The Two Ivans - II (b)
His lead-position did not last for very long, and even the cloak could not save him from feeling both Miles’s and his Ma’s gazes boring into his spine like Sergyaran worms on maple mead.
But as soon as he had passed through the verandah into the morning-room behind, taking in his stride the gaggles of waiting servants and red-uniformed Imperial Guards, the girls peeled off at something close to a run, vanishing in one direction into a cloud of maids, while Dag Benin steered him firmly in the other, gesturing to a captain to escort the Barrayaran party in his stead. In a room beyond there was a solitary chair waiting before a small silver mirror, and a thin ghem in the Imperial Array with a case of face-paints and brushes. Ivan’s cloak was removed-damn-and he found himself seated while a small towel was laid around his neck, presumably to protect his uniform. Closing the door behind them Benin nodded to the ghem, who braced.
“Charint.”
“Sir. What do you require?”
“The three clan sigils, maximal stylised form, in the first to third positions.” Beneath his zebra-stripes Charint acquired a startled look. “Order by age. In the fourth”-he made a ritual gesture, touching his lips-“I command in my Celestial Master’s own Breath and Voice the screaming bird.”
What? There was open shock on Charint’s face but after one incredulous glance at Benin the man uttered a crisp acknowledgement and set promptly to work. Studying what he could see of his own face in the mirror Ivan thought he was bearing up remarkably well, and general’s tabs looked very good on him, he had to admit. Their glinting, bullioned edges distracted him pleasantly from the odd sensations caused by the brushes ; at least he’d remembered to depilate a second time just before setting out. How long ago was that? It seemed like days ; but now Charik was working remarkably fast, though the upper right design seemed to exercise him intently, and after no more than ten minutes Ivan was inspecting the four sigils that decorated (and more or less covered) both cheeks. Privately he thought all the girls’ clan-designs were pretty hideous, if not quite as bad as General Kariam’s green-and-orange horror, but in these stylised, shield-shaped miniatures they weren’t too awful, though nothing could prevent them clashing rather violently with one another and both elements of his red-and-blues. And he doubted any ghem would be objecting, for the fourth design was indeed the scarlet screaming-bird sigil of the Star Crèche, which though sometimes discreetly borne in jewellery by ghem-lords with haut trophy-wives was not often displayed, and most certainly not worn facially. One of the parts of his brain that Ivan usually tried hard not to listen to reminded him of Benin’s exasperated question about what the ghem made of the Barrayaran genomes, then of Jennea’s and Lactai’s casual certainty about the need to ‘edit’ his own, whatever that really meant. Oh. I’m guaranteed toast. Watching him, Benin suddenly nodded.
“At last, Lord Ivan. How you suppress your brain is a mystery to me. As is why, though seeing your esteemed mother at work in Vorbarr Sultana provides one sort of answer, I suppose. Doubtless we will have time in future to discuss others.” Once Ivan would have shuddered at the thought ; now he felt quite interested and appreciative. “But come, time is short and haut Gars, as you know, does not care to be kept waiting.” Suddenly Benin-Dag-smiled more warmly. “Though even he can hardly think you have done so today, despite your last two years of avoiding marital tag.”
Ivan’s brain went on working despite himself while Charint took away the towel, bracing again, and as he stood he also remembered what Miles had so pointedly said in Gregor’s Voice about grown-ups. So …
“Before we go, General Benin … Dag, would I be right to think this is haut Gars’s first public outing?” Benin nodded, warily. “And did he go to the private ghem-ceremony last month?”
An Imperial Array rippled. “He did, Ivan. Do you understand what ceremony it was?”
“Unless Samura was misinformed, yes.”
“She would not be. Nor Jennea. Lactai might-she had no clan involved.”
“The recovered dead.” Including some very wizened bodies from caves high in the Dendarii snowfields where they had been stuffed, and a small bag of ghem-scalps contributed by Miles.
“Yes. All of them, at last.”
“And the effect of his presence?”
“Electric. But most are holding their breaths to see what comes next.”
“And therefore not talking.”
Benin smiled. “Just so. But after tonight …”
And Ivan saw much, very suddenly. “And the … Hubbers?”
