Forward Momentum -- Chapter 8

[bracketyjack]

Chapter Eight

While Ekaterin took herself properly to bed, Miles dozed for an hour in the comfortable chair in his private study until the indefatigable Pym brought coffee and news.

“The Viceroy and Vicereine are safely landed and will soon be on their way from the spaceport, my Lord. They should be here in an hour or so. Captain Khourakis would be glad of a word when you have time, but the matter is not urgent.”

Miles rubbed his eyes and peered at his Armsman. “Pym, you astound me. How has ImpSec time for the less than urgent?”

“The Emperor told him he and the Empress might ride down to the village tomorrow morning. The Captain had to swallow his anxiety at the time, but later expressed it with force. Jankowski unwisely pointed out to him that everyone there was quite capable of working out Their Majesties were here and almost certainly had, given the number of ImpSec men hanging about the house in mufti for several days.”

Miles vented a sigh.  “Ah. Well, that would do it. You’d better bring him up in five minutes.”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Is Jankowski still on duty?”

“No, my Lord. He’s on early shift, so he went off to bed an hour ago.”

“Pity.” Miles contemplated waking the erring Armsman who had failed to finesse Khourakis’s instinctive caution and professional paranoia, but thought better of it. Besides, when had Gregor decided he wanted to visit Vorkosigan Surleau? On horseback? That wasn’t going to work. Or was it Laisa who wanted to go? Either way, Miles realised, it would surely do Ekaterin no harm to make her first appearance in the village as Lady Vorkosigan in that company. A call to Tsipis might be in order. Some­where in the back of his mind it also occurred to him that the Jankowski hoyden of whom Arthur Pym spoke with such indignant passion might be further assessed, to a greater satisfaction than waking her uncle now.

“By the way, Pym, will you feel obligated to send Armsmen with us if we go on this jaunt? You’re going to be stretched pretty thin if you do with only five of you here and a lot of preparing. Banharov and Ruchinski will be exhausted, and with Gregor and Laisa coming Khourakis and at least half his ImpSec squad will be with us.”

Pym considered. “Not necessarily, my Lord, if you and the Count are happy with other arrangements.”

“I think so but check with one of us in the morning. Carry on, then.”

Miles tackled a third cup of coffee and by the time the stiff-shoulder­ed ImpSec captain was shown in, his brain had cleared considerably. He motioned Pym to stay and waved Khourakis to a chair. “You’re District-born, Pym, if not village-born, so you shall do duty for Jankowski.” Pym’s smile promised equitable balance between more and less local Vorkosigan Armsmen would be restored. “Whereas, forgive me, Captain Khourakis, you cannot be so. There is Greek blood in the hill-population here-Master Tsipis, the Count-my-father’s man of business is of that stock; a splendid manager-and a delightful Greek Quarter in Hassadar, where Ma Kosti likes to shop I discover, but no Khourakises. Please, have some tea and tell me of your background.”

Somewhat disarmed by the banter and swift segues, Khourakis found himself in possession of a beautiful cup filled with the Terran green tea he favoured but could rarely afford. He didn’t recall mentioning his taste to anyone at the old house, so perhaps it was good fortune that Vorkosigan shared it.

“It’s very ordinary, I’m afraid, Lord Auditor. I grew up in suburban Vorharopulos Athena.” The capital of the only Greek-majority District on Barrayar was a notoriously dull, industrial city that resembled its ancient Terran namesake only in the vulnerability of some residential suburbs to scrubland fires. But to Khourakis’s surprise the odd little man opposite him-long familiar by sight as a childhood friend of the Emperor’s but in his new Auditorial role a more frequent and disturbing presence at the Residence-gave his confession no snide smile or look, but merely nodded.

“In which suburb?”

“The Forestry, my Lord.”

“On the western side, isn’t it? Quite hilly and still genuinely wooded. Were your parents born there?”

“No, my Lord. But raised there. All my grandparents moved to the city from the hills in Emperor Ezar’s time. My mother became a teacher in the local school and my father is a District agronomy officer with the olive tree project.”

“Ah, yes. It ran into difficulties over soil pH, didn’t it?”

