The Two Ivans - II (a)
II
Colonel Lord Ivan Vorpatril crouched carefully in the corner of his own back-garden, making sure his fine black cloak continued to shroud his best dress red-and-blues as he eased an optical relay under the wall-door to check that the ghem-guard his embassy rank warranted was still elsewhere.
Quite how Samura had been able to arrange the diversionary call he wasn’t at all sure, and had no wish to ask. Her father must (as much as her mother) still have some highly placed friends, whatever his state of official disgrace, and it had been clear to Ivan from the first and only time he had met Lord Cahearn and the haut Lady d’Cahearn that while neither thought much of Barrayarans in any guise they saw very clearly indeed that this particular Vor lord represented a better chance of a redignifying social coup than they had ever expected to get. Political rehabilitation too, perhaps, but they knew that was a purely Celestial matter way beyond any outlander’s sphere. In any case, whatever they thought they had been scrupulously polite and unconditionally welcoming. Ha. No dismissive Ivan, you idiots from that source.
He felt bad about abandoning poor René and Tatya Vorbretten, but it had to be. And he felt extremely bad about Jennea and Lactai, who had really been very kind and helpful. He was also melancholically aware that he would fiercely miss their energetic and inventive bedroom-company, not to mention the splendidly bland faces they could present to snide enquirers about that ridiculous claim of Vor sexual honour he had made up the first, soul-destroying time he had kept an assignation with them both, all those years ago. When the pair of them had ambushed him in an outer precinct of the Celestial Garden, not long after his second arrival on Eta Ceta on secondment to haut Pel, his heart had rocketed into his boots-but for once honesty had proven the best policy, and he had been inspired by the momentary privacy of a bower scooped from the oddly pink hedge that so amused Pel to make a formal apology for having once so misled them, and for his then unconfessable state of poisoned haplessness. Hoping to undercut them at once with stiff dignity (however belated) and manly frankness he had been in rapid turn startled, angry, and dismayed when both had erupted into peals of laughter, but after they had apologised themselves for becoming pawns in someone else’s trick, and showered him with praises for the strength of his Vor hands and the quickness of his Barrayaran tongue-and thinking-he had begun to feel quite mellow about it all. Jennea had also implied that in the aftermath of whatever it was that had been going on-and she had looked an enquiry but accepted his fractional shake of the head without demur-Dag Benin had Taken Steps, and both girls had been somehow carpeted, though their essential innocence had been accepted.
After that one thing had led to another, rather often, and he knew that his friendship with the girls had been much the best thing about his now quite extended stint here on Eta Ceta. They were seriously all right, good pals as well as wonderful lovers, and infinitely less stuffy than the Vor girls he’d run with in Vorbarr Sultana during his years at Ops Command. But both of them also had geezer-class in waiting stamped all over them, a female wilfullness he recognised without thinking, and a strong dislike of not getting what they wanted, irrespective of what he might think. Their competitive proposals, flagrantly made in public and in the most dramatic fashions each could devise-which was saying something-were just about the only desires he had been able to baffle. Either would, he understood in his bones, be extremely managerial as a wife, and though haut Gars-heh-had once (during their very extended and most private conversations about how Gregor’s identity as Count Vorbarra was understood by Vor and common Barrayarans) somewhat impatiently remarked to him that the managerial capacity of one wife was best offset by that of another, he had never seriously considered accepting both girls’ proposals. It was a nice lifetime bedroom-fantasy, but Ivan was very clear about the reality that would follow. One mother was more than enough.
And then there was Samura, younger than either Jennea or Lactai, infinitely more timid, and so sweetly inexperienced-though he had done a good deal to rectify that. His heart had gone out to her the first time he saw her, almost a year ago now, looking nervous and lost in that same outer precinct of the Garden, shying from his bare-faced unghem strangeness, and whispering a request for directions to one of the minor bureaucratic offices. Gallantly escorting her there and exerting himself to be charming and reassuring, a soldier-diplomat determined to win new friends for Barrayar, he had been rewarded with shy smiles and wondering glances from cornflower-blue eyes otherwise as demurely veiled as if the ground at her feet were a magnet. He had not had time to linger-haur Gars didn’t care to be kept waiting-and had regretfully supposed he would never see her again ; but ten days later there she had been, coming out of the same minor office, and this time he had managed to extract a name and a comsonsole code. After which one thing had once again led to another, more intensely than often, and in a blinding moment two months back he had abruptly seen that she was an answer to his prayers.
