The Two Ivans - Epilogue
Epilogue
Some hours into the noisy merriment all three girls-my wives-ha!-disappeared to change, and Ivan found himself watching haut Gars while wondering why his head had started to hurt so badly.
To his and everyone’s surprise the non-emperor had stayed (with Pel and Riahir) after the non-empress left, and was holding remarkably casual court in one corner. Dag and other guards stood by, but Gars had offered any ghem who dared to approach easy greetings, and seemed to welcome introductions. One of Ivan’s more cynical bits (in as much as the maple mead had left him capable of it) was muttering about the rumours and intense personal loyalties this night would spawn, but he was also feeling a considerable admiration for Gars the man, or haut, whom he knew was not used to doing this kind of thing, at least in this way, and yet was managing it as easily as Gregor would. They have been talking. Miles and Ekaterin were with Nikki and Riahir (and more guards), amiably chatting amid a throng of extremely attentive younger ghem. So far as Ivan could tell from snatches he could overhear the topic was Lord Vortalon! and the drawbacks of mixing propaganda with history and sentiment. Managing not to shake his head in sheer disbelief he filed this away for consideration when his head stopped hurting quite so much. His Ma and Simon (who had palpably impressed every ghem they met) were now engrossed with Generals Coram and Kariam and Pel, once more out of her bubble, adding to her wild reputation but keeping all riotousness at bay merely through her presence, perhaps even more surely than haut Gars.
Looking up as a ghem-colonel Ivan didn’t recognise at all left him, beaming beside his fluttering ghem-wife, Gars caught Ivan’s eye with a beady look and spoke to Benin, then turned to look at Miles. What now? Dag’s eyes flickered towards a side-door that led back towards the garden verandah and with mixed resignation and curiosity Ivan let himself drift that way, making pleasant rejoinders to the congratulations that flowed at him. Only once was he seriously impeded, when Lord Cahearn suddenly appeared in front of him, kissed his hands, wrapped him in a bearlike hug, and muttered into his ear as he had earlier muttered into Boulanger’s.
“Ivan, we have no idea how you did it, and I confess we thought you the idiot of your reputation. But that was brilliant, politically and culturally. You have Eleta’s and my warmest thanks. And those of all ghem” He stood back, eyeing his fellow in-laws. “Our new son will be a great man among the ghem, eh? As he is among our Vor brothers.”
Part of Ivan wanted to crow, rather more to howl with laughter, but the sober, admiring nods he was receiving from all, with their intent weights of curiosity and enormously heightened expectation were enough to cow anyone. Abruptly he understood what Miles and now Ekaterin meant by all that stuff about vertigo at apogee, but also remembered something else and thought it might be time to meet at least one of those expectations.
“I try, Lerato. And there is one thing you might all do for me next week, as I shall necessarily be away. The visit of Count and Countess Vorbretten and their young son.”
There was a little silence. “What of it, Ivan?” Jadangir Arvin’s voice was cautious.
“They are perforce visiting Lord Thaliar, it being his forebear they share. And Jeronteth Thaliar makes it very easy to understand what happened all those years ago because he is vulgar old ghaut, however he believes himself charming.”
He let the hoary ghem-pun hang. Thaliar was the son but not the husband of a haut, and had Ivan said that to his face he’d have been hard pressed not to demand satisfaction, for the ghem still duelled. All three ghem-lords snorted laughter, as did many among the listeners.
“Too true, Ivan. But what would you have us do?”
“Only this, Jadangir. That you collectively, or through a chosen speaker as you will, let Jeronteth know that if he so much as passes a single off-colour remark to René or Tatya I will publicly replace the piss he utters in his mouth.” It was a traditional ghem-boast. “Literally. Or kill him, as he chooses. It would be my choice of weapons, of course, and Jeronteth has not, I believe, quite kept himself in salon shape.” There were more snorts, as he expected. Jeronteth Thaliar was notoriously lazy, which Ivan was not in matters that interested or amused him, and he had kept up his swordplay, improving dramatically on a very solid base while making many friends and useful acquaintances among the hordes of ghem who were deadly serious about their use of long blades. His throbbing headache made issuing a credible threat an easy and welcome relief, and his desire to get through all this to rest as soon as possible lent his voice, he hoped, a convincing flatness. He looked around the intent ghem-faces, seeing Dag watching him with surprised approval, and held the eyes of each of his clan-fathers in turn until he received three formal nods. Then he shrugged fractionally. “We all have much to learn, and all must be flexible, as they are thoughtful. But I will not permit my close friends and peers among the high Vor, whoever their forebears, to be the butts of such as Jeronteth’s leaden merriment and ill manners. And the clearest possible deterrent is a swift example. Besides, are not even distant cousins as warmly as officially welcome, just now?”
