by Kai Butler
“Ah, yes, the cutthroat turnball games of garden parties,” Zev said.
“You laugh, but I saw a Miss Ecre slide into a defending player, cleats first, and she practically maimed the poor man.” Tiral fought to keep the grin off his face, watching as Zev turned to him, golden eyes sparkling in amused faux-horror.
“Oh, no, did she?”
“No,” Tiral said. “The man managed to side step her and tag her out at the same time. It was quite the call. They had to take it to an official royal judge who was attending the party, and even he couldn’t agree, so it was sent to a higher court.”
“And?”
“Well, they declared it illegal, but then Miss Ecre appealed it, and it is still under litigation.” Tiral shrugged. “We may never know who won that game.”
“Such excitement on Somnu,” Zev said. “Much more than our backyard games ever had.”
“Well, sadly that’s what happens when ladies and gentlemen drink too much lemonade,” Tiral said. “It brings out the absolute worst in them.”
Zev laughed genuinely, and Tiral grinned at himself, proud to have at least drawn that from the evening. He might consider himself a success if he could make Zev laugh like that on every date. It sounded real, as though Zev had let himself have one feeling that wasn’t carefully practiced beforehand.
Shaking away the unkind thought, Tiral realized that they’d walked some distance from the club. “Should we go back?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” Zev said. “Your butler will never let you out with me again if I cause you another sleepless night.”
“He is rather overprotective,” Tiral said. “I believe that he’d rather act as bodyguard than butler, some days.”
“I have a few servants like that,” Zev agreed. “But I find the trick is to be as boring as possible and then they’re forced to believe you when you say you’ll be safe.”
“I bow to your expertise,” Tiral said, grinning. They continued the rest of the way in companionable silence.
8
The remainder of the evening passed amiably. When Zev dropped him off at home, he acknowledged that Tiral was not entirely a lost cause.
Potential was the word he'd used, and Tiral felt his cheeks warm again when he thought about the compliment two days later.
Zev had been generous with his knowledge and Tiral could see why people fell for his charms. Tiral knew he was half-taken with Zev himself, even though he knew that Zev was only playing. He imagined how it would be if he weren’t armed with the knowledge that Zev seduced people professionally. He would not have stood a chance, not against that beauty, not against that undivided attention.
Now, waiting for any indication that Zev hadn’t forgotten him, Tiral admitted to himself that he was growing anxious. He wanted to ask Zev when they could have their next lesson but every time he tried to compose a message, he found himself deleting any attempt. It all sounded too awkward, too forward. He’d have to ask Zev how to compose a casual request for company.
He’d just settled into an armchair, the latest numbers from the estate in his hand, when Masub entered. At Tiral’s curious look, Masub said, “Mister Yuls is here, sir.”
Zev entered a moment later and was wearing a suit that even Tiral, with his mind still mostly on estate business, could tell was fashionable. The right color, the right fabric— he looked like he’d stepped out of a magazine. His lips twisted up into a private smile when he saw Tiral’s state.
“Zev,” Tiral said, breaking into a grin.
“Tiral,” Zev greeted. “So sorry to interrupt your morning.”
Setting aside the tablet, Tiral admitted, “It’s a welcome distraction. They keep sending me updates, but Edah — she’s my sister — is the one who makes all the decisions. She knows best how to cut expenses as close to the bone as she can.”
“Isn’t she the one who ran it into dun territory in the first place?” Zev asked, his eyes narrowed.
Surprised, Tiral said, “Oh, no, not at all. She’s a crack manager, I gather. At university she learned enough to bring the whole estate into the current century. I was actually hoping to introduce her to Lady Socis.”
The expression on Zev’s face was a surprising one. Where he was usually open and with an easy grin, his expression now was closed off, as though he was about to tell Tiral some bad news. He looked like someone used to making hard decisions and who had a decision now that he was unhappy making.
“I’m sure your sister is lovely, but, graduate or not, someone steered you towards the rocks,” Zev said. He waited then, cold again, like he was expecting an answer from an underling. Tiral hadn’t felt that small since his days as an undergraduate working in a professor’s lab.
