by Kai Butler
“Doesn’t this feel a little intrusive?” Tiral asked.
“I don’t think anyone assumes that they won’t be overheard at a ball,” Zev said. “It’s assumed it’ll be public.”
“If you’re sure,” Tiral said. “Knowing I’m listening won’t make it harder for you?”
Laughing, Zev said, “Give me more credit, my lord. Perhaps I will perform better, knowing that I have an audience.”
The words had the edge of teasing, but Tiral felt his face heat as he had an image of Zev performing with an audience. The image of Zev kissing someone else, knowing that Tiral was watching, made Tiral shiver, and with his hand still cupped in Zev’s palm, he knew that Zev felt it.
“Have I hit upon something?” Zev asked, his words a low rumble.
Tiral pulled his hand from Zev’s and offered a weak smile. He tucked the receiver in his ear and murmured. “With a promise like that, you’ll have to…. err, perform to your best abilities.”
“Such confidence,” Zev said.
“I have all the confidence in the world, after all it is your profession is it not?” Tiral asked, the words clunky and awkward in his mouth. Zev frowned and looked about to say something. “How rude of me. Ignore my nervousness, it affects my humor.”
Still frowning at the weak explanation, Zev said, “I won’t hold it against you, but you must be prepared to pay attention.”
“Will there be a quiz?” Tiral asked.
“A practical examination,” Zev chided lightly. “You’ll have to talk to someone yourself, without my help, and find something other than your own awkwardness to speak about.”
“But my awkwardness is my best conversational gambit!” Tiral said, eyes widening in mock horror. “What else can I talk about? I’ll fall mute from a lack of topics.”
“I’m sure that when you’re tested, you will find your mettle,” Zev said, his grin returning.
“I will endeavor not to embarrass you,” Tiral said. “At least masked, I won’t be a poor advertisement for your teaching abilities.”
“Of that, I am sure,” Zev murmured. “Now, we are approaching the tardiness expected of masquerades; any more and everyone will be too far in their cups to make good sport.”
Following Zev out, Tiral found himself hoping that that was the case.
The ball was the sort of event that Tiral had only experienced once or twice, when his parents had dragged him to Lus for his own first season. The ballroom was massive, crowded, and expertly decorated, with careful lighting that allowed for just enough dark corners to be intriguing without inviting scandal.
When he’d just come out, he’d been less awed by the event, likely because he knew his own role as the younger son and the pressure was only that he manage to comport himself appropriately.
Now, with so much more at stake, he felt the domino mask too revealing, his eyes and mouth too obvious. Someone was going to take him immediately for the new Earl of Gret and then the whole evening would be a wash. Zev must have sensed his nerves, for he stood him in the back of the room in an alcove shadowed by large pillars. He brushed a hand over Tiral’s shoulder.
“You should be able to see everything from here. Stay and when I’m done, I’ll come and find you,” he said.
Then he was gone and Tiral felt the loss intensely. The idea of sharing Zev’s affections, even temporarily, made Tiral feel nauseated, like he was at sea for the first time.
Watching Zev quickly weave through the ballroom, Tiral could tell that Zev was looking for a specific characteristic in the sea of potential partners. Tiral couldn’t tell what it was; he’d have to ask Zev later. He only knew that Zev found it by how his pace slowed and his body seemed to become even more visible than usual. It was as though he’d put a spotlight on himself, and no one could look away from him.
His quarry turned almost immediately, eyes flashing behind his own mask. He smiled automatically and Zev spoke first.
“It’s good to see you,” he said, low enough that the man leaned forward automatically to hear him.
“Have we met?” the man asked. “With the mask, I can’t see your face.”
“I don’t believe so, but your presence makes this whole venture worth the effort and discomfort of the disguise,” Zev said, moving nearer. The man automatically mirrored him so that they were standing close enough that any casual observer would have thought them intimate acquaintances.
“A tragedy that I haven’t known you before now,” the man said. “May I have your name?”