Jadangir’s second nod was decisive and accompanied by a genuine bow the others echoed, as did some (though not all) around. A part of Ivan’s brain coldly marked the holdouts for future attention.
“I will speak with him frankly, and ask Heras to do so as uniformedly as possible just afterwards.” Jadangir raised his voice. “For my own clan I hereby command that the greatest friendly respect be paid to the Count and Countess Vorbretten by any who encounter them, and further, that their visit be spoken of only well. On your peril, heed me.”
Horesto and Lerato added their own clan-commands to further murmurs of acknowledgement, and Ivan nodded friendly thanks before easing out of the group as fast and discreetly as he could once conversation resumed. Which was not very discreetly at all, but at least no-one was going to impede him. As he reached the side-door Dag materialised at his elbow and with a visible pat on the back and an audibly murmured That was well done whisked him through it, taking him directly and at speed to the back-verandah where Gars already stood, looking out towards the holm-oak. Ivan could see no guards but didn’t doubt they were somewhere close.
“Sit down, please, Ivan.” Ivan complied, gratefully. “Dag, is Miles on his way?”
“Almost, sire. He is extricating himself and Ekaterin, Nikolai, and the Prince as fast as may be from a near-mob of new Lord Vortalon! fans. I believe we shall have to authorise at least a limited commercial distribution of the ‘vids. Nikolai and the Prince pitched the analysis superbly and Miles stirred as usual.”
Gars laughed. “Well enough. And don’t worry about Lord Vortalon!, Dag. You of all people know the ghem could do with having to analyse that defeat properly. Meantime …” He dropped into one of the lounging-chairs, stretching out his legs, and contemplated Ivan thoughtfully. “Tell me, Ivan, how do you feel, right now?”
The question was very unexpected and not at all easy to answer, but Ivan knew utter honesty was called for.
“Deeply muddled, sire, in a quite new way. Happy, ashamed, proud, delighted, croggled, grateful, and drunk are all in there. Maybe like very well-buttered toast would cover it.”
Gars smiled but didn’t laugh. “It might. And is your headache frontal? In the lobes?”
What? Oh … “Um, not really. Sort of in the middle. Very throbby.”
“Ah. So Pel was right. Fascinating. She can give you something for it.” He nodded at Dag, who began to murmur.
Ivan’s confusion was again complete, but the door opened to admit Miles, Ekaterin, Nikki, and haut Riahir. Gars smiled at them all without rising, and gestured towards the other chairs. When all were seated he looked at Benin. “You too, Dag, and you can take the Array off. They’re all so shocked already out there we might as well throw in a glimpse of you leaving bare-faced.”
Benin stiffened, and spoke with sudden formality.
“Celestial Lord, before I obey you I believe it my duty to ask if you truly wish that to be so. You have had a … difficult day, and”-he glanced around-“despite present company I will be so impertinent as to add that having undone today so much done in … irritation-”
Gars looked at him admiringly, as did Miles, before cutting him off. “Note that, please, Riahir. And Nikolai. You really are superb, Dag. My feudatory that Gregor most envies, as well he might. But all is well, and I promise you I am over my irritation. This is a Cetagandan back-porch., you realise? So please, the Array.”
Still somewhat stiffly Benin bowed, fully, then sat to produce from his pocket a towel-sachet and deftly wipe his face clean. Gars nodded.