“Will be given hopes.”
“That will … juduciously materialise?”
“Very judiciously, in sufficient cases.”
“Thank you. I will … try to be wise.”
Benin stared. Don’t strain yourself, Ivan hung unspoken, but then the dapper ghem glanced at his chrono and promptly began steering Ivan back the way thay had come, then right, into the large, open hall of the house where visitors were first received. It was jammed with face-painted ghem-men and tight-eyed women, the girls’ many siblings among them, including the incorrigible Veda Benello, and Ivan saw everyone, pretty much in unison, turn with opening mouths at the sound of his and Benin’s heels on the patterned wood of the flooring and then, seeing him, go white in ways even face-paint and festive rouge could not hide. With a renewed sinking feeling he also recognised among the crowd Generals Coram and Kariam, and a bewildered-looking Lord Yenaro. In a clear central area five more ghem and a haut were also staring with open shock : Lord and Lady Arvin, Lord and Lady Benello, Lord Cahearn and Lady d’Cahearn. Full house. I should have guessed. Damn that list. Even the Imperial Guards flanking the outer door seemed to be staring at him. To one side stood Miles, Ekaterin, Nikki, Alys, and Simon. Butterflies returned in force to Ivan’s stomach but the inner calm was still in his heart, and his brain kept working ; just. He stepped forward and swept a bow, Vor Lord to family heads. No shame attends me now. Frozen-faced his six parents-in-law-to-be returned correct bows and curtsies, still staring (even haut Eleta) at his right cheek. With an internal gulp he chose the highest mode of Cetagandan he was confident of inflecting properly, haut Gars having so frequently winced and corrected him during their conversations that he had abruptly provided a sleep-learn tape, now residing in Boulanger’s safe for the use of future ambassadors.
“My Lords, Ladies. Esteemed clan-parents as you will soon be. It is my honour to see you assembled. I trust my cousin Miles has presented you to my mother and stepfather?”
“He has.”
Miles’s voice was deadly dry, his Cetagandan in a very high haut mode Ivan thought was called Celestial Friend to ranking ghem. His brain whirred as best it might. If Miles had been using that for his introductions no wonder everyone was still so stiff. He dropped into the equal mode between senior kin.
“Then all is well. Thank you, Miles.” He turned slightly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t free to make the introductions myself, Ma, but as you see I was having to be still.” He paused, delicately. “Unaccountably, I find myself uncertain of the exact protocol we are now to follow. Dag?”
Benin’s mouth twitched slightly. “Your brides are still preparing, Ivan, and will be for some moments yet. And we await both your final physical and your frame guests.”
Lords Arvin, Benello, and Cahearn had been exchanging pointed glances, and Cahearn spoke, taking a deep breath and using senior to junior kin.
“So you said before, Dag. But I still don’t understand whom we await. Nor why.”
Benin smiled austerely. “My apologies for being reticent, Lerato, but I assure you all there will be no disappointment. And in fact …” He swung round, drawing himself to attention, a motion copied as if on strings by every ghem in the room. Only the Barrayarans remained at apparent ease and they too stood taller-even Miles-as the Guards swung open the doors and went to still more rigid formal attention, the black frogging on their blood-red jackets quivering. Benin’s voice carved the silence.
“The haut Gars, and family. The haut Pel Navarr, Planetary Consort of Eta Ceta. His Excellency Ivan Boulanger.”
Oh … right.
Haut Gars was dressed as finely as always, his overrobes bright with the colours of festival, as were those of haut Riahir at his side. Haut Rian’s bubble, on her son’s other side, swirled with them also ; Pel’s bubble, behind Gars, was still in her dreadful signature pink. Beside it, Boulanger, who had never done more than basic miltary service, wore a beautifully cut pale suit in the style of the industrial ghem-lords. From one corner of his eye Ivan saw the faces of his imminent in-laws slacken in shock even as their eyes began to spark with sudden hope. Gars and his flankers came to a halt in front of him, Pel’s bubble pulling up to one side with Boulanger waiting behind. With a hammering heart Ivan met Emperor the haut Fletchir Giaja’s gaze, which was neither warm nor appreciative of his unexpected day.
