The Earl and the Executive

by Kai Butler

  “So, a short dinner,” Tiral said, bringing them back to the practicalities.

  “And speak of your commonalities. Do research ahead of time, so that you can bring them up naturally,” Zev said. He gestured between the two of them. “I didn’t do much research, but I could have asked about flyers, or your estate’s history. You want to avoid bringing up topics that would close your partner to you.”

  “Money?” Tiral guessed.

  “Money, ex-lovers, politics,” Zev said. “Anything that makes them less intrigued about you.”

  “So I imagine not giving away too much either,” Tiral said. “I must become a man of mystery.”

  “A man of mystery who they feel, after the first encounter, would be a good fit for them. A man of mystery that they could love.” Zev sliced a piece of his steak off and put it in his mouth.

  “It feels very mercenary,” Tiral said, unable to taste his own food. He shook off the feeling and took another bite.

  “Unfortunately, Lord Gret, you are in a mercenary business for the season,” Zev said.

  After a pause, Tiral said, “You called me ‘Tiral’ earlier.”

  Looking over at him, Zev reached and took a slow sip of wine. “I did, no offense taken?”

  “I liked it. You can call me it again,” Tiral said. He thought he saw a surprised expression on Zev’s face and hastened to explain. “I imagine I’d call any potential lover by their given name.”

  Collecting himself quickly, Zev said, “Not at first, no. At first you’d be on titles alone, but then at the end of your first encounter you’d be able to say—”

  “‘Oh, call me Tiral’?” Tiral guessed.

  With a small smile, Zev inclined his head. “Maybe something more intimate like, ‘I think you should call me by first name.’ Make them feel like it’s not something you say often.”

  “But they’ll know, won’t they, that I was only Tiral up until a few weeks ago?” Tiral stabbed at a vegetable and brought it to his mouth.

  “Mayhap,” Zev said. “But they’ll also know that now they get to call Lord Gret by his given name, when everyone else uses his title.”

  Looking at Zev’s dark eyes, which seemed warmer in the candlelight, Tiral said hesitantly, “I think you should call me by my first name.”

  Zev seemed briefly struck and obliged, “Tiral.”

  7

  The meal was good, and dessert allowed him to show Tiral how to share one and make it intimate rather than a fight over portions. When they rose to leave, they were surprised by a commotion in the hallway outside their door. Two gentlemen appeared to be facing off with a waiter and the butler who ran Hart’s. The expression on the servants’ faces was strained politeness, while the gentlemen were grinning, clearly in their cups.

  Upon seeing Zev, the taller of the two gave a shout of recognition.

  “There he is! I told you, Asta, I told you that I saw him come in!” The man nodded at Zev, gripping the door that they’d just exited tightly, as though to help him stay upright. The door swayed inwards, and he stumbled to follow it.

  “Yes, but did we have to try every private dining room to get to him?” the other man said despairingly. He was clearly the more sober of the two and managed a small bow of greeting, stumbling as he lowered his torso. “Mister Yuls.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mister Yuls,” the butler began. He was cut off by a wave from Zev.

  “Lord Deva. Mister Asta,” he said, to each. The two servants moved away, happy to let the gentlemen deal with each other. “May I introduce you to Lord Gret?”

  “Gret! We’re good acquaintances!” Deva said. He grinned and walked over to pump Tiral’s hand. “Mighty good to see you again. I see you did decide to join us at the club. Quite the place, you know.”

  “A pleasure,” Tiral said, his eyes cutting to Zev’s. Zev shrugged and glanced between the two interlopers.

  “Good to see you, Deva,” Zev said. “But we’re finishing up dinner and were planning—”

  “That’s just the thing! Asta, they’re already done with dinner,” Deva said. He tugged at Tiral’s hand. “You’ll be perfect, then we’ll have five. We’re starting a new game and I said to Asta, I said, ‘you know who’d be a plum fourth’ — that was when we thought we’d play with four — ‘Yuls! He cleaned me out last week and I owe him his comeuppance!’ Isn’t that right, Asta?”