“Thank you, Dag. Now. You’re all here because there is something I wish to say to Ivan and Miles, that Riahir and Dag also need to hear, and that will interest Ekaterin, I fancy, who can talk to Alys and Simon. And Gregor and Laisa, please, as soon as may be. I also consider it a reward of sorts for Nikolai.” He smiled at the boy, who grinned back. “First, however, Ivan managed with the inspiration of maple mead to forestall one practical matter that Gregor was going to address.” He turned to Ivan and let his eyebrows climb. “A Cahearn hunting-lodge on Xi that’s off-net? You would not have left so easily as you arrived, Ivan, and when you’re back from honeymoon after Midsummer Dag is going to have to do some pointed explaining. It’s also plain, Miles, that we need to exchange some basic security and biodata files, so ghem and Vor alike can at least check up on whom they’re dealing with. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Gregor but I doubt he’ll hesitate. Will you talk to Guy Allegre and your Da, please.”
“Of course. First thing tomorrow.”
“Good. In any case, Ivan, if it’s hunting-lodges you want, I happen to have eight. You can skip the one here, but I’m afraid the Cetagandan leg of your honeymoon-tour involves a week at each of the others. There will also be some guards, and not because I think you’ll be trying anything. For the Barrayaran leg Gregor has, somewhat to his surprise, discovered that he also has some hunting-lodges. Three, to be precise-one attached to Sergyar House, one to the Imperial Counsellor’s office in Solstice, and one in the Residence garden. Or possibly the garden of Vorpatril House. You and your brides will be staying a week at each of those too, where you may combine necessary publicity with necessary apologies.”
A small part of Ivan was indignant, a larger part horrified, but his poor, throbbing head was still sufficiently together to tell him firmly that argument was both fruitless and mistaken. And in retrospect, that he had in fact been very lucky, so he merely nodded, carefully.
“I see. Of course. Thank you.”
Gars nodded back, but Miles let an eyebrow climb. He can put ‘em in orbit for all I care just now. There was a knock at the door, which opened slightly to let a Ba slip in. Bowing to Gars he crossed to Ivan and offered him a tray bearing a small hypophial.
“My mistress recommends the carotid artery, my Lord. Shall I assist you?”
Ivan’s head hurt enough that he merely nodded again, carefully. “Thank you. Please do.” He tilted his head, felt the hypo pressed to his neck, and the brief tingle of the injection. And praise be, even before the door had closed behind the Ba he felt the throbbing rapidly begin to lessen into what became merely a dull background ache. He sighed relief, and saw Gars watching with interest.
“Hmmm. Another confirmation. So, enough business, but there are two other things. Miles, you are going to have to license nanoforged maple mead here until we can get franchised maple plantations going. Every inter-imperial marriage will demand a dozen pitchers at least, and there are going to be hundreds.”
Miles blinked, then smiled. “Of course. I’ll talk to Mark.”
“And Pel says to tell you that considering today as well as the cats she believes she may concede your and Ekaterin’s argument about love and history.” Both Miles and Ekaterin grinned widely at this. “But I have an observation, that I am going to enjoy communicating although it rather alarms me, and you may be marginally less keen on your interesting if tentative victory than you expect.”
Miles looked quizzical. “Uh-oh. That sounds like a dangerous warning. Should we get Helen in to record?”
Ivan held his teeth together firmly, but Gars only smiled.
“I think not, Miles, though you are free to tell her, confidentially. I imagine it might come up next time you are glowering at her about The Vorkosigan Report.”
Miles winced. “Alright, Fletchir, I surrender. What is it?”
“This. Do you know, Ivan, what Pel’s diagnosis of you was, almost as soon as she saw your gene-scan and Miles’s side-by-side, almost thirteen years ago?”
Ivan stared. So did Miles. Ekaterin hid a smile.
“Not a clue, sire. The last thing she said to me along those lines, about a month ago, was that I was the most feckless thing she knew of on eight planets, and reminded her of a Sigman gardiach or something. I didn’t ask.”
No smile. “That was exasperation, I would imagine because you had yet again given Shuang-Mei too much catnip ; while she is nursing, moreover. Pel’s original and now plainly confirmed diagnosis was that the name Vorpatril was irrelevant, because you are genetically a Vorkosigan. Which for these purposes means a descendant of Prince Xav’s marriage to his Betan, as you are through your father, and as Aral, Miles, and Mark are through Princess-and-Countess Olivia. Piotr wasn’t and Gregor isn’t, having the dubious gift of Vorrutyer genes instead-though of course all three living Vorkosigans are also in the direct line of Pierre le Sanguinaire through his grandson Piotr ; as Gregor is also, through his great-grandmother, Dorca’s first wife. Which you are not.”
