The Proposal Game

by Megan E O'Keefe

  The door gave way beneath the press of her palm, and for one frightful thump of her heart she feared the leather-and-wood hinges had shattered from neglect. But no, it was just Daddy, his soft grey eyes a little wide with surprise, the pink flush of the high winds raised in his cheeks.

  "Good evening, Daddy," Halva said.

  "Young lady!" He gripped her firmly by the elbow and steered her back within the shelter of their home. "I was just about to call the watch and have them search you out. Where have you been? With that Wels boy?"

  "He’s not even in the city." She disentangled herself from him and stepped away to place her sun parasol in the stand by the door. Gritty dust accumulated in the small corner between the stand and the wall, the desert blown in. Halva pushed away a sigh and made a note to start dusting again in the morning. She’d only done it the day before, but with their maid let go to save on expense... Well.

  "Then where?" he asked.

  She blinked, realizing he was repeating himself to her. "Just out for a stroll with Silka. You know how she just can’t sit still."

  "The Yent girl? She’s a bad influence on you, my dear."

  Halva waved a dismissive hand, turning toward her room. "I would argue I’m a good influence on her."

  Father’s steps pattered behind her. "Darling, she’s practically native. Her parents even gave her a Catari name."

  "Oh pah, my own name isn’t so Valathean—it only has one flavor of vowel. And anyway, it hardly matters."

  "You should be making friends with women of prospect."

  She pushed her bedroom door wide and stepped within, kicking off her grime-crusted walking shoes. The old things were nearly indistinguishable from beggar’s slippers, but they molded to her feet and kept the sand out and her skin blister-free. "And what if all the women of prospect are only interested in friends of their own sort?"

  Halva turned, fists on her hips, brows raised high in challenge—and immediately regretted it. Lord Erst took a full step back, his head turning to the side as if he’d been struck. It was impossible to tell if he were blushing or not. The winds that carried the Erst airship had by now left permanent pink kisses on his cheeks, but his eyes were lowered, his lips down-turned.

  "I didn’t mean—" she began.

  "No." He cut her off, forcing a smile. "It’s all right, little flower. You’re right of course. This last expedition was less than profitable."

  "How bad?"

  "You needn’t worry." He gave her his false smile, reached out to squeeze her arm. "Everything will be well."

  By the pits it will! she wanted to scream. But, seeing the pain wrinkling the corners of her daddy’s eyes, the subtle tremble at the edges of his lips, she withheld her chastisement, kept her poppet’s smile in place.

  "If..." She cleared a thorn from her throat, gathering her courage. "If you’d allow me, I could speak to Warden Faud about my cactus. If he found it a worthwhile investment for the Arasan economy, then—"

  "No, my dear." His smile twisted away into a bleak line. "We Ersts are diviners, as our concordant says. If we raise suspicions that our full effort is not bent to that task, then... Then Valathea may not be so gentle with us."

  She was unable to hide her scowl. "Gentle? They halve our stipend every year we don’t discover another selium pocket! The review is in three months, daddy. Three. Do you think we will still afford the lease here after that?"

  His expression contorted, fear of the truth warring with blind-stupid stubbornness. She’d heard all his protestations before—the empire didn’t have to give them anything at all. At least the airship was owned, they could always move into it. But then they wouldn’t be able to afford the crew—and Halva had never been allowed to fly a day in her life.

  "You will go to your room and stay there until you’re able to discuss this with a level-head," he snapped.

  "I’m in my room!"

  He threw his hands in the air and stormed off, bare feet thudding down the dusty hall.

  So. That was how it was going, then. Bad enough that even the most circuitous of discussions drove him to hand-wringing frustration. Halva chewed her lip, wanting to scream. Wanting to slam the door and stomp around as he did, as if bleeding off her rage would offer some clarity. It wouldn’t, it never did. It just made her angrier.

  And then empty.

  With a grunt of frustration she scooped up her journal in one hand and abandoned her room for their small family garden. Work, she hoped, might bring her some small measure of comfort. At the very least the plants would keep their mouths shut.