“Oh, I didn’t tell you,” Tiral said. He looked down and then took out a cloth to polish the screen of his tablet. “My brother —”
Tiral swallowed. Being underwater wasn’t the worst shame of it, and he hadn’t realized until now how little he wanted to smear his brother’s name even in death. It would look cheap to most, a jealous younger brother trying to make himself seem the better earl when it was clear to all that he was the lesser.
“My brother took out some ill-advised loans against the estate,” Tiral said finally. “Edah said the estate was making quite a bit, so I imagine that’s how he was able to take out so much.”
He couldn’t force himself to say more, instead rubbing away at the last fingerprint before looking up at Zev, who was still silent. The frost, at least, had faded from his face, and he looked less statuesque, less like he’d been carved from marble to judge every last Oican.
“Have you talked to the banks?” Zev asked, settling in the chair across from Tiral. He caught Tiral’s eyes and offered a smile, as though making a small apology. His whole demeanor seemed caught between the icy prince and the flirty demimondaine. Tiral watched him shift more towards the latter, his limbs relaxing, his eyes seeming to unfurl an invitation to confide.
Tiral couldn’t tell which of the two was the real Zev, and he worried for a moment that it was the former, that he was being even more of a fool than he’d assumed. But when Zev offered him a concerned look at his silence, he shook off the feeling. He was no more a fool to fall for the façade than he was to fall when he knew that Zev was only helping him for his own reasons — the money Tiral had offered or some longer game outside of Tiral’s ken.
“The first thing I had my man do,” Tiral said finally. “They won’t change anything about the loans, and since my brother gave the money straight off to someone else, we really have no idea who to… shake down, I suppose.”
“It must be quite a sum,” Zev said, “if they won’t even extend the loan.”
“To the hilt,” Tiral said, a morose feeling threatening to engulf him. He glanced at the tablet again and sighed.
“Well,” Zev said. He gestured to the whole room. “Let’s stop all this talk of money.”
“As one shouldn’t talk of it?” Tiral said, his mouth twisting into a wry grin.
“At least not until the proposal has been accepted and one is discussing it with lawyers,” Zev said. “If you do need to allude to it, you have to make it sound polite and casual. ‘I’m short on funds.’ ‘The whole business has me a little let out.’”
“Vague enough,” Tiral said. “One might even assume it temporary.”
“As you are a bit under the hatches, I thought I might take you out to make sure that it isn’t quite so obvious.” Zev gestured with his hand and seemed to encompass Tiral’s outfit, hair, and whole self.
“But you can’t,” Tiral protested. “I’m on such a limited allowance, I don’t really have the blunt. I could afford someone tailoring what I already have, but anything new is beyond me.”
“No, you don’t understand. I’m purchasing new clothes for you, whether you want to or I need to drag you to the tailor like a mulish child.” Zev stood and waited for Tiral to stand out of politeness, then led the both of them out the door.
�
�I can’t let you do that,” Tiral said, as he collected his hat and coat from a footman. He found himself a step behind Zev as he started out the door to a fashionable car held open by a driver.
“Think nothing of it,” Zev said. He smiled at Tiral, but there was something more mercenary behind it than Tiral liked. “You can pay me back when the estate has enough funds. Make it the profits of two harvests.”
Frowning, Tiral didn’t let himself be led into the playful tone Zev was using. “I will. I’ll keep an accounting of every penny I owe you and pay you back.”
Zev glanced at him, surprised, and offered him a gentler smile. He exhaled through his nose and said, “I don’t mean to hurt your pride.”
“It’s not that,” Tiral said. “You’re helping me and giving me so much. I don’t want to take more from you than I should.”
“Think of it as an investment on my part,” Zev said. “You can’t land a rich spouse if you look as though your mother still dresses you.”
“Sadly, my mother is much more fashionable than this,” Tiral said. He looked down at himself and fingered the dark grey morning suit unhappily. “She’s all the crack at home.”
“On Gret,” Zev said. “Which is in what system again?”
