The Proposal Game

by Megan E O'Keefe

  "You can’t come with us."

  The tremble of hope died, stilled. Turned to a cold lump in her chest, heavier than any pitted fruit. He paused, watching her above the pages he held out open before him still, waiting for her to speak her mind.

  "Why?" was all she could manage.

  "Because—" He tipped his head toward Halva’s botany book. "Your friend’s going to need help. You should be here for her."

  "She won’t be able to help me." The venom in her voice surprised her, the clip of her anger as she bit off the words raking against her conscience. It wasn’t Halva’s fault. It never had been.

  "That’s true enough, but I never said I wasn’t going to trade with you."

  "If you won’t take me with you, then it’s the Fleet."

  "Or marriage."

  She scoffed, incapable of finding the words to make this daft, impossible man understand just how deeply she chafed at the very idea.

  "Here, now." He slipped the atlas into an empty satchel at his side and grabbed a leather cord tied around his neck. He hauled up on it, a round, silverish disk dangling from its end. Slipping the cord over his neck, he tossed it to her.

  Silka snatched it from the air on instinct and cradled the silver disc in one hand. Under closer inspection, she marked it as real silver—even if it were blemished by time and sweat. The face was a fine piece of work, a perfect representation of the lunar calendar engraved all around it. The great fat red moon dominated most of the depiction, but its silver little sister made her appearance in the chronology of the sky, too—rising up to cause the monsoon season. A banner had been engraved across the top curve, words in old imperial in all capitals.

  She sucked air through her teeth when she recognized it. "This is a veteran’s shield. From the Catari war."

  "Mine, specifically. Won by service. Kept the ships in the air, I did." He glanced over his shoulder toward the edge of the garden, but Silka couldn’t parse the meaning in the motion.

  She flipped it over and saw on its back the small, circled mark of what must have been his family’s crest. The symbols were meaningless to her, she’d never given a whit for noblebone politics, but she suspected they were indicative of an older line. It was a very simple design, the symbols not yet cluttered by time and the proliferation of families who could afford such a mark. His first name was carved just below it. Family Mark—Tibal.

  "What family?" she asked.

  He clucked his tongue against his teeth. "That can’t be the most interesting thing you see there."

  Silka looked again. Her mouth slipped open of its own accord.

  All around the back rim of the disc—where notches should have been carved by the Valathean depositories each time he went to make a withdrawal against his veteran’s stipend—the metal was naked. Blank. Four years the Catari war had been over, and Tibal hadn’t drawn his stipend. Not even once.

  "That’s... a lot."

  "Enough to keep a young lady independent for a few years until she finds her feet."

  Her head snapped up so fast a kink spasmed in her neck. She stared at him, mouth still open, trying to puzzle out the meaning behind the glimmer in his eye. "You can’t be serious. It’s a fortune."

  "It’s blood money, to me. I don’t want it—so it might as well do some good. You keep that." He dragged a dog-eared sketchpad from his satchel and tore out a page, then scribbled something quick in charcoal. "Take these numbers and the shield to any Valathean counting house. They’ll give you what I’m owed. It won’t be luxury, mind, but it’ll be enough."

  She took the slip of paper, unable to hide the tremble in her fingers, and stared at the string of neat numbers. His personal cipher. The key to his treasure chest.

  "Won’t they wonder who I am?"

  He grinned. "Tell ‘em you’re the missus. Can’t argue with that."

  She snort-laughed. "Marriage or the Fleet..."

  "Marriage is looking brighter, eh?"

  She closed the distance between them and pressed a kiss against his cheek. The muscle of his jaw clenched, startled, and he took a half-step back, bringing a hand up to cover the spot. He tasted of sour sweat and old grime—and something a little deeper. A tinge of musk.

  "Now, there’s no need for that, it’s only on paper, you know."

  "I know." She winked, just to watch the knot of his throat bob as he swallowed.

  "And so now I’m misses..." She glanced back at the family mark, something itchingly familiar in its stark lines. "Mrs. Tibal? They might expect me to know my new family name at the counting house, you know."