Tsking, Zev said, “But then we’d lose the sport of our acquaintance. Right now, I might believe you anyone— prince, pauper, lover. To give names, we’d lose the benefit of wearing our masks.”
“Might I call you lover?” the man asked, biting his lip, as though suddenly aware of his own forwardness. He seemed to struggle to get back to the playfulness that Zev maintained so easily. “That is— I— If you think —“
“You might call me Norel,” Zev said, naming the famed fictional lover. “Although I find my own taste tends less towards his quantity and more towards the quality of my paramours.”
The entire situation made acid roil in Tiral’s stomach. Where the imaginary image of Zev showing off for him had been blazingly attractive, the reality of it— watching him turn someone so easily into a foolish idiot already half in love with him — now made him wish to be anywhere else. Even enduring a conversation himself would be better than realizing he was a worse fool than that man, ready to take anything Zev would give him.
He was jealous. It was a stark and unhappy realization. He wanted the man he couldn’t have, the man whose job was to make people fall in love with him so that they gave him what he wanted. And more fool him, he wanted Zev knowing and accepting the kind of man he was.
Tiral forced himself to return his focus to the conversation. They’d seemed to move past the flirtation and hint of sexuality that Zev made a natural part of any discussion.
“You must agree that this season’s parties are far superior,” Zev was saying.
“Of course, but the ones of old, where one was forced to walk, or even take a carriage drawn by horses were something,” the man said. “There is a certain romanticism in it, sharing a stroll with an intimate.”
“No, you’ll not convince me that when they lifted the ban on flyers and modern amenities, we lost anything more than sore feet,” Zev said. “On that, I’m sure.”
“Oh, you think?” The man seemed unable to tell that Zev was teasing and his tone made him sound desperate to keep Zev’s attention, as though he believed that if they disagreed, Zev would leave him.
Tiral could tell that was exactly what Zev was preparing to do. It was something in his body, the angle of his shoulders, the way he was carefully not looking towards Tiral. He was getting ready to leave. It had been half an hour, if that, and already this man would have said anything to keep Zev’s attention while Zev was clearly able to move on without even a second thought.
“Maybe you’re right,” Zev said dismissively, and smiled, but it was a superficial thing that Tiral instantly recognized as fake. “We’ll have to discuss it more the next time we see each other.”
He executed a short, informal bow and then swept away, disappearing into the crowd easily. Tiral kept his eyes on Zev as he made his way back to the alcove, more slowly this time, less obtrusively. It gave Tiral a moment to collect himself.
The conversation with the new Lord of Blint had been fine. It had gone as Zev expected: he’d been able to charm the man quickly enough, but he’d realized halfway through that he was utterly bored. It was like taking a test when the answers were written in the margins. Effective, fast, but without the hint of challenge that made things entertaining.
He took a moment to glance at Tiral, to get his bearings in the crowd, and then continued his path. The ballroom had filled in the few minutes that he'd been speaking with Blint, and he had to press a few elbows to get by. As he got closer to Tiral he could sense t
he crowd turned towards the alcove.
Even shadowed by the columns, Tiral seemed to glow. Zev had been right to suggest the gold suit; it gave Tiral a rather otherworldly appearance, the color accenting his skin tone and drawing the eye. Those around him were trying to discover, without any subtlety, who the enchanting young buck was.
As though aware of the scrutiny, Tiral moved back into the shadows, trying for anonymity. Beneath his mask, Zev could see his mouth pressed in a line, his shoulders straightened as though awaiting a firing squad. Anyone else probably would have assumed he was taking a break after dancing, but Zev knew that expression intimately. Tiral looked like he was overwhelmed, and mortified to be so.
Zev stepped into the alcove and silently guided Tiral away from the prying eyes. They stepped out onto a nearby balcony, the rush of chilly air refreshing after the heat of the ballroom.
“Well?” Zev asked, playfully.
Tiral smiled reflexively and tilted his head quizzically. It only made him appear younger, more innocent. Zev had no idea how the young earl was still single.
