The Proposal Game

by Megan E O'Keefe

  "By the pits." He grunted as a too-hard inhale of breath set his ribs creaking. "These bastards just won’t give up."

  Staunching his nose with a handkerchief, Banch knelt over the taller man and rolled him onto his back. The man was no more familiar to Detan unconscious than he was vital. Banch dutifully poked through the tough’s pockets, finding little more than lint and a few stray pieces of twine. Banch scowled at this meagre collection as if the force of a sour expression could transmute what he was actually seeing into what he wanted to see.

  "Doesn’t make much sense," he finally said. "There’s nothing special about these boys. No club markers, if you get my meaning. They’re just your usual street toughs. Better get them tied up anyway."

  From a pouch at his hip he produced four well-worn sets of leather buckles and tossed two of them to Tibs, whom Detan had to admit was looking quite a bit more hale than his own sorry self. Under Banch’s strict tutelage, they got the brutes trussed up sound, but not unsafely. Watcher Banch was, as it turned out, an education in the finer points of careful circulatory management of prisoners. Apparently the watch had experienced a rather damaging scandal when a blacked-out drunk slouched over his own knees while bound and ended up losing both his legs.

  "Well." Banch brushed unseen dirt from his hands as he rose to his feet. "I had better check in the cabin to see what those two were up to."

  Detan and Tibs exchanged a glance. "Help yourself," Detan said, and hoped the strain in his voice could be safely chocked up to physical exertion.

  As Banch crept toward the door, truncheon held out just in case there should be a third interloper, Detan and Tibs slithered closer together behind him. They practically tip-toed as they followed him into the little cabin, with its thin cots and its flimsy curtained divider. Detan hissed through his teeth. The trapdoor was open. Those scuzzy bastards had been snooping around in his particulars.

  "Stay here," Banch whispered without glancing back. He shifted to crawl down the ladder, and Detan caught the faint gleam of light from one of the oil-lamps below shining through the dark.

  Over the subtle creaking of Banch’s boots, Detan and Tibs held a conversation in eyebrows. Tibs, it seemed, was all for braining the poor watcher and being done with it. Detan didn’t want innocent blood on his hands—especially not after meeting Ripka Leshe. And, truth be told, Tibs didn’t want it either. He just liked to be contrary.

  "Gentlemen." Banch’s head appeared in the trapdoor’s square of light. "What are you doing with this?"

  He held up a few rough-woven sacks, their mouths and interiors sparkling like the topside of a dragonfly’s wing. A few glass marbles clattered around in their bellies—the rejects the paint hadn’t taken to. Their whole counterfeit operation, cradled in a watcher’s hand. Banch’s tone, firm and disappointed, made it clear the question was only a flimsy courtesy. He knew blasted well what he held.

  "Would you believe I’ve never seen those before in my life?" Detan asked, forcing a grin.

  "Not," Banch drawled, "for a second."

  "Pity." Detan kicked the trapdoor shut and pulled the iron lock closed in one frantic motion.

  Whatever Banch was shouting, Detan could scarcely hear it. The hull of their flier had been double-walled, the space between those two walls stuffed with wool. Detan slumped down until he sat on his heels, fingers tangled in the hair at the back of his head.

  "Well," Tibs said, "I supposed you solved that problem."

  "Oh, I’m sorry, did you have a better idea?"

  "Not at the moment." Tibs turned around to look out the cabin door, back toward the two unconscious bodies slumped across the deck. "Looks like we’ve got ourselves a menagerie."

  Detan forced himself to his feet with a rough groan. "I’m not about to get into the habit of taking in pets." He pushed past Tibs and kicked the boot of one downed man. "Certainly not strays. How do you think they found us?"

  "We weren’t exactly playing hard-to-follow."

  "Didn’t see a need for it."

  "Saw wrong, then."

  Detan paced the length of the deck, ignoring the ringing pain in his sides and chest with each step he took. "What time is it?" he asked.

  Tibs glanced at the pale red moon—he’d always been better at telling the mark. "Four marks ‘til sunup."

