The Earl and the Executive

by Kai Butler

  "Ah," Tiral replied, internally wincing. Every review from his students had noted the verbal tic. Rexe was even able to say it at the same time as him when she was being smart. "Thank you kindly, he will be missed.”

  “I'm sure, I'm sure. Were you able to get any messages from him before the crash?”

  Frowning, Tiral wondered if his brother had had some sort of understanding with this man, although the man was definitely not Lecc’s type. Perhaps they had been intimates of another sort, gambling or one of Lecc’s other peccadilloes.

  “No, unfortunately.”

  The man did not seem to understand how private he wanted to keep thoughts of Lecc, for he merely said, “Such a sad thing.”

  He nodded goodbye to Tiral and headed up toward the house.

  Tiral shook his head and continued into the garden.

  Moving slowly between rows, he found himself close to a lady he was sure he’d met before. Maybe Lecc had introduced them?

  “Do you know much about flowers?” he asked.

  She turned, surprised, and he was struck by her deep blue eyes. A smile curved her lips. “Not much. Although I am told that the ones here are quite the rage. Mrs. Polot is known for her interest in botany.”

  “Ah?” Tiral said. “I hadn't heard that.”

  The woman's eyebrows drew together in confusion. “No? Then perhaps you only know her wife?”

  Tiral wasn't actually sure how he'd gotten the invitation to the gathering and cursed himself for not asking Rexe. In lieu of guessing how he (or, more likely, his mother) knew the hostess, he introduced himself.

  “Lord Gret.” He bowed slightly.

  She returned with a curtsy. “Miss Tine. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  Tiral waited, hopeful that the newly named Miss Tine would take the initiative with a new conversational tack, but instead she seemed to be waiting on him. The experience was agonizing for Tiral, and he reached for the first solution he could think of.

  “The weather is quite the thing, isn't it?” He blurted out and just barely resisted wincing. Of course the temperature was the thing. The whole planet was climate-controlled, rain only on necessary off-season days, or in specialized areas designed to need more moisture.

  Miss Tine didn't seem to mind, instead taking the conversational gambit with a smile and happily rambling on about the temperature and the sun. Tiral was bewildered by his success and wondered what could possibly follow. He might actually be able to have a conversation without imploding under his own anxiety over the work at hand.

  Miss Tine had paused, and Tiral made an agreeing sound and she graced him with another smile and continued talking. He gathered some of it was about how difficult it was to get this sort of weather on any other planet, even other ones with climate control. When she paused again, he wasn’t sure what to say and said, “Quite fascinating. Do you attend many of these parties?”

  She gave him an odd look. “Not as such. This is only my second season and I’m a bit new to the circuit. You?”

  Tiral looked around, the sun suddenly unbearably warm, although he knew that it was the same temperature as before. A hint of sweat tickled at his hairline.

  “The last time I came to Lus was when I was a young man.” She looked surprised and he could see the questions forming that she would be too polite to ask. “It’s been some years. This is more of a first season for me.”

  “Is it?” she asked, her tone curious. “You must find it very overwhelming, then.”

  Tiral nodded and opened his mouth, only to remember Zev’s advice. No talk of fortunes. “A tragedy the Empress’s health kept her from Lus this year.”

  “Were you hoping to see her at the royal balls?” Miss Tine asked. “I have heard that she has the very best physicians on hand and they all assure her that it’s merely the common ailments that come with time.”

  “Ah?” He asked, his voice curious. She was off again, her words a sea, rising and falling, and he felt he was merely a boat being buoyed by her conversational turns.

  Another pause came, but this time she nodded at a friend across the field and said, “An absolute pleasure, Lord Gret. Hopefully we will meet again.”

  Watching her move off, Tiral felt nothing but relief. The conversation had been dull, but somehow the topics that Zev had introduced in jest were the only ones that seemed to work. Tiral knew it was him. Had it been his brother Lecc, likely they could have talked about anything.