“Well, if you’re going to be snobbish about it,” Tiral said genially. “She still is quite of the first rank in fashion. Apparently wooed my father with the cut of her dress.”
“And he married her for how she wore her shoes?” Zev’s grin was contagious and Tiral found himself echoing it.
“How she pinned her hair,” Tiral corrected. “It was quite the rage when she had her first season.”
“Either way, you should strive to be her son and not shame her sartorial legacy,” Zev said. They pulled up outside a rather nondescript building that Tiral could only assume was for discreet lawyers, doctors, and tailors.
He stepped out when the driver opened the door and looked around as Zev spoke to the man softly. With a small flourish, Zev offered his arm and Tiral took it. His palm curled around Zev’s elbow, fingers resting lightly on the smooth fabric. He was aware now of how close they stood, could smell the scents of Zev’s hair and aftershave, a luxurious combination that gave him an unseemly desire to dig his nose into the short hairs at the back of Zev’s neck.
He quashed it, realizing that Zev was only being polite, and probably teaching him how to make someone want to touch him more, and here Tiral was lusting after him. It was the sort of thing school chums did, linking arms, and he was making it more than that. He allowed himself to be led into a storefront without any shingle out front.
Inside, he found bolts of richly colored cloth organized in a way he couldn’t understand. Zev looked around and seemed satisfied at the array of fabrics, the colors on display. He clearly saw something that Tiral didn’t, and when Tiral raised an eyebrow in question, Zev shook his head.
“In good time,” he murmured. “We should finish your romantic education first, no?”
“And if a potential partner asks me about my sartorial choices?” Tiral asked.
“You’ll just have to tell them that you went to Ciro’s and let him make all the decisions,” Zev said. “Which will be true.”
“Mister Yuls!” Someone said, coming in from the back. He was taller than Zev and aged in a gentle, attractive way, with white hair and laugh lines. Trailing behind him were two assistants who were dressed nearly the same in black pants and waistcoats, a uniform that made them seem a matched set.
“Ciro,” Zev greeted the man with a nod. “I’m in need of a new wardrobe.”
Frowning, Ciro looked Zev up and down, his eyes catching on invisible aspects of his jacket and breeches that Tiral couldn’t see.
“I’m sorry this doesn’t meet your expectations!” he said. “I stand by the work, but for a man of your tastes—”
“Oh, no,” Zev said. “I’m perfectly satisfied with your work. However, my friend here is from Gret, and he came with a wardrobe like this.”
Gesturing at Tiral’s outfit, he made a face expressing unhappiness with the fit, color, and style. The face that Ciro made echoed Zev’s own, and they had a brief conversation that Tiral tried to follow before he lost track of it.
“He’s quite fit,” Ciro observed. “Perhaps something in the royal style? Lots of pockets, these days.”
“Not too many,” Zev said. “You want to accent his best features, so something that’s fitted in the flanks, with an accent in the jacket.”
Tiral came back to the conversation when Zev touched his arm. It felt like an electrical current was discharged. Zev’s eyes, golden and warm, met his and then looked over to Ciro.
“He’s ready for your measurements,” Zev said.
Tiral nodded and stepped forward. He let the assistants strip him of his jacket and waistcoat, their hands quick and efficient. When they started on his shirt, he glanced at Zev, who was looking over bolts of fabric that Ciro had pulled off the walls. He didn’t seem to be paying attention and Tiral forced himself to relax as his shirt was pulled up over his head.
Zev could see movement out of the corner of his eye, but it wasn’t until he turned that he realized that of course Ciro would want full measurements. He didn’t have a model of Tiral yet, one which only needed a few discreet alterations each season, letting out the waist a bit or narrowing the arms. He would want Tiral as close to undressed as Tiral would allow.
Tiral stood with his back to Zev, and Zev caught a flash of his golden skin, the honey color showing which part of the galaxy he hailed from as clearly as a birth certificate. His brown hair looked even darker in the shop’s discreet lighting. In the mirror Zev caught a slight flush across Tiral’s cheeks, and then the assistants were unbuttoning the fall of his pants and Zev looked back to where Ciro was offering an array of options.