How, Khourakis wondered, did a man who hadn’t been on the planet four years in the last twelve, and had never had anything at all to do with olive trees, know about that? His father maintained a test-plot of stunted trees in his own garden but the generous imperial and limited district money had dried up long ago.

“That’s correct, my Lord.” Khourakis decided on the lesser risk and took Vorkosigan at face-value; the man was obviously a data-store. “Soil pH on Barryar is higher than on Terra-not by much, but for olive trees too much. They grow well in special orchards, but in the open need too much protection to be viable. Neither botanists nor geneticists have been able to help.”

“So the olive-oil industry is stalled. No money for small-holders and villages in the western hills.”

Khourakis blinked, then realised Vorkosigan’s own mountainous district must have similar social problems, and felt heartened that despite his galactic air and alarming tendencies to sudden action the small, strangely powerful lord was so aware of locals who depended on his family. The present Count Vorharopulos, he knew, would not show up well by comparison for all his gaudy uniform. He nodded, dumbly, and Vorkosigan, after an enquiring glance, went on.

“Just like here, in many ways.”

Did Vorkosigan read minds? Thinking over the days since he had come to this house and its loyalist village Khourakis thought he might.

“I’ll bear it in mind. As it happens, I expect to be talking to several ah, notable geneticists quite soon. Perhaps your olives could learn from our maples or something.” Eh? But Khourakis had no time to think what this might mean. “In any case, from what you say, Captain, I imagine while you knew country people growing up, you didn’t know a village like this one. More than two-thirds of the families here have at least one member on active service with ImpSec or regular forces, or as an Armsman. Nearly half have two.” Pym was refilling his teacup as Vorkosigan gazed at him peaceably. “Senior NCOs or junior to middle-ranking officers, in most cases. With families presently lacking an active member they also muster eleven retired forty-year men whom ImpSec, or in three cases the Imperial Rangers, were sorry to lose. I could also name you three sixty-year men who live within five miles of this room.”

As he contemplated these comforting statistics Khourakis found him­self holding a plate bearing an aromatic diamond of baclava oozing honey that suggested to his fogging brain only that Ma Kosti must have recently been to the reportedly delightful Greek Quarter in Hassadar. The teacup had migrated from his other hand to its saucer, and he held a gleaming silver fork at which he looked in surprise. Vorkosigan’s voice acquired a thread of steel among the reassuring reminiscence.

“You have satisfied yourself no resident of Vorkosigan Surleau presently has guests other than related members of my own staff. And you can forget riding-my stables will accommodate Admiral Vorlynkin readily enough. They will not accommodate the Emperor and Empress necessarily accompanied by, at minimum, myself, yourself, my wife’s self, my step­son’s self, and the selves of at least eight ImpSec guards. To most of whom, begging your pardon, I should not in any case entrust a horse.” The fog in Khourakis’s head was beginning to spin, yet everything Vorkosigan said seemed to make sense. “Lady Vorpatril’s rather beautiful old aircar is another story. It will easily take five of us, and ImpSec can follow in normal pattern.”

With the air escort operating, Gregor’s physical safety would not be wholly Khourakis’s responsibility. His brain latched on to the comforting notion. Yes. Then Vorkosigan spoke again, almost as an afterthought.

“Besides, the village will expect no less.” Before Khourakis could absorb this, there was more. “You’ll be on parade, you know, as much as we, if Gregor goes ahead with this. More so, really, because we probably won’t take Vorkosigan Armsmen. The villagers know Gregor was hidden in the mountains here as a child, during Vordarian’s Pretendership. One or two older ones even say they saw him, and all think of him as specially theirs, through my grandfather’s loyalty to old Ezar. And through my father of course.” Vorkosigan gave what looked a genuine smile. “Who will be here shortly with my lady mother.” The genial force of the little man’s speech became a compelling briskness. “So, more usefully, Captain, you will discover, if you haven’t already, that almost all adults and half the children in Vorkosigan Surleau already have ImpSec files and security ratings at least equal to yours when you first met His Majesty. Which quite a few of them have, one way and another.” Khourakis found himself on his feet, empty-handed, with Vorkosigan smiling genially up at him. Where had the baclava gone? His belly was warm and his breath tasted of cloves and honey. “And at the risk of giving you an idea, Captain Khourakis, your responsibility tomorrow, if all this happens, is less Gregor’s safety, which is not in question, and more introducing Laisa, who has never been to the village.”