The fallout, he knew, would not be good, but he had meant what he said to Boulanger about his mother, who was in any case responsible for his whole ridiculous matrimonial mess, and understood his needs and desires as little as she had Gregor’s when throwing endless debutante Vor-girls at him as candidates for the Imperial Hand. Even Miles had been exasperated by how slow she had been to realise that Gregor would never marry a Vor, and she still didn’t seem to realise he felt much the same way, even though she knew the only proposals he’d ever made himself were to Delia and Martya Koudelka. It was unfortunate they’d both been made on the same day, and refused out of hand in rapid succession, but he’d been panicking as the non-Vor he’d always had his eyes on began disappearing en masse towards wedding-circles. And all the Koudelka girls were married now that Martya had finally tied the knot with Enrique Borgos-two non-Vor marrying, just like Delia and Duv, which he thought a terrible waste.
Moreover, his mother really did know how to make the best of faits accomplis with which she was presented, having had a fair amount of practice for which she had only herself to blame ; and while he did not suppose either Gregor or haut Gars would be best pleased he did think both would on similar grounds keep out of it. Besides, he was very nearly 35, and almost everyone he knew was now married-not only Miles, the Nexus-rearranging rat, and all the Koudelkas, but weird Mark, and weirder Enrique, and Gregor. Even his mother and Simon were apparently at last considering whether they should wed. Gah. His sense of dismay as his old girlfriends also married in droves had become more intense with each new Vorbarr Sultana bulletin from his mother, and he found with only mild surprise that he no longer cared to be odd man out, bottom of his class, or poor Ivan-the last even worse than his usual, casually insulting and assonant soubriquet. This Time it was his Time, and high time too : Lord Vorpatril would for once crack the whip and seize the day.
The tiny scope he had liberated from the embassy’s ImpSec office showed the service-lane was still clear, and he slipped out, keeping elegantly to shadows until he could turn into the street and hasten south, cloak flaring around him. The auto-aircab was exactly where it had been ordered to be, already programmed for the grounds of Lord Cahearn’s quite roomy though far from palatial townhouse. As the ‘cab whispered through the last of the evening light, overflying Satrapies Park and the many ghem families taking constitutionals in the dusk, geneered pet-animals bounding around them, his heart was beating crisply but he also felt, at long last, the growing calm of commitment. He actually wanted to do this, and the Nexus had no bribe or threat that would make him jilt Samura.
His first inkling that all might not be entirely as he supposed came after he had sent the ‘cab on its way and used the code Samura had given him to slip through the wall-door into her father’s garden. Once, when both her parents were off-planet, they had played out a scene he vaguely recalled from his Terran lit. class at school, and her delighted giggles and welcoming arms as he climbed to the second-floor balcony of her bedroom had made him feel like a warrior receiving admiring and very personal tribute. Hail! The great Vorpatril comes! He swirled his cloak cheerfully. The overgrown holm-oak half-way to the house had dense enough foliage to provide good shelter, and he was expecting Samura to be waiting for him there, as they had agreed. But to his appalled shock the voice that greeted him from the darkness under the low boughs was not Samura’s.
“Hello, Ivan.”
He stared, jaw dropping, though neither as fast nor as far as his heart.
“Hello, Ivan.”
His head whipped round. Disaster was complete. Shame surged. But dammit, he was a Vor, and a Vorpatril, and he struggled to keep his voice calm and conversational.
“Good evening, Jennea, Lactai. I wasn’t expecting either of you to be here.”
“So we gather.” Jennea was maintaining her own cool, thank the gods, though he knew from the look in her eyes that she was not an altogether happy woman. “A rather low plan, don’t you agree? Did we not deserve your honesty?”
“Or your kindness, at least? You would make us laughing-stocks, you know, following this course.”
Vorpatrilhood draining from him like blood-or milk-Ivan slumped onto the little bench that circled the tree, not even bothering to arrange his cloak in the delightfully piratical manner it encouraged.