  A subtle cringe rippled through the muscles of his shoulders, and he ducked his head, glancing from side to side. "I suppose." He reached out and took the paper back, scrawled his name across it and passed it back to her.

  She chewed her lip, brow raised. "You’re a—"

  "Hush, now."

  "It’s just that... I thought—"

  "Illegitimate, and far removed at that." He tapped the back of his neck. "No brand."

  "I see. Does he know?"

  "I don’t talk about it."

  Laughter rolled out from the sitting room, making them both jump. Guilt reared its head in Silka’s heart and she wrinkled her nose in thought. "Nevermind that. Can you get the book on Detan? It’s important he be the one—"

  "Easy, missus, I’ve been doing this awhile now. And I think, that between us, things just might work out for our bumbling companions after all."

  He plucked one of Halva’s fruits from the vine, then dug the atlas out and offered it back to her. "Deal?"

  Silka grinned. "Deal."

  She took the atlas from her new husband and hid it once more under her shawl. Her steps felt lighter, her smile came easier, and her grin was quick as she walked back toward the sitting room, intent on her target. If they wouldn’t come to her, well then, she’d just have to go to them.

  It came rather as a shock to Silka Yent to discover she was having fun.

  19

  Warden Faud, Detan was coming to discover, had heard of him. He was a big man, half a head taller than Detan and barrel-shouldered, his wide, flat face set with eyes the color of old milk. Detan half suspected the aging Warden couldn’t see a hand in front of his face, but he was doing a rather fine job of giving Detan the stink-eye regardless.

  "So." Faud pursed his lips around the word. "What brings a man like you to my city?"

  Detan was not at all surprised to hear the subtle emphasis behind like you, and imagined he could feel the venomous sting those words held.

  "The flowers of Aransa are renowned all across the Scorched." He squeezed Halva’s arm to make his meaning clear.

  "Came looking for a wife, did you?" Faud pressed a honeyed millet cake into his mouth and chewed slowly, deliberately, gaze locked on Detan. Doing everything he could to unnerve him, Detan suspected. Which meant Captain Leshe had dropped a few words in his ear. Detan forced himself to smile just as big as he could.

  "No, sir, that was a happy accident."

  "Have a lot of accidents, do you?" Faud’s words speared Detan, stunned him into silence.

  Accidents. He’d had one, a long time ago. One everyone knew about—rumor traveled faster than wind on the Scorched. An explosion at the Hond Steading mines—an entire spoke of miners lost in the conflagration. All save Detan Honding. Who had, or so he let rumor tell, lost all his selium-sense to the trauma.

  He swallowed. It was like trying to breathe nettles.

  "Why don’t we retire to the garden?" Halva said when the silence had dragged on too long for anyone’s comfort.

  "Pah," Faud said. "And bake alive? Tell you one thing I miss about Valathea—the shade. The sun's harsh as the grave on this continent."

  A distressed wrinkle wormed its way across Halva’s brow. There was something at play here he couldn’t see, and that was rankling his calm something fierce. While Halva went on babbling pleasantries at Faud, Detan scraped his gaze over the small crowd gathered in th
e sitting room.

  Those rag-swathed miscreants that Halva claimed were her guests huddled around the small sampling of food set out, arguing over the providence of a piece of cheese. Though Detan didn’t much mind the presence of scoundrels in general—he counted himself amongst them—these made his skin prick with unease.

  He remembered the second face on the flier, belonging to a man he did not recognize from the mugging. These could be guests of Halva’s, as she claimed, but they could also be agents of his harassers. Either way, he wasn’t the only one they were making uncomfortable. Lord Erst kept glancing their way as if they were rockvipers coiled to strike.

  Just when Detan felt like he was about to peel out of his own skin from anxiety, Tibs appeared amongst the unfriendly faces of the sitting room, that martial-looking woman Detan had spotted in the Blasted Rock at his side. Each wore a pleased smile. Detan could only hope Tibs had done them some good on his investigation of the Erst abode.

  "Evening, Warden," Tibs said as he floated up alongside Detan. "How fares fine Aransa?"