  The stocky man Detan had choked into slumber groaned and shifted, fingers twitching. "We can’t keep these two." He decided the moment the words had passed his lips. "We’ll have to make a delivery on our way to the Lady’s garden."

  "And the Watcher?"

  Detan grimaced, staring down at the reinforced deck as if he could see through it to the man no doubt pacing below. "He only had his truncheon, and the flier’s a strong girl. He’ll keep until the morning."

  An unruly scowl twisted Tibs’s lips. "If he damages the ship..."

  "Then it might very well fall out of the sky. He knows that, the man’s not a fool. There’s water and food enough in there for a little while. Come on then." He pointed toward the steerage. "Let’s get this fool course underway."

  Tibs rolled his eyes. "If you say so. Sirra."

  That title—Tibs’s sirra—was enough to rake coals over Detan’s spine. It meant, in the mechanic’s humble way, that Detan was a colossal fuck-up. Which, he supposed, was completely fair.

  Detan sighed and paced to the front of the flier while Tibs got it back under way. So much for using the watcher to their advantage. Now Detan had a hostage—one he hoped nobody found out about until he was safely on his way out of this cursed city. He gripped the deck-rail, knuckles going white. Four marks until sunup. Seven until his engagement party. He’d have to find some poor apothik still open at this unholy hour, someone willing to sell him something to keep his head up and his eyes open despite the fatigue and the pain.

  Seven marks. And he still didn’t know what he was going to pinch from sweet little Halva Erst. Still didn’t even know what it was she wanted from him in truth. It wasn't marriage, she wasn't that mad. He sighed. When it came right down to it, Auntie Honding probably wouldn’t even appreciate all the trouble he’d gone to to secure her gift.

  PART FOUR

  17

  Half the families of the fourth through the second levels had come to celebrate the happy couple. Or, at least to see if Detan Honding was, in fact, putting down roots in Aransa. Halva had borrowed help from the neighbors—had the sitting rooms cleared of most of the furniture and a long table or two of local snacks laid out. Guilt gnawed at her. Even if things went perfectly to plan, the food was no small expense for her family to bear.

  The guests seemed to be enjoying themselves well enough. She just wished Detan would hurry up and show already.

  "Where is he?" she whispered to Silka, unable to keep the annoyed hiss from her voice. Silka beamed at the lady they had been talking to, some tanner’s wife from the third, and wrapped vise-tight fingers around Halva’s arm.

  "Excuse us for a moment, won’t you?" Silka didn’t wait for the woman to respond before dragging Halva away from the sitting room and out into the garden. Where, annoyingly, no guests were mingling.

  Silka released her and glanced around to be sure they were alone before speaking. "Blue skies, woman, you really must keep your voice down."

  "I’m sorry, it’s just—what if he doesn’t show?"

  "Then I’ll find him and kick his head in."

  A warbling laugh escaped her lips and she clapped both hands across her mouth to hide the sound. "I’m not sure that would help, Silkie dear."

  "It would certainly help me."

  Voices rose in greeting behind them, rowdy with delight. The kind of greeting appropriate to a freshly minted groom. Halva feared she might faint with relief. "Finally."

  The party-goers clustered in the hall toward the front door, but they parted as soon as they spotted Halva coming. She sped her steps, hoping to intercept Detan before her father could reach him and implore him into some sort of ridiculous toast.

>   She stopped short when she saw who he had brought with him. It was not the young man at his side that gave her pause. Detan had warned her that he traveled with a gentleman friend who would join them in their celebrations. No, that young man was no surprise at all. It was the rag-swaddled woman and her nearly identical partner that caused Halva to dig her heels in and stare.

  "Halvie!" Detan shook off the attentions of some mercer she didn’t recognize and closed the space between them. His embrace was restrained, hesitant, and she returned it with equal care—mindful of the bashing those robbers had given him. Before he could get any ideas about their proximity, she deposited a kiss upon his cheek.

  "Darling," she kept her voice low and soft, "who are your friends?"

  "Ah!" He threw an arm their way and pointed to the well-dressed man. "That is my dear friend Tibal, and those fine young ladies—" He gestured toward the ragamuffins. "Say that you invited them, my dear."

