, he would—and, to prove his commmitment, he messaged the odious little man on his way home and detoured to his villa.He found Besha sitting alone and heavy-lidded before the fire on a sofa littered with children’s toys. “I’m not allowed to clean up,” he explained, dipping his pinky finger in a vial. “Blas and Gunde have to do it themselves first thing tomorrow. It’s supposed to teach them responsibility.”“An excellent lesson,” Gersha said. He felt awkward being alone with Besha and even more awkward about the topic he was about to broach.Besha rolled his eyes. “Kids don’t understand responsibility. They think in terms of treats and punishments, and that’s very sensible of them. But try telling that to my lovely wife.”He offered the vial to Gersha—who shook his head—and then stretched out with his chin propped on a hand, eyes glinting slyly. “Now, tell me, what brings you here so late, ally?”Gersha flinched at the word, hoping Davita wasn’t in earshot. But it was only the truth; thanks to Tilrey’s cleverness, he and his enemy were now allies. Even, on one memorable occasion, bed partners. “I need your expertise . . .”Before he even finished explaining, Besha’s face had darkened. “You want the boy all to yourself,” he said. “You can’t expect me to help you—unless you’re going to blackmail me again, which I hope you wouldn’t stoop to. Not over a piece.”Damn him, damn all of them. “I’m not trying to have him to myself.” Gersha clenched a fist behind his back. “You know Tilrey better than most—he deserves something better than this. A posting where he can use his brain. And, as I pointed out to Verán, he’s about to turn twenty-five.”The number that had convinced Verán failed to have the same magical effect on Besha. “So what?” he said, scowling. “The two of you are thick as thieves, I can see that.”“That’s not the point—”“And yes, he’s more than clever enough to be your secretary.” Besha jabbed another finger in the vial, his lips settling into a distinct pout. “But I like him, and I want him, and you can’t come here and ask me to help you take away something I want. It’s not my way.”Gersha’s skin was crawling. Though he’d just arrived, he craved the fresh air. “No, it’s not your way,” he said, rising, fist still clenched at his side. “It was foolish of me to think you might help simply because it’s the right thing to do.”Besha’s eyes narrowed. “What did I just tell you? Treats and punishments make the world go round. I might help you if it’s worth my while.”Gersha had no intention of finding out what sort of “treat” Besha wanted. “No, thank you,” he said. “I should be getting home.”Besha followed him to the threshold of the coldroom. “You give up so easily,” he complained. “Your boy’s way better at handling me than you are. If you send him over to negotiate, I’m sure we could find a solution.”Gersha answered this only with a glare, and Besha laughed. “Don’t take me so seriously.” As Gersha stepped outside, he added, “Really, though. Send him over. Worth a try, right?”Gersha was tempted to make a rude schoolboy gesture, but the door was already sealing behind him. “Goodbye, Besha,” he said.And good riddance. For the first several steps, he was fuming, but he calmed down quickly. He needed to focus on being outdoors in the strange, pearly dusk of a white night.Gersha would never get used to summer in the Southern Range. The temperatures were so high he needed only a light jacket, and the snow had all melted and been replaced by cold, wet snarls of grass.When he was young, his father and uncle had taught him the taiga was dangerous in high summer, roamed by hungry bears and swarmed by disease-carrying insects. His peers had received the same warnings. So it was a shock when he explained the dangers to Tilrey, and the boy laughed and said, “Sometimes I don’t understand Upstarts. Summer is the best time to be outdoors.”After that, Gersha had allowed Tilrey to take him for a few short walks in the summer woods. He nodded politely at strange sights like flowers, mushrooms, and berries growing outside a greenhouse. But the heat made his skin itch, and he was always on his guard.Like now, for instance—was that an owl hooting in the tree above him? It sounded almost mocking, as if Besha had followed him out here.And there, up ahead—he froze, straining his eyes to penetrate the shadows of a copse. A tall, lumbering shape detached itself from the bushes and headed straight toward him. If it was a bear—“Gersha?”Gersha’s heart took a wild leap as the shape lunged toward him, closing the distance. Then it grabbed hold of him and became Tilrey, and he relaxed into the strong arms, his heart settling into a hectic, happy rhythm.“Are you okay?” Tilrey peered down at him. “You’re trembling like you’ve seen a ghost.”“Just startled.” At least it wasn’t light enough for Tilrey to see how pale he was. “I didn’t know you’d be finished before morning.”“I got lucky.” Tilrey wound an arm around Gersha’s waist and led him toward the villa at a leisurely pace. “Now I’m here to keep you safe from marauding bears.”“Stop it! I only said that the one time.” Gersha elbowed his lover playfully, then nestled into the crook of his arm. He did feel safer now.