“General Lord Vorpatril. Congratulations of many kinds seem oddly to be in order.” The layered ironies of that beautiful baritone were pure flint-but Ivan had not spent 35 years being Alys’s son without learning something. He reverted to his highest mode, still a very low one, he knew, for this address in public, but the informality of haut Gars was the whole point, dammit.
“Indeed, haut Gars. Thank you.” He tried to convey his sincerity, and saw a flicker in those piercing eyes. “I have found it all very unexpected myself. But I am delighted and most honoured you and your family have been able to attend tonight as the guests, if I may anticipate events a little, of my esteemed clan-father, Lord Cahearn. And it is my special honour to offer you personally my most relieved and humble thanks, for the first but not, I am sure, the last time”-he let his voice ring out a little more-“in my own right as a lord of the Vor and on behalf of all ghem, as they gather me among their clans, for your recent grace to our dead.”
Ghem-breaths hissed. Ivan fervently hoped he had got all that thrice-damned grammar right and they were appreciating the content without distraction. He met Giaja’s arrested gaze. I tried, your Nibs.
Imperial eyebrows twitched. “Unexpectedness all round, I see.” The address broadened, though Gars’s voice didn’t change. “And you with all are very welcome, ghem-Lord Vorpatril. It was my privilege to attend the unusual ceremony last month, as it is my pleasure to attend this unusual one now.” Breaths hissed again and the gaze swung. “Lerato. How good to see you once more. We had begun to miss you, in the Garden.” After a blank second of shock the explosive relief of the massed ghem was enough to set imperial overrobes fluttering colourfully in the subtle ambient light. The gaze shifted. “Jadangir. Horesto. Ladies.” Lords and Ladies Arvin, Benello, Cahearn and d’Cahearn dropped full bows and curtsies and Gars nodded. “I imagine We shall meet you again soon, Lerato, but all must wait on these happy nuptials.” Flint glinted still in his voice with the strange pronouns until his gaze swung again and his face warmed with what Ivan would swear was genuine pleasure as he dropped from the oddly informal sub-Imperial mode haut Gars was creating as a hobby to a purely personal mode of some kind. “Miles, Ekaterin my dear, Alys, Simon. It is good to see you all again. And Nikolai, who has done a most excellent day’s work today.”
Miles was grinning like a loon, and Ekaterin’s eyes were shining. “Hasn’t he just, Fletchir?” Ivan wasn’t sure if Miles was even aware of the ghem catatonia that set in despite their all being statues already. “I’m tickled as pink as even Pel could ever hope.” Whaaa- As Fletchir laughed Miles turned slightly and bowed to the festive, swirling bubble. “My lady. Are you well?”
The bubble did not disappear but the haut Rian’s unmistakable alto flowed from it and the massed ghem shivered where they still stood as tense and stiff as badly oiled hair-triggers.
“I am, Miles, thank you. And I do commend in all ways your pedagogy. It has been most instructive to observe.”
Miles nodded, smiling. Beside the bubble haut Riahir’s eyes glinted and Miles turned to him, his voice and in some strange way his modal inflections becoming teasing-a thing that Ivan clearly remembered being told by the diplomatic instructor it was simply not possible to do in the high modes.
“You enjoyed that little strategy course, then, Riahir, as well as today?”
“Oh yes. Both very much.” Riahir glanced at … Nikki? … with a dazzling smile, then at his father briefly, before adding “Thank you, Uncle Miles.”
Uncle-? The collected ghem, goggle-eyes accentuated in the men by their face-paint and in most women by cheekbones, looked as if an earthquake was happening while they all somehow stood still. Which it is. That was adopted friend to parental guide. What the hell has Miles been doing with the haut Crown Prince? But the new Ivan, reflecting in gestalt on what he knew his insane cousin had managed in the last four years-well, 34 years, really-suddenly had a thought about what it must be like to grow up as Fletchir Giaja’s heir and understood exactly why, if not what, had been happening while he had been … distracted by ghem-women. And too busy sulking. Honesty with himself seemed a good idea tonight. He stepped fractionally forward and bowed to the bubble, murmuring a ‘My Lady’, before inclining a head confidentially to Riahir.