“You did. I’m sorry. But I thought … I persuaded myself it would be better this way. For you both.”
“For you, you mean.”
Their voices sounded in unison. He shuddered. “Yes. For me. I couldn’t face haut Pel, or my mother, either.”
Glances were exchanged before Jennea replied. “That we can understand. But we really will have to get the genome edited a bit, you know. This sort of funk is … simply not on.”
“What?” His voice sounded feeble even to his own ears, and Lactai waved a hand impatiently.
“That’s a given, Jennea.” What? “But you’re not going to stand on pride any more than I am although he’s been a cozening, spineless jellyfish. He’s 70% hero, 10% poltroon, 5% idiot, and the rest amazing good luck which is probably the shared Vorkosigan genes. We knew all that, as well as all his connections, and that he’s pretty good in bed. But Samura dh’Cahearn is a very different proposition and she’s played a damn skilled hand. Are we really willing to make three into four?” What?What?What?Wh-
“Yes. And we’ll all make it work. Or else.”
There was a long pause full of fierce female eye-contact broken by the slight rustle of a dress.
“Samura?”
Whether Jennea or Lactai had spoken he wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter worth a damn because Samura was gliding forward out of the shadows, apologetic and doe-eyed, with an adorably urchin smile on her lovely face. But disaster was not to be averted now.
“I am so sorry, Ivan. Things … happened. And people I simply couldn’t say ‘no’ to.” His heart and mind sank anew as her manner became unprecedentedly brisk and confident. “Ladies, I know full well I am junior, and have no quarrel with it. The alphabet provides a convenient hierarchy. But you are aware of my connections, and you know I will not accept less than my due.” She blushed prettily. “Practically speaking, I would suggest we split Ivan’s old lie. Three times, three women ; or one apiece. As an ideal, of course, flexible to circumstance. And I object neither to syn- nor diachronicity. Full protocol in public, of course, but in private and when it counts everything else works the same way : all for one and one for all. We will be a new model for both ghem and Vor, and we will have to make up our own rules wherever we can. Agreed?”
Ivan’s brain had given up its iterations of what? and he listened in appalled silence.
“Yes.”
“Yes.”
He was cooked ; to a turn. But still, apparently, not cooked enough, for as Jennea’s and Lactai’s ringing affirmatives sounded under the tree a dapper figure wearing the Imperial Array came out of the garden-verandah whose roof had been such a useful route to Samura’s window that night, and strolled towards them. Oh … fuck. Fuckfuckfuck, in fact. But suddenly he felt more cheerful. This man did not countenance scenes any more than his mother. It might all turn out alright on the night, after all. Who knew?
“Lord Ivan.” He received the faintest nod. “Ladies.” All three ghem-witches received a slight, collective bow, and curtsied back deeply. “That was swiftly efficient of you all.” Benin turned back to Ivan. “As you have now received your domestic marching orders, Lord Ivan, it falls to me to fill in some political background that would appear to have escaped your notice. Please, Ladies, would you sit?”
The girls complied with alacrity, Jennea and Lactai to his left and Samura to his right. Some very distant part of Ivan’s brain noted this as interesting.
“The rehabilitation of ghem-officers disgraced after their defeat at the Hegen Hub, Lord Ivan, is an even more sensitive matter than you realise. At the time my Imperial Master was not pleased. At all. So His displeasure was wide, and in places perhaps too heavy, as He knows. Every ghem present here has more than one clansman, and so clanfamily, who suffers from His disregard. But how should we then proceed? It was a tricky issue before the Alliance, and since then it has been explosive, as you and I alone here may appreciate, Lord Ivan, considering the role there of, ah, let me see, your cousin’s most distinctive alter ego. And their father.”
Miles. The name throbbed dully in Ivan’s brain, like a headache you couldn’t locate. But Benin meant Naismith, the doubly insane, full-bore, pseudo-Betan freak of nature, and Ivan knew he hadn’t considered what the little Admiral’s and Uncle Aral’s roles in the crushing ghem defeat at the Hegen Hub (not to mention some of Miles’s other contrivances and outright scams), might in conjunction with their present first-name terms with Emperor the haut Fletchir Giaja mean to the ghem who had survived the slaughter only to reap impoverishing disgrace. Damn. Benin was observing him closely.