“One of everything,” he said, eyes not quite seeing what Ciro had laid out. “And at least one black suit to get him used to the idea.”
Ciro’s eyebrows shot up, but he didn’t say anything other than a quiet, “Of course, sir.”
He pulled out an analog tape measure and went to the pedestal where Tiral stood. Gesturing with his free hand, the assistants quickly divested Tiral of the robe they’d used to cover him. Shaking off the feeling of invading Tiral’s privacy, Zev turned to look.
They’d allowed him to keep his drawers on, but that only served to accent his muscled legs, dark hair dusting his shins. His back was straight as a soldier’s, though the expression in the mirror showed how awkward he felt. Tiral dipped his chin, glanced at Zev out of the corner of his eye, and turned back just as quickly, biting his lip and releasing it.
Zev realized his mouth was watering as he imagined biting that lip himself, teeth digging into the soft flesh. His eyes trailed down to Tiral’s narrow waist and the curve of his ass. Tiral shivered as Ciro measured from his waist to under his arm.
Ciro spoke softly and Tiral raised his arms, holding them out, and Zev could see the lean muscle in his shoulders and arms. Zev could think of no reason why Tiral would need that body in the classroom, but had a feeling that when he was in shirtsleeves, working on an engine, he must have an audience that he probably wasn’t even aware of. Tiral looked in the mirror and caught Zev’s eyes, his own wide and clearly shoving down panic.
Zev offered a friendly smile, trying as hard as he could to make sure it didn’t look too lecherous. He nodded his head encouragingly and forced himself to speak. “Good show, old man. You’ll make quite the hit once Ciro has some clothes that show off this body you’ve been hiding from the rest of us.”
“Nothing too scandalous?” Tiral asked, his voice gone worried.
“Never, my lord,” Ciro said. “Proper enough to get you vouchers to the Empress’s own balls.”
“I think that’s a bit beyond me,” Tiral demurred. He relaxed a bit as Ciro moved around him, taking more measurements.
“A peer of the realm?” Zev asked. “Surely not. Your mother might eve
n have some already.”
“She might,” Tiral said. He gave Zev an uncertain smile. “That would mean telling her I’m planning to go, though.”
“Were you trying to keep your husband-hunting a secret?” Zev asked, accepting a cup of tea from one of the assistants. Plain, no sugar — he was glad that Ciro had remembered.
“I was hoping to keep her off-planet long enough that I could make a go of it without—”
“Affectionate motherly meddling?” Zev guessed when Tiral didn’t finish that thought.
“Well, all of her acquaintances are so old,” Tiral said. “Which means their children are older than me.”
The expression on his face made Zev grin into his cup and he affected his own serious demeanor. “And you’d prefer a spouse your own age, rather than a decrepit senior you’d need to help to the toilet?”
“It’s not as bad as that,” Tiral said. “I’d merely have to help them find their glasses all the time, or make sure that they were getting enough fiber.”
“I’m sure you’ve just broken the hearts of a number of middle-aged suitors,” Zev said.
Ciro nodded to his assistants, and they rushed to help Tiral back into his robe, guiding him to a chair near Zev’s. Consulting the numbers one of them had written down on a tablet, Ciro said, “It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes to have at least one outfit ready. Will you wait?”
“Yes,” Zev said, before Tiral could object.
Nodding, Ciro moved into the back again, drawing curtains closed behind him. Tiral accepted the tea offered by the assistant left behind. He put two cubes of sugar in and stirred it slowly.
“You don’t have to wait with me,” Tiral said finally. “If you have more pressing business.”
“Today, I’ve liberated the whole morning and most of the afternoon,” Zev said. “I wasn’t sure how long it would take to shake you of your attempt at style. You know, for someone who wants to marry his own age, you dress more like the bachelors you don’t want to marry.”
“Something I’m sure will be remedied soon,” Tiral said. “You don’t have other… work? I wouldn’t want to keep you from your clients.”