  PART TWO

  6

  The Lady Erst was a fourth-level woman, and that meant Detan needed fourth-level accommodations. He scowled at the gilded lace trimming on the awning above his head, the thin veneer of gold glowing bright enough to mock the desert sun. "Oasis" was stitched into the front of the awning, decorative flowering vines embroidered all around it.

  "Guess they couldn’t afford the real thing," Tibs muttered.

  Detan shrugged. "Not like they’d grow long out here. Maybe on the northern coast."

  "You’re stalling."

  "Of course I am. Do you see the polish on those doorknobs? Wiped down after every touch—that’s how you know they’re going to rake you over a barrel."

  "Not like it’s our money."

  "Still. Who in the bloody pits can afford to hire a man whose sole purpose is wiping down door knobs?"

  Tibs gestured to a black-jacketed man lingering near the door, doing his best to look ready to serve without leering at them. "The valets wear gloves, sirra."

  "Oh."

  Detan flicked dust from his shoulder, which settled right back down, and strode on up to that sharp looking young man. "Got any rooms?" Detan asked.

  The valet, skies bless him, hesitated only a second—and Detan guessed at the retort that might be bubbling behind his lips. Detan knew what he’d say, put in the same cursed spot, but the lad had been trained too well to give over to sharp impulses.

  "The Oasis is never full to capacity, sir."

  "Of course not." Detan grinned at the befuddled young man. "Wouldn’t want the soft-fingers to have to hear their neighbors, eh?"

  "No expense has been spared in the construction of the Oasis, sir, you will find all the rooms appropriately quiet no matter the number of our guests."

  Detan jerked a thumb at Tibs. "Got a room to make him quiet?"

  The poor lad blanched, but Tibs jumped to his rescue. "If you could point us the way, we’d be much obliged."

  Emboldened by the sudden usefulness of his profession, the lad laid one white glove on that perfectly shiny knob of brass and opened the door wide.

  Where any proper inn would have put a bar and its bottles, a great pool of water stood, bluer than any sky Detan’d ever flown in. He guessed it about six strides across, still as a summer morning, and clear as imperial glass. All around the pool patrons lounged. Young men and women in valet-black uniforms stood at the ready, fanning them with paper-and-wood fans. Not a one of those gathered spared more than a curled lip for the dirt-crusted men wandering into their midsts.

  "Good evening, sirs." A woman with a complexion like candied honey smiled up at him. "Will you require rooms?"

  He allowed himself a small grin, seeing the subtle tension in the straightness of her back, in the white knuckles wrapped around the registry book she clutched close to her chest.

  "Indeed, miss." He intentionally under-guessed her age and bowed with something like courtly grace. He’d never been very good at a proper court bow, but at least he knew where he was supposed to put his hands. Tibs just bobbed forward at the waist like a hinge had gone loose in his hips.

  "Wonderful." The woman beamed at him. "The Oasis offers some of the finest rooms in all Aransa."

  She paused then, letting the knowledge settle down around Detan’s ears as if he hadn’t already known it. He had to give the woman some credit for her tact—she didn’t outright demand to see the
ir money first, but the implication was clear. With a long-tortured sigh, Detan freed one of the slim pouches sewn to the interior of his sleeve and weighed it in the palm of his hand. He probably looked bored to her, but in truth he was making certain he’d grabbed the right pouch. It wouldn’t do to pay for these rooms with what was left of their false grains.

  "This should cover us for a spell, shouldn’t it?"

  Though he hadn’t offered it to her outright, she took the bag and felt the weight herself, completely nonplussed. Though the contents were enough to make up a low-leveled family’s fortune, she must have handled similar sums every day.

  She turned and walked away from him, money in hand.

  "Um..." He reached after her, thought better of such a feeble gesture and decided to follow instead.

  She lead him to the lobby’s west wall, where Detan was quite relieved to spy a set of scales and a sloped ramp for testing the grains’ smoothness. "Forgive me," she spoke over her shoulder as she emptied the pouch into the waiting cup at one end of the scale and began to count out the measures, "but there have been counterfeits in this area as of late."

