Chapter 7: The Mess — The Key of Oslov

Volume 6: The Trip to Thurskein

Chapter 7 The Mess

Chapter Notes

Memories of non-con touching in this chapter. Also, much angst.

Chapter Notes

Memories of non-con touching in this chapter. Also, much angst.

It wasn’t as bad as a Sector cell. Cinderblock walls, concrete floor, fluorescents. A bench. The walls didn’t quite muffle exterior sounds: steel doors slamming in the distance. Someone’s anguished, incoherent yelling.Tilrey made himself as comfortable as he could on the bench and tried to think. Pers or Pers’s superior would report to Fernei, and then Fernei would make the decision on whether to handle this internally or report it to Redda, which would mean bringing in Int/Sec or the army.It wasn’t himself he needed to worry about; Dal and Lourisa had no powerful friends in the Council. Trials of Laborer Dissidents, when there were trials at all, ended quickly. They flew you out into the Wastes and dumped you, a fate known as “exile” that was actually execution, since solo survival in the Wastes was all but impossible.On the way here, before they were separated, he’d tried to gauge the severity of the situation from the others’ faces. Dal looked murderously angry; some of the others were obviously scared. Several of the Dissidents were missing from the group of prisoners, including Lourisa. Had they escaped, or been spirited elsewhere?He leaned back now, closed his eyes. The smell of detention was familiar, mustiness and stale sweat, though he’d only been in one of these particular cells once before, and then for less than a day.It wasn’t a good memory.

The door slid open, admitting Supervisor Fernei, a soldier, and a pudgy, bald, middle-aged man in a tunic. The bald man’s gaze alighted on Tilrey and stayed there. Tilrey knew he was an Upstart, but he couldn’t square that with the man’s lazy posture and general ordinariness. Some childish part of him still expected them to be taller, or to have a bit of a superhuman glow.

If the Supervisor had brought an Upstart along, Tilrey must be in real trouble. He’d already resolved to confess everything and beg for mercy, but what if they decided he was beyond reform? What if they exiled him?

His mother would be alone for the rest of her life, and it would be his fault.

Supervisor Fernei didn’t look as if he were about to pronounce a death sentence, but he did look stern as he said, “Tilrey, this is Fir Administrator Makari, all the way from Redda. Give him your hand.”

Tilrey held it out, shaking. The Upstart took hold; his own hand was large and sweaty.

“Fir Administrator has taken a special interest in your case, Tilrey,” Fernei said. “I told him you’ve had a spotless record until now, and I don’t believe you have serious shirker sympathies.”

“I d-don’t, Fir Supervisor, I swear.” Why wasn’t the Upstart letting go of his hand?

“He’s terrified,” the Upstart said in a Reddan drawl, sounding surprised and a bit pleased. And then, “Look at me, lad.”

When Tilrey saw the man’s speculative, hungry look, he ripped himself free. The Upstart recoiled.

Green hells, what was wrong with Tilrey? Did he have a death wish? Hugging himself, shuddering, he turned to Fernei. Words flooded out: “I confess everything, Fir Supervisor. But I don’t believe in shirking, I never did. Someone dared me to go to that meeting, and I’m so sorry. Please—”

Fernei made a curt gesture, silencing Tilrey. Then he turned to the Upstart, his tone heavy with deference. “I’m afraid he was raised here, Fir, and has no concept of how to express the proper respect. If you think that might be a problem, perhaps I can find someone else . . .”

Tilrey backed against the wall. What the fuck was going on?

“A bit of feistiness isn’t a problem if he’s young enough to be taught. You said what—eighteen? Still in school, eh?” The Upstart’s eyes ran over Tilrey’s uniform. “Come to me, lad.”

Fernei reinforced the command with an arch of his brows, but Tilrey didn’t budge. When you’re threatened, you curl up in a ball and wait for the problem to go away, Dal had told him once, and he felt himself doing it now.