  “You said you planned to leave him without a penny in his pockets,” Asta said, his mouth quirked. “I don’t know that he’ll want to play, if he knows that’s your plan.”

  “Oh, no, Yuls is a good sport. Always ready with the blunt, you know.” Deva grinned at them. “Come on, we’ve got Yancy Reg waiting. Can you imagine him sitting down with us?”

  “Unfortunately,” Zev began, his voice more firm. “We were planning to leave—”

  “No, no, no, I insist,” Deva said. “Quick game, this one. New for the season, but everyone is playing it.”

  He grabbed Tiral’s elbow and before Zev could do more than raise an eyebrow, Tiral had been steered down the hallway, looking over his shoulder at Zev helplessly. Zev followed with Asta, his steps quick until Asta shot him an odd look. With a sigh, Zev slowed and offered a wry smile.

  “He’s my guest and I’d hate for his first impression of the place to be soured by being cleaned out by Lord Deva.”

  Accepting this with a nod, Asta said, “I think Deva will forget about what he’s doing soon enough, and then you’ll be able to have the more intimate evening you’d planned.”

  The implication left Zev on uncertain footing. It wasn’t an impossible assumption, given what had looked like an intimate dinner between two men who couldn’t have met before a few days ago. Still, he knew that he had to quash such rumors before they hurt Tiral’s chances or got back to his mother.

  “No, no,” Zev said. “We had some business to discuss, and I’d planned to meet someone afterwards, but I’m sure they’ll understand.”

  “Of course,” Asta said. His smile was friendly as they reached the table where Tiral had been placed. He looked uncomfortable and glanced at Zev, who gave him a small smile.

  Taking his place next to Tiral, he leaned over and whispered, “Think of it as practice in conversation.”

  He didn’t have a chance to say more before the man across from them was introducing himself as Yancy Reg. “Quite a pleasure. Didn’t expect to see Gret here so soon, but I suppose that’s how it works. Shall we start?”

  “ You know Gret?“ Zev was surprised, he’d been under the impression that Gret had no friends.

  “No,“ Reg said. ”Just met him the once. Liked him, though. He’ll get eaten alive this season.“

  “What are we playing?” Zev asked.

  “Conviction,” Deva said, gesturing for one of the footmen. The man arrived with two dice and a round of fresh drinks for the table.

  “I’m afraid I’m caught flat-footed,” Tiral said. “I don’t know that game.”

  “Easy enough,” Deva said. “You roll and then the next roll you bet whether you’re going higher or lower and then if you get it wrong — er, right, you win the pot. Er, no, you split the pot—”

  “You roll the dice and bet on whether your next roll will be higher or lower,” Asta interrupted. “Then everyone else bets on whether you’re right in your bet. If you are, then you split the pot with everyone who bet with you. If you’re wrong, then the pot goes to those who bet against you. You pass the dice on when you’ve gotten a wrong.”

  “Ah,” Tiral said. He glanced at Zev with an assurance in his eyes that made Zev wonder if he’d made a mistake thinking that Tiral looked like a lost lamb at the table.

  The players each got out a sum of money that made Tiral’s shoulders suddenly straighten. Zev, aware of how little money Tiral had to waste on gaming, pulled out enough for two. He waved off Tiral’s protest and said, “I think you forgot your wallet. You can pay me back at the house.”

  The footman provided each player wi
th different chips, and the play began. Reg was up first and lost within five throws. Zev focused on his own betting at first, and when Asta was up next, the man managed to lose within two throws, which seemed at first bad luck, until Zev realized that Tiral had managed to acquire both losing pots.

  He found himself up next and managed to make a good show, getting up to eight wins. Both Asta and Deva were grinning when he rolled, and their faces fell tragically when he lost. The pot was split between Tiral and Reg, and Zev noticed that Reg was eyeing Tiral as he added his winnings to his chips.

  “Your turn,” Zev said, handing the dice to Tiral. Tiral’s palm was warm and dry, and he smiled at Zev, a sly look in his eye.