  "Do they now?"

  The leader of the gaggle, a woman whose street-worn visage was familiar to Halva from the night before, bowed her head. "It was so very gracious of you, Lady Erst, to invite we downtrodden into your home to celebrate such a wonderful moment with you." Her gaze slithered to Honding. "I hope you haven’t had a change of heart."

  "No, no." Halva forced herself to offer her hands to the woman. They clasped hands, smiling at one another with all their teeth, and Halva felt the brush of her own bracelet against the side of her fingers. "I am just so delighted you’re here. Please—" She pulled her hands back and motioned toward the sitting room. "Do help yourselves to some food."

  The two trundled off, one of them giving Halva’s waist a pinch as she passed by. Detan slipped an arm around her shoulders, warm and strangely reassuring, and ducked his head down to whisper by her ear, "Are you all right? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost."

  "Fine—I’m fine." She forced a little smile up at him, reining in the urge to bolt off and find Silka.

  Detan didn’t look convinced in the slightest, but he mustered up a return smile and steered her toward the sitting room. As they passed a knot of uppercrust ladies, Halva heard a distinct whisper: "The Ersts really have taken a fall if they’re entertaining that sort of company."

  A spark of anger ignited in Halva’s heart, her fists curling at her sides. From the corner of her eye she saw Detan’s head turn toward the whisper, a frown creeping into the wrinkles at the edge of his mouth. Her anger shifted into fear. If he thought her destitute, he might abandon whatever his mad scheme was.

  "I do find charity to be such a rewarding habit," she spoke quickly, head turned as if she were speaking to Detan, but her words loud enough for the group to hear.

  His brows crept up in mild confusion, but then his sense of fun took over and he grinned. "Indeed. Dear old Auntie Honding can’t stop raving about it. Charity is the perfect endeavor for any Lady of standing."

  Halva smirked, she couldn’t help it. No matter what tug-and-pull was happening between them, Detan had just socially devastated those women. By the end of the week Halva wouldn’t be surprised if half the Ladies of the upcrust were giving over full marks out of their day in the spirit of charity. Anything Dame Honding approved of was worth doing. Twice.

  He winked at her, and she felt a traitorous little flutter. Blasted man. He wasn’t the one she was interested in tonight. But he could certainly help her make headway with the one she had her eye on. Warden Faud had been stubbornly refusing all her invitations to the garden—too hot out, he claimed, while fanning reddened cheeks with a limp paper fan. But she had the Honding on her arm now—and if the reactions of those ladies were any indication, the word of a Honding could make people do strange things.

  "This way," she said. "Let me introduce you to Warden Faud."

  18

  Silka lingered in the sweltering light of the Ersts’ garden, their family atlas tucked under the hem of her shirt, and waited for Halva to corral the people she needed this way. It would only take a moment, a laugh at joke, her hand resting on Detan’s arm, and then she’d have the atlas planted on him. He’d notice it, of course, the thing was blasted heavy, but she was convinced she could screech thief loud enough to drown out any protestations.

  If only Halva could herd the man out here. A few witnesses couldn’t hurt, either.

  The crunch of feet on gravel drew her attention, and a jolt of recognition raced through her. A man walked toward her down the central path, looking much cleaner than the last time she’d seen him. He was taller than her—a rarity—and built like a clothesline. His attire was well tailored, his charcoal trousers and loose top cut to emphasize the lean muscle of his shoulders while allowing him easy movement. His boots were older, though, worn smooth. The boots of a man who didn’t let you hear he was approaching unless he wanted you to.

  "You were at the Blasted Rock," Silka said, just to see the look on his face. His smile was small, pleased. Controlled.

  "I’ll confess to that." He stopped two paces back and inclined his head. "And you were the Lady’s martial friend."

  She snorted. "Martial? Not yet."

  "What do you mean?" He looked away from her, studying the plant by his side, giving her space to answer without scrutiny.

  "I’m not as well positioned as Halva. It’s marriage or the Fleet for me." Silka tried to keep her voice light, flippant in the face of her fate, but she heard it crack anyway.