  He circled the gardens again, trying to find somewhere to stand and not look uncomfortable. Servants were bringing out lawn games and he saw most of the guests migrating to the area. Following the crowd, Tiral found himself participating in a game he was unfamiliar with but seemed to involve rolling balls close to a smaller one.

  A woman he realized was Mrs. Polot introduced him to his teammates. Seeing her, he realized he did know her from holos between his father and her. She was smaller in person and older than he remembered. She made him feel like a child, though, and her introduction even more so.

  “Lord Gret, may I present Mister Nuet and Sir Virte?” she said. “Lord Gret is the new Earl, inherited from his brother recently.”

  “A pleasure,” he said, aware that his tone had gone stilted.

  They greeted him perfunctorily, and Tiral was somewhat grateful that no one seemed to be open to conversation. Then he remembered Edah’s face when she’d found out about the estate and realized that his accepting awkward silence for the rest of the party wouldn’t help him further his cause. Tiral cleared his throat.

  “I’m not familiar with the game,” he said. “Would one of you mind teaching me the rules?”

  The man on his left, Sir Virte, walked him through the basics. After he got to the technical aspects, Tiral lost track of the complicated scoring system and smiled. “Can’t remember all that, you’ll just have to keep me from making a hash of it.”

  His lips pulling down, Sir Virte replied, “Of course, Lord Gret.”

  They settled into silence again, and Tiral tried not to feel too wistful for how he imagined Zev would have responded to his rather poor attempt at flirtation. Zev likely would have said that of course he’d be happy to keep Tiral on the rights and if he needed any help learning how to roll the ball, he’d also be happy to model. However, before Tiral could spin out an entire imaginary conversation, the game began.

  It moved quickly and Tiral tried to keep up, but Virte’s obvious irritation at having to correct his play kept him from asking anything. Nuet seemed distracted by his fob and Tiral had written the whole thing off as a loss when someone leaned over and remarked, “You should consider yourself lucky. Virte’s a bit of a rake and takes losing poorly. Nuet has just broken it off with his fiancée and the papers are virtually crucifying him for it.”

  Tiral turned and glanced at the man speaking. He was tall and thinner than Tiral, with large hands and a wry smile. He bowed shortly and introduced himself.

  “Yancy Reg.”

  “Lord Gret,” Tiral said. “I was beginning to think that it was my less than engaging conversation.”

  “Oh, no,” Reg assured him. “I’m sure that you’re quite capable. You did look a bit lost with the company, though.”

  “I thank you for the thought,” Tiral said. They lapsed into silence as Tiral waited his turn. He stretched for anything to say. “The plays look interesting this year.”

  “Oh, quite,” Reg said. He rolled his own ball, seeming to do better at it than Tiral judging by the nudges going around the players. Tiral took his turn and they watched Virte do something that got even Nuet to look up from his fob.

  “You have any tickets?” Tiral asked.

  “Of course, we have season passes,” Reg said. “Wife likes to go to all the big ones and if you wait, you end up paying through the nose for a box or down on the floor with—” he broke off and coughed.

  “The masses?” Tiral guessed, amused. His shoulders relaxed a bit. If Reg was married at least Tiral didn’t have to
impress him.

  “Er, well, yes,” Reg said. “Talk through the whole performance, and then the leg shackle gets irritated and demands a listening device.”

  They each took a turn again. Tiral asked what would be the season’s favorite, and Reg answered quickly and then broke into a story about his wife’s need for more opera gloves and how hard it was to find matching ones at this time of year.

  “Damned if she didn’t wait until the last possible minute to go looking,” Reg said. He waved at a woman across the way. “There she is now. Beria!”

  The woman wound her way through the games and came near, threading her hand into her husband’s elbow. She glanced at Tiral curiously.

  “Beria, may I present Lord Gret? New earl. Doesn’t bowl very well,” Reg said.

  “A pleasure,” Beria greeted. “I was just talking to Mrs. Polot. She said you’re quite mysterious, appearing out of nowhere.”