“My performance,” he explained, drawing the word out to make Tiral blush. “Did it live up to expectations?”
He was surprised to see Tiral’s eyes shutter, like he was tamping down a feeling he didn’t want to display. After a moment, he pushed up his mask so that his face was visible. There were soft red lines where the mask had dug into his skin and he looked debauched, lips plump from where he’d bitten them, color still high.
“I don’t think I could manage that, what you did,” Tiral said. “I’d sound ridiculous.”
“You wouldn’t,” Zev said without hesitating, but he couldn’t picture Tiral saying anything as wanton as what he'd come up with in his boredom. He’d only continued because he’d known that Tiral was listening and learning.
Truth was, none of his options that evening had been interesting. He’d been able to recognize some faces, and others were well-masked, but all of them had felt tedious as soon as he’d laid eyes on them.
Blint had been his best option. When he’d seen him, the spark in his eyes and the color of his hair had reminded Zev of Tiral, but that had faded as soon as he opened his mouth. He had none of Tiral’s wit, his ability to take a joke as far as it would go. Up close, the physical resemblance fell apart even more when Zev saw stooped shoulders and an uncertain stance. For all that he likely spent most of his time bent over a tablet or a desk, Tiral moved like he’d spent his whole life outdoors — confident, straight-backed, and graceful.
He watched Tiral as he leaned over the balustrade, left hand gripping his mask, right hand scrubbing in his hair, making a mess of it. Zev stepped forward before he could think the better of it and straightened Tiral’s hair, arranging it back to a slightly more presentable coif.
Tiral’s eyes were wide in the dark, and his mouth hung open slightly. Zev wanted nothing more than to press a kiss to his lips. He took a step back instead. Ridiculous.
He wasn’t about to ruin Tiral’s chances or support some fantasy that Tiral might be the one to convince him to toss the handkerchief. This was nothing more than setting: a gorgeous Lus night, a beautiful partner, a dark balcony. Even if it was more, Tiral needed marriage, not a few days in Zev’s bed. Which was, Zev told himself, all he was willing to offer the earl.
“You don’t need anything more than confidence,” Zev murmured. “Compliment their appearance. Ask about their dance card. I imagine that you can think of any number of neutral topics we’ve covered in the past few days to start a conversation.”
“But with you, it’s easy,” Tiral said, shaking his head. His eyes were hooded as though he was talking about more than ballroom flirtations.
Zev forced himself to be casual. Tiral must feel the same pull he did. He’d seen Tiral’s eyes linger. But it wasn’t fair to either of them.
“Oh, you can make it easy with anyone. I’m sure you’ll make a stunning debut when you’re ready,” Zev said. He adjusted his mask and took the one Tiral still held out of now lax fingers. He fastened it, ignoring the heat of Tiral’s skin, the scent of his aftershave.
“Now go, find someone standing by themselves, and make conversation,” Zev directed.
“Who?” Tiral asked plaintively.
“You’ll know,” Zev said, projecting confidence he didn’t feel.
He reached up to Tiral’s collar and fastened a small microphone where it wouldn’t be visible. Tiral watched him put a receiver into his ear.
With a heaving sigh, Tiral looked at him. “I know that I have asked for this tutelage, but I cannot help but feel poorly used. I feel as though you are sending me out into uncharted waters when I’ve barely learned to swim.”
Zev smiled at Tiral’s teasing and said, “You wound me. I have taught you the strokes, but at some point you must attempt to swim on your own. And with this you are safe.”
He raised his fingers to the mask now covering Tiral’s face, watching as Tiral’s eyes caught his. It was true that someone who was familiar with him would make him from his dark eyes, the cut of his hair, but it was customary at masquerades like this to ignore what one knew and engage in the play of pretending anonymity. Although, Zev imagined that after seeing Tiral looking so delectable, most would try to find out who was behind his mask.