“Did he leave you wondering what you’d missed?”
Riahir smiled again, more adult than child already but with a child’s enthusiasm. “Oh yes … Uncle Ivan.” Yes! Promotions are flying thick tonight. He could have sworn Gars winced. “You sound as if you’re familiar with the effect.”
“Often.” Ivan smiled in genuine sympathy. “And thank you for coming here tonight, haut Riahir. It is our special honour.” He offered the boy a friendly bow, senior respecting junior, and as he straightened steeled himself and turned toward Boulanger, who was managing to observe these exchanges with popeyed irony. Miles’s advice floated into his mind and he walked forward extending a hand and shaking the hand a surprised Boulanger automatically extended in return.
“Your Excellency. How very good of you to come.”
Then inspiration struck and he used the same greeting he had earlier asked of the girls, stooping to kiss the backs of Boulanger’s rather hairy hands and straightening again to draw the blinking ambassador into a light embrace, which enabled him to whisper in one ear with some hope of actual confidentiality.
“Ivan, I am so sorry. I’m an idiot, and I’ve been beaten for it. I owe you. And I’ll pay.”
He made to step back again, but Boulanger kept a light hold on one of his hands. The ambassador’s dark eyes were unfathomable, but there was a faint flush on his cheeks.
“Not at all, General Lord Vorpatril. And for my part, if a … fiction can do you grace, I’ll gild it with the happiest terms I have.”
Wha- Oh never mind. I can ask later. Turning, he saw Miles suppressing what looked as if it might have been a very odd smile but had no time (and far less than his usual inclination) to glare. He went easily back towards his waiting ghem in-laws in a way that just happened to put him beside Giaja as he spoke in equal mode.
“So solemn, elders? And rightly yet wrongly so, for I assure you the haut Gars does not stand upon ceremony, and the veiled sun will not burn you. Perhaps you find that a Barrayaran idea, but it is I assure you a useful one.”
The flicker of surprised appreciation in both Miles’s and Gars’s eyes as he looked around was a boon, and the ghem had collectively passed through catatonia and earthquake to some form of hawk-eyed petrification, but half his good work with the metaphors he and Gars had discussed at such length was wasted when Pel’s bubble suddenly winked out and she stood, one of her usual gorgeous pink dresses swirling about her. As Planetary Consort of Eta Ceta she was seen more often here, embubbled and sometimes not, than any other high haut woman, and in the last few years had begun to acquire an additional reputation for wildly surprising outbreaks of idiosyncratic informality-which counted for exactly nothing right now as hawk-eyes distended dangerously and started glazing over afresh.
“True enough, Ivan, and commendably said. But I believe your brides are now ready, and there is one ceremony we all stand upon.” As she spoke a disturbance at the far end of the hall resolved into the girls coming towards him, each fabulous in a swirling dress marked with clan-colours. He missed his cloak but there was no time to mourn for at a snap of Pel’s fingers Ba servitors appeared from somewhere bearing trays with small, sterile-looking boxes. He knew what had to happen and started unbuttoning his jacket, smiling gratefully at Miles who stepped forward to take it as he shrugged it off and rolled up his sleeve. The girls’ dresses, though all fully sleeved in ghem fashion, had forearm openings for exactly this purpose, and the four of them stood in line before Pel as the servitors opened the boxes and handed her the empty hypophials one at a time. His own blood was drawn first, Pel’s hands gentle on his arm and the needle anaesthetically sharp, then briefly held aloft as dazed assent was growled by all ghem present, and the hypophial returned to its case. Each of the girls gave their tithe as the ritual was thrice repeated and he quietly redressed. As silence returned for the fourth time he could hear ragged ghem breathing but the sight of others’ blood seemed to be restoring their own to their cheeks. When Pel was done she turned to face them all, eyes wholly lacking their usual irony, mode ultra-formal.