Now that was a thought to ponder. Adjusting his conduct of security duties to the presence of the new Empress had been a persistent challenge over the previous year. He believed, and the Emperor said, he had done well, especially at military functions where tact about Komarran affairs was not always as evident as it should be. Only one generation out from what most Barrayarans still called Greekie hicks, Khourakis knew something about deflecting racial and cultural prejudice, not that he’d had any hint of it here. Vorkosigan looked into his eyes, and Khourakis found himself oddly reminded of the Emperor’s gaze.

“As my responsibility will be to introduce my own wife. In whose hands, traditionally, we all rest here.” Then he gave the strangest grin. “Rest easy, Captain. She does, I will. All shall be well.”

* * * * *

When the armoured ImpSec aircar bearing his parents slipped silently through the last security checks and settled on the grass, Miles was waiting with Pym and Roic, as well as a senior maid. Normally the Viceroy and Vicereine of Sergyar travelled with a staff of dozens, and their arrival anywhere precipitated upheaval; putting one’s own staff on duty was the polite thing, but largely redundant. For this strange, secret mission, however, they were accompanied only by a brace of Vorkosigan Armsmen, Banharov and Ruchinski, and the pilot-a vastly smaller entourage, Miles suspected, than either had managed for decades, so he was prepared.

As soon as they were out of the aircar, stretching cramped limbs, Roic and the maid went to gather luggage from tired armsmen, whisking away valises and awkward uniform and dress-cases. Miles stepped forward, and Pym slid around to his brother-armsmen with a discreet smile of assurance that they might relax.

“Welcome, sir, milady mother.”

Neither Cordelia nor Aral seemed much minded to formality. Miles wasn’t unduly surprised his mother bent to kiss him, firmly, with a murmured “Hello, son”, but was moved despite himself when his father swept him into a silent embrace. Releasing but not relinquishing his grip, Aral leaned back and looked closely at him. What did his father really see, Miles wondered, in his undersized and misshapen son? His own filial thoughts, even after seeing the man for half the day by vivid frame, were as always arrested by the palpable force the Count-his-father emanated in person. Perhaps he could learn to do that some day, but he suspected it was a quality you had or had not, and being distinctly short was not promising.

“Congratulations, sir.” The raspy baritone was Miles’s oldest memory. “You are trying a great thing, Miles. Your mother and I are proud of you tonight.” Miles almost gaped. What did he feel, hearing words he had so often dreamed of earning? Vertigo at apogee, perhaps? But that must wait, and his Da was looking at him with the oddest look in deep-set eyes whose twinkle overlay something wholly serious, and taking his Ma’s hand. “I confess myself strangely moved by your desire that I lead a singularly improbable annexation of Jackson’s Whole. Did you really leave Gregor in the dark about that, as you did us?”

Miles tried to gather his wits, and gestured vaguely into the darkness beyond the house-lights. “I didn’t want to spook him with a blood-price.” He brightened. “But your tractor-bubbles sort that out wonderfully.”

“My tractor-bubbles?” Aral’s indignant laugh was music to his ears. “Hardly, boy.”

“Oh they will be yours, sir. For everyone, everywhere.” Miles’s voice was level. “After the Nexus has seen by frame a singularly aesthetic as well as bloodless takeover, of old evil by new good, and heard you address them roundly on the subject. Think about it.”

Taking advantage of the moment Miles ushered his parents inside. Pym relieved them of coats, Banharov and Ruchinski went with grave thanks to well-earned rest in more comfortable beds than fast imperial couriers afforded, and both parents followed Miles to the kitchen. He had insisted Ma Kosti claim her beauty-sleep, pointing out that Sunday’s calendar, though less frantic, would again be busy; she had left covered plates of bread and meats, with pastries to follow. Roic was busying himself with teapot and kettle.

“Food, my Lady? And tea?”