  The first roll was an eight, and Tiral chose less, winning again. Zev watched as Asta and Deva drank more and seemed to have trouble remembering if they’d bet for or against. By the time that Tiral was up to five wins, they’d settled on cheering his wins, even when it meant that their own stake was dwindling.

  Deva only seemed to notice when he reached for his next buy-in and found that he was out of funds. He pulled out another roll of cash and bought more chips.

  “Gret has to lose sometime,” he said, squinting at the sizable pile of chips in front of Tiral.

  “Well, someone has to,” Asta said, but he began betting with Tiral, until his own nerve failed and he bet against, losing enough that he unhappily gestured for a new drink.

  It was on the fifteenth win that Tiral glanced at Zev, and his grin made him seem somehow aware of the sudden strain at the table. He lost.

  They played several rounds, and each time the dice got to Tiral, Reg began to pay much more attention. Zev, noticing that, followed suit, watching Tiral with narrowed eyes to see which way he was going to bet. Asta seemed to catch on eventually, but unlike Reg, he only bet with Tiral some of the time. Eventually, after three or four wins, he’d shake his head and bet against.

  Zev watched as Deva pulled out another wad of bills and got another pile of money. He took his drinks quickly and if he noticed that almost all of his money had been transferred to Tiral, he didn’t seem to care much, only muttering about how his father was going to give him a good scolding for wasting all of his allowance already. At the comment, Zev saw Asta’s mouth tighten, but the other man kept his own counsel on the matter.

  Tiral himself seemed engrossed in the dice, muttering only a few pleasantries when prompted by Zev. Eventually, Zev leaned over and whispered into his ear that this would be the perfect opportunity to practice on people who he wasn’t about to actually court.

  Coloring, Tiral said, “How’s your wife doing, Reg?”

  “Beria? Fine, fine. Think she was off to a card party of her own tonight. Tell you it’s a small soiree, but come home completely fleeced or with enough blunt for two seasons. Wives,” Reg said, with no apparent awareness that, had she been present at that moment, the lady could have said husbands in the same tone with far more justification. He rolled the dice and lost.

  The dice were passed, with a somewhat relieved sigh, to Asta, who won for a few hands until he lost and threw up his hands. “Ah, well, we can’t all have Gret’s luck. Good show, old man.”

  Tiral nodded as the round continued. Deva was running low on funds again, and when he ran out, sighed and said, “Don’t suppose they’ll lend me a line of credit.”

  The rest of the table chuckled awkwardly, and Zev said, “I’m afraid that’s all we have time for this evening, anyway.”

  The footman appeared as though by magic and quickly exchanged their chips for the correct bills. There was a moment of formal goodbyes, and then Deva was helping Asta into a parlor for more drinking while Reg headed out.

  Alone at last, Zev turned to Tiral and offered him a sly smile. “Well, Lord Gret. How do you feel about a walk before we get home? We can finish discussing our business.”

  Tiral blushed, his whole face going hot, and he exploded with apologies.

  “I’m so sorry, I should have warned your friends—”

  “That you’re a regular Captain Sharp?” Zev laughed. “I didn’t know you had it in you! You said you’d never played before!”

  “Well, I hadn’t known it by that name,” Tiral said, awkwardly. “At university, we just call it ‘Rontemi’s damn thesis.’”

  “What?” Zev asked, still grinning. They were walking along one of the tree-lined streets and Zev nodded at a passerby, but his eyes were caught on Tiral’s and Tiral felt as though he couldn’t look away.

  “Well, Rontemi designed the game for his graduate thesis. And it caught on a bit at faculty parties. We actually have to play a harder version now, because the two-dice version got a little… stale with so many math professors around,” Tiral found himself overexplaining.

  “It seems a bit easy for a mathematics thesis,” Zev said. “Isn’t it mostly probability?”

  “Yes, but that’s the thing, it wasn’t actually a math thesis. Rontemi’s a psychologist, a very clever one, too. He wanted to see how long before the average person acted against their own self-interest,” Tiral said. He gestured with his hands. “The math is easy enough, which is why we had to start using multiple decks of cards, instead of dice.”

  Zev made an agreeing noise, but then frowned, saying, “I’m not sure I follow.”

