Forward Momentum -- Chapter 9 (a)

[bracketyjack]

Chapter Nine

In the event all went smoothly-largely, to Miles’s amusement and increasing curiosity, because Gregor in Vorbarra house uniform was exerting himself to ensure it did.

One did not, after all, keep emperors waiting if one could help it, and even Nikki was inspired to be ready on time, dressed in his new house uniform to match his stepfather and step-grandfather. He went cheerfully with his aunt, uncle, and grand­parents to the Vorthyses’ aircar while the others climbed into the Vorpatril’s elegant and spacious old boat.

Khourakis had all but beseeched Miles not to send word ahead to the village. As the captain had already sent five men to sweep the square yet again and occupy the inn, Miles agreed, knowing the mysterious osmotic process by which everyone in the village knew everything would already have combined with precise observation of those men’s bearing and evidently profess­ional business. It had occurred to him several times he would not himself be popular when Vorkosigan Surleau and the wider District realised the Emperor had come and gone without leaving the great house, but he hadn’t wanted to impose on Gregor and Laisa such humdrum duty as a village visit amid dealing with Chandler’s galactic hypothesis. Galactic bombshell. Nor was Miles sure what prompted Gregor to instate the visit so decisively, but he was beginning to have an idea that both appealed and alarmed. Public opinion was not often sought on Barrayar, but the villagers of Vorkosigan Surleau were not the usual public. It will be all right.

As the aircar made the hop to the village Gregor pointed out to Laisa the ruined castle on the crags above the lake. “The house was originally a training barracks for the castle, wasn’t it, Miles?”

“Quite right. Middle of the Bloody Centuries. Galactic weaponry made the ground fortifications obsolete, of course, so the eighth count started a conversion and Gran’da finished it. More for the stables than the house, I think.”

Laisa laughed. “He really was horse-mad then, Count Piotr?”

“Oh yes. He always said he preferred beasts to men because beasts were honest, whatever their tempers. What he really liked was that he could train them.” Miles smiled acidly.  “His passions for military order and dressage were at heart the same thing.”

Laisa was not deterred. “But you ride for pleasure too.”

Miles’s smile became genuine. “Ekaterin rides for pleasure. I just adore Fat Ninny. I held him as a newborn foal. I’ll introduce you, but you mustn’t expect anything like that astonishing mare Gregor found for you when he was courting.”

“Found?”

Oops. Was Gregor blushing? If so, Alys didn’t care. “He scoured half-a-dozen districts, dear, and had it flown in specially. Now, Gregor, before we arrive, clearly you are still being Count Vorbarra?”

“For purposes of protocol. Aral will do the honours, I imagine. Miles?”

“I would think so. The liegefolk like me well enough when he’s away, but with Counts Vorbarra and Vorkosigan present they’ll look to him.”

Both aircars and ImpSec lightflyers carrying Khourakis and more ill-disguised men settled by the lakefront, just along from the square. The ImpSec team wore mufti but as they spread out into escort formation there was no way to conceal what they were doing, and Miles saw the tallest of many watching youngsters slip round the corner into the square. By the time the sizeable party had disembarked, assembled, and begun to wander that way themselves, shepherded by a needlessly nervous Khourakis, interested villagers were beginning to assemble.

Sight of his parents, as well as Laisa and Gregor in house uniform, galvanised a real gathering. As the full extent and quality of the visiting party was assessed, teenagers were hastily despatched and soon began to return with the young and elderly infirm. By the time the Viceroy had his guests seated at two long outside tables pushed together in front of the inn, the square was crowded. Returning from hasty consultation with the innkeeper Miles saw a tiny woman so white-haired and wrinkled she must be nearing her century being carried at her own frequent and abrasive instructions into a good spot; one of the absent-on-Sergyar Armsmen’s grand­mothers, he thought. Neither age nor youth had exemptions today. The ImpSec men at Gregor’s back and round the square seemed to gauge the crowd well and did not look alarmed, but Khourakis had the air of a man who would like to bury his head in his hands and weep.

“What did you order, dear?” His mother was smiling at him.

“Jugs of light cider and coffee all round. They’ll be a few minutes.” His father nodded, then surveyed the gathering with a raised hand. In a show of discipline Miles hoped Khourakis appreciated, silence fell swiftly. And for all the crowding, there was an elegance to the way the villagers fitted themselves into the space, family groupings predominant but the forty-year men, all in uniform, at parade rest together on one side. Laisa and Ekaterin, he saw with satisfaction, were looking excited and impressed rather than intimidated, as were the Vorthyses. The Professora looked as if she were breathing in yet more neat history, Alys as if she expected nothing else. Illyan’s face was blankly unreadable, even to Miles. Slowly his father rose, stocky body solid in his house uniform, and silence deepened.