“Thank you, Roic. That would be lovely.” Cordelia settled in a chair across from Aral, leaving the head of the table between them. “Come.” She patted the vacant seat. Resigned, Miles sat. His mother contemplated him with a look in which familiar, suppressed exasperation mingled with sparks of worry and something he didn’t recognise. “Miles, dear, we are thinking about new good, old evil, and your notion of commandeering a Nexus-wide public address system. And we will talk further, dear, about your preferred methods for making the universe a better place and your father a happier man. In the meantime, what is the agenda tomorrow?”

Miles wasn’t going to touch most of that with a long stick, even at mother-point. “Rise when you will. An informal morning and lateish lunch, as Gregor wants to visit the village with Laisa. Ekaterin and I will certainly go, as she hasn’t been down there herself yet. If you both come, the village will be very happy.”

“I see.” Miles had no doubt his father did, to the uttermost. “Of course we shall come.”

Roic served the food and tea, received thanks, and at a signal from Miles withdrew.

“By the way, I told Pym he needn’t send Armsmen with Ekaterin and I tomorrow, or even with you, if we do all go to the village. Even with Banharov and Ruchinski they’ll be stretched, and we’ll have Khourakis and who knows how many circling ImpSec goons. Pym was reluctantly relieved, I think, but he’ll probably check with you in the morning.”

“Heh. So much for the local end. When do our more far-reaching duties begin?”

“Late afternoon, our time-16:30. Late morning, theirs. Dag Benin knows who’s here, and promises their party will match. He said he had everything in hand.”

“And you believe him?” His father managed to sound wry despite the questioning pitch.

“I think so.”

“Hmm.” The rasp in his father’s voice deepened. “And how did you get the poor man to agree to all this, Miles, without going through Ambassador Vorreedi or using ImpSec?”

“It was tricky,” he admitted. “Chandler’s friend there was another medic, doing something with their military hospital on burn recovery, so there was no way he could get to Benin. But do you remember that ghem-lord artist, Yenaro, from the Star Crèche business ten years ago?”

“The one who was supposed to have made that booby-trapped sculpture?”

“That’s right. Well, he came out of it all well enough, with a minor post in the Celestial Garden, and has since risen a few grades, enough to have access to places senior people go. So we got the medic to give Yenaro the frame and a letter for Dag Benin, using my name and requesting he closet himself in his office and push the button.” Miles grinned. “He was most surprised to see me. Even more so when he realised I was on Barrayar.”

“How much did you tell him?”

“All the basics. The frame is powerfully persuasive in itself, but I outlined what little Chandler’s said about the nanoforges. You could hear Dag thinking, I swear. Then he asked what I was proposing. I told him three things. First-to his considerable relief, I fancy-that only our Imperial Masters could possibly decide this one. Second, that his job and mine was therefore to put them both in a position to do so. And third, on my word as Vorkosigan, that we wanted a peaceful outcome and would offer a straight, honourable deal to haut and ghem alike.”

“And he agreed to go straight to Giaja?”

“Oh yes. He saw the other possibilities as clearly as we do. He asked who’d be with Gregor, and I told him, promising to confirm it today with other arrangements we made. Which I have. So that end is alright.” Miles drummed his fingers. “At this end, Guy and Yuri may need soothing from time to time tomorrow, but unless Gregor asks for formal advice again I’d as soon not generate any more of it. We’ve done that bit. I think Gregor’s only hesitating, not doubting, if you see what I mean. And the doubt is about exposing himself to Giaja and the Cetas, not the pitch itself.”

“Yes, I’d agree with that from his looks. You wrapped it very nicely for him.” His mother’s voice was warm. “How is Ekaterin doing? I thought she was looking a little frazzled by the time you started rolling-out planetary invasion plans.”

Miles hunched. “She’s fine. She’s done wonderfully, of course. She knows I had to use blinkers for everyone on this.”

Cordelia regarded her son steadily. “And she is comforted no doubt by realising that you do not think only of her as a horse, but extend the privilege to everyone.”