“Just so. And before you come to think too harshly of these clever and sensible ladies, Lord Ivan, I should tell you that I am, as it happens, Samura’s most junior great-uncle thrice removed, which your unfortunate guard knew-and I shall have some words for you about that later, Samura-while you know already that Admiral Arvin, who has become such a confrère of your Uncle Aral in writing the Joint Fleet’s Code of Conduct, including the articles concerning the rights of married personnel, is Jennea’s most senior uncle-direct. Lactai is here mostly on her own recognisance, but represents more hopes than her own, by an order of magnitude.” He paused, interrogatively. “Do you grasp now into what snares you are fallen?”
Ivan did, dimly but fully. The fragments of his pride that were left nevertheless rose up in him. “And should I not, General Benin?” He could feel the tension in all three girls. Serves them right.
Benin pursed his lips. “Then a surprisingly wide variety of people will be significantly unhappy. I have been authorised to mention a lifetime posting as second-in-command of Kyril Island. Or was it second-in-command of the laundry there, under a Lieutenant Vormoncrief, following a spectacular court-martial and multiple demotion?” Gregor! Miles! Boulanger! The unspeakable, honourless rat! “And before you jump to yet more conclusions, Lord Ivan, though I fear from your look I may already be too late, Mr Boulanger was meticulously careful to observe the terms of the peculiar oath you imposed on him, much to the admiration of our Imperial Masters. The real author of your present woes, other than yourself, is the Vorkosigan you did forget to add to your interesting list, though I am not sure I blame you. His file is growing faster than almost anyone’s, just now.”
What? Wha- Oh, never mind. It’s happened. And rather to his surprise Ivan felt that odd calm return to him. A poise, even, and somewhere his most secret heart began to rejoice. “I see, General. Or probably not. But in any case I shall rise to the occasion.” He slid arms around Samura and Jennea, who leaned in slightly against him. “As I shall doubtless have to in future, often enough.”
Benin gazed at him with mild surprise. Yes! It might be Cetagandans 23, Ivan 1, but the opposition were no longer keeping a clean sheet. As he quirked an eyebrow the ghem-General’s eyes lost focus for a second, then brightened as he subvocalised what looked like ‘Yes, my Lady’. He gestured to the four of them.
“Standing would be wise.”
Ivan found himself pulled upright, cloak swirling, as Jennea and Samura snapped to their feet, Lactai rising in equally taut unison. Over Benin’s shoulder he saw with fresh horror a pink lady-bubble bang through the garden-doors and accelerate up the lawn towards them. Oh … never mind. Cetagandans 10,023, Ivan 1. And likely to stay that way. The bubble came to a halt that should have scored the grass, and winked out. Haut Pel looked up at them all, her face showing a combination of indignation and (he gave fervent thanks) amusement. At his side the girls had all gone rigid.
“Jennea, dear, and Lactai. Congratulations to you both. And to you, Lady dh’Cahearn-you’ve been doing some rather clever things, in which I detect Dag’s gentle hand, though I shall have some words later for you and Eleta about presuming on Crèche Licensors in quite that fashion. I trust none of you have any objection to my serving as Licensor myself?”
A very tight-faced Samura shook her head quickly and all three women curtsied deeply, two of them elbowing Ivan to no avail. Pel’s gaze moved to him and he shivered.
“Ivan. I really ought to get up and slap you, if only on your mother’s behalf, but you’re going to need both cheeks for the cermonial sigils. Shame on you! A scurvy trick.” He flushed, and knew it for the truth. “And I do not care to have one of my protégés so attempt to embarrass another. Have you apologised to Jennea yet?”
“Yes.”
“And Lactai?”
“Yes.”
“Well, do it some more.”
“Now?”
To his considerable relief Pel laughed. “Satisfying as that would be, no. Time is short. But do not forget, Ivan. You owe them.” The stress was unmistakeable, and Ivan winced as the jab went home. Was that damn desk bugged after all? “Now, General Benin having brought you up to speed, I trust, on the ghem-politics you’ve stirred up, it falls to me to do as much for the genetics. So sit down again, all of you, and listen.”