  “With two dice, the probability is fairly easy to determine. Anything higher than 7, you’re more likely to get a lower number, anything lower than seven and you’re more likely to get something higher. However, Rontemi wanted to know, if someone has a string of good calls, how long before the other people at the table bet against them, even if they know that the probability is in their favor.” Tiral tried to explain, but he knew that it sounded convoluted.

  When he glanced over, Zev was looking at him with a smile in his eyes and there was nothing in his face that said he was mocking Tiral. Instead, it was as though Tiral were the most important person on the planet. Tiral wished he had his tablet so he could capture that expression, write down make them feel important no matter what they’re babbling about. Instead, he quirked a small smile and continued.

  “He found that even if you know the person is statistically right, you’ll bet against them after five or six good rolls,” Tiral said. “In fact some people bet against themselves if they have five or six good rolls.”

  “So you’re betting for or against the player, and not what you think the dice are going to do next,” Zev said, tapping his chin with one crooked finger. “Very clever.”

  “He is,” Tiral said. “I’ll have to message him and let him know that his game is being played at the clubs on Lus. I think he’d just want me to collect data, though.”

  Zev glanced at him and grinned. “That would be one way to avoid talking to anyone ever again,” he said.

  “Was it so obvious?” Tiral asked, tapping his fingers against the waistband of his pants.

  “Well, I think you grunted once when Reg asked you if you’d like another drink,” Zev said. “So perhaps no one noticed.”

  Groaning, Tiral said, “At least you said that neither one would be suitable?”

  “Well, Reg is married,” Zev said. “Asta is head over heels for Deva, and Deva is entirely at his father’s mercy when it comes to money. And he’s already titled, so I doubt his father would pay out for an Earldom.”

  “Well, at least the only poor impression I made was that I am too much of a gambler,” Tiral said. “I could have done worse.”

  “You could have done much worse,” Zev said, his grin showing amusement. “Although I do think it’s telling that you’d prefer to collect data than talk to anyone.”

  Tiral smiled and said, “Well, you’ve discovered the one game I’m good at. The tragedy is that they’ll tell everyone I’m a sharp, when the reality is I’m a complete flat.”

  “Really?” Zev asked.

  “Truly,” Tiral said. “I couldn’t even play any of the garden games at that horrendous party I went to.”

  “Not e
ven turnball?” Zev asked, a smile still on his face. “I have yet to meet a boy who didn’t practice throwing rocks at a sister in the name of practicing his pitch.”

  “In all honesty, Edah would have been the one throwing rocks at me,” Tiral said. “Were you very good at it?”

  Zev nodded his head, but slightly, as though unwilling to acknowledge exactly how good he must have been. They were passing a line of fruit trees that guarded a house against curious pedestrians, and Tiral bent to pick up one of the round, sweet fruits. He was sure that they only grew on Lus; he knew that some mothers would claim they must come for the season to taste the fruit, for their health.

  Tossing the makeshift ball to Zev, he said, “Show me. I know it’s no rock, but I’m eager to see how you perform.”

  Shaking his head, Zev stopped walking and pointed at a lamppost some ways off. Tiral nodded, unable to believe that anyone could hit such a slender target at such a long distance in the dark. Winding back his arm, Zev threw the fruit, and they both watched as it arced, curved, and squarely hit the post with a messy squelch.

  “Well,” Tiral said. “That was impressive.”

  “My brother and I used to play every day after school,” Zev said. “We developed a way of pitching that I thought might take us far. Maybe even to professional play.”

  “What happened?” Tiral asked.

  A nostalgic smile crossed Zev’s face. “My father died, and I had to step up to take on more work. It was difficult, at first. I worked so much. N— My brother used to try and take me out playing, but it seemed so childish. It had always been such a dream, playing turnball.”

  “I’m sure you would have been a popular player,” Tiral said quietly, unwilling to break the mood.

  “It was merely a dream,” Zev said. He shook his head again. “And now here I am.”

  “I shall call on you if I ever need my own sharp for a game of turnball,” Tiral said.