Ouch. Miles hunched further and looked up at his mother from under drawn brows. “What would have had me do, milady mother?” A dangerous inspiration struck him. “I won’t pretend ignorance is bliss but you can’t tell me knowing isn’t a burden.” A hit, a palpable hit. And now a nice diversion. “Which reminds me, Ekaterin and I let something else be known at dinner.” He had the satisfaction of seeing both parents hold their breaths, felt only a second’s guilt at using the news to distract them, and let his own elation show. “A boy and a girl, by replicator of course. Next year, when Ekaterin’s done at the university, while we travel. Someones to come home to.”

Amid delighted congratulations awkward present questions retreated. With thirst and hunger sated, both his parents also began to show their inevitable tiredness after such a hasty voyage and multiple jumps. Following them to their rooms Miles mentally sighed relief. His mother could be distracted by very few things; prospective grand­children, however, seemed to manage the trick nicely. But as he bade them goodnight and his father disappeared from sight, Cordelia turned back.

“Your brother will be furious, you realise, though he’ll probably want to hug you as well. I trust you’re prepared for both events.” She looked down at him with what might be mild astonishment. “As for your Da, Miles love …” She bent and kissed him. “Thank you. I don’t know yet if I hope it’s only for the thought.” With a smile she was gone. The door clicked shut behind her, and for the second time that night Miles found himself standing in the upper corridor with an alert Vorbarra Armsman studiously ignoring his presence.

* * * * *

Half-awakened by early summer light, Miles felt sufficiently deserving of his rest to ignore faint noises he interpreted as Vorlynkin heading to the stables. Given the extra hours she had enjoyed, Miles even managed to ignore Ekaterin’s quiet departure from bed and bedroom. But the smell of food and growing anticipation had him impatiently showered, and (after some thought) dressed in his oldest, most comfortably worn house uniform, minus, for now, the tunic.

Sauntering downstairs with a pleasant sense of being virtuously betimes despite his late night, he was considerably put out to discover around the kitchen table everyone except Vorlynkin, Chandler, and Allegre. At the range Ma Kosti seemed to be mixing, frying, and serving simultaneously; Jankowski shuttled plates of pancakes to their destinations. Crocks of butter and jugs of maple syrup stood on the table. From Nikki’s satisfied look at least one round had already been consumed with gusto. Miles tried not to feel put out.

Ekaterin, sensing his emotional prickle, looked an enquiry. “Hello, love. I hoped you might sleep on a bit. Dr Chandler is. Your Da said you couldn’t have got to bed before three.” Sliding in beside her Miles waved this away, smiling at Ma Kosti as she acknowledged his arrival through a whirl of whisks and spatulas.  He awoke to nods of greeting and mumbled good mornings from around the table, and nodded back. Vorlynkin must be riding. Good. Miles bet Chandler was sleeping in-he’d seen the Terran leave the terrace accompanied by the kitten and an empty bottle shortly before his parents had arrived. But where was Allegre?

“The delicious smells woke me. It would be churlish to complain.” He awoke to something else and turned to Ekaterin. “Um … I expect you’ve discovered I told Ma and Da about our decision …” This time he was properly glad to see her smile.

“Yes, of course, love. I meant to tell you to relay the news last night, but when … that other thing happened, I forgot.” As she poured him coffee she leaned to whisper, as close to a giggle as he remembered seeing her. “Your Ma was wonderful, of course. But I think your Da is going to be slightly drunk on it a while.” She gave him a look with the giggle still in it but a graver note too. “Your Ma said it ran in Barrayaran paterfamilias blood like a cattle stampede, and told me to take no notice.” A note of wonder entered the mix. “It’s not even as if I’m pregnant.”

Her slightly plaintive tone made Miles’s heart soar, and his faint ill-humour of tiredness dropped away. A smiling Jankowski put a full plate before him; he reached for butter and syrup and let things go on without him, as they were clearly doing anyway. Busy mouths had no spare capacity to talk, and on full stomachs conversation became desult­ory-Nikki and his uncle exchanging comments about how maple sap was concentrated and an experiment in the boy’s chemistry syllabus, while Ekaterin and her aunt discussed someone called Estelle, who seemed to be extraordinarily formidable but whom he couldn’t place. Only his parents had more to say, to Gregor and Laisa, relaying brisk thoughts about the state of health services on Sergyar to which Alys and Simon were also listening. The radial fauna were still causing casualties among new back­country settlers, especially children, and the even nastier vampire balloons were numerous, numbers peaking in some ecological cycle of their own. Miles shuddered and left them to it. Once he finished eating and was on his third coffee, however, he began to think he should exert himself as host. Gregor noticed his repletion and disengaged from the gothic problems besetting his Sergyaran subjects.