  "Counterfeits?" Detan had the good sense to look aghast, and did his best to ignore the weight of the tin-powder painted glass spheres tucked into his other sleeve. "How brazen!"

  "In many ways the Scorched is only half-civilized." The woman affected an apologetic tone as she removed the weighed grains and set them at the top of the ramp. With a deft hand she lined them all up behind a wooden bumper, then lifted it up and watched as they glided down in unison to the bottom. Not an odd landing to be spotted between them.

  Detan let out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. Valathean grains were reliable currency. One had to have a specially crafted crucible, sieve, and furnace to melt the precious metals down and then strain them into the water which froze them into perfect little spheres. Still, counterfeits weren’t unheard of, and some were a mite harder to spot than his own painted marbles.

  "What you have here is sufficient for a seven-day’s stay on our second floor, meals included."

  "Though I’m loathe to leave your company in a hurry, miss, I don’t expect to require more than five days."

  Her hand moved to count out the difference, but Detan covered her fingers with his own. "If you could be troubled to find ole’ Tibs and I some clothes, a hot bath, and a bottle of something strong and smooth, we’d call it fair."

  The woman’s eyes sparked, counting the difference, estimating the weight destined for her own pockets. "I’d be happy to assist you both, sirs."

  "Excellent!" He pulled his hands back and clapped.

  "Now I just need a name for the registry." She flipped her book open and magicked up a pen from somewhere under the table.

  "Detan Honding."

  She didn’t even blink. "And you, sir?"

  "Tibal."

  "Family of...?"

  "Got none to speak of."

  That gave her pause. After a moment’s hesitation she ended his name with a long flourish on the "L", just to fill up the space where a family moniker would go.

  7

  Of all the houses on the fourth level of Aransa, Halva’s late mother had insisted upon this one because of the garden. Most of the homes around them boasted front sitting areas, manicured beds of multi-hued stones arranged in designs pleasing to the eye. Some even kept window boxes out front, stuffed full with succulents chosen not for beauty, but for flavoring food and easing sun-sickness.

  The Erst family home, however, had been built by something of an eccentric.

  His name was lost to her, though no doubt it was recorded in some imperial records room or another, but his love of the vegetation of Valathea remained. The house stood on the edge of the level, driving up its worth for the views of the city below, shoved as close to the street as he had been able to bribe the builders. Hence the single step up to their front door, while all other families tucked their entrances behind swirling patterns of rock.

  In the extra space behind the house he had built a wooden canopy, offering blessed shade to the plants he had managed to grow there. Most of the plants had been outright disasters—so many were imported straight from the imperial archipelago without a thought to their native needs—but Halva had found the soil rich, and the gardening tools plentiful.

  It was, she supposed, only natural that the study of those flowers which had delighted her mother became Halva's passion. This night, at least, it was a balm to her nerves.

  The succulent fruit she’d crafted thrived. It had crawled up the umbrella-trellis she’d devised and was fruiting for the third time this year. Marvelously quick even by Valathean standards, if the scant notes she’d gleaned from passing mercer ships could be relied upon.

  She cradled one of the fruits in her palm, this one the closest to ripening. The skin was firm and rough, reminiscent of bark, but she knew from experience the flesh would be sweet, dense and crisp. In just a day or two this one and its siblings would be ready to pluck. Halva chewed her lip, considering for a scant moment bundling them all up and marching upcrust to knock on Warden Faud’s door.

  Father would die from the scandal.

  "Halva, are you out here?"

  She startled with guilt, his voice layering over her thoughts of him, and let the fruit hang free. "Here, Daddy," she called, hoping he wouldn’t sense the embarrassment in her tone.

  "There’s a man here to see you, dear."

  No hint of annoyance tinged his voice, no sour note of condemnation that a man should come calling at such a late hour. Curiosity drew her forward, wringing the dirt from her hands against the apron stuffed with tools laid over her long skirt.