“Liegemen and liegewomen. Friends. It’s good to be home.”

Instead of the immediate cheer Miles expected one of the forty-year men stepped smartly forward.

“And very good to see you here, my Lord Count, my Lady Countess. A most unexpected pleasure.” Then cheers were called and roundly delivered. His father smiled as the man stepped back and let noise ebb.

“Yes. I’m sorry you had no notice, but I know all here will understand the demands of security.” This produced polite glances at Gregor and Laisa, with sombre nods from the forty-year men and a scattering of others who knew just how many assassination attempts their Count and Emperor had survived. In the back of his mind Miles began idly to count them. “Some here are old friends but allow me to make intro­ductions. My cousine, Lady Alys Vorpatril, will be familiar to most of you, as will former ImpSec Chief Illyan, but perhaps not Lord Auditor Vorthys and Madame Professora Helen Vorthys.” Count Vorkosigan gestured for Miles and Ekaterin to stand. “My son and Voice you know, but it is my very great pleasure to make known to you my daughter-in-law, Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan.”

This time, to Miles’s unreserved pleasure, cheers were immediate and prolonged. His courtship and marriage, he thought ruefully, would have been as closely followed in the village as by the staff of Vorkosigan House, and even without Dr Chandler’s help in something very close, he was melancholically sure, to real time. As the din continued the Count gestured to Nikki, sitting between him and Ekaterin, to stand, and effortlessly raised his voice into battle command mode to cut through the noise as if it didn’t exist.

“And her son, Master Nikolai Vorsoisson Vorkosigan.”

His Da had promised to handle this bit carefully, and put a hand on Nikki’s shoulder as the boy, proud and terrified, stepped forward, looked round, and waved uncertainly at the many faces inspecting him., Miles felt the hand he held trembling, but Ekaterin’s eyes were shining; this might not quite be the sort of Vor pageant she had desired as a girl, but to him it was the Vor pageant at its best. “Can you say a word?”

She nodded but as noise subsided her grip tightened painfully. Where was Tsipis?  A familiar face would help. That had been the whole point of calling him so late. Even as he framed the thought the man stepped beaming from the crowd, carrying an enormous bouquet of red Barrayaran flowers. He waved for silence.

“My Lady, as it was my Lord Count’s pleasure to introduce you to us all, so it is mine to welcome you and Master Vorkosigan to Vorkosigan Surleau, and to the first of what we all very much hope will be many happy meetings. May you come to know and like us all, and may we come to know and serve you, my Lady, as well as we all deserve.”

Bowing, Tsipis presented the bouquet with a flourish. His father was looking at him with a half-quirked eyebrow; everyone else was beaming with admiration at-though not, Miles fancied, immediate comprehension of-Tsipis’s grammar. The Vorkosigans’ man-of-business kept a small house in Vorkosigan Surleau for convenience, but lived in Hassadar, where the District’s financial life was centred. And good as the village grapevine might be, it would not extend at this notice and in a heavily terraformed area to a bouquet alluding to the Barrayaran garden in Vorbarr Sultana where he and Ekaterin had stood in their wedding-circle. Then he forgot Tsipis as Ekaterin took a breath.

“Thank you, my Lord Count, Master Tsipis, everyone.” Another breath. “You do me great honour, and I will try to deserve it. But I am the one privileged, to be here as a Vorkosigan.” These cheers were flattering and he tried to catch his father’s eye, but Ekaterin smiled and gestured with the bouquet. Silence returned. “Master Tsipis here has probably told you I am a gardener. It’s true. I try to be a good one. But with your help, I hope to grow myself.”The cheering was louder this time, and Ekaterin again gestured for silence, but when she got it turned to the Count. “Please. The Count-my-father had not finished.”

Miles knew his father would be feeling the acknowledgement in her words, but the raspy baritone didn’t show it save in the vocative.

“Indeed, my Lady.” The Count motioned respectfully to Gregor and Laisa, who stood. “We are all most honoured to have two very special guests today. Count Vorbarra needs no introduction from anyone, but it is my duty and great pleasure to make known to you his lady, Countess Laisa Toscane Vorbarra.”