“Miles, I gather Captain Khourakis told you I want to ride to the village this morning. He says you vetoed horses and suggested Alys’s aircar.”

“I did. If we may, of course, Aunt Alys.” She nodded benignly. “I’m sorry, Gregor, there aren’t enough horses for your ImpSec team as well and you know riding animals don’t mix with lightflyers.” Gregor looked mutinous; Miles turned the screw inexorably. “I didn’t want to risk some loyal ImpSec chap with a hard seat and heavy rein preceding us into the village at a flat-out gallop.” Nor Laisa, who might have enjoyed ambling about the imperial gardens on a dainty (and heavily tranquilised) mare led by an Armsman with her imperial suitor strolling alongside, but was certainly not ready to ride a considerably larger, drug-free gelding on a four-mile round trip with steep gradients. Especially with three heavily armed and armoured ImpSec lightflyers hovering about. Miles’s gaze bored into Gregor. “This way the air escort can go up as usual and Khourakis will relax a bit on the ground.” Miles hated to use Gregor’s sensitivity to the strains he posed for his bodyguards, but it worked. Why had he been so set on riding anyway?

“Oh well. Ekaterin, you’ll come? And Nikki.”

“Of course.” Ekaterin was smiling but Miles sensed dismay at an added ordeal. Nikki looked even less sure the village was his preferred destination for the morning, but Gregor’s company was a potent draw. So was the Viceroy’s.

“And Aral and Cordelia are coming too. Excellent. Alys? Simon? Helen? Georg? You will all be welcome.” All nodded. Apparently if Gregor couldn’t have horses he would have numbers. And if ten adults and Nikki were going, Miles reflected, he had better secure the Vorthyses’ aircar as well. Gregor turned to him again. “Miles, will Guy and Yuri be out riding much longer, do you think?”

“Um … Guy went riding too?”

“Yes. He said he wanted air.” Gregor’s lips twitched. “I sympathised.” Miles wasn’t touching that one, but was pleased Gregor had talked to Guy, and presumably Yuri. It suggested things were coming along.

“As to how long, Gregor … do you know where they went, exactly?” Standing by the range, Jankowski coughed. “Yes?”

“The longer track to the upper woods and castle, m’lord. Admiral Vorlynkin asked about lunch. I told him it was at one and they promised to be back for it.”

“Hmm. Well, they won’t be back before twelve if they ride the full circuit.”

“Good. Thank you, Miles. Armsman.” Gregor was being oddly organising, Miles thought, though his eyes were warm. Why did he seem content the officers would not be a part of his great village expedition? “Then shall we say ten for the village? Does that suit, Miles?”

“Certainly. You’re very brisk this morning. Is there some other deadline I’ve forgotten?”

“No, not at all.” Gregor looked … what, exactly? In another man Miles might have said shifty, but that wasn’t like Gregor at all. He turned back to the Vicereine. “The thing is, Cordelia, coming here again, to this house, reminded me of those days with you and Sergeant Bothari in the mountains. I’ve been telling Laisa about it, and we wanted to burn an offering for him together. Will you come?”

Ah. Miles relaxed, assuming the awkwardness had been uncertainty about his reaction to Bothari’s name. He didn’t mind that. But Gregor’s question, he realised, really was addressed only to his mother, who rose, smiling assent. For a moment resentments tried to return, but innate respect for the relationship between Gregor and his mother disbarred them. She also, he realised, wanted to talk to Laisa privately.

The three left, followed by Ekaterin, Nikki, and the Vorthyses, Georg having easily agreed to use their flyer and ImpSec pilot. Alys and Simon drifted out too, leaving only Miles and his father at the table. He swallowed. “Did you sleep well, sir?”