He went rigid when the Upstart came close and began touching him. But not until the man’s hand strayed down to his groin did he break free. He staggered toward the safety of the Supervisor, who knew who he was, who his mother was, and how it was acceptable to treat him. “Fir Fernei—”

Already halfway out the cell door, Fernei stopped, turned, and said solemnly, “Do you know what kind of trouble you’re in, Tilrey? Fir Makari is offering you a very generous second chance. We’ll talk more shortly, but for now I suggest you demonstrate your willingness to cooperate.”

He didn’t wait for a response; the door closed behind him with a final thud. Tilrey dashed toward it, but someone caught him from behind and pinioned his arms—the soldier.

The Upstart was leering more openly as he said, “You’re very shy. Fresh, I’m guessing?” And then, when Tilrey didn’t answer, “You do know what that means?”

“I’m not fresh. I’ve been with a girl.” He whispered the words, standing absolutely still, as if the admission that he’d lost his virginity might make the Upstart lose interest.

A brief silence, and then they both cracked up. “Not quite what I meant,” said the Upstart. And then, to the soldier, “Fir Magistrate’s going to like this one.”

If Tilrey had been Dal, he might have kicked Admin Makari in the balls next, he supposed. But he’d been raised to be a good boy, to show respect to his elders and superiors, so he’d stood frozen and let the asshole feel him up—“Just to see what I’m getting,” Makari had assured him—and started learning how to leave his body and feel nothing at all.The memory brought him to his feet, face hot, just as the door grated open and admitted Fernei.“Fuck off.” The words emerged before Tilrey could stop them.The Supervisor was using a cane—older now, and less intimidating, but still the same man who’d turned his back and left that cell eight years ago. “Now, now,” he quavered. “You should know storming and blustering aren’t going to help you.”“No?” Tilrey crossed his arms; he wasn’t going to confess and beg for mercy this time. “And what makes you think I need your help?”Behind Fernei, a constable tugged the door shut, leaving them alone. The Supervisor leaned against it as if the prospect of this interview tired him. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you stumbled into that hive of shirkers by accident?”“Not by accident, no. I was looking for my friend. I’ve been concerned about her.”“Yes, yes. And I suppose Dal was kind enough to tell you the True Hearth’s password? I have two witnesses from the gathering who heard you use it.”Tilrey started to speak, but Fernei waved him into silence. “Now, let’s be clear, Tilrey—I don’t care what sort of foolishness you’ve been up to in Redda. Shirking or Dissent or even downright treason, it’s your business as far as I’m concerned. I’m not here to lecture you.”“No, you’re not.” Tilrey sank back onto the bench, feeling as weary as the Supervisor looked. “I’m not eighteen anymore, and you’re not going to pretend you give a damn about me. You’re going to offer me a deal—my freedom in exchange for Councillor Gádden’s patronage.”Fernei’s head jutted in a fractional nod. “You’ve learned how these things work.”All too well. “You need a patron in the Council, don’t you, Fernei? Someone to represent your interests, make sure the sector gets its fair share of smoked salmon and ale. Make sure you stay on top.”“It may sound petty to you, boy, but that’s how—”“I know.” Tilrey stood up again. “I know it’s nothing personal. I’m sure you always think you’re doing the best thing for the sector, even when you’re selling children.”Fernei blinked. “I don’t enjoy that part of the job.”“But you thought I’d enjoy one. Or were you mocking me?”“I thought you’d enjoy Mal, yes. Most men do. It was a peace offering.” Fernei raised his hands in surrender. “Strutters have needs, desires, whims, and we supply. If your Fir Gádden wants to put an end to such traffic, I welcome that, but he’ll need to offer his support in return. And if he doesn’t . . .”“Then you call in Int/Sec. Maybe the army.” Tilrey paced to the wall and gave it a half-hearted kick. “You turn me over to them.” He faced the Supervisor again. “You do realize Fir Gádden is on the Int/Sec committee?”Fernei’s face didn’t change. “I’m well aware that Fir Gádden can pluck you out of danger if he chooses. But your friend—will she be so lucky?”He pressed his thumb to the door seal. “Take a few hours and think on it, Tilrey. I know you hold a grudge against me, but don’t let that blind you to the best choice. Dal’s a fine woman, full of potential to do her sector proud. I’d hate to see her lose her life to a youthful mistake.”