The Count did not raise his voice but the unusual, if expected, titles rang out clearly, and murmured acknowledgments ran through the crowd. The forty-year man-Jankowski’s father-in-law, Miles thought, though the name eluded him-waited for it to settle.

“Count and Countess Vorbarra.” The veteran bowed, and everyone standing in the square bowed or curtsied with him. “Be welcome, my Lord and my Lady, to the loyal village of Vorkosigan Surleau.”

He called cheers for each and rooves lifted. Gregor’s wedding had brought tears of relief to more eyes than his parents’. Komarran bride or no, Barrayarans knew exactly what their Emperor’s death without an heir would swiftly mean for their repeatedly war-torn planet. A pretty, tow-headed girl with a mulish expression in what was plainly Sunday-best was pushed forward, carrying a beautifully arranged bouquet of early roses. To his delight Miles recognised her strong cast of feature; this must be the village-dominating Jankoswski hoyden of whom Arthur Pym so feelingly spoke. Despite her stubborn look the bouquet was offered and accepted with grace on both sides.

“My Lady.”

“Thank-you, my dear. It’s lovely. Did you make it?”

“No, my Lady. My Ma did. She wouldn’t trust me making something flimsy like that.” Laughter rippled. With a glance at Gregor Miles stood and went to stand at Laisa’s side.

“It’s Lara Jankowski, isn’t it?”

“Yes, my Lord.” Deep blue eyes looked suspiciously down at him. Lara was already a strapping girl.

“I gather, Laisa, that Lara here prefers more traditionally masculine pursuits-weapons’ training, fieldcraft and the like.” Miles grinned at the girl’s calculating look as she wondered about his sources. “The Countess is keen to recruit female bodyguards and security staff, you know. You might put in for more than District training in a few years. Ask your uncle.” And I should like to see you get out of that one, Armsman.

“Truly, my Lord? My Lady?” The looks Gregor and Laisa were giving Miles were amused and thoughtful, respectively.

“Certainly, Lara.” Laisa spoke easily to the girl. Her grasp of what was necessary in rural Barrayar already seemed no longer a lesson learned by rote and remembered in suppressed alarm, but proper regnal equality of care. “Lord Vorkosigan is quite correct. Female bodyguards especially are badly needed. Please do apply, if you wish. Thank you again for the beautiful bouquet.”

Looking back over her shoulder, Lara returned into the crowd where a woman Miles assumed to be her mother stared at him ruefully as he sat again at Ekaterin’s side. Sorry, Ma; ask your friendly in-house brother Armsman about it. He smiled politely back but shrugged; service was service, and if Arthur Pym was even half-right in his reports of young Lara’s prowess and tactical inventiveness on her own behalf, her service to the imperium would be welcome just as soon as it could be had. Clutching the bouquet in one hand while Gregor clasped the other, smiling as broadly as he was capable, Laisa looked around and the crowd quieted again.

“And thank you all for making me so warmly welcome. You know I was not born on Barrayar, though I have become a Barrayaran, heart and soul. I know I still have much to learn.” She smiled and received smiles in return, with murmurs of deprecation. Some facts, maybe, my Lady; not much else. Last night had been interesting in more ways than one, Miles reflected. “But if there is one thing I have already understood most clearly-not that it came as a surprise-it is how much Barrayar and the Vorbarras owe the Vorkosigans, and the loyal subjects in their beautiful district. I am honoured to be among you, and welcomed by you.”

She gave a sweeping curtsey and more cheers completed the formalities. Laisa and his father were sitting down, Khourakis was looking relieved, and the mixture of personal goodwill and civil pride humming in the square was palpable. But Gregor was still standing. Silence returned, edged with a different curiosity.

“Friends.” Startled himself, Miles felt silence grow intense. Khourakis was bolt upright, but his father merely looked interested, so Gregor must have warned him. “Plainly, this is no usual audience, and I would take advantage of that-but the day grows warm and your throats must be dry. I see the inn­keeper waiting with our own drinks, so please, do not let me keep you from yours. But do not go away, for I require your witness, and I have a question for you all.”

A courteous gesture to the innkeeper brought him forward as Gregor sat, and after a short, intense surge of debate around the square a stream of people disappeared into the inn and shortly began reappearing with glasses and jugs of local cider for adults, juices for children and the sober-minded. Miles stuck to coffee, as did Gregor, but every­one in their party had cider to hand if they wanted to sample a local brew. On another day he might have indulged in maple mead, but the thought of facing Fletchir Giaja with a Dendarii afternoon hangover was a powerful deterrent. His mother and father leant down the table to speak briefly to Ekaterin and Nikki, reassuring them of having done well, and his father turned a wry look his way.