Nodding, Tiral headed back into the ballroom, and Zev trailed behind, taking Tiral’s hideout in the alcove. Tiral moved through the crush uncertainly, and Zev knew that if he was to have any luck in the future he’d need a specific person he was meant to woo. As it was, he moved left, then right, as though lost.
Zev sighed, and then spoke into the microphone he still had on his own collar. “To your left, near the edge of the room. There’s a young man in a bird mask.”
Jerking, Tiral began to turn towards Zev, but seemed to think better of it. He headed left and soon found the man that Zev had pointed out. The young man looked just as awkward as Tiral, shifting uncomfortably and subtly trying to lean on the wall for support. As Tiral approached, his eyes widened and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed.
“Can’t see much of anything, between the crush and the masks,” Tiral said, settling next to the man with the bird mask. “Although you look like you’re having a worse time of it than me. First time here?”
“Is it that clear?” the bird mask asked. “My sister’s unwed, you see. At thirty. I’m not supposed to be out until she’s settled, but she’s getting positively ancient so mother made an exception this year.”
“Ah, yes,” Tiral said. “The anxiety of the younger sibling. I imagine that your sister will be pleased to know that someone in her family is concerned with her aging chances.”
“Well, she is getting older,” the bird said, but he clearly seemed chastened by the mild critique. “And I’m at school, so this is my one chance a year to experience all this — balls and such.”
“But you’re finding it more overwhelming than your fantasies?” Tiral asked, his lips quirking. The young man stared. Zev knew why. Tiral, hair still ruffled, clad in gold like a god from myths, with that teasing smile, would make anyone want to keep his company. The other man was clearly trying to figure out what he’d done to deserve that smile in the first place.
“Yes,” he said finally. “It’s all more than I expected.”
“I’m sure that you’ll adjust in no time,” Tiral said. “You seem the… adaptable sort.”
Zev knew where Tiral had acquired that pause, the ability to turn a simple word into a double entendre with the speed at which it was said. He smiled himself, proud to see how the other young man blushed and preened at the implication.
“I can be,” the bird said hastily. “Adaptable.”
“What are you studying?” Tiral asked, unsure or unwilling how to continue along that flirtatious line.
“Literature,” the bird said, excited. “Early Empire stuff.”
“Ah,” Tiral said, and with that mild comment it was clear that he had lost any intere
st in the man. “Sounds fascinating.”
“Alright, alright,” Zev said, chuckling. “I won’t make you suffer through a recitation of Routi’s Seven Precepts. Come back.”
“Hopefully we’re able to see each other again, without masks,” Tiral said, interrupting the man’s digression into the quality of early Empire literature research. He nodded at the man, not quite a bow, and moved back towards Zev.
Someone caught his elbow and he turned, dislodging the hand. It was a man in a black mask, his hair slicked back to create the appearance of a carrion eater. The vulture smiled, raising both hands.
“Sorry to startle you, my lord,” he said. His accent was familiar, but Tiral couldn’t place his voice.
“Are we acquainted?” Tiral asked. In his ear, Zev was silent.
“I knew your brother. Terrible tragedy,” the vulture said.
“Yes, thank you,” Tiral said, by rote. He tried to back away, but the man stepped forward, invading Tiral’s space.
“I’m sure he left so many things behind, what with his sudden death,” the stranger said. He moved as though to reach for Tiral again. “He’d borrowed some recordings from me. It would mean the world if I could have them back.”
“I’ve no idea about that,” Tiral said. “If you’ll excuse me.”
He moved back again and the crowd pressed him forward and the man was reaching, but then Zev was there, linking their arms and slurring his speech as though drunk.
“There you are, old chap,” Zev said. “Looking all over for you. We should leave, dreadful bore. Who’s this?”
The vulture shrank slightly under Zev’s exuberant greeting. He opened his mouth again, but Zev was reaching for the stranger’s mask and saying, “Odd sort of design, makes you look like an absolute villain.”
The stranger dodged Zev’s slow hand, and disappeared into the crowd.
“Who was that?” Zev asked, straightening his body and dropping Tiral’s arm.