“It’s nice out here, isn’t it?” Tilrey pointed at the sky, where faint stars still showed in the west. “You can almost see Scorpius.”Normally they were wary of expressing their affection so close to Upstart dwellings, but the half-light of the small hours made it feel safe. The windows of the villas stayed dark while the eastern sky brightened, the grass wet with dew that shivered under their feet.In front of the villa, they stopped, neither eager to go inside. The tremble of warmth in the air did something to Gersha’s blood. He let his head droop on Tilrey’s shoulder. And then, before he knew it, his back was against a pine and Tilrey was holding him fast and bending to kiss him.Their lips met and parted, met and parted again—just the briefest, tantalizing taste. His rough cheek rubbed Tilrey’s, generating a teasing friction. Their bodies pressed together, and Gersha wondered for a mad moment if people ever had sex in the grass.But that would be too easy, and he knew what he really needed to do—tell Tilrey what had been preoccupying him. He’d been meaning to get everything squared away and save it for a birthday surprise, but his plan was harder to execute than he’d hoped. He needed Tilrey’s help, and he had to ask for it here and now, in the darkness under the trees, in case Tilrey didn’t react well.It was a possibility Gersha hadn’t considered till this very second, but now it seemed painfully obvious. Tilrey liked to be in on plans. He didn’t like surprises. And this was a plan that concerned his very own future.Tilrey’s thigh planted itself between Gersha’s legs and applied delicious pressure to his crotch, but Gersha didn’t reciprocate. “I told Verán tonight,” he said in a small, contrite voice. “I told him it’s time for you to stop being the party’s kettle boy and become my secretary.”Tilrey tensed and pushed Gersha away from him—only to arm’s length, but enough. “You told him? I thought we were going to wait and do this slowly. Convince him it was his own idea.”Gersha’s breath caught. “I can’t wait anymore, Rishka. Seeing you like this . . .” He clutched handfuls of Tilrey’s tunic, that degrading parody of Upstart clothing. He thought of Tilrey dressing himself so carefully this evening, bathing and combing his hair, preparing himself for Lindahl’s bed. “I can’t stand it, love. And Verán didn’t say no.”Tilrey was all business now, no erotic languor in his voice. “Really? And what did Verán say? Has he decided I’m not useful enough to keep around?”“Of course not.” Gersha hated that word. “Is that really what you want, love? For the old bastard to think you’re useful?”Tilrey’s hands slipped from Gersha’s shoulders. “When the other options are moral rehab or a cell?”Those aren’t the only options. Not anymore. Forcing himself to stay on target, Gersha quickly summarized his conversation with Verán.Tilrey listened without comment—his body still boxing Gersha’s in, though they were no longer touching. When Gersha got to the part where Verán was shocked to learn his age, he barked with laughter. “That’s my Visha. He lives in his own little bubble. Did he change his tune after that?”“Sort of.” Gersha enumerated Verán’s requirements for a kettle boy.“Should be easy, then,” Tilrey said, cocking his head. He seemed to be relaxing.“Right, real easy. He suggested I go to Besha for help, so I did. But Besha’s useless.” Gersha wouldn’t repeat any of the offensive things Besha had said; they might upset Tilrey again. “He might as well have laughed in my face.”“I could have told you he would.” Tilrey flicked a curl off Gersha’s face, sending a pleasant shiver down Gersha’s spine. “He’d probably be willing to accept an arrangement, love. A certain number of nights with me in exchange for—”“No.” Gersha was a little shocked by the snarl that came out of him. “I mean,” he qualified, “that’s a last resort. It can’t be that hard to find a decent kettle boy.”“No.” His arm sneaking round Gersha’s waist, Tilrey led him toward the lighted steps. “It can’t be that hard. Will you let me take charge of it from here?”“If you like.” Gersha was a little embarrassed by the relief he felt. By rights, he should be taking charge. He should be Tilrey’s savior. But maybe it was better to use teamwork on this, as they had on their previous problems. “You must have the right contacts,” he suggested hopefully.“I have some ideas.” Tilrey paused to kiss Gersha before unsealing the door.Once they were inside the villa, their bodies came together with all the force of summer warmth and pent-up need. There were no more words.On the living room floor, they peeled off each other’s clothes and strained and grunted and eventually rutted like woodland animals. Then they lay and watched the room fill with dawn, not having bothered to turn on the lights. Sated for the moment, they moved to the comfort of the bedroom, where they rested in each other’s arms, their naked bodies lightly glazed with sweat.Tilrey pressed his face to Gersha’s collarbone. “Thank you.”Gersha tangled a hand in the dark-gold hair, feeling an urge to press Tilrey tighter, tighter, until they became one being. He wanted to carry Tilrey around inside him, to shield him from Verán and Lindahl and Besha and all the others.But Tilrey remained a separate person from him, sometimes even a mysterious person. So Gersha asked, “For what?”“For talking to Verán.” Tilrey sighed. “If you’d asked my advice, I’d have said to wait a year or so longer. I’d have been . . . scared of him. But you’re his equal. You know you can handle him. You went right ahead and did it.”“You’re prudent, not scared. I don’t think you’re ever scared of anything.” Not like I am. Still full of that desperate need to protect Tilrey, Gersha clasped his hand and interlaced their fingers. “I went because I can’t stand hearing Verán order you around anymore, love. It makes me sick to my stomach. With any luck, in a few months you’ll be free.”Tilrey squeezed Gersha’s hand, his face hidden against Gersha’s neck. “Free,” he repeated as if he’d never heard the word before.