  Faud eyed him through slitted lids, fingers frozen halfway to depositing some morsel in his mouth. "Very well, young man. Though I had a disturbing talk with my watch-captain this morning."

  "Oh?" Tibs asked, all polite interest.

  "Indeed. It appears an influx of false grains have been rolling—well, bumbling—around Aransa lately. Never seen the like before. She has assured me that the problem will be cleared up shortly. A few days, at most."

  "Your Watch-captain must be very good to suss out a new problem so quickly," Detan said, unable to hide a slight catch in his throat. He covered the noise by taking a sip of his water.

  "There’s no finer in all the Scorched." He sighed at the sad millet cake clutched between his fingers. "If only the food here were so fine."

  Detan was surprised to feel Halva tense and lean forward beside him. Before she could speak, Tibs produced a strange little fruit from his pocket. It filled his whole hand, and was covered in bruise-purple skin with fine, downy spines.

  "Give this a try." Tibs sectioned off a wedge of the fruit with his meatknife and passed it over to Faud. The flesh was dark pink, verging on red, and the whole thing gave off a vaguely sweet aroma.

  Faud sniffed at it and frowned. "What is it?"

  "A type of pear, sir. A variation on the hairy empress fruit," Halva squeaked, which Detan thought was a rather odd state to be in over a piece of fruit.

  With a careless shrug, Faud discarded the millet cake on a nearby table and popped the pear-thing into his mouth. He chewed. He frowned. He grinned bright enough to rival the sun.

  "Now that, is marvelous. Where did you get such a thing, child? There hasn’t been a Valathean mercer ship here in months—surely fresh fruit would not have kept so long."

  "It’s my own devising," she spoke all in a rush, hands fluttering through the air as if she could force physical shape into her words. "It grows fast, and trains well, and requires very little water. Here, let me show you."

  Halva abandoned Detan’s arm without a thought and took up Faud’s, ushering him back toward the garden as if they’d suddenly become the only two people in all the world.

  "Huh," Detan said, propping his hands on his hips.

  "Maybe," Tibs said, "we should join them?"

  Detan was unnerved to see a knowing glance pass between his partner and that martial woman. The woman nodded, badly hiding an amused grin, and stepped forward to take the arm Halva had deserted. A new weight settled in the oversized pocket of his tunic, pressing against still-aching bruises.

  He looked down at her, but she just smiled up at him with eyes as bright as well-water. He glanced at Tibs, and only got a wry smirk.

  Fine then, leave me out of the fun.

  "Let us away to the gardens," he said, and strode forward with all the confidence of a man who knew exactly what he was doing.

  The martial-woman, who introduced herself as Silka, steered him out amongst the fronds toward the heart of the garden. Detan recognized the little table he had sat at only the day before, beaten and weary. Where he had, according to everyone around him at any rate, proposed to Halva.

  The Lady in question had a large book spread across the table, coils of hair working their way free from the bun on her head as she bent over it, her voice bright and quick as she shared botanical secrets with a surprisingly rapt Warden Faud.

  Detan hadn’t a clue what any of it meant but, apparently, it was fascinating stuff. He shot a pained glance at Tibs, who cleared his throat rather loudly. Silka flinched beside him and glanced over her shoulder. A few of the party-goers were trickling out, no doubt wondering what was so interesting about the garden that it had drawn out the Lord and Lady of the hour. Halva’s father was amongst them, his smile faltering as he caught sight of his daughter.

  "Oh, my Lord Honding, you are too funny!" Silka burst into a fit of giggles and slipped her arm free to give him a mighty thwack on the back.

  "Huh?" He coughed, lurching forward a half-step as the force of Silka’s blow awakened the flaring pain of his bruises.

  As he staggered, her arm slipped down and gave his pocket a little nudge. Subtle, practiced. He was just as surprised as anyone to see a great leather-bound book tumble out and land with an echoing thump against the stone-laid path.

  It was, quite possibly, the biggest book he’d ever seen. Its cover was tooled with the Ersts’ name and family crest, the landmasses of the known world splayed out beneath it all. Their atlas. The atlas of a family of famous diviners.