Ivan found himself back on the bench as swiftly as he had left it, and propelled in the same way. His cloak swirled sadly.
“One of the many things that Gregor and Miles grasp, Ivan, and you don’t seem to, despite your personal knowledge of the consequences, is that Barrayaran and especially Vor genomes are still stuffed with more compromised chromosomes than is even remotely acceptable. Crèche knows it’s obvious, despite your remarkable strength and coherence as a people, and the Vor’s compelling survival as a class. Or caste.” She frowned. “The biological insults to your Firsters from all that absurd red vegetation and some of the biting insects were bad enough, but then you had your Time of Isolation and lost all geneering capacity for centuries. In the Vorkosigan’s District there was also, of course, the more recent radiological insult from ghem atomics. And setting aside mutagen and radiation damage, imperfections like birthmarks, cleft palates, and clubbed feet, which even among baseline human populations haven’t been seen anywhere but frontier worlds since replicators became available, are still endemic on Barrayar. Gregor and Laisa of course want our help to clean the whole mess up, and we’re willing, but even with our genetic resources and personnel it’s going to take a long time. Thanks to Cordelia, mainly, replicator technology has been making inroads for thirty years, and a lot of the necessary work can be done by anyone with proper genetic training. But not all, particularly where the complex behavioural mutations are involved, which usually means in the more inbred high Vor. And the politics is becoming a real bore, because of what’s happened with the more conservative Counts and their higher feudatories.”
At Ivan’s blank look Pel snorted.
“Don’t you even read your own embassy bulletins? I do. So does Fletchir.” Ivan felt the girls beside him stiffen as they heard their emperor’s bare name. “Oh alright. In a nutshell, the high Vor who have always most strongly resisted galactic modernity and resented anything proposed by your Progressives have somehow decided en masse that while they still distrust the Nexus at large, as reprehensible outlanders, they trust us, and only us, to ‘mess with their genes’ in the way even they realise they need, the poor, dim dears. It’s quite lunatic, of course, but Nikki explained it very clearly by saying that they trust us because we were enemies. So-mad, but well and good. That’s more than half the battle, and leaves only logistics ; but they are fearsome logistics, and the problem has become worse since Count Vorhalas, who is actually quite sensible so far as I can tell, became too ill to keep any discipline in their ranks. Count Vormoncrief has neither the mind nor character to help. So how do we sort out who gets proper treatment now and who has to wait, without giving Gregor a running problem in the Council of Counts that’ll stall everything else?”
Ivan stared at Pel, appalled at and riveted by such crisp knowledge and analysis-she’s the Consort of Eta Ceta, not Barrayar!-but still puzzled. He knew he should have been paying closer attention to the bulletins. And to those vague hints Mother is always dropping. But what on Eta Ceta had it all to do with him?
Pel sighed. “General Benin?”
Ivan switched his stare, tuning out distractions.
“Lord Ivan, what has been the biggest matrimonial problem of your Vor generation?”
That was a no-brainer. “Too many men. Not enough women.”
“Just so. And remembering our polygamous habits, as you really must from now on, what gender ratios have you observed among the ghem? Half the mark drops, I see” Benin sighed in turn. “It is, seemingly, a great stroke of mutual good fortune for the Alliance that our surplusses and lacks are so very complementary. How splendid for us all. But how many ghem-Vor marriages have there actually been, to date?”
Ivan thought hard. Lots of Vor men had been speculating about whether they might, he knew, and had wanted very predictable details that he had never had the slightest problem flatly refusing to divulge, but he couldn’t bring to mind any formal announcement. “I’m not sure.”
“None. And why do you suppose that might be? Or, come to that, why an estimated 30 million Imperial marks have been wagered in Vorbarr Sultana alone on whom and when you will wed? Do any of those marks now drop? You might ask yourself what you think we ghem, who do know our own most carefully cultivated genetics, make of what we can see of the Barrayaran genomes.” Benin paused, suddenly smiling faintly. “But I think any further instruction you need must come from another source, and probably at another time, though we may be about to enjoy a prelude.” What? “You might also care to speculate for a second, Lord Ivan, on your Imperial Master’s probable response to the list you unwisely left with Mr Boulanger. My Imperial Master, fortunately, did not wholly share it, and in any case ghem-General Naru is extremely dead long ago ; nor do any of his line-direct still dwell on Eta Ceta. Hello, Miles, everyone. Did you have a good trip?”