August, year 348

“Why on earth would we do that?” Councillor Verán said peevishly. “No, of course not.”

Gersha was sweating, and it wasn’t just from the roaring gas fire in the majority leader’s vacation villa. He couldn’t seem to remember all the arguments he’d been carefully preparing for the past year.

“Tilrey—” He broke off, remembering that the other Islanders insisted on calling Tilrey by that vile shortening of Malsha Linnett’s name. There was a good chance Verán had forgotten the boy even had a name of his own. “Nettsha has served the party for five years now. And since Bettova is retiring this fall, leaving me without a secretary, I thought maybe . . .”

Verán dipped his finger into a vial and sucked it dry. “The boy can’t replace your Bettova.”

“She’s a gem, yes, with decades of experience. But she could train him. And don’t you think it’s time for the boy to move on to a posting where his talents can be more useful? ”

“I can’t imagine where Nettsha could be more useful than he is now. The boy was born with beauty, not brains.”

Don’t correct him. Don’t get angry. Gersha swallowed hard. If he was going to liberate Tilrey from his position as the Island’s kettle boy, he had to remain calm. Reasonable. Sweetly earnest, even, in the way Verán liked him to be.

“Maybe you underestimate our Nettsha,” he said. “Have you seen his E-Squareds?”

Verán arched a brow. “First I’ve heard that he even took them.”

“It was Malsha’s idea, I think. But—”

“If it was Malsha’s idea for his piece to take the test, then Malsha doctored his scores.” Verán’s tone was scolding and fond at once; he seemed to enjoy setting Gersha straight about how the world worked. “A Councillor’s secretary needs passable E-Squareds, and Malsha always did enjoy converting his whores into his secretaries. Maybe it turned him on, dressing them up and sitting them down at a desk. Personally, though, I like to keep business and pleasure separate. Do you want a secretary so slow on the uptake you have to do half his work for him?”

Gersha bit down on his lip. Tilrey’s “slowness” was a deception Tilrey himself had perpetrated. “I don’t think he’s quite as slow as you think. I’m sure he can handle basic office management tasks.”

“Maybe.” Verán looked skeptical. “You’d have to wean him off his normal dose, though.”

“That wouldn’t be a problem.” Tilrey hardly even drank sap unless Verán gave it to him.

“But the whole discussion is moot, because there’s no reason to take Nettsha out of circulation.” Verán poked his finger in the vial again. “He may not be fresh or exciting, but he’s reliable. He helps me keep the loyalists happy and the swing voters in line.” His brow furrowed as if he were going over the Island’s roster in his head. “Lindahl, for instance—we need that silly prig for the budget vote, and he’s very fond of Nettsha. I packed the boy off to his villa tonight.”

Gersha didn’t want to think about Tilrey spending the night with Enrik Lindahl. “Aren’t you always saying Nettsha’s too sulky for your taste?”

He winced inwardly at the insult to Tilrey. When they were alone, Tilrey sometimes made Gersha laugh by doing a spot-on impression of Verán scolding him for being sulky, sullen, slow, a downer, spacy, passive, out of it. Privately, though, Gersha found all these epithets too unjust to be funny.

“Sulky, yes. He stalks around like a prisoner; it brings down the mood. But my taste doesn’t matter.” The majority leader sighed long-sufferingly. “As long as the others like him, getting a new kettle boy is an unnecessary hassle.”

The sweat on Gersha’s temples had gone ice-cold. He had no brilliant arguments left. He spoke without thinking: “The boy turns twenty-five next month. It just seems like time for him to move on.”

When he looked up again, the old man was staring at him, his refined features drawn with horror. “Twenty-five, you say?”

“Yes.” He’d assumed Verán knew Tilrey’s age, but then again, Verán didn’t even know Tilrey’s name.

“Verdant hells. That is old.” Verán took a swallow of tea. “I mean, I’ve heard of older ones, but I thought Nettsha was closer to twenty.” He grimaced as if his tea had been spiked with something bitter. “How time flies. I suppose he has been battered around a bit, hasn’t he?”

Gersha winced again, thinking of the bruises Fir Magistrate Linden used to leave on Tilrey. “That’s true,” he forced himself to say evenly. “Not that he’s unattractive, mind you. You know how grateful I am to you for your gift.”

Verán smiled indulgently. “The responsibility’s been good for you. You’ve blossomed, Gersha. You’re more assertive in the Council than you ever were before.”

Because he inspires me. Because he cares about this political bullshit more than I ever will. “I’m very happy right now, Visha. I’m far from complaining.”

“Maybe you want to turn the boy into your secretary so you don’t have to share him with anyone. Eh?” The old man winked.

Gersha forced himself to smile. His heart was thudding. “You’ve found me out.”

“Hah, yes. You naughty hedonist. Still.” Verán frowned. “Twenty-five—that’s so close to thirty. Nothing stays fresh forever.”

Gersha knew he was doing the right thing, even if he hated this whole conversation. He took a deep breath, silently begged Tilrey’s forgiveness, and said, “Maybe you could improve morale by finding something fresher.”

“Maybe. Hmm.” Verán pursed his lips. “But I’ve got no time for these trifles. Tell you what, Gersha my love. You find me a replacement that’s young, sweet-tempered, stunning, preferably untouched, and not too dense—ask Besha, he’s sure to have leads—and then we’ll see about turning poor old Nettsha into your secretary before his hair goes gray.”