*Tilrey was lying in bed in Gersha’s vacation house in the Southern Range, watching snow feather against the dark skylight. Gersha slept beside him, his back to Tilrey, curled into himself.He reached out to stroke Gersha’s nape, but before he could make contact, Lourisa was suddenly crouched between them, practically sitting on Tilrey’s chest, asking the same question over and over: “What are the coordinates?”Tilrey remembered them perfectly—44.0506 N, 74.0510 W—but she might wake Gersha, so he tried to shush her. “Is Dal with you? Is she safe?”Instead of answering, Lourisa just kept repeating, “What are the coordinates?” in that robotic voice until he sat up with a jerk, hoping to throw her off him, and woke.His shoulders and spine were on fire from lying on the hard bench, and the fluorescent lighting needled into his groggy eyes. With a groan, he swung his feet to the floor, rolled his neck—ow—and looked up to see the door slide open.Not that bastard again. He opened his mouth to insult Supervisor Fernei and closed it when he saw his mother.“I came as soon as I could.” She wore slippers and a robe, and her red-brown hair was uncombed, sticking up at odd angles like a child’s.“You’re okay, Rishka? They haven’t hurt you?” Sitting down beside him, she seized both his hands as if he might vanish. The contact was so unexpected that Tilrey almost pulled away.“Fine.” He accepted the warm pressure of her hands without meeting her eyes. “Did Fernei send you?”“Of course.” Her voice was tight with anger. “He wants me to pressure you into getting your Councillor to be his patron. He put on his concerned face and told me his constables found you meeting with shirkers.”Shit. Tilrey opened his mouth to say it was all a misunderstanding.His mother shook her head sharply, silencing him. “It’s safer for both of us if I don’t know whether that’s true or not.” Her gaze wheeled fiercely around the cell, as if to challenge whoever might be surveilling them.“Why’d you come, then? To tell me to give the old tyrant what he wants—after what he did to us both?”“No. I’m aware my opinion has no power over you.”That’s not true. He opened his mouth to say it, because she needed to know, but she wasn’t done talking. Her throat worked as she released his hands. “You’re an adult, Rishka. You make your own choices. I’ll do anything in my power to help you, but I will not broker some agreement between Fernei and Councillor Gádden, selling you for the welfare of the sector. That’s almost as bad as what Fernei did to you the first time, when—” She broke off, her eyes filling.“Mom! It’s okay.” Alarmed by her loss of control, he drew her into a half-hug, awkwardly patting her shoulder. “It’s not like that. No one’s going to sell me this time. If there has to be an agreement, I’ll broker it, because Gersha listens to me. Most of the time, anyway.”“Listens to you?” Her shoulders lurched. “He’s an Upstart. He kept you from me!”“No!” It was time to clear up this misconception once and for all, even if it made him look like the world’s shittiest son. “Gersha was actually the one who persuaded me to come back here, because he read your letter. He told me I’d always regret it if I didn’t come to terms with you. I know this may not make sense to you, but he loves me, the way you loved Dad. And—”He broke off. His mother was practically sobbing, glistening trails on her cheeks. “What is it? You don’t believe me?”“Why do you need to ‘come to terms’ with me?” She raised wet eyes to him, the lines of her face proud even in her collapse. “Why do you need a Strutter to persuade you to come home? Why do you hate me so much, Rishka? Why wouldn’t you even write me?”“But I did!” He did a quick inventory of the past eight years in his head, trying to remember the longest he’d gone without writing her. “I didn’t write much sometimes, but I always stayed in touch.”