Ivan froze and let his tunnel-vision of Benin widen again, then really wished he hadn’t. Gregor and the Cetagandans, 1,000,023, Ivan 1. Oh … hell. On wheels. With knobs on. Squared. I’m toast and beans. Standing in a semi-circle behind Pel’s chair were not only Miles (in house uniform) and Ekaterin, wearing a pair of those plain-glasses that had inexplicably become the season’s rage in Vorbarr Sultana and a stunning blue dress by Estelle, but also a ridiculously grown-up looking Nikki (house uniform). And his mother (Estelle). And Simon (dress red-and-blues with full medals). Amid Ivan’s resigned terror pieces at last came together in his head. Nikki! How did I forget him? And how did he do it? His legs were molten jelly but Jennea and Samura still had him up on them fast enough to give him whiplash, and managed to hold him up even as they and Lactai all dropped deep curtseys. Ekaterin smiled warmly at them all, eyes gleaming, and even his mother and Simon seemed more interested in examining the girls than glaring at him, though in his mother’s case it was a close run thing. Nikki alone looked at him gravely before offering a tiny apologetic nod. Ivan stared, but Miles was taking charge as if this were his own Barrayaran backyard. And you’re surprised? Ivan, you idiot.
“We did, thank you, Dag. The direct wormholes are a great convenience.” Miles’s gaze swung to Ivan like a graser-beam, and he smiled, evenly, terrifyingly, at his feckless cousin. “So there you are, Ivan.” He paused. “Nice cloak.” Ivan winced. “Lady Arvin and Lady Benello I know, but not this other lady. And all are new to most of us. Are you perhaps going to make introductions before some of us become related? I realise it wasn’t in your original plan, but I believe some tactical flexibility might be called for.”
Tactical flexibility? Some of us? A glimmer of hope sparked in Ivan’s breast, then flared with resolution. He had, after all, inherited in full measure, and under Miles’s long and devoted tuition honed to perfection, the Vorpatril capacity to make the best of faits accomplis. And despite translocating effortlessly between planets and imperia Miles was apparently not quite up to speed.
“Of course, Miles. Forgive my surprise.” Order was critical here. “Jennea, Lactai, Samura, my mother, Lady Alys Vorpatril ; and my stepfather, Simon Illyan.” He made another improbable decision. “Ma, Da, my fiancées, Lady Jennea Arvin, Lady Lactai Benello, and Lady Samura dh’Cahearn.”
Using one eye to watch with infinite satisfaction the blank crogglement that momently flashed on both Miles’s and Ekaterin’s faces (though not, he noted clinically, mooting vengeance, Nikki’s), he had the even greater satisfaction of seeing with the other his mother and Simon brough up short by his ‘Ma’ and unqualified ‘Da’. Yes! The Nexus 1,000,023, Ivan 2. His Ma looked as if she might for once say something untoward, but Simon-bless him!-subtly propelled her forward and hands were shaken amid polite murmurs. It was critical not to let her get another word in edgeways or it would be full-on in a flash.
“I’m so glad you could both make it.” He swung, positively Milesishly, letting the cloak do its good work. “And my cousins, Lord Auditor Miles Vorkosigan, his wife Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan, and her son Nikolai.” He smiled a little promise at the boy, who shrugged with fractional unconcern. “Almost universally known as Nikki. Cousins, my fiancées.”
Miles looked daggers but it was Nikki who murmured “Briefly”, and he saw Miles and Ekaterin both struggle to contain laughter. His heart eased, but there was something about Miles’s look, as there so often was, that left him very wary, and more than usually willing to admit to himself just how much his short cousin intimidated him.
“Ladies.” Curtsies were acknowledged with grave nods and hands were shaken, in Ekaterin’s and Nikki’s cases with some real warmth beneath their evident mirth, and his heart eased again. This will be alright. If harrowing. And I deserve that. His calm grew, and he saw Miles’s gaze on him become calculating.