Tilrey’s hair was still very decidedly golden, just as his cheeks were rosy. But when he saw the guest in Councillor Lindahl’s living room, he blanched. A third party was always an unwelcome sight when he was trying to do his job.

And this third party was a Laborer—a Sector desk worker, judging by his attire and age. What the fuck was he doing here?

Then, all at once, Tilrey remembered a complaint that Lindahl’s kettle boy, Ansha, had made over a card game in the Café: It’s not my fault my Fir would rather fuck his secretary than me . . .

Ah. This must be the secretary in question. Wasn’t he a little old for Lindahl, though? Late thirties, by the looks of him—almost as old as the Councillor himself.

“I brought you something,” Lindahl told the secretary imperiously. Releasing Tilrey’s arm, he jabbed a finger at the sofa. “Sit.”

The secretary lowered the book he’d been reading—an old copy of Council Procedure. He said to Lindahl as if to an equal, “What the fuck, Enrishka.”

Navigating delicate social situations was never Councillor Lindahl’s strong suit. He glared at Tilrey, who hadn’t moved. “Sit.”

Tilrey sat. He kept his distance from the secretary, sizing him up from the corner of his eye. The man was certainly attractive enough to be the Councillor’s bed partner, with curvy lips and a lush mop of red-gold curls. But he sat on the sofa with his feet up and his clothes in disarray, just like a family member. A half-empty vial poked from his front pocket.

“What the fuck,” he repeated. “You brought me the Island’s kettle boy?”

If Tilrey had ever taken that tone with Lindahl, the Councillor might have slapped him. But now Lindahl’s handsome face showed only concern. “This one’s nothing like Ansha,” he told the secretary soothingly. “He’s a well-educated boy, a discreet boy. He’ll be nice to you.”

“Well, in that case.” The secretary sat up and held his hand out to Tilrey. “I’m charmed to make your acquaintance, well-educated, discreet boy. I’m Svanner, Eivan. Fir Councillor’s secretary. And you—well, you’re the Island’s most precious jewel, aren’t you? The one Verán brags about fucking on the Council table. Was that hard on your knees?”

“Eivanka.” But Lindahl sounded tired, as if he were used to this behavior. “He is the Island’s most precious jewel. Try to be polite.”

Eivan gave Tilrey a frank sizing up. His eyes were bloodshot, and there was something loose and volatile about his manner. “How very honored I am,” he said. “Imagine, a wretched creature like me socializing with such a vision.”

Councillor Lindahl was gloomy and unsociable by nature, and Tilrey had endured plenty of his bad moods. But he’d never seen Lindahl animated by the tension that was visible in his body now as he stalked the room, looking ready to strike his secretary or kiss him.

“This is a gift,” he said. “You’re always complaining that I abandon you to pursue my pleasures, so I thought I’d share one of those pleasures with you.”

“Oh?” Eivan pointed at Tilrey, then at himself, his eyes wide with surprise that might have been sarcastic or genuine. “You want . . . us? To be together?”

Tilrey was certainly surprised. Being shared with a Councillor’s secretary was nothing new for him—Malsha had seen to that—but he hadn’t expected Lindahl to go in for threesomes or voyeurism. He wished he’d had advance warning, but that wasn’t Lindahl’s style.

“I’m at your disposal, Fir. Both of you,” he said, dropping his eyes to make the secretary a little more comfortable. This night would be unbearable if they didn’t help each other through it.

Eivan barked a laugh. “Isn’t he obliging. Is that what you want, Enrishka? To watch me have the Island’s jewel? Or to watch him have me?”

The Councillor seemed intensely uncomfortable with this situation of his own creation. “I don’t want to watch you with anyone,” he snapped. “You know that. He’s your gift, so why don’t you go in the bedroom and enjoy him?”

Eivan grinned nastily. “What a sexy invitation, Fir Councillor. You’ve really got me in the mood now.”

While Tilrey was trying to decide what to do next, the Councillor whipped his head upright to show them both the angry elegance of his high-Upstart features. “I said go. Both of you. Out of my sight. Eivanka, you’ve been moping this whole trip, and you’re working my last nerve. You’re supposed to make me laugh.” His jaw quivered. “And you.” He pointed at Tilrey. “I don’t want to see your face again till you’ve made him happy.”

The amusement had melted from Eivan’s face. He stood up and offered his arm to Tilrey. “We better do as the Fir says.”

Tilrey shot a glance at Lindahl to make sure the man wasn’t testing him in some perverse way. But Lindahl wasn’t looking back. His eyes were on Eivan, and the liquid wistfulness in them was surprisingly familiar.

Gersha. Gersha looked at Tilrey in that longing way.

The surprise of seeing that expression on Lindahl’s face made Tilrey forget his objections. “Of course, Fir,” he said, rising to let the secretary lead him into the bedroom.

Better to service one man than both of them. Too bad, though, that the secretary seemed to despise him.

Once they were inside, Eivan dropped Tilrey’s arm as if it burned him. He closed the door behind them and locked it.

Then he went to the Councillor’s bed, flopped down full length as if it were his own, and slipped the vial out of his pocket. “Verdant fucking hells,” he said, dipping a finger in. “I hope you really are discreet, kid. My Fir’s not quite himself tonight.”