“No.” His mother’s eyes were tight on his. “Right after you left, when it mattered the most, I heard nothing for a month and twenty-two days. Then I received a handwritten note from the General Magistrate of the whole bleeding Republic in which he explained, with many absurdly polite apologies, that he ‘hadn’t been able to persuade’ you to compose a letter to me. Not wanting me to worry, he’d ended up dictating one, which he swore was an accurate representation of your mental state. That dictated letter, in your handwriting, was also enclosed.”Something went ice-cold in Tilrey’s chest. “He told you he’d dictated the letter? What was the point of even doing it, then?” A pointless question—Linnett toyed with people for fun.His mother rubbed her eyes. “Maybe he wanted to be honest. Maybe he wanted to hurt me. I don’t know. Because, you see, if he hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have known. That letter sounded like you.”Tilrey remembered taking Linnett’s dictation and finding it almost uncanny how close this was to a letter he might have written. He realized in a detached way that a tear was trickling down his own cheek. “He knew me—Linnett. Very well.”She went on: “And I kept getting these letters in your handwriting, for years afterward. They all sounded the same—a lot of observations about buildings and the weather, and nothing about your feelings. Cold, formal phrases telling me not to worry, because you were ‘adjusting.’” Her voice broke. “At some point they must have stopped being that man’s dictations and started being real letters from you, but I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t tell.”Her shoulders heaved, and then she was pulling him into a death-grip embrace the way she had when he first arrived. “Why, Rishka? Why couldn’t you just write yourself, from the beginning? Why did I have to parse the meaning behind those horrible sentences written by someone who was . . . who was . . .”Fucking you. Hurting you. Changing you. He closed his eyes tight and pressed his forehead to her shoulder.“I was ashamed.” He couldn’t say the words out loud, only murmur them into the softness of her robe. “I know how you are, and I—well, I wanted to keep my pride, to be strong, because that’s how you taught me. But I wasn’t strong enough.”She stroked his back. “Whatever they did to you, you survived it. What’s stronger than that?”Tilrey lurched away from her. He used his sleeve to wipe the mess off his face. “You don’t know. You look at me and you see the old me—or my dad, or whoever—and that’s not who I am anymore. The reason those letters sounded like me is that Malsha Linnett got inside my head. He figured me out, and then he twisted me into someone new, someone more like him. Why do you think I don’t talk like you anymore? Because I wanted to talk like him. Because I was sick of his friends patting me on the head and saying my accent was cute.”“Rishka.” Her voice quivered. “You don’t have to explain—”“No. You need to understand this. Linnett was a father and an uncle and a lover and a lifeline to me, and sometimes a jailer and a torturer, and in my way I loved him. Maybe I still do.” He rubbed his face again, unable to meet her eyes. “I still hear his voice in my fucking head sometimes, and sometimes his advice is good.”“That’s why you wouldn’t come back.” Her voice was oddly calm now. “You wanted me to remember you as you were.”Tilrey blinked, dimly aware of fresh wetness on his cheeks. “Yeah. And I was right to stay away. I mean, this is a fucking mess, right? You wanted me to marry Dal, and now she’s in a cell, and it’s my fault.”His mother’s cool hand cupped his cheek. They sat there for a moment; she didn’t lift his face, and he didn’t meet her eyes.Then she said, “What a fool Fernei was, sending me here to use maternal guilt on you. He doesn’t know you in the least.”“I do care what you think.” Still he couldn’t look at her.His mother’s hand withdrew, and she rose in one smooth motion. “I know. You care too much. Enough to keep you away from me, and I don’t want that anymore.”He looked up then, puzzled, and saw something like resolution curving her mouth, burning in the depths of her eyes. But she only said, “I need you to sit tight and make no concessions until I come back. Can you do that?”“Dal.” Tilrey swallowed. Why’d he been talking about himself this whole time? “She’s the one who’s really in danger.”His mother only nodded, as if Dal’s situation were as easily fixed as a mechanical breakdown on the factory floor. “I’ve been administering this sector for as long as you’ve been alive, Rishka. Nothing here surprises me. Let me do what I can to clean up this mess for you—for us. One last time.”