  "And you’d prefer the Fleet?" He brushed his fingers over the vine, glossy-dark leaves catching in the sun.

  "What are you doing out here?" she snapped.

  He shrugged. "Looking."

  "You mean snooping? Casing the place, perhaps?"

  Those narrow shoulders twitched, and she allowed herself a triumphant smile.

  "Just observing," he said. "What are you doing out here?"

  "Waiting."

  "For the Fleet?"

  Heat blotched her cheeks. She saw his gaze flicker, all the amusement leaving the lines around his eyes. Before she could tell him to leave, he said, "Sorry about that. I’ve been too long in singular company."

  Silka glanced back toward the sitting room to make sure no one else was headed their way, then took a half-step forward. "What are you two up to? Really?"

  "Would you believe," he drawled, "shopping for a birthday present?"

  She snort-laughed. "You can’t be serious."

  He held his hands out to either side, palms open to the heavens. "Sirra Honding doesn’t often know when to quit."

  "And you?"

  "I quit just once. Left the Fleet—honorably. Best blasted decision I ever made."

  Silka’s stomach knotted, the sudden seriousness of his tone wrenching up tight her already growing sense of dread. "Some of us don’t have a choice."

  "But we find ways, don’t we?" He reached out once more and laid his hand against the vine. "You know what I’ve observed here?"

  "I have a feeling you’re going to tell me." She crossed her arms and arched a brow at him.

  "Clever lass." He winked. "I’ve seen dust between the floorboards. Scrubbed down recently, sure, but if you don’t keep it up on the regular it gets stuck in the cracks no matter what you do. The food’s subpar for an upcrust family, the servants all borrowed from the neighbors. And, strangest of all, all the real valuables are tucked away—not out to be shown off."

  "Inconvenient for you, you mean."

  He chuckled. "Possibly. But also telling. The Ersts are in trouble. What, exactly, does Halva want with Honding?"

  The amusement faded from his tone as he finished speaking, the words sharpening until they cut off, brittle with resentment. He didn’t know. He had ideas, and she suspected they were good ones, but he didn’t know, and it was killing him a little. Killing him to risk his friend in a situation he didn’t understand all the variables of. Silka clutched the atlas against her belly with one arm.

  "She wants a husband."

  "But not," he said, "Detan."

 
"No."

  "Ah. Interesting." He half-turned to the table tucked amongst the fruiting vines and flicked open the cover of the notebook that lay there.

  "You can’t possibly know the whole scheme," she protested.

  "Lady, I’ve been doing this a long while now. It’s not so difficult to puzzle through." He didn’t take his eyes from the book. Silka leaned forward to watch his face as he shuffled through the pages, but couldn’t tell just how much he understood of what he read.

  "You can’t take that," she said.

  He blinked, startled, and turned away from the book to look at her. "Wasn’t considering it."

  "I’ll make you a deal," she spoke slowly, flicking her gaze from side to side to make sure she wasn’t overheard. "I’ll make sure you find something nice for your birthday gift, or whatever it is you really want, and you take me with you."

  "Really." He looked her up and down, one brow raised. "And you mean for me to believe you don’t want us to take something? So that Miss Halva can discredit Detan? Not that he needs the help, mind you."

  "Here." She slipped the atlas from its hiding place and offered it to him, palms damp with fear or shame or anger—she couldn’t tell. "Good faith. Take it."

  "We don’t need another set of hands, or another mouth." He took the atlas all the same, lips thinning as he turned it over in his hands. It was a singular piece of work—or so Halva had insisted, Silka didn’t know much about such things—and as thick as her wrist was wide. Its pages were yellowed with age, but the ink within was still bright and crisp. Halva hadn’t been the only botanist in her family’s long history. The leaves and barks which were used to make that time-resilient ink still grew in Halva’s garden.

  "You mean to trade this for your freedom?" he said at last.

  "If you’ll let me."

  A bulge appeared behind his lower lip, and she realized he was running his tongue over his gums as he thought. A little moth-wing’s flutter of hope thrummed through her. He was considering. At the very least, even if he denied her her flight, she had that.