Tilrey sat down on the edge of the bed, relieved that Eivan agreed with him. “Is Fir Councillor okay?”

“Oh, Fir Councillor’s just fine. Top of the world. Hunky-dory.” Eivan sucked sap from his finger. “I don’t know if you heard, but he had a loss in the family. It’s taking him a while to get over it.”

Verán had mentioned something about that, but it was back in the dark days before Gersha that all merged in Tilrey’s head. And Lindahl himself never discussed personal affairs with a kettle boy. “His nephew died?” Tilrey asked.

“Right.” The secretary’s eyes were a little too bright. “His favorite nephew. Garsha. Don’t pretend you haven’t heard the whole story.”

“The Hargist boy who wandered out into the Wastes.” And then, putting together two fuzzy memories, Tilrey added, “It was him and the Linnett boy together, wasn’t it?”

“That’s right. You know the Linnett kid?”

“A little.” Valgund Linnett—Malsha’s grandson, Vera’s brother. When the boys were brought back from their abortive attempt to escape the city, Verán practically crowed over this new source of shame for the family of his nemesis. But the Linnett boy had survived his hike into the Wastes, while the other one—young Garsha Lindahl—had not.

“It’s better for the family this way,” Verán had told his inner circle, his voice thick with unconvincing sympathy. “That child was an embarrassment to them from the moment of his conception.”

And one Councillor muttered to another, just loud enough for Tilrey to hear, “Misbirth.”

At the time, Tilrey hadn’t thought much of it, but now he couldn’t make things add up. If Councillor Lindahl’s nephew was really a misbirth, how had the prim and proper Councillor tolerated his existence? That didn’t square with what Eivan had just said, not at all.

“Garsha was the Fir’s favorite?” he asked, curious now. “That must have been hard for him.”

Eivan shot him a cold glance. “Don’t pretend you care. I could tell the second you walked in here that you don’t give a fuck about my Fir.”

Tilrey was feeling more and more muddled. Until tonight, he’d known Enrik Lindahl mainly as a person who got off on making him recite square roots in bed. It was hard to imagine anyone caring for the man. “Out there, when you were mouthing off to him, you didn’t seem to care much about him, either.”

“You don’t know the first thing about us.” It came out in a snarl.

“I know. I’m sorry.” The situation was more complicated than he’d realized. Maybe he should retreat to safe territory. “But I could make you happy, Eivan, like the Fir said. If you like. He seems to care about you.”

“He does.” Eivan sighed. “Too much.”

Again Tilrey couldn’t help being curious. “Do you feel the same way about him?”

After a silent moment, Eivan whooped with laughter. He sat up and offered the vial to Tilrey. “You some kind of romantic, kid?”

Tilrey refused it. “Of course not. But you said—”

“Like I said, you don’t know anything about the Fir and me.” Eivan emptied the vial down his gullet and drew his knees to his chest, his eyes swimming with tears. “Are you friends with Ansha? You must be. All you pieces stick together. What’d he tell you?”

“Nothing much.” Now Tilrey saw a way in. “And we’re not friends. Ansha’s a dick. He hates me because I get more attention than he does. I’m guessing he feels the same way about you? Because you and the Fir are close?”

Eivan nodded. “That little bastard thinks I’m a climber, a parasite on the Lindahl family, because that’s what he is.”

“He’s such a brown-noser. The way he fawns on Strutters.”

Tilrey had never complained about Ansha before; it felt wrong to badmouth a fellow kettle boy, bad blood or not. But he sensed a dark and thorny subtext in everything Eivan said, and he wanted to bring it to light. It might be useful to him and Gersha the way his discoveries about Besha and Niko Karishkov had been.

“Huh. Yeah. Ansha wants the Fir to adore him, and he doesn’t know the first thing about Enrishka. Or about me.” Eivan looked straight at Tilrey. “Do you think I’m a parasite on the Lindahl family?”

“I just met you. Why would I think that?”

“Everybody does.” A small shrug. “They think I took advantage of Enrishka and his sister. They can’t possibly imagine what it’s like to be kept from your own son.”

All of a sudden, the missing piece snapped into the puzzle. Feeling very stupid, Tilrey said, “You’re Garsha Lindahl’s father. He was a misbirth. You and the Councillor’s sister . . .”

“I was her secretary first.” Eivan reached over, opened a drawer in the headboard, and pulled out a fresh vial. “It happens sometimes, you know—a mistake. A miscalculation with the contraceptives. After she found out, she dismissed me from her service. Wouldn’t speak to me, wouldn’t tell me anything, wouldn’t let me see him—our son. My Garsha. She passed him off as her husband’s. Wouldn’t even let me come to my son’s cremation.”

He poured at least a quarter-vial into his palm and popped it in his mouth. “I can’t believe you don’t already know this. It’s not a secret in our circles, you know.”

Of course. Verán knew; it was part of the subtext of his spiteful reaction to poor Garsha’s death. “It was before my time, I guess.” Tilrey felt an unexpected jab of empathy for the secretary. “Is that why you stayed close to Councillor Lindahl? To be closer to your son?”

