Chapter Text
September, year 344
Tilrey stood in Placid’s market square under a blazing sun and ordered himself to focus. This was his chance to get away from Malsha for good.
But he was dazed by the scene in front of him, like nothing he’d ever seen in Oslov. Merchants selling vegetables and clothing and saddles and live poultry, youths loitering, pickpockets pickpocketing, kids playing, horses sweating and shaking, a farmer chasing a runaway turkey. Colonel Thibault’s black-clad soldiers patrolled the edges of the square, but even they seemed uninterested in containing the chaos.
Tilrey had seen large crowds during his time at the Colonel’s court, but only from afar. Malsha had kept him away from the common people of Harbour, sequestered in carriages and bedroom suites.
The air was humid and close. The ground seemed to tip under him, as if it might shake him off. All this was too much. If he let himself get distracted, all his planning would be for nothing.
They’d moved here from Cleveland six months ago, when Malsha’s estate was finally ready. And Tilrey had been plotting his escape for two of those months, ever since he’d found a map of the area in the library. He was wearing the stable boy’s clothes, which he’d pinched from the laundry. Sewn in the hem of the shirt were bills and coins stolen from Malsha’s pocketbook.
After all that prep, it had been surprisingly easy to rise before dawn, sneak out of the room while Malsha was still sleeping peacefully, scale the wall, and hike a mile or so downtown.
Tilrey knew his next steps. Buy food and water. Catch the stagecoach west. Yet here he stood, paralyzed.
A group of young girls kept glancing his way and then whispering breathily to each other. A boy carrying a piglet barreled into him and then darted away, muttering, “Foreigners.” Any minute, the nearest soldier might notice him.
Should he have dyed his hair? No, some of the townspeople were blond. It must be his height that tipped them off to his foreignness, or his bearing. He’d practiced the Harbourer language diligently, trying to lose his accent, but he might always stick out.
Move, stupid! The money would buy him passage far away, where he could disappear. Use his strength, work with his hands. Blend in.
He took a tentative step into the crowd. Another. But on the third step, someone seized his arm from behind and yanked him around.
Tilrey wasn’t surprised to find himself face-to-face with Krisha. The failure of his plan suddenly felt inevitable.
Malsha’s former driver still wore white and gray, as if they were in Oslov. But he’d let his hair return to its natural black, and a knife and primitive revolver hung from his belt. “Got you,” he said grimly, relief and irritation mingling on his handsome face.
Tilrey felt relieved, too—and angry at himself for it. Maybe he just wasn’t ready yet to strike out on his own in Harbour. But when would he get another chance?
He pondered the question as Krisha pinned his arm behind his back and marched him out of the square, adding, “There’s a search party out. Where the fuck did you think you were going?”
“Thought I’d take a walk and check out downtown,” Tilrey said airily. “You didn’t think I’d actually try to get away, did you?”
Baiting Krisha was one of his hobbies these days. The poor man did his best to follow Malsha’s orders to a T, just like he had in Oslov, but Harbour made it tougher. Things were less orderly here.
“Fuck you,” Krisha growled, his grip tight on Tilrey’s elbow.
Tilrey just grinned and tried not to show that he was glad to be leaving the marketplace. He would feel so much safer at home.
Yes, Malsha’s tall brick house at the end of a sleepy cul-de-sac was home now. More than Tilrey liked to admit.
***
The early September evenings were still long. Tilrey watched sunlight slide down a rafter and glare on the window facing Malsha’s bed. Scents from the gardens wafted in on the breeze. Beyond them, the lake was probably sparkling gaily.
He braced himself against the tall headboard and tugged on the chain that secured his ankle to the foot of the bed. It didn’t budge.
Right now, Malsha would be working in the gardens, lovingly pruning his roses. Normally, Tilrey spent these hours taking a jog around the property, or reading in the library in inclement weather. Then he joined Malsha on the terrace for a drink before dinner.
What a beautiful day. His escape attempt had ruined it.
Half the household had been out looking for him—Krisha, the stable boy, the gardener, and the burly old man who stocked the woodshed. They were all annoyed by the trouble he’d caused, delaying their daily tasks.
“If you were gonna run off, you should’ve done it back when we were in Cleveland,” Krisha had snarled hours earlier, as he secured the free end of the shackle to a sturdy leg of the bed. “Easier to disappear there. But judging by today, I doubt you’d have gotten far.”
I haven’t noticed you trying to leave, either. But Tilrey kept that thought to himself. He suspected Krisha was fascinated and intimidated by the vast unknown of Harbour, just as he was.