  Detan swallowed. Well, Auntie Honding was certainly not going to be disappointed with this gift.

  The thunk of leather on stone drew every eye gathered. Halva stared, open-mouthed with real shock. Had she not known what her friend was up to?

  Of course not. Silka was keeping her spirit-sister from marrying an idiot. At any cost.

  Warden Faud was the first to find his tongue. "Thief!"

  The effect, Detan was pleased to discover, was chaos. Someone took up a shriek in the back of the garden, drowning out whatever it was Halva was yelling at him. Silka, that caverat, feigned terror and darted away, running smack into a few of the men of the crowd rushing forward to apprehend Tibs and Detan.

  Heart pounding in his ears, Detan scooped up the atlas and shoved it back in his pocket, then bolted for the back wall of the garden. Tibs fell in beside him, and then the world went sideways.

  The air rushed out of him as he slammed into the ground, and after an experimental wiggle he discovered one of the beggar women wrapped around his legs, fingers fumbling for his pockets.

  She bit down on his arm, and he squealed as he twisted and kicked out. His heel caught her in the knee, bearing down on the bony knob, and she screeched rage and pain as Tibs grabbed Detan by the arms and hauled him free.

  "Catch him, you cowards!" Faud bellowed above the chaos. "I will have the mad bastard flayed and made into a sail for my ship!"

  "That seems excessive!" Detan yelled.

  "Just run, sirra!"

  The party-goers had gotten something like organized, and a half dozen boot steps came pounding down the path in their general direction. Detan swore, cursing his bruised body and his winded lungs. Cursing the damned thorn-ridden shrubs Halva had planted near the edge.

  Detan thrashed his way through the offensive vegetation until he struck the adobe wall marking the level edge. With a boost from Tibs he scrambled to the top, then reached down and gave Tibs a hand-up beside him.

  They stood there, at the top of the wall, two targets clear as day against the blue Aransan sky, and waved back to their pursuers.

  "Thanks for your hospitality!" Detan called out.

  Rocks pinged off his arms, pelted against the mud-and-stone wall.

  "You’ve nowhere to go!" Faud yelled back.

  Detan grinned at him. Grinned at Tibs. Grinned down at their pursuers, now making their way through the same thorny mess of shrubbery. And then he spun and j
umped off, into the sky beyond.

  Cries of alarm sounded behind him, but he thunked against the deck of his flier with little more than a sore ankle. Tibs landed in a light crouch beside him, annoyingly hale. He didn't have a single scratch on him.

  "How’d you dodge the thorns?" Detan asked.

  "Let you go first."

  He groaned and rolled his eyes, then leapt across the deck and severed the long rope holding their flier in place. It drifted away from the wall immediately, pushed by the gentle breeze of Aransa. Detan paid the drifting ship no mind as Tibs rushed to the helm and grabbed hold of the primary wheel. The ship’s drifting halted, and Tibs let the stabilizing side wings out a little to ease the subtle sway of the deck.

  Rocks scattered about Detan’s feet, pinged off his arms and head. "Hey!"

  Faud’s red-flushed face appeared over the wall, rounded fingers gripping tight to the top of it. "Do not return to Aransa, you hear? Show your face in this city again and I will tan your hide and make a sail of it!"

  "Message received!" He snapped a salute, and the Warden spat over the wall in response. Lovely.

  Tibs took them out of rock-throwing range and Detan joined him on the cranks that turned the flier’s downward-facing propellers, urging the ship to a height above the garden. Selium-craft had their own natural, neutral buoyancy depending upon the weight of the ship, its cargo, and how much sel was crammed in it, but selium was always eager to lift, and the slightest nudge upward could overcome that neutral plane.

  Without either the aid of the propellers, or the attention of a sel-sensitive moving the sel, the ship would drift back down over time, but that was all right. He and Tibs were pretty good with the cranks, after all. Detan was always loathe to give anyone the idea that he still had any of his sel-sense left. He wasn’t about to blatantly manipulate it in front of all these witnesses.

  As they drifted up, Detan abandoned his post and scrambled back over to see how things were getting along in Halva’s garden.