“Mmmm. Dag, I believe I owe you a kitten of your choice from Shuang-Mei’s and ImpSec’s litter, if Pel ever lets go of them.” He smiled at Pel, who grinned back at him, then looked directly at Ivan with eyes gone that flat, gunmetal grey, not, Ivan realised after a moment, with the threat he had once or twice seen them convey but with more neutral assessment. “Ivan, I’m sorry we drove you to a cunning plan, but you were being an idiot. Or rather playing one as well as you have ever done. And time was running out with Vorhalas’s life. He died last night, by the way, so as it happens your timing is inspired.”
Ivan felt a strange twist of sorrow for the infinitely upright old man, at last laid low, and knew Miles shared it.
“I’m very sorry to learn that. He was true Vor.”
Miles smiled and nodded sharply. “Yes, he was. He will be missed.”
“Is Gregor going to allow his granddaughter to inherit?” Ivan did read some of the bulletins, and his mother had kept him up to date anyway.
“That’s with the gods. And the Council. So tonight may matter for more reasons that you are supposing even now. Which brings me to a little business. Gregor, you know, is actually Not Amused at all, nor Da, about the way you handled Boulanger. I most strongly advise you both to offer very fulsome apologies to him, and to them, and to accompany his with a serious gift. Nikki has a notion which will also explain much to you, if you think about it. It involves a Boo! tournament.” His voice went a shade cooler. “Gregor was also distressed, as am I, by your absence for René’s and Tatya’s visit next week, but there’s no helping that now.” Ivan winced. “And given the ill-veiled threats I saw floating in your eyes I think I had better add that Nikki has stood between Uncle Ivan and harm’s way a dozen times today. As have Ekaterin, Ma, and Simon. You owe them all, Ivan.”
Two elbows poked him simultaneously, and he broke his shock to nod crisply. “So noted, Miles. And my preliminary thanks, Ekaterin, Nikki. Da. But you said business, Miles?” Nikki winked at him and Ekaterin looked as if she’d like to but instead rested a hand on her husband’s shoulder. Miles blinked. Ivan 3. So did his mother and Simon. Ivan 5. Margins were narrowing.
“Thirty years in a day. What was I doing wrong?” Ivan gave this the silent treatment it deserved, but Ekaterin didn’t.
“Nothing, love. It just all worked at once. And remember vertigo at apogee.”
Miles grinned. “Alright, love. And alright, Ivan. You get your cadet badge, at last.” What? Miles fished in one of his uniform pockets, then looked up at Ivan dubiously. “You’re going to hate this but it has to be now, so it has to be me, and I don’t see much choice except standing on that bench.” He paused briefly, inspecting it. “And I can’t be bothered. Please kneel, Colonel Lord Vorpatril.”
What? But Jennea’s and Samura’s hands were pressing down, and rather than risk his uniform trousers on the turf he went to one knee with as much grace as he could manage. The cloak helped. As he found his balance Miles stepped forward, reached out, and deftly flipped the cloak back on each side, simultaneously popping and removing his best dress Colonel’s tabs from each shoulder. What? Had Gregor really cashiered him already? But Miles then equally deftly fastened new tabs in place, leaving the cloak to hang down his back.
“In my Imperial Master’s Voice”-his finger rose, then pointed-“you’re now a general.” Yeehawhat? Dazed, Ivan saw Miles smile, really quite warmly, for him, and before he could move felt a hand return to his left shoulder, keeping him in place ; though whose it was exactly he wasn’t altogether sure, as his vision was a trifle blurred. “I’ve always wanted to do that. Congratulations, Ivan, and also in my Imperial Master’s Voice, welcome to the world of grown-ups.” Then to his frozen yet still heaving crogglement Miles leant forward and kissed him softly on the forehead. “We’ve been waiting. Up you get.”
Miles stood back, there was a little chorus of well-harmonised hums of surprised satisfaction from the girls, and a vortex of ironic but nevertheless relieved and delighted smiles from Ekaterin, Nikki, his Ma, and Simon. He let Jennea and this time Lactai haul him upright. The straight weight of the cloak felt wrong but he knew this was not its moment, and Miles’s voice was brisk.