  “Not nowhere,” Tiral said. “I spent most of my time at university after my father’s death.”

  “That would explain it,” Beria said. “You’ll make quite the hit, this year. Everyone is looking for an educated partner these days. Just my luck I was shackled to this one.”

  Looking up from the game, Reg frowned. “Now that’s quite too rough, my dear.”

  Smiling back at Reg fondly, Beria asked, “Are you looking for your own blanket?”

  “Frankly, I am interested in finding a spouse this season,” Tiral said. “Although I appear to not be making out that well.”

  “One can always try,” Beria encouraged.

  The game wrapped up and Tiral exchanged bows with the members of his team, happy to follow Reg and Beria back to the refreshment table.

  “I saw you talking to Miss Tine earlier. Take another run at her, she might surprise you. It is her second season and she can’t be too picky with her expected inheritance,” Beria said.

  “Her expected inheritance?” Tiral asked, stomach dropping.

  “Dibs not quite in tune, you know,” Beria said. “I think her family’s had a run of bad luck and she won’t bring much to the marriage.”

  Tiral wondered if Miss Tine had looked at him and seen that he also wouldn’t bring anything to the marriage. If she’d known, instinctively, that she’d need to look for greener pastures since neither of them would find a happy ending in their match. He wished he’d grow the same instinct. This was the second time in as many days that Tiral had found himself at a loss.

  Nodding to the couple, Tiral took his leave. “I must head out. I’ve some matters to attend to today.”

  “Quite a pleasure to meet you,” Beria said.

  “Have to join us at the club, some day,” Reg said. “Have a good time over some port.”

  Tiral bowed to both of them and managed to say goodbye to the hostess before fleeing back to his flyer. He mulled over the problem on his way back to the house.

  Masub opened the door for him and accepted his hat and coat, waiting patiently as Tiral frowned down at his gloves, taking them off slowly.

  “Masub, see if Miss Rexe is available and send her to me in the library,” Tiral said, handing off the black gloves to Masub.

  He headed into the library and poured himself a glass of water, tasting a hint of lime in it. Tiral stood staring at the bottles of spirits when Rexe came in, her dress wrinkled from sitting. Tilting her head, she waited.

  “Rexe,” he started. “I need some help.”

  She raised an eyebrow further and said, “More than you’re currently getting? Because if you need more, I might start charging you by having you write my thesis for me.”

  Tiral gave a perfunctory smile at the joke. “No, I need you to track down someone for me.”

  “Did you meet someone? Will you propose so we can be done with this farce?” She asked. Frowning, she took out a tablet and asked, “Why didn’t you just ask for their contact point?”

  “Zev Yuls,” he said, before she could ask more questions. “He’s a gentleman I met at the Laft boat party.”

  Guiltily, she glanced at him and went back to her tablet. “You figured that out?”

  “That it was put on by the Laft Group? Yes,” he said drily. “It was quite obvious.”

  “Any more information on him?” Rexe asked.

  “He was very handsome. Someone said he might be a bit of a… loose gentleman?” Tiral said.

  “A loose gentleman with money?” With her stylus hovering over her tablet, Rexe gave him a look that was both concerned and accusatory.

  “It's not money I need him for,” Tiral explained. “I'll speak more on it when I have spoken with him. Just see if you can find his address.”

  “His address? Not his contact point?” Rexe asked. She was scrawling something on her tablet.

  “His address,” Tiral said. “I plan to visit.”

  Her brows drawn together, Rexe muttered, “This should be interesting.”

  She saluted him with her stylus and headed off muttering to herself. Turning away, Tiral examined himself in the mirror. He could do this. Better yet, he could do this well.

  As long as he had the right teacher.

  5

  The breakfast was adequate. When he’d taken over the new house, Zev had requested new staff. Although he could have had all of his servants moved from his home on Viga, something had appealed to him in having new staff for a new life on Lus.