Even Artur hadn’t just bolted, back when they were all guests of Colonel Thibault in the bustling capital. He’d played up to the Colonel, who enjoyed flattery, and volunteered to return to Oslov as some kind of spy.
Malsha had let his former secretary go without much of a fight. Then he’d told Tilrey, Don’t you dare try that. I’m not about to lose you.
A month later, a grubby letter had come from Artur, updating them on his new life in the Wastes. The Colonel had sent him there with a disgraced member of her court to train the agents whom she hoped (pathetically, in Malsha’s opinion) to use to infiltrate Oslov. The outpost was miserably cold, but Artur was enjoying his freedom and even starting to like his Harbourer partner. Give Tilrey my love, he said in a postscript, and remind him there’s a wide world out there to explore. Even you can’t keep him locked up forever.
At the time, the words had made Tilrey’s heart swell. He’d resolved to run away as soon as they reached the country estate that Colonel Thibault had gifted Malsha for his retirement, in return for his “invaluable services to her military campaign” (read: nuking her enemies).
Now they’d been here since March. And this sorry attempt was the furthest Tilrey had gotten.
When Krisha dragged him back from the market this morning, Malsha hadn’t shown his face. He clearly wanted Tilrey to stew in his own juices first. Well, he’d better come soon. This was getting boring.
When familiar footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, Tilrey squared his shoulders. It was a long time since he’d been afraid of Malsha, but he wasn’t looking forward to this.
His last proper escape attempt, in the Southern Range, felt like an eternity ago. That time, he’d gotten a stiff dose of vexonil. Malsha no longer had access to Oslov pharmaceuticals, but he surely hadn’t lost his taste for punishing his kettle boy’s disobedience.
Not that Tilrey was a “kettle boy” anymore—oh no. Malsha had introduced him at the Colonel’s court as “my personal valet.” The Harbourer staff of the estate called him a “manservant.” But he was still following orders.
The knob turned. The door opened. Tilrey smelled Malsha before he saw him—the old man carried a tray of tea and something with cinnamon, scents that made his mouth water.
Krisha hadn’t bothered to feed Tilrey, only made him change out of the stable boy’s stolen clothes into the garments that Malsha preferred. A loose white shirt and pants, made of crude Harbourer cotton but acceptable to Oslov sensibilities.
Malsha’s own garments were more structured, befitting the status he held here: that of a property owner who received a generous monthly pension from the Colonel. But they too were plain white, far less gaudy than the nobles’ garb at the Colonel’s court. The man had betrayed his homeland and fled to exile, but at heart, Tilrey thought, he would always be an Oslov.
Malsha set the tray on the bedside table. Then he peered down at Tilrey, his withered fingers tracing the chain. “Where did Krisha find that, I wonder?”
“He said there’s all kinds of odds and ends in the stables,” Tilrey replied in the same conversational tone.
“Hm.” Malsha gave the chain a tug. “It looks nice on you.” He turned away to pour the tea. “Do you remember the game we played once in my vacation villa? Where you were confined to my bed?”
Tilrey remembered all too well. He’d been so much younger then, more easily humiliated. Unversed in Malsha’s games. “Shackles make the game easier.”
“They do.” Malsha took a sip of tea, then tore off a wedge of golden pastry and raised it to his lips. “Mrs. Desautels made us quail turnovers with raisins and spices. She’s a gem, isn’t she?”
Meat, cinnamon, freshly baked, buttery dough. Tilrey lowered his gaze rather than watch Malsha eat. He wasn’t going to beg.
For a minute or so, the old man was busy chewing. Then he said, “Perhaps I’ve misread the situation. Krisha claims you were trying to run away. But he also says he found you standing in the middle of the market square. Surely you could’ve gotten farther?”
Could’ve. Should’ve. Tilrey swallowed his regrets. “I just wanted to have a look around town. Why would I run? From what?”
Malsha laughed softly. “From what indeed? Come on, Rishka. We know each other better than that.”
After all this time, lying to his Fir was pointless, even if Tilrey rarely used the honorific anymore. (He’d fallen out of the habit, and Malsha rarely corrected him.) “I thought I might as well try,” he admitted, drawing his knees to his chest with a jangle of chain.
“But are you really so unhappy here, sweetheart?” Malsha tore off a bit of pastry and held it out.
Tilrey tried to take it his fingers, but Malsha shook his head and brought it to Tilrey’s lips. “Aren’t you hungry, love? You haven’t eaten all day.”