“One more slight indignity and we’re done, Ivan. Boulanger said when I quizzed him properly late this afternoon that you admitted children might eventually be on your agenda with Lady dh’Cahearn. Have you revisited that thought yet? I somehow imagined you might not have done. Pel?”
“Yes, indeed. Ivan, tempus fugit, as both Fletchir and I have told you several times. You should expect to be a father of … hmm, triplets certainly isn’t right … trins, maybe, quite early next year, soon after your Winterfair. Plainly one son and one daughter are required ; we can argue about the third, and the assignment of genders to genome-crosses, ladies, if you make your cases fast. Otherwise it’ll be FMF in alphabetical order, which is what Fletchir wants for reasons of his own.” What? Why? When??? But all the girls were curtsying again, and Jennea was speaking in a flash.
“It is our honour, my Lady, to gift the Celestial Lord his desire.”
Pel nodded with an amused glint in her eyes. “So it is. I have trained you well. Good. Incidentally, we shan’t be waiting on the second and third sets of crosses either, so start thinking about them too.” Whaaaa- “Now, Miles, is that everything?”
“I believe so, Pel. Dag? Then shall we go in?”
“Momently, Miles.” The blonde head with those ageless blue eyes swung around. “Alys, do you want the curule chair for a moment?”
Even Miles froze, though Ekaterin had to suppress a smile, not entirely successfully. Nikki’s mouth also looked suspiciously rigid. Simon’s eyes were dancing. His own soul shrivelled, then flamed up again. Generals could do pretty much everything, and he was besides going to be a trend-setter by joint imperial decree. But after a second his Ma shook her head.
“Not the curule chair, Pel dear, but a moment.” She turned decisively to him. “Ivan dear, I am so sorry, and so angry, and so proud that I don’t really know what I want to say, or do. Cordelia has taught me a great deal about iatrogenics and wish-fulfillment and I recognise the truths she tells, but it has not stopped me feeling how very exasperating you have been.” Her hand sought Simon’s. “But I also know that if he were here tonight Padma would be just as proud and happy, and far more amused than I am.” Her intent gaze shifted. “Jennea, Lactai, Samura, I am Alys, and where your desires do not cross mine, or our Imperial Masters, I will help you all in every way I can. As will Pel and Cordelia.”
The girls curtsied, looking almost as gratefully shocked as he felt warmed himself-Ma is a brick, after all-but for once his lazy intuition-demon was on the job and shouting advice.
“Jennea, please greet my mother and stepfather in the ghem low-mode to ranking clan.”
Jennea looked startled but complied, stepping forward to take his Ma’s unresisting hands, stoop to kiss both, and then lightly embrace her mother-in-law-to-be. Then she stepped to Simon. At his eye-prompts Lactai and Samura followed suit. Both Ekaterin and, more pointedly, Dag Benin pursed their lips in approval. Ivan 7.
“Thank you, Ma, Da. I’m sorry, and angry, and proud too, Ma. It hasn’t been easy for either of us. But it will be easier. And I know Simon will not mind that I am thinking tonight of my bio-Da as well as of him.” He saw Dag Benin’s eyes flicker out of focus for a second. “General Benin, should we be moving?”
Benin’s eyebrows elevated fractionally, Miles’s eyebrows rather more. Ivan 9. This was beginning to be fun.
“We should, General Lord Vorpatril.” There was more irony in that bland voice than he had ever heard anyone except emperors manage.
“May I ask who is arriving?”
Benin paused, eyebrows again flickering. Ivan 10. “That is actually a rather sensible question. The answer, my Lord, is haut Gars. And his family.”
He felt the girls’ startlement, and saw all Barrayaran eyes as well as Pel’s register interest, so this was a new development even on them. Better and better. Ivan 11. In an inspired moment he switched back to Cetagandan, in the ghem-mode of warrior-hero to haut authority. “Indeed? I am humbled and appreciative. Shall we go, then?” And swirling his cloak back about him, with his brides-to-be in flanking array, he led the way toward the house and let the rest of them fall in behind. Ivan 1011. Yes!
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