  As a result the breakfast was only adequate. The new chef wasn't as good as his Central-trained chef at home, but the food also wasn't nearly as bad as what Zev had endured at the hotel he'd stayed at last season. When he'd complained to Nosre, his brother had called it his penance for the hedonism he’d displayed during the season.

  “Glad you're enjoying my pain,” Zev had said.

  “If you’d just take a house for the season, there’d be no pain to enjoy. So your pain is on yourself,” Nosre had said and hung up.

  Now settled in the house, Zev had to admit that Nosre had had a point. There was something to being in your own home, enjoying the luxuries that you’d paid for. One of those was the full-screen table that allowed him to eat, work, and skim the newsfeeds all at the same time.

  He swiped through the headlines until he got a notification from the head of the shipping department. The numbers looked good, stronger than he’d expected given that their competitors were making aggressive moves into their space. Zev was jotting down his response when Ovi entered silently. He looked up, mostly because of the creeping sensation that he got whenever she watched him with her calculating eyes, making him wonder every time what they saw that was invisible to others.

  He tapped his stylus against the table. “Yes, Ovi?”

  “There’s someone here to see you,” she informed him, even more dour than she usually was.

  His stylus stilled. “What?”

  “Lord Gret is here to see you,” she said. “Do you want me to get rid of him?”

  “Does he know this is where I live?” Zev asked, confused. He admitted that his mind had wandered to Tiral in the days since their encounter, but he had always shaken off the thoughts as mere daydreams and focused instead on the actress.

  “He asked for you by name,” Ovi said. “The footman told him he was mistaken but he somehow managed to get inside.”

  Zev snorted and was reminded of Tiral’s initially stiff manners. He had no doubt that with his formality Tiral could manage to politely make his way inside the Imperial Palace.

  Zev knew why Ovi was unhappy. This place, owned by the Laft Group, would easily expose him as Detzev Laft. No one was supposed to know he lived here, and if someone did, it either meant that one of the vetted servants had talked or that he was being surveilled when neither he nor Ovi had noticed.

  “Well, short of throwing a lord of the Empire out on his ear, I suppose we only have one option,” Zev concluded. “Show him in. And find out who talked.”

  He’d bet on servants giving in to coin before he’d bet against Ovi’s se
curity habits.

  Nodding her head, Ovi exited the dining room. Zev cleared his work and turned off the screen so that the table faded to the wood veneer he’d decided on. He picked up a piece of toast and chewed on it thoughtfully as he waited. At least discovering the nature of Tiral’s visit would be more interesting than his date last night with the actress. He now knew more about stage makeup than he’d ever wanted to and found himself bored at the thought of learning more.

  The door opened and Ovi announced his unexpected guest. “Lord Gret.”

  Tiral entered behind her, looking just as formal as he had at the boat party, but his face was pale and even more drawn. He toyed with his fob in his hand, and when he spotted Zev, his face relaxed into a smile. Shoving the fob into a pocket, Tiral gave a small bow.

  “Devilishly good to see you, Mister Yuls,” he greeted.

  “Of course,” Zev said. He gestured at a seat next to him. “Won’t you sit?”

  Tiral sat in the chair, hands folded in front of him formally and nodded at the servant who brought him coffee. He took a sip, his face losing some of its sickly pallor. Zev waited until Tiral looked up and caught his eyes.

  “I find myself at a bit of a loss,” Zev said. “I was unaware we were meeting this morning.”

  “No, I know it’s bad form, coming unannounced. I’m sorry for the inconvenience,” Tiral said. Looking around, Tiral’s eyes caught on the footman standing against the wall and he seemed to force himself to look back at Zev. “I have a request.”

  “A request?” Zev asked. Zev waved his hand and the footman left, drawing the doors closed behind him.

  “You’ll think it silly. Perhaps I should explain.”

  “It would likely clarify things,” Zev agreed drily.

  “You know my situation regarding money,” Tiral said frankly. He paused and took a sip of the coffee and examined the cup. “Oh, this is quite good.”

  Zev found himself smiling. “Unfortunately, I wouldn’t be able to help you with the money.”