“Enrishka was the only one who was decent to me. He found ways for Garsha and me to see each other.” Eivan licked his palm, his eyes swimming again. “She didn’t want us to. Thought it was safer. I would never have known my kid without the Fir.”

And you gave him your love and your body in return. Based on what he’d seen in the living room, Tilrey could tell Lindahl had done a lot more than just take pity on Eivan. He’d taken advantage of the situation—until it got out of his control.

He couldn’t shake the memory of Lindahl’s voice saying, “You’re supposed to make me laugh.” “Forgive me,” he said, “but it’s a little hard for me to imagine Lindahl being that . . . decent.”

“You think he’s a cold prig, huh? No emotions? Believe me, he’s got sides you don’t know.”

And I don’t want to. But plenty of people thought Gersha was a cold prig with no emotions, too. Maybe Lindahl and Eivan had shared forms of tenderness Tilrey knew all too well.

“Just now, though,” he said, rejecting the comparison. “He was so angry at you.”

“He’s under a lot of stress.” Eivan wasn’t looking at him. “Things changed between us after Garsha died. Some of it’s my fault.”

“It’s not, though.” Tilrey couldn’t imagine losing a child. “How can he still expect you to ‘make him laugh’? You’re both in mourning.”

The older man sighed. “He tries to understand that. But he wants me to stay the way I was.”

Tilrey didn’t want to believe Gersha would ever treat him the way Lindahl had treated Eivan in the living room—raging, condescending, pleading. But now he’d had the thought, he couldn’t help imagining things ending that way between them. What if he did become Gersha’s secretary, and it tore them apart?

“Do you still want to be with him?” he asked. “Or will he not let you go?”

Instead of answering, Eivan twisted to examine the clock on the headboard. “We should stay in here for at least an hour so he thinks you did your job.” He turned back and ran his eyes dispassionately over Tilrey. “What are you best at?”

“My mouth. I can give you a quick one if you want.” The words came automatically, and then Tilrey hated himself.

The secretary slid over and patted his shoulder. “I’ll tell him you sucked me off, and it was mind-blowing, but no thanks. You’re just a kid. Not much older than my Garsha would’ve been, I bet.”

Tilrey stared at the duvet. “Councillor Lindahl doesn’t seem to mind my age.”

“Councillors always want the young ones.” Sprawled beside him, Eivan dipped into the vial again. “There must be something special about you, though. Enrishka thinks most whores are too stupid to waste his precious time on. He won’t even fuck poor Ansha. Did you crack the top fifteen on the E-Squareds, by any chance?”

“Yeah.” Tilrey remembered his first night with Lindahl. “He looked up my scores and lectured me about not living up to my potential. Does he always do that?”

Eivan barked with laughter. “It’s his kink. His obsession. You’re lucky he never made you retake the fucking test with him proctoring.”

Tilrey felt lucky indeed. “It’s funny how some Strutters don’t want to think we have brains, and others, it’s all they care about.”

“Tell me about it. You want to hear something fucked up? The Fir tried to convince Garsha to cheat on the test. To hack it.”

The words didn’t make sense. “Lindahl wanted his nephew to cheat?”

“Yup, and not for the reason you think. Garsha’s Notification was never in doubt. He was always gonna ace that test. But Enrishka gave him this speech about how hacking it was a rite of passage, a way to prove you were at the tippy-top of the pyramid. Said he and his best friends did it when they were that age. I had to step in and remind him Garsha wasn’t somebody who could play games with his future.”

For once, Tilrey was actually shocked. He made a mental note to ask Gersha if he’d heard of a cheating rite of passage. “If you cheat, how does that prove you’re superior?”

“Don’t ask me to explain the workings of high-Upstart brains.” Eivan tipped the vial into his mouth.

Before he could stop himself, Tilrey asked, “Why are you still with the Fir? If you were doing it only to see Garsha . . .”

Eivan held the vial up to the light. “Relationships are messy, kid. You wouldn’t know. And you know what else is messy? Grieving your only son.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .”

“It’s okay. Enrishka, he loved Garsha like I did. We can talk to each other. We make each other’s lives a living hell, blaming each other, but at least we can talk about him.” Eivan tossed the empty vial away. “And that’s a lot better than nothing.”

Tilrey wanted to retort that he understood relationships, messy ones included. But he had a dawning sense that he had a great deal to learn.

“I’m sorry,” he said again. “I shouldn’t have assumed.”

“You’re not all wrong.” Eivan’s eyes met his at last, cloudy with regret. “Sooner or later I’ll leave Enrik Lindahl, and giving me ‘gifts’ won’t change that, and he knows it. And he and I will probably be worse people alone than we were together, and that won’t stop me. I’m just . . . not ready yet.”

Gersha was determined not to be defeated by Verán’s requirements for a new kettle boy. If finding one meant asking Besha for leads, he would—and, to prove his commmitment, he messaged the odious little man on his way home and detoured to his villa.

He found Besha sitting alone and heavy-lidded before the fire on a sofa littered with children’s toys. “I’m not allowed to clean up,” he explained, dipping his pinky finger in a vial. “Blas and Gunde have to do it themselves first thing tomorrow. It’s supposed to teach them responsibility.”