The Viceroy grunted. “Not very. I feel jumps more than I used to.” He smiled at his son. “I had a lot to think about, too.” Clearly conscious of the staff present, his father leaned forward and spoke for Miles’s ears alone. Outwardly relaxed, Miles felt his stomach churn. “Not least your remark about new good and old evil. Did you mean I might gain a new galactic soubriquet to eclipse my old one?”

He obviously meant The Butcher of Komarr. Miles was greatly relieved. “Something like that, sir.”

His father stared at him. “Heh. Well, I am flattered by the thought. But my reputation can hardly be a concern in these negotiations.”

Miles stared. “On the contrary, sir, your reputation brings them to the table. And Gran’da’s.” He shrugged. “Ten years ago they heeded my name before they heeded me. It’s still true. So I think your honorary command will be a necessity.” A thought struck him. “Da, do you know how you are regarded by their command? They study Gran’da, as well, but you are the one they think about. Believe me, your presence is a powerful part of the deal.”

His father regarded him calmly. “And yours, I think. They have not forgotten Dagoola IV, by all accounts.”

“No. But even if they’ve worked Naismith out, they think the whole Marilac strategy was yours. Which it was.” He paused, wondering how close to the wind he could sail. His father waited, a sceptical look on his face. About half the truth would do, Miles thought. For now. He kept his own voice low, though Ma Kosti and Jankowski had left. “I grant you, cooling the Marilacans down again will probably be my next job, if this comes off. But it goes back to you and Gran’da. When you were born, they were still here in the Dendarii. Gran’da got them off Barrayar. You took Komarr, and held the Imperium together when Ezar died. Then you beat them again at the Hegen Hub.”

“Only because you discovered the threat.”

Miles waved away the courtesy he had dreamed of receiving from his father. “You beat them,” he repeated. “Then contained them with convoy escorts and the Marilac strategy.” He counted points on his fingers, low voice vibrant. “Any chance we have of a full peace is your work, Da. And the haut Fletchir Giaja knows it as well as Gregor. Nor was I joking about aesthetics-we really are dealing with the haut now, not just the ghem. Besides, name me another Barrayaran under whom their high command would be honoured to serve.” His father came close to fidgeting during this encomium, flatly true as it was, but smiled.

“Your mother was not happy at the idea of my returning to active military service.” The smile faded. “As for the rest …” He took Miles’s hands. “We shall see. But whatever happens, Miles, I am honoured.”

Miles squeezed back. You will be, if I get this right. The Viceroy released him, and stood. “I should go find your mother.”

“And I must let poor Captain Khourakis know he will have eleven of us in two aircars to look after.”

They parted in the hall, and through the window Miles watched his father walk up the path to the family cemetery, Jankowski a pace behind. Though not just family-the Vorkosigans had taken it over with the house when the bones of the first eight counts became expanding, superheated plasma along with what had always sounded to Miles like a perfectly ghastly family mausoleum in Vorkosigan Vashnoi, so there were plenty of old District names behind newer headstones. Gregor, Laisa, and his mother must already have burned their offering, or were waiting for Aral, sitting on the low cemetery wall in animated conversation. Pym and a Vorbarra Armsman stood patiently by. He couldn’t see a brazier or any smoke. Miles’s eyebrows quirked. What on earth had Gregor said, Laisa grinning beside him, to make his mother laugh aloud? He heard Khourakis enter the hall behind him, and turned.

“Ah, Captain. It appears we shall be eleven for the trip to the village. That rather rules out house-visits, so we’ll go to the inn in the square.” He grinned at the ImpSec man’s frozen face and wondered if he’d be able to work those olive trees and their difficulties into his great scheme. He liked the pictures he’d seen of Terran olive groves. “It’s actually the Vorkosigan Surleau Village Hostelry, as my Gran’da believed in functional naming, but everyone calls drinking there ‘going to the Count’, because he used to transact District tax business outside in summer, and by their fire in winter, so now it’s just ‘the Count’. We’ll be outside, I expect, on the shady side of the square. Eleven of us means two aircars, so we’ll use the Vorthyses’ as well. Please let the air escort know. Now, where would you like us to set down?”

Khourakis went an interesting colour.