“Lord Ivan Boris Feodor Vorpatril, son of the late Lord Padma and Lady Alys Vorpatril, here present, of Vorbarr Sultana ; Lady Jennea Melianda Arvin, daughter of Lord and Lady Arvin, here present ; Lady Lactai Ervistu Benello, daughter of Lord and Lady Benello, here present ; Lady Samura Allessandra dehaut-Cahearn, daughter of Lord Cahearn and the haut Eleta, Lady d’Cahearn, here present : in the presence of the Handmaiden, and on my authority as Planetary Consort of Eta Ceta, the Star Crèche sees you all, blesses all your gene-crosses, and holds you and your children in its hands. May you and they all serve the haut and the Vor, your clans, and the future of the Allied Imperia rightly and well, honouring your genome as the Star Crèche does, and will.”
She held out a slim hand bearing a ring with the same sigil he bore on his cheek and he stooped to kiss it. Ivan had been to enough ghem-weddings with one or other of the girls that the basic verbal formula was familiar (if usually spoken on autopilot by one of the scores of junior haut-women deputed to serve the Ghem Marriage Bureau), and he filed away for later thought the calculated variations adding the Vor and substituting the elevated plural of the Alliance for the usual mention of empire. The avid ghem he could see as Lactai and Samura stooped in their turns were certainly doing so with inward looks, as were the Barrayarans. He risked a glance at Gars, also watching the ghem thoughtfully, and receiving one in return held his peace as the Ba servitors left with the cases and Pel returned to her chair, renewing her bubble in all its blaring pinkness. Gars nodded benignly at everyone in a very Gregorish way.
“Congratulations, ghem-Lord Vorpatril, Ladies. And congratulations to you all also, clan-lords and mothers, children of the ghem, so to stand forth in Our great Alliance. It is well done.” There were many fierce looks between his in-laws. “Now, my Cousins will be waiting.” Ghem breaths hissed yet again and Gars waited out the sound. “Is Jadangir or Lerato to lead the way?” He seemed genuinely curious, and Ivan rather thought his senior and junior-but-hosting clan-fathers had not quite worked this out themselves, but Lord Arvin was quick to reply, using a notably deferential mode with (so far as Ivan could tell) some innovative and probably very daring informalities.
“Oh, Lerato must carry host’s privilege, we feel, Sire, though we had not anticipated setting any precedent for other clans.”
“And yet it will be well if you do. Lead on, then, Lerato.”
Clan-father three might be croggled sideways and really wanting a stiff drink but he was no fool, and with his stately wife and triumphant eyes headed for the largest visible doorway, numbers one and two falling in behind with their wives, followed by Ivan himself and the girls, then Gars and family with the Barrayarans trailing them. Perhaps he should have made sure his Ma and Da also preceded him and the girls, but it was too late now. Everyone else could sort themselves out however they saw fit, and serve them all right, not that he supposed they’d had any more choice than he had with Miles, Pel, his mother, and two emperors setting the hounds of Benin on them. He grinned to himself-an awful lot of ghem Saturdays must have been fairly ruthlessly disrupted, and at Barrayaran behest. No bad thing either. But let’s stay careful. The doors led, Ivan knew, to the main reception-room, which he and Samura had planned to use anyway, though not with quite so many guests. And there was still Gregor’s response to his list to come, he remembered with an internal wince at the time it must now be in Vorbarr Sultana. As he passed through the doorway he saw one side of the room now featured an enormous oblong frame, rising to the ceiling along the entire length of the room from perhaps two metres off the floor, with a knot of uniformed techs huddled at one end around the most complex console-controle Ivan had ever seen. Oh … good. At least it’ll all be over with in one go.
Abruptly it struck him that he and the girls had not agreed how they would stand in relation to one another. Though the Vor and ghem rituals were not dissimilar in themselves, vows directly exchanged between spouses standing amid ranked witnesses, the ghem had no equivalent of the Vor wedding-circle, nor its star-points, and in the only double marriage he had seen the groom had stood between his brides. But that wouldn’t work with three women. Ahead of them his massed parents-in-law swivelled to form a line, 321 FMFMFM, which would mark one primary rank of witness, and he walked directly to a position before them that let him face the frame.