He studied Ivan’s blinking puzzlement, and sighed.
“Never mind. The point is, Ivan, that you are genetically a Vorkosigan. And those very dominant genes neither lie nor idle. So our question was where by the Crèche their behavioural expression was going.” He steepled long fingers. “There is, you know, a condition that can arise in any higher life-form and especially the highest, to which we refer in shorthand as a psychogenetic block. It results from very complex gene-conflict on the behavioural side. So we looked for the conflict in your genome, and could not find it. Because it is not there, any more than it is in Aral or his sons.” He glanced at Miles, lips suddenly twitching. “Much as you managed to invent a new form of epilepsy, Miles, Ivan seems to have invented a new and deeply original form of psychogenetic block. At first we were looking at Alys, and I must say I am glad that Cordelia has taught her as much psychology as she has ; the behavioural iatrogenics were fierce, and having had a somewhat strong-minded mother myself that consideration has led me to forgive Ivan much. But most of that came after adolescence, and he had at least started doing whatever it is he did long before. And that, Ivan, astonishingly, was to prevent the full expression of your Vorkosigan behavioural genes. The Crèche has been intent on you ever since, you realise, in some ways even more so than on Aral, Cordelia, Mark, and Miles.”
Ivan was trying to digest this, and his surprise at not feeling surprised by it. I knew that. I think. Though not about the Crèche. Damn. Ekaterin’s, Nikki’s, and Riahir’s brows were furrowed with thought, but Miles was nodding.
“Yes, though I don’t have that language. What Ivan was doing, Fletchir, and the gods know I can’t blame him for it, was staying as far away from the Imperial Throne as he could possibly get, which was never far enough for safety until the Prince and Princess were born. Being Vorkosigan was very dangerous.”
“Yes, I came to that conclusion also. But his strategy was instinctive, carried out in mostly sublime ignorance without regard to almost anything that mattered, and based on what is in our experience a flat-out physical impossibility. Will can control flesh utterly, but it cannot forestall genetic expression. Which Ivan has somehow managed, though at considerable cost to himself. Until now.”
Miles suddenly looked very thoughtful. Ivan had no idea how he looked himself.
“You’re saying, Fletchir, that today has persuaded you this … jerry-built psychogenetic block has now failed. Permanently?”
“Almost certainly. And the diagnosis is not really in doubt. If it were the maple mead and general excitement it would be Ivan’s lobes that were hurting. Sort of in the middle and very throbby, however, which was his description of his headache just now, points elsewhere. And Pel’s cocktail would not have worked for any other condition. But you are, for once, quite missing the point.”
“Oh?” Miles looked mildly put out.
“Yes. In the … evolving course of this interesting evening, you see, Ivan has managed for the very first time-uniquely, in fact-to remind me of you. Not in your current high competence, I hasten to add, but in sheer, ridiculous, and extremely fortunate, generally beneficial luck, not least in landing despite himself firmly and rather brilliantly on his feet. Though thankfully on a far lesser scale, he has, you realise, rather replicated some of the actions you both undertook here thirteen years ago, but this time playing your part, rather than his own. It’s entirely remarkable, and uncomfortably like watching lightning strike twice in the same place. I’m almost tempted to give him the Order of Merit now just for the symmetry, but neither Pel nor his new clanfathers would ever forgive him. Or me. And Dag and Riahir-and Nikolai, really-are here now because what has begun to worry me is just what the Crèche I’m actually letting loose in the empire.” He shook his head, slowly and rather magnificently while everyone stared. “Riahir had it right, you know, when he named you both as uncles inside a minute. Peas in a pod, really.”
Abruptly he stood, pulling them all up with him in that imperial way. “And it’s time for Riahir to sleep on it. Your poor pilot also awaits. As does mine, and one for Ivan and his brides, who will by now also be waiting impatiently. Shall we go?”
The long look Ivan and Miles shared before they did as they had been commanded was purely Vor, altogether Barrayaran, sublimely brotherly, and utterly, mutually aghast.