“An excellent lesson,” Gersha said. He felt awkward being alone with Besha and even more awkward about the topic he was about to broach.

Besha rolled his eyes. “Kids don’t understand responsibility. They think in terms of treats and punishments, and that’s very sensible of them. But try telling that to my lovely wife.”

He offered the vial to Gersha—who shook his head—and then stretched out with his chin propped on a hand, eyes glinting slyly. “Now, tell me, what brings you here so late, ally?”

Gersha flinched at the word, hoping Davita wasn’t in earshot. But it was only the truth; thanks to Tilrey’s cleverness, he and his enemy were now allies. Even, on one memorable occasion, bed partners. “I need your expertise . . .”

Before he even finished explaining, Besha’s face had darkened. “You want the boy all to yourself,” he said. “You can’t expect me to help you—unless you’re going to blackmail me again, which I hope you wouldn’t stoop to. Not over a piece.”

Damn him, damn all of them. “I’m not trying to have him to myself.” Gersha clenched a fist behind his back. “You know Tilrey better than most—he deserves something better than this. A posting where he can use his brain. And, as I pointed out to Verán, he’s about to turn twenty-five.”

The number that had convinced Verán failed to have the same magical effect on Besha. “So what?” he said, scowling. “The two of you are thick as thieves, I can see that.”

“That’s not the point—”

“And yes, he’s more than clever enough to be your secretary.” Besha jabbed another finger in the vial, his lips settling into a distinct pout. “But I like him, and I want him, and you can’t come here and ask me to help you take away something I want. It’s not my way.”

Gersha’s skin was crawling. Though he’d just arrived, he craved the fresh air. “No, it’s not your way,” he said, rising, fist still clenched at his side. “It was foolish of me to think you might help simply because it’s the right thing to do.”

Besha’s eyes narrowed. “What did I just tell you? Treats and punishments make the world go round. I might help you if it’s worth my while.”

Gersha had no intention of finding out what sort of “treat” Besha wanted. “No, thank you,” he said. “I should be getting home.”

Besha followed him to the threshold of the coldroom. “You give up so easily,” he complained. “Your boy’s way better at handling me than you are. If you send him over to negotiate, I’m sure we could find a solution.”

Gersha answered this only with a glare, and Besha laughed. “Don’t take me so seriously.” As Gersha stepped outside, he added, “Really, though. Send him over. Worth a try, right?”

Gersha was tempted to make a rude schoolboy gesture, but the door was already sealing behind him. “Goodbye, Besha,” he said.

And good riddance. For the first several steps, he was fuming, but he calmed down quickly. He needed to focus on being outdoors in the strange, pearly dusk of a white night.

Gersha would never get used to summer in the Southern Range. The temperatures were so high he needed only a light jacket, and the snow had all melted and been replaced by cold, wet snarls of grass.

When he was young, his father and uncle had taught him the taiga was dangerous in high summer, roamed by hungry bears and swarmed by disease-carrying insects. His peers had received the same warnings. So it was a shock when he explained the dangers to Tilrey, and the boy laughed and said, “Sometimes I don’t understand Upstarts. Summer is the best time to be outdoors.”

After that, Gersha had allowed Tilrey to take him for a few short walks in the summer woods. He nodded politely at strange sights like flowers, mushrooms, and berries growing outside a greenhouse. But the heat made his skin itch, and he was always on his guard.

Like now, for instance—was that an owl hooting in the tree above him? It sounded almost mocking, as if Besha had followed him out here.

And there, up ahead—he froze, straining his eyes to penetrate the shadows of a copse. A tall, lumbering shape detached itself from the bushes and headed straight toward him. If it was a bear—

“Gersha?”

Gersha’s heart took a wild leap as the shape lunged toward him, closing the distance. Then it grabbed hold of him and became Tilrey, and he relaxed into the strong arms, his heart settling into a hectic, happy rhythm.

“Are you okay?” Tilrey peered down at him. “You’re trembling like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Just startled.” At least it wasn’t light enough for Tilrey to see how pale he was. “I didn’t know you’d be finished before morning.”

“I got lucky.” Tilrey wound an arm around Gersha’s waist and led him toward the villa at a leisurely pace. “Now I’m here to keep you safe from marauding bears.”

“Stop it! I only said that the one time.” Gersha elbowed his lover playfully, then nestled into the crook of his arm. He did feel safer now.

“It’s nice out here, isn’t it?” Tilrey pointed at the sky, where faint stars still showed in the west. “You can almost see Scorpius.”

Normally they were wary of expressing their affection so close to Upstart dwellings, but the half-light of the small hours made it feel safe. The windows of the villas stayed dark while the eastern sky brightened, the grass wet with dew that shivered under their feet.

In front of the villa, they stopped, neither eager to go inside. The tremble of warmth in the air did something to Gersha’s blood. He let his head droop on Tilrey’s shoulder. And then, before he knew it, his back was against a pine and Tilrey was holding him fast and bending to kiss him.

Their lips met and parted, met and parted again—just the briefest, tantalizing taste. His rough cheek rubbed Tilrey’s, generating a teasing friction. Their bodies pressed together, and Gersha wondered for a mad moment if people ever had sex in the grass.