“In a square, please, my Ladies. Equal corners, as we mean to go on, and so we can all turn to that frame when we must.”
They complied instantly, and he was rewarded with the first genuinely warm looks Jennea or Lactai had bothered to dispense. Coming to stand beside Lord Arvin, and marking the right-angled witness-rank where his family, Pel, and the Barrayarans (including Boulanger) joined him, Gars also looked approving. He seemed to like the way the Barrayarans fitted in beyond Pel’s bubble as well, with Miles, Nikki, and Ekaterin next to it, his Ma and Da turning the corner with Boulanger, and Dag Benin and Pel beyond them, followed by Generals Coram and Kariam. The girls’ siblings filled the last rank and spilled into a second behind the line of his clan-parents ; and so on around as the massed ghem flowed in. Nikki, to Ivan’s renewed surprise and churning thought, responded to a glance from Gars with a glance of his own at Miles before leaving his spot (into which Ekaterin somehow expanded) and walking round to slide in next to Riahir, between Gars and the empress’s bubble. Despite the difference in their ages the boys shook hands, then embraced with surprising intensity, before turning properly outwards again looking far more pleased with one another than solemn, while the ghem who saw this by-play went straight back to doing their dazed-hawk thing. The layers of Miles’s strategy-and Fletchir Giaja’s participation in it-began ineluctably to unfold in Ivan’s mind, and after a second he knew that whatever he actually felt about being quite so comprehensively dragooned into triple ghem-matrimony his cousin was serving Barrayar and everyone’s children in a way no sane Vor would ever do anything to impede. And while he might be a bit of an idiot sometimes, as he seemed to be able to admit to himself without embarrassment tonight, he was one of those himself, by the gods ; not some thirteen-toed Vorrutyer or ego-mad Vordarian to do whatever lunacy he fancied and damn everyone else. Something else tugged at his brain, but the noise of the entering ghem was too much, even though Veda Benello was being kept silent by concerted glares from her parents and eldest brother.
As the room at last filled and the din of boot- and shoe-heels on wood eased away Ivan saw Dag glance around, then mutter something under his breath and glance at Gars before muttering again. He urgently signalled to the girls, and as they turned in heady unison toward the frame, triggering a massed rotation from ghem with their backs to it, Ivan braced himself, wondering with genuine curiosity how many from his list Gregor-and Miles and Nikki!-had been able to round up at such short notice. And how many haut Gars might have cared to add. The answer was not long to wait, and as the frame abruptly blazed light the size of the comsonsole controlling it was easily understood. Fuuull house. Again. Oh well.
At one end, in thin individual stripes, were seven embubbled Planetary Consorts and haut-goverors with assorted haut and ghem dignitaries narrowly crammed around them. At the other, similarly banded, a bewildered-looking Jack Chandler ; Admirals Heras Arvin and Vlad Vorlightly, co-commanders of the Joint Fleet, with portions of their staffs ; and Uncle Aral and Aunt Cordelia, surrounded by more Vorkosigan Armsmen than he ever remembered seeing together in one place. Gregor-in house uniform, yesyesyes!-and Laisa were in the centre of the great middle image, which showed the mosaic room at the Residence. Between them stood a lad whom Ivan recognised after a second as Jo Boulanger, and wished he could turn to see his boss’s eyes ; by Jo’s feet sat ImpSec, tail neatly curled, and an expression of alert feline interest on his face. Gah! The room was, Ivan recalled, where Kou and Drou had married-and they were also there, to one side of Gregor and Laisa, with all their children. Delia and Duv were accompanied by nursemaids holding their babies, as were Olivia and Dono, grinning fit to burst beneath his handsome spade-beard and with an absurd number of his own Armsmen, including a blank-faced Szabo and the other stunner-victims from that memorable night. Martya and Enrique (hopping from foot to foot as if he might give birth at any moment to an epithalamion in some unimaginable stanza-form or other) had no children yet, though Ivan didn’t suppose it would be long before they made an announcement ; while a very saturnine-looking Mark and Kareen, presently accompanied by all other extant Vorkosigan Armsmen, were still waiting to crack the lids of the two replicators they had recently filled with progeny. Ivan almost winced when he saw in the ranks around and beside this mass Falco, white hair even wilder than usual, with at least half the living Vorpatrils and quite possibly some of the dead, as well as yet more Armsmen. He did pause to give René and Tatya Vorbretten a bow and a look of rueful apology, which he saw Gregor note unsmilingly, but there was no time and his gaze swept on, over knots of House and ImpSec uniforms, then army and navy ones including what looked like at least half the General Staff, including Admiral Vorlynkin, and a solid block of Lords Auditor with their families, including the Vorthyses. Helen had on what he instantly recognised from Miles’s heartfelt descriptions as her horrible historical look, and he was distantly stunned to realise it made him proud. Completing the circle he saw the Lord Guardian of the Speaker’s Circle, his deputies, and a group of men it took him a second to recognise as the Lord Keeper of Vorhartung Castle with his deputies, including that ass Vorbalakleets. Oh well. It was my list.