  Faint light filtered from the sitting room’s open door into the garden, illuminating the familiar sharp silhouette of her father—and some other man. He was a head taller than her, his skin made dark by too much time under the glare of the sun. She would have guessed he worked the mines, but the fineness of his clothes told her it must be airships instead. A captain, perhaps. Against the chill of the desert night he wore a close-tailored jacket of midnight cloth, and his leather boots looked so new they nearly shined. He had a friendly enough smile, and hair the color of oversteeped tea swirled with honey.

  She’d never seen him before in her life.

  "Forgive me, sir, but are we acquainted?"

  He gave her a little grin, and she found something childishly endearing in it. "I had hoped so. You did offer me your card." He extended her a crumpled slip of paper with her own name on it.

  Halva caught herself gawping and cleared her throat. "Lord Honding?"

  "At your service." He sketched an overly formal bow, tucking his hands in precisely the wrong place against the small of his back. "I’ve come to apologize for the poorness of our introduction earlier this evening. And, perhaps, to ask you to walk with me?"

  Halva darted her gaze to father, who shrugged. "Lord Honding is a gentleman. I leave you in his hands." Father backed from the garden, offering her a delighted wink.

  Her stomach twisted. Of course he’d be pleased. How could he not be, when the scoundrel cleaned up so well? He extended her his arm, and she looked upon it with a distasteful curl to her lip. "Mr. Dakfert, you do clean up surprisingly well."

  He turned his outstretched arm inward, transforming the gesture into another poorly formed bow. "I felt it was my duty to present you with a better image, after having affronted you with my attire earlier this evening."

  She allowed her brows to creep as high as the vining cactus beside her. "Really? Or is it that you wouldn’t allow your Lordship to be seen with a lowly diviner’s daughter in public, but a private calling to beg apology and cease rumor is perfectly acceptable?"

  He withdrew a half-step, turning his cheek as if struck. "I came to ask you to walk out with me, not to stifle any gossip."

  "Then why the assumed name?" She stepped after his retreat, thrusting her finger forward as if deflecting a riposte. "Your rep
utation is a known element, my Lord, it would have done your character no harm to be identified card-playing in a third rate tavern. You had no reason to snub me so."

  His rueful grin, a genuinely abashed expression, smothered the coal of her anger. "I confess that I was hiding, but not from you. Do you honestly think those men would have sat down to play cards at a table with Lord Honding as willing as they had Mr. Dakfert?"

  "I suppose not," she said. It was silly to keep punishing him so. She wanted his attentions—though not for any real romance. He was, she supposed, objectively attractive, but it was Cranston who held her heart. And despite his current comportment, it was this man who could make her dear Mr. Wels look like the better choice in comparison. If she could get him to reveal his contrary nature to her father. If. It seemed like a reasonable enough gamble.

  "My Lady?" he prompted.

  "I accept your explanation. Though if you were really working to hide your identity, you might have considered growing your hair out." Inwardly she cringed—those were not the most romantic of words. But he laughed anyway, and so far as she could tell his amusement was not feigned.

  "Then may I ask an explanation of you?"

  "You may."

  "Why is it a lady such as yourself was drinking crinnit in a third-rate tavern?"

  "Crinnit? Is that what that vile stuff is called?"

  "I’m afraid so. And no, you don’t want to know why."

  She shivered. The root word crin was known to her—it was old Valathean for death—and nit, well, that was clear enough. Though she’d spent a fair amount of time experimenting with insecticides, she’d never expected to drink one. Forcing on a pleasant smile, she extended her hand to him. "I suppose I could be persuaded to tell you while we walked. Where did you have in mind?"

  His gaze swept her, and she knew what he’d see. The same simple dress she’d worn at the tavern, her hair ruffled from lack of care, her dirt-smeared apron tucked with tools. Not exactly the look of a woman to be seen on any Honding’s arm, but she’d seen him in much worse shape only a few marks ago. At least she smelled better. His gaze lingered on her tool belt and skimmed away, taking in the garden and her notebook left open on the worktable beside her. He nodded to himself.