So that’s how it’s going to be. Tilrey opened his mouth for the morsel. “Making me eat from your hand won’t tame me,” he said sweetly.
“The last thing I want is to tame you.” While Tilrey chewed the pastry—so good—Malsha raised the cup to his lips so he could wash it down. “No, I don’t want you to be like poor Krisha, with no fight in you,” he said in a low, intimate voice, tearing off another piece. “That would be tragic.”
“It would, wouldn’t it?” Tilrey opened his mouth. This time, after allowing himself to be fed, he grabbed Malsha’s hand and gave him a nip before releasing it. “That would bore you. And we can’t have you bored. Not here in the wilderness without even the Sector and the Council and the stupidity of your colleagues to amuse you.”
Malsha sighed petulantly. He didn’t like being reminded of everything he’d given up by betraying the Republic, and Tilrey knew it.
“It’s true,” the old man said after a moment, as he took a sip of tea and gave Tilrey one. “We live in paradise, but things can get … monotonous.”
Tilrey inched closer to his Fir. (What do I call him now? My “master”?) He had a feeling dinner would have to wait until Malsha had humbled him a little. Best get on with it, then. “You’re damn lucky you aren’t stuck with just Krisha, Fir. You’d be begging for some entertainment.”
“True enough. If I didn’t have you, losing Artur might have been a fatal blow.” Malsha stroked Tilrey’s bare sole, yanked on the shackle, and then trailed his fingertips up Tilrey’s calf to his pant cuff. “You mustn’t scare me like that, love,” he added plaintively, reaching between Tilrey’s legs to cup his crotch. “I need you.”
Back in Oslov, Malsha would never have baldly admitted this. But things were different in Harbour. The former Magistrate was still in charge, at least officially, but they were both exiles now. And Tilrey’s youth and strength gave him certain advantages. He might still be in his prime when Malsha was long gone, and then he could leave here and go wherever he wanted.
He liked that admission of weakness, so he spread his legs and tried to relax as Malsha stroked his cock. When Malsha tugged down his trousers, he lay back in bed and asked languidly, “Are you rewarding me for running away, then?”
“Mm. I’m rewarding you for not running away. For having the sense to know that wouldn’t end well.” And then Malsha bent and slid Tilrey’s hardening cock into his mouth, which made it tough to think for a while.
The old man’s technique was improving. Tilrey threw his head back and squirmed as Malsha took him deeper, though he managed not to moan aloud.
Empty, his stomach still complained. He ignored it, waiting patiently for the command. Malsha wouldn’t draw it out that long; he lacked patience these days.
“Now, love!”
As he came, Tilrey noted with satisfaction that Malsha swallowed his load, just as if he were the kettle boy. He allowed the old man to cuddle him for a bit, resting limp in his arms, before he said, “You asked why I’m unhappy here.”
“Mm?” Malsha nuzzled his neck. “Right. As far as I can see, you have everything you want. Fresh air, woods to walk in, a lake to swim in, books. No one to oblige except me … and you’re used to me by now, aren’t you?”
All too used to you. “At home, I had my own room. This house has plenty of them.”
“That’s your grievance? That we sleep together every night now?” Shaking his head, Malsha disentangled himself and got up, taking the tray with him. “It’s not as if I make many demands of you.”
It was true. Most nights, they shared the bed chastely; Malsha had never been interested primarily in sex. But Tilrey still missed having his own space. “If you give me a room of my own, Fir, for my books and stuff, I’ll still sleep here whenever you ask me to.”
“Oh, will you?” Malsha shook his head as he left.
He returned soon with dinner, which he insisted on feeding to Tilrey as well, dividing the stuffed turkey breast, greens, rolls, and apple chutney between them. “Running away was very foolish,” he scolded when they were done. “But I’ll consider your request for a room of your own.”
Tilrey licked stray gravy from Malsha’s fingers. He was being shameless, and he was way past caring. “That’s smart of you, Fir. Now, how long are you going to keep me chained up like this?”
Malsha cocked his head, thinking it over. “Another twenty-four hours. If you don’t experience some discomfort, you might be tempted to do it again. I’ll have Krisha bring a chamber pot for your needs.”
“You wouldn’t want your bed soiled, Fir.” Tilrey didn’t hide his sarcasm.
“Oh, shush. You call the shots now—you know you do. You wrap this poor, frail old exile around your finger.”
And Malsha gave Tilrey a long, passionate kiss before leaving him alone again.