Tilrey made himself as comfortable as he could on the bench and tried to think. Pers or Pers’s superior would report to Fernei, and then Fernei would make the decision on whether to handle this internally or report it to Redda, which would mean bringing in Int/Sec or the army.

It wasn’t himself he needed to worry about; Dal and Lourisa had no powerful friends in the Council. Trials of Laborer Dissidents, when there were trials at all, ended quickly. They flew you out into the Wastes and dumped you, a fate known as “exile” that was actually execution, since solo survival in the Wastes was all but impossible.

On the way here, before they were separated, he’d tried to gauge the severity of the situation from the others’ faces. Dal looked murderously angry; some of the others were obviously scared. Several of the Dissidents were missing from the group of prisoners, including Lourisa. Had they escaped, or been spirited elsewhere?

He leaned back now, closed his eyes. The smell of detention was familiar, mustiness and stale sweat, though he’d only been in one of these particular cells once before, and then for less than a day.

It wasn’t a good memory.

His mother would be alone for the rest of her life, and it would be his fault.

Tilrey held it out, shaking. The Upstart took hold; his own hand was large and sweaty.

“I d-don’t, Fir Supervisor, I swear.” Why wasn’t the Upstart letting go of his hand?

“He’s terrified,” the Upstart said in a Reddan drawl, sounding surprised and a bit pleased. And then, “Look at me, lad.”

When Tilrey saw the man’s speculative, hungry look, he ripped himself free. The Upstart recoiled.

Tilrey backed against the wall. What the fuck was going on?

He didn’t wait for a response; the door closed behind him with a final thud. Tilrey dashed toward it, but someone caught him from behind and pinioned his arms—the soldier.

The Upstart was leering more openly as he said, “You’re very shy. Fresh, I’m guessing?” And then, when Tilrey didn’t answer, “You do know what that means?”

“I’m not fresh. I’ve been with a girl.” He whispered the words, standing absolutely still, as if the admission that he’d lost his virginity might make the Upstart lose interest.

A brief silence, and then they both cracked up. “Not quite what I meant,” said the Upstart. And then, to the soldier, “Fir Magistrate’s going to like this one.”

The memory brought him to his feet, face hot, just as the door grated open and admitted Fernei.

“Fuck off.” The words emerged before Tilrey could stop them.

The Supervisor was using a cane—older now, and less intimidating, but still the same man who’d turned his back and left that cell eight years ago. “Now, now,” he quavered. “You should know storming and blustering aren’t going to help you.”

“No?” Tilrey crossed his arms; he wasn’t going to confess and beg for mercy this time. “And what makes you think I need your help?”

Behind Fernei, a constable tugged the door shut, leaving them alone. The Supervisor leaned against it as if the prospect of this interview tired him. “I suppose you’re going to tell me you stumbled into that hive of shirkers by accident?”

“Not by accident, no. I was looking for my friend. I’ve been concerned about her.”

“Yes, yes. And I suppose Dal was kind enough to tell you the True Hearth’s password? I have two witnesses from the gathering who heard you use it.”

Tilrey started to speak, but Fernei waved him into silence. “Now, let’s be clear, Tilrey—I don’t care what sort of foolishness you’ve been up to in Redda. Shirking or Dissent or even downright treason, it’s your business as far as I’m concerned. I’m not here to lecture you.”

“No, you’re not.” Tilrey sank back onto the bench, feeling as weary as the Supervisor looked. “I’m not eighteen anymore, and you’re not going to pretend you give a damn about me. You’re going to offer me a deal—my freedom in exchange for Councillor Gádden’s patronage.”

Fernei’s head jutted in a fractional nod. “You’ve learned how these things work.”

All too well. “You need a patron in the Council, don’t you, Fernei? Someone to represent your interests, make sure the sector gets its fair share of smoked salmon and ale. Make sure you stay on top.”

“It may sound petty to you, boy, but that’s how—”

“I know.” Tilrey stood up again. “I know it’s nothing personal. I’m sure you always think you’re doing the best thing for the sector, even when you’re selling children.”

Fernei blinked. “I don’t enjoy that part of the job.”

“But you thought I’d enjoy one. Or were you mocking me?”

“I thought you’d enjoy Mal, yes. Most men do. It was a peace offering.” Fernei raised his hands in surrender. “Strutters have needs, desires, whims, and we supply. If your Fir Gádden wants to put an end to such traffic, I welcome that, but he’ll need to offer his support in return. And if he doesn’t . . .”

“Then you call in Int/Sec. Maybe the army.” Tilrey paced to the wall and gave it a half-hearted kick. “You turn me over to them.” He faced the Supervisor again. “You do realize Fir Gádden is on the Int/Sec committee?”