Saying something to Uncle Aral was a priority, but there was only one place he could start, and he had realised from Gregor’s and Laisa’s bemused looks as they took in the three girls arrayed diamondwise before him that a blend of shock-tactics and humility might again work. And if it didn’t he would at least have tried his best to give everyone on Barrayar what they all wanted of him and could go down with guns firing. He began by sweeping a deep bow to Gregor and Laisa, mourning his cloak anew but seeing the girls drop with him, and the Barrayarans, and the ghem. Yes! Only Gars stood unmoving, eyeing him speculatively.
“Sire. Countess. What a wonderful surprise. May I present to you, and to all who honour us with their attendance, my fiancées and their parents?”
Gregor nodded rather stiffly, and Ivan knew Miles had been right that he was really Not Amused At All. But policy and need as well as simple courtesy dictated that as Ivan rattled off all nine names with their proper titles both Gregor and Laisa extend a genuine warmth of greeting, and as he completed the list, not inappropriately with Lady d’Cahearn, he seized the tail of that warmth and spoke to Gregor directly in the same Cetagandan mode he’d used to Gars.
“Sire. Cousin. Count and Countess Vorbarra. On behalf of myself, my brides, my esteemed clan-fathers and clan-mothers, and all ghem here tonight, it is my true pleasure to be the first to be able to thank you, as both Vor and ghem lord, for the grace you do us all through your presence.”
He thought both Gregor and Laisa blinked, but Count and Countess Vorbarra didn’t waste a second in making elegant and altogether imperial gestures of gracious acceptance and pleasure. Gregor’s eyes glinted.
“It is Our pleasure, Ivan. And mine. I could do no less for my second cousin. Or is it third?”
“It will be both soon enough, Gregor, though at least once removed in either case, as Ma is always telling me. And may I also say how very sorry I am for the trouble to which all our sudden festivity has put you and Uncle Aral and Aunt Cordelia?” He turned to bow to them, seeing the girls turn and dip with him in unison, and as he straightened looked his uncle straight in the eye, desperately trying to communicate what he felt ; what Uncle Aral saw he didn’t know but Aunt Cordelia’s face softened a little and an approving look began to mix with her obvious exasperation. Vorpatrils! Then Uncle Aral suddenly let one eyelid flicker a fraction.
“It is our privilege, Ivan, to join this happy throng and to toast your futures.”