“That was Jankowski’s niece?”

“It was. You should ask Arthur Pym about her.”

“Ah. She was in diapers last time I saw her. A nice bit of recruiting, Miles. And has Jankowski perhaps erred lately?”

Really, Miles reflected, his father missed very little. It made keeping big things from him deliberately a thankless task. “I left him here on Wednesday to play point-man for Khourakis, but he did not, um, soothe things altogether as he might.”

“Heh.”

“What is Gregor up to?”

“Wait and see.”

That was very unsatisfactory, dammit. But drinks had been distributed, and Gregor, eyeing events with a suppressed smile, was on his feet again. Laisa rose to stand beside him. The square quieted. Gregor looked around, catching eyes and smiling. Then he looked at Miles and Ekaterin, and grinned-alarmingly.

“Kin, officers, and friends. It is rare for me to be able to get away from Vorbarr Sultana like this, and rarer still for these witnesses to be gathered.” His gesturing arm took in the Viceroy and Vicereine, Alys and Simon, the Vorthyses, and the forty-year men, no longer on parade but still grouped together, trailing out over the rest of the crowd. “And it is a special occasion for all of you, as well as Countess Vorbarra and I, with the introduction to you of a new Lady Vorkosigan.”

The crowd murmured happy agreement. Ekaterin blushed and smiled thanks.

“I am sure you have heard much of her most memorable engagement and spectacular outdoor wedding to Lord Vorkosigan last Winterfair. It was my privilege to witness both, and ours now to offer in summer light honour that should have been given before.” Beside him Ekaterin went rigid. What was Gregor about? Laisa was beaming. “The veterans among you will understand, I know, if I tell you that Another Man wanted to do this last year, and was told very firmly by ImpSec He couldn’t.”

Gregor’s voice calmly negotiated the imperial capitals, even as he drew his motley audience into the strange legal and social fiction of his incognito. The forty-year men smiled: youngsters might think an emperor could do as he wished but they knew better what duty might mean to all. Aunt Alys, Miles saw with bemuse­ment, was sitting up with shining eyes, and beside her even Illyan was letting surprise show.

“ImpSec was of course right, and there is much I cannot tell even you, even now. But I can say Lady Vorkosigan has already given more, and more unstintingly, to all of us than you can know. Finding herself last year without warning in the most dangerous circumstances, she acted with an exceptionally cool head, a swift hand, and unshakeable courage.”

All gloriously true. Miles, guessing the plan at last, was swamped with pleasure at Gregor’s audacious kindness, and squeezed Ekaterin’s hand, trembling in his own.

“The circumstances, necessarily, went unreported. But I can, I know, trust this audience”-Gregor’s gesture again swept elegantly from Viceroy and Vicereine to all-“to understand exactly what it means to take responsibility in an unforeseen crisis, to force yourself to think when your mind wants only to scream, and to know you must coldly take necessary risks with others’ lives and your own in the balance. Madame Professora Vorthys was a witness, and herself exhibited great honour with great courage.”

He bowed to Helen Vorthys, who went pink with embarrassment and raised her hand to her lips with an audible “Oh my”. Ekaterin, Miles saw, was as delighted with Gregor’s recognition of her aunt as mortified at his praise of her own actions during those terrifying hours as a hostage on the Komarran jump-station. Beside his wife, Georg Vorthys-who behind his rumples was, Miles bet, doing some rapid thinking about the line Gregor was treading-was beaming his own pleasure. So was Nikki, bursting with pride even as he was swallowed by curiosity.

“Lady Vorkosigan, will you please stand.” Miles thought for a moment he would have to haul Ekaterin to her feet, but with a slight wobble she made it on her own. “Madame Professora Vorthys, will you please join your niece.”

Pink but with grave dignity, Helen Vorthys rose to stand by Ekaterin. The forty-year men shuffled back into line, coming simultaneously to attention as if they communi­cated telepathically, and the crowd straightened, standing tall in what they clearly understood as special honour deliberately shared with them.