Fernei’s face didn’t change. “I’m well aware that Fir Gádden can pluck you out of danger if he chooses. But your friend—will she be so lucky?”

He pressed his thumb to the door seal. “Take a few hours and think on it, Tilrey. I know you hold a grudge against me, but don’t let that blind you to the best choice. Dal’s a fine woman, full of potential to do her sector proud. I’d hate to see her lose her life to a youthful mistake.”

Tilrey was lying in bed in Gersha’s vacation house in the Southern Range, watching snow feather against the dark skylight. Gersha slept beside him, his back to Tilrey, curled into himself.

He reached out to stroke Gersha’s nape, but before he could make contact, Lourisa was suddenly crouched between them, practically sitting on Tilrey’s chest, asking the same question over and over: “What are the coordinates?”

Tilrey remembered them perfectly—44.0506 N, 74.0510 W—but she might wake Gersha, so he tried to shush her. “Is Dal with you? Is she safe?”

Instead of answering, Lourisa just kept repeating, “What are the coordinates?” in that robotic voice until he sat up with a jerk, hoping to throw her off him, and woke.

His shoulders and spine were on fire from lying on the hard bench, and the fluorescent lighting needled into his groggy eyes. With a groan, he swung his feet to the floor, rolled his neck—ow—and looked up to see the door slide open.

Not that bastard again. He opened his mouth to insult Supervisor Fernei and closed it when he saw his mother.

“I came as soon as I could.” She wore slippers and a robe, and her red-brown hair was uncombed, sticking up at odd angles like a child’s.

“You’re okay, Rishka? They haven’t hurt you?” Sitting down beside him, she seized both his hands as if he might vanish. The contact was so unexpected that Tilrey almost pulled away.

“Fine.” He accepted the warm pressure of her hands without meeting her eyes. “Did Fernei send you?”

“Of course.” Her voice was tight with anger. “He wants me to pressure you into getting your Councillor to be his patron. He put on his concerned face and told me his constables found you meeting with shirkers.”

Shit. Tilrey opened his mouth to say it was all a misunderstanding.

His mother shook her head sharply, silencing him. “It’s safer for both of us if I don’t know whether that’s true or not.” Her gaze wheeled fiercely around the cell, as if to challenge whoever might be surveilling them.

“Why’d you come, then? To tell me to give the old tyrant what he wants—after what he did to us both?”

“No. I’m aware my opinion has no power over you.”

That’s not true. He opened his mouth to say it, because she needed to know, but she wasn’t done talking. Her throat worked as she released his hands. “You’re an adult, Rishka. You make your own choices. I’ll do anything in my power to help you, but I will not broker some agreement between Fernei and Councillor Gádden, selling you for the welfare of the sector. That’s almost as bad as what Fernei did to you the first time, when—” She broke off, her eyes filling.

“Mom! It’s okay.” Alarmed by her loss of control, he drew her into a half-hug, awkwardly patting her shoulder. “It’s not like that. No one’s going to sell me this time. If there has to be an agreement, I’ll broker it, because Gersha listens to me. Most of the time, anyway.”

“Listens to you?” Her shoulders lurched. “He’s an Upstart. He kept you from me!”

“No!” It was time to clear up this misconception once and for all, even if it made him look like the world’s shittiest son. “Gersha was actually the one who persuaded me to come back here, because he read your letter. He told me I’d always regret it if I didn’t come to terms with you. I know this may not make sense to you, but he loves me, the way you loved Dad. And—”

He broke off. His mother was practically sobbing, glistening trails on her cheeks. “What is it? You don’t believe me?”

“Why do you need to ‘come to terms’ with me?” She raised wet eyes to him, the lines of her face proud even in her collapse. “Why do you need a Strutter to persuade you to come home? Why do you hate me so much, Rishka? Why wouldn’t you even write me?”

“But I did!” He did a quick inventory of the past eight years in his head, trying to remember the longest he’d gone without writing her. “I didn’t write much sometimes, but I always stayed in touch.”