In Aral’s strip of frame liveried servants appeared, bearing trays with tiny stone cups that Ivan hadn’t seen since the last time he’d been idiotic enough to drink maple mead with Miles. And the same thing was happening not only throughout the mosaic of frame images, even the Cetagandan ones, but in the hall around him, where numerous Ba and liveried house-servants bore the trays. The unmistakable aroma of the most disgusting, gut-destroying, guerrilla attack-beverage ever brewed by man entered his nose like light cavalry on the rampage-oh hell, they must have mulled it-and he had to endure the smell for some while as the ludicrous number of people present in one or another way were all served (saving only the Planetary Consorts, and he’d bet Pel had a stone pitcher stashed somewhere in her bubble) and stood holding a very strange mixture of tiny cups and glasses with varying degrees of glee or apprehension. Finally three Ba servitors dressed in an exquisite brown-and-silver finery that reminded him of something ceremonially walked in through the ghem-spiral, their leader bearing a tray, probably diamond from its sparkle, with three thimble-sized and one larger glass. Distressingly larger. And gods only knew what the glasses were made of. From the corner of his eye he saw a similarly magnificent service offered to the Barrayarans, even his Ma taking a glass with a resigned look at the mead but an appreciative nod for the presentation, and then to Gars, who took his own singularly magnificent glass looking meditative. Even Nikki and Riahir received tiny glasses, and took them solemnly. Miles’s eyes were purely gleeful and Ivan shuddered inwardly, knowing this was Miles’s Auditorial sentence for his treatment of Boulanger ; Uncle Aral didn’t even like maple mead. And he really should have followed up on his considerable puzzlement as to how haut Gars had come to know quite so much, and quite so accurately, about the damnable stuff, but there was no help for it now. He took his glass boldly, beginning in the back of his mind an old army mantra for calm, and turned to face Uncle Aral again.
“Uncle? Sir?”
That granite face that he had always known, now looking so oddly younger and easier, considered him for a moment, then grinned warmly, transforming heaviness into pleasure. It was an effect the Nexus had seen during the invasion broadcast, but the ghem present today still shivered where they stood. So did Ivan, though for different reasons.
“Congratulations, Ivan. Ladies, I look forward to meeting you all in person, here at Sergyar House, perhaps sooner than you expect. And as the newly appointed Admiral Lord Auditor of the Joint Fleet, speaking in both my Masters’ Voices”-
He paused to touch his lips in the same way Benin did, and Ivan realised the ghem had shivered their collective way right back into their glazed-hawk thing, while next to Aral Admirals Arvin and Vorlightly were essaying minatory glares at all and sundry, daring exclamation.
-“I am delighted to offer you the congratulations of all Vor, common, and honourable ghem officers and ratings, male and female, serving in the Fleet. And in Their Own Breaths and Voices, those of our Imperial Masters, so strangely elsewhere.” Aral raised his own glass, looking more reminiscent than anything else. “General Lord Vorpatril-Ivan, you inspiration-and you most intrepid and valorous ladies, your surprisingly but most interestingly collective health.”
Aral solenly raised his glass and drained it. So did everyone, and though he wanted only to sit down and think for a long and joyful moment about that inspiration Ivan really had no choice.
Garrk. Eeeuuuw. Ouchouchouch.
With watering eyes and a convulsing stomach he lifted his glass high, thought of how many had been distributed in time to resist smashing it at his feet, tossed it neatly to the waiting Ba servitor (who caught it automatically with a delightful if regrettably blurred look of astonishment), and somehow managed a creditable reply to Uncle Aral ; in the middle of which Ivan abruptly realised the effect maple mead had had on the ghem. And even the haut Eleta, looking green. Talk about breaking the ice. Miles! You are … magnificent, actually. That’s brilliant. I always said it was an attack-beverage! He could have danced but the moment beckoned and he ignored his burning gut and wildly pumping heart to seize it fast, using a version of Gars’s sub-imperial mode that he was sure he was mangling horribly, but what could you expect from an outlander, after all? And after that draught of maple mead to boot.
“And now, my Masters, my Lords and Ladies, my clan, my friends, you have vows to hear, and we, my beloved, most distinguished and loyal brides, have vows to exchange.” He blinked to let his tears run openly and looked straight at Gregor. “So let’s see what happens.”
The vows went perfectly, and though he hadn’t planned it so, followed their square around in four Cetagandan modes, high to low, and the four Barrayaran languages. How did that happen? No matter, it was right. He managed in the immediate aftermath to lock eyes with Gregor again, and to his infinite relief received a smile and a fractional shake of the head, letting him know he was, if not wholly forgiven, safe from Kyril Island at least. After that the party was memorable, as well as setting a new record for simultaneous ghem-Vor, haut-Vor, and ghem-haut frame conversation. And he got his cloak back. Eventually.