But that would be too easy, and he knew what he really needed to do—tell Tilrey what had been preoccupying him. He’d been meaning to get everything squared away and save it for a birthday surprise, but his plan was harder to execute than he’d hoped. He needed Tilrey’s help, and he had to ask for it here and now, in the darkness under the trees, in case Tilrey didn’t react well.

It was a possibility Gersha hadn’t considered till this very second, but now it seemed painfully obvious. Tilrey liked to be in on plans. He didn’t like surprises. And this was a plan that concerned his very own future.

Tilrey’s thigh planted itself between Gersha’s legs and applied delicious pressure to his crotch, but Gersha didn’t reciprocate. “I told Verán tonight,” he said in a small, contrite voice. “I told him it’s time for you to stop being the party’s kettle boy and become my secretary.”

Tilrey tensed and pushed Gersha away from him—only to arm’s length, but enough. “You told him? I thought we were going to wait and do this slowly. Convince him it was his own idea.”

Gersha’s breath caught. “I can’t wait anymore, Rishka. Seeing you like this . . .” He clutched handfuls of Tilrey’s tunic, that degrading parody of Upstart clothing. He thought of Tilrey dressing himself so carefully this evening, bathing and combing his hair, preparing himself for Lindahl’s bed. “I can’t stand it, love. And Verán didn’t say no.”

Tilrey was all business now, no erotic languor in his voice. “Really? And what did Verán say? Has he decided I’m not useful enough to keep around?”

“Of course not.” Gersha hated that word. “Is that really what you want, love? For the old bastard to think you’re useful?”

Tilrey’s hands slipped from Gersha’s shoulders. “When the other options are moral rehab or a cell?”

Those aren’t the only options. Not anymore. Forcing himself to stay on target, Gersha quickly summarized his conversation with Verán.

Tilrey listened without comment—his body still boxing Gersha’s in, though they were no longer touching. When Gersha got to the part where Verán was shocked to learn his age, he barked with laughter. “That’s my Visha. He lives in his own little bubble. Did he change his tune after that?”

“Sort of.” Gersha enumerated Verán’s requirements for a kettle boy.

“Should be easy, then,” Tilrey said, cocking his head. He seemed to be relaxing.

“Right, real easy. He suggested I go to Besha for help, so I did. But Besha’s useless.” Gersha wouldn’t repeat any of the offensive things Besha had said; they might upset Tilrey again. “He might as well have laughed in my face.”

“I could have told you he would.” Tilrey flicked a curl off Gersha’s face, sending a pleasant shiver down Gersha’s spine. “He’d probably be willing to accept an arrangement, love. A certain number of nights with me in exchange for—”

“No.” Gersha was a little shocked by the snarl that came out of him. “I mean,” he qualified, “that’s a last resort. It can’t be that hard to find a decent kettle boy.”

“No.” His arm sneaking round Gersha’s waist, Tilrey led him toward the lighted steps. “It can’t be that hard. Will you let me take charge of it from here?”

“If you like.” Gersha was a little embarrassed by the relief he felt. By rights, he should be taking charge. He should be Tilrey’s savior. But maybe it was better to use teamwork on this, as they had on their previous problems. “You must have the right contacts,” he suggested hopefully.

“I have some ideas.” Tilrey paused to kiss Gersha before unsealing the door.

Once they were inside the villa, their bodies came together with all the force of summer warmth and pent-up need. There were no more words.

On the living room floor, they peeled off each other’s clothes and strained and grunted and eventually rutted like woodland animals. Then they lay and watched the room fill with dawn, not having bothered to turn on the lights. Sated for the moment, they moved to the comfort of the bedroom, where they rested in each other’s arms, their naked bodies lightly glazed with sweat.

Tilrey pressed his face to Gersha’s collarbone. “Thank you.”

Gersha tangled a hand in the dark-gold hair, feeling an urge to press Tilrey tighter, tighter, until they became one being. He wanted to carry Tilrey around inside him, to shield him from Verán and Lindahl and Besha and all the others.

But Tilrey remained a separate person from him, sometimes even a mysterious person. So Gersha asked, “For what?”

“For talking to Verán.” Tilrey sighed. “If you’d asked my advice, I’d have said to wait a year or so longer. I’d have been . . . scared of him. But you’re his equal. You know you can handle him. You went right ahead and did it.”

“You’re prudent, not scared. I don’t think you’re ever scared of anything.” Not like I am. Still full of that desperate need to protect Tilrey, Gersha clasped his hand and interlaced their fingers. “I went because I can’t stand hearing Verán order you around anymore, love. It makes me sick to my stomach. With any luck, in a few months you’ll be free.”

Tilrey squeezed Gersha’s hand, his face hidden against Gersha’s neck. “Free,” he repeated as if he’d never heard the word before.

Chapter End Notes

I decided to wedge some of Lindahl’s backstory into this story, and it turned out to be complicated. So now there’ll be three chapters.

Chapter End Notes

I decided to wedge some of Lindahl’s backstory into this story, and it turned out to be complicated. So now there’ll be three chapters.

I decided to wedge some of Lindahl’s backstory into this story, and it turned out to be complicated. So now there’ll be three chapters.