“No.” His mother’s eyes were tight on his. “Right after you left, when it mattered the most, I heard nothing for a month and twenty-two days. Then I received a handwritten note from the General Magistrate of the whole bleeding Republic in which he explained, with many absurdly polite apologies, that he ‘hadn’t been able to persuade’ you to compose a letter to me. Not wanting me to worry, he’d ended up dictating one, which he swore was an accurate representation of your mental state. That dictated letter, in your handwriting, was also enclosed.”

Something went ice-cold in Tilrey’s chest. “He told you he’d dictated the letter? What was the point of even doing it, then?” A pointless question—Linnett toyed with people for fun.

His mother rubbed her eyes. “Maybe he wanted to be honest. Maybe he wanted to hurt me. I don’t know. Because, you see, if he hadn’t told me, I wouldn’t have known. That letter sounded like you.”

Tilrey remembered taking Linnett’s dictation and finding it almost uncanny how close this was to a letter he might have written. He realized in a detached way that a tear was trickling down his own cheek. “He knew me—Linnett. Very well.”

She went on: “And I kept getting these letters in your handwriting, for years afterward. They all sounded the same—a lot of observations about buildings and the weather, and nothing about your feelings. Cold, formal phrases telling me not to worry, because you were ‘adjusting.’” Her voice broke. “At some point they must have stopped being that man’s dictations and started being real letters from you, but I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t tell.”

Her shoulders heaved, and then she was pulling him into a death-grip embrace the way she had when he first arrived. “Why, Rishka? Why couldn’t you just write yourself, from the beginning? Why did I have to parse the meaning behind those horrible sentences written by someone who was . . . who was . . .”

Fucking you. Hurting you. Changing you. He closed his eyes tight and pressed his forehead to her shoulder.

“I was ashamed.” He couldn’t say the words out loud, only murmur them into the softness of her robe. “I know how you are, and I—well, I wanted to keep my pride, to be strong, because that’s how you taught me. But I wasn’t strong enough.”

She stroked his back. “Whatever they did to you, you survived it. What’s stronger than that?”

Tilrey lurched away from her. He used his sleeve to wipe the mess off his face. “You don’t know. You look at me and you see the old me—or my dad, or whoever—and that’s not who I am anymore. The reason those letters sounded like me is that Malsha Linnett got inside my head. He figured me out, and then he twisted me into someone new, someone more like him. Why do you think I don’t talk like you anymore? Because I wanted to talk like him. Because I was sick of his friends patting me on the head and saying my accent was cute.”

“Rishka.” Her voice quivered. “You don’t have to explain—”

“No. You need to understand this. Linnett was a father and an uncle and a lover and a lifeline to me, and sometimes a jailer and a torturer, and in my way I loved him. Maybe I still do.” He rubbed his face again, unable to meet her eyes. “I still hear his voice in my fucking head sometimes, and sometimes his advice is good.”

“That’s why you wouldn’t come back.” Her voice was oddly calm now. “You wanted me to remember you as you were.”

Tilrey blinked, dimly aware of fresh wetness on his cheeks. “Yeah. And I was right to stay away. I mean, this is a fucking mess, right? You wanted me to marry Dal, and now she’s in a cell, and it’s my fault.”

His mother’s cool hand cupped his cheek. They sat there for a moment; she didn’t lift his face, and he didn’t meet her eyes.

Then she said, “What a fool Fernei was, sending me here to use maternal guilt on you. He doesn’t know you in the least.”

“I do care what you think.” Still he couldn’t look at her.

His mother’s hand withdrew, and she rose in one smooth motion. “I know. You care too much. Enough to keep you away from me, and I don’t want that anymore.”

He looked up then, puzzled, and saw something like resolution curving her mouth, burning in the depths of her eyes. But she only said, “I need you to sit tight and make no concessions until I come back. Can you do that?”

“Dal.” Tilrey swallowed. Why’d he been talking about himself this whole time? “She’s the one who’s really in danger.”

His mother only nodded, as if Dal’s situation were as easily fixed as a mechanical breakdown on the factory floor. “I’ve been administering this sector for as long as you’ve been alive, Rishka. Nothing here surprises me. Let me do what I can to clean up this mess for you—for us. One last time.”