“Madame Professora Helen Vorthys.” Gregor’s voice was just as it would have been for a more regular investiture of officers. He drew two slim cases from his pocket and handed them to Laisa, who extracted the contents of the first. “It is my pleasure to award you a Silver Imperial Star, in belated recognition of your courage and service to Us and to the Imperium during a recent event. We owe you an unpayable debt.” With a practiced gesture Gregor took the medallion from Laisa and hung it gleaming on its dark ribbon around Helen’s neck, then shook her hand.

“Lady Ekaterin Nile Vorvayne Vorsoisson Vorkosigan.” He smiled gravely at her and Miles saw her breathe deeply. “It is my great pleasure to award you a Gold Imperial Star, for most valorous and self­less service in saving Barrayaran lives and livelihoods, during that same recent event. The Imperium is profoundly in your debt, my Lady, as are we all.” With the same flourish a ribbon was hung round Ekaterin’s neck, her hand shaken. Laisa embraced both women murmuring something Miles couldn’t hear but would bet was heartfelt personal thanks from a Komarran; had the plot Ekaterin foiled succeeded in re-isolating Barra­yar, Barrayaran forces on the outer side would not have been kind to Komarr. His parents, Miles saw, were as pleased as amused, applauding with vigour; so were the villagers. Miles saw speculative looks among the veterans, as surprised as anyone by the impromptu ceremony but plainly of the opinion that Imperial Stars, how­ever irregularly presented, meant what they meant and were not to be disrespected, especially with that citation from that citer. Gregor had given them a quite different new Lady Vorkosigan to think about. By awarding to female non-combatants medals usually given only to serving officers but unquestionably within his personal gift, he had also, Miles saw, set a very interesting precedent. No wonder his mother had laughed sitting on the cemetery wall; she probably felt Gran’da turning in his nearby grave.

Applause died away as Gregor gestured first to Ekaterin and Helen Vorthys, then more gently to Laisa, to return to their seats. As she sank down by his side Ekaterin was still trembling, flushed with embarrass­ment and pleasure. He captured her hand and brought it gently to his lips. “Bravo, milady. This was well done.”

The look she gave him was in equal measure thrilled and exasperated. “Did you know about this, Miles?”

“Not I-it’s all Gregor’s doing.” As she frowned doubtfully he saw Gregor preparing to speak again and had no compunction in compounding Ekaterin’s blushes and distracting her. “And very right of him too, but we are going to have to field some questions from Nikki.”

“Oh.” As Ekaterin automatically looked round to where Nikki was trying not to gape at her, Gregor lifted his hands a fraction. This time silence was immediate.

“I said also that I had a question for you all. It is a simple question, but the answer may be less so. And though I cannot explain my reasons for asking, I do not ask idly.” His gesture encompassed not just the gathering, but the whole District. “Nowhere on Barrayar suffered more severely during the Cetagandan invasion than the Vorkosigan’s District. I know in your courage you joke here about hill-stubbornness and endurance, but it was no joke then. General Count Piotr, whose hands were between mine for the last seventeen years of his long life, spent twenty years beating those invaders off Barrayar, and more than half his life struggling against their continuing threat. Viceroy Count Vorkosigan has kept them off our planet and far away, once by force and always by strategy. Here and elsewhere on Barrayar we now enjoy peace, and begin to enjoy prosperity.”

There were many nods and murmurs of agreement. Life in the mountains was never easy, but every adult here knew it had improved beyond measure in their own lifetimes. And that the cities now ran with money everyone knew.

“I will not say memories have faded. But wounds have healed. Few now personally recall the Occupation, even here where it fell hardest.” Gregor smiled without humour. “My Lord Auditor tells me Vorkosigan Vashnoi no longer glows in the dark, and plants return to the badlands. So it is, perhaps, in our hearts. And while all but our youngest have known much violence since those evil times, that has been of Barrayar’s own making.”

Older villagers, who like his father remembered Mad Yuri’s War as well as Vordarian’s Pretendership, smiled wry appreciation of that point. So did the Vicereine. Barrayarans!

“For their part Cetagandans have learned to respect us. We deal with them as we must and trade with them as we may. My officers who meet them in the course of their galactic duties have strict orders to respect all Cetagandans as we would have every last one of them respect us.”

Miles pursed his lips, but if Gregor had for the first time stretched truth in favour of cadence this was certainly neither the venue nor occasion to discuss covert ops. The growl of patriotic rhetoric in his last phrase also set emotions thrumming, and that line had to be walked.

“But they remain what I must call enemies.” Gregor looked around, and spread his hands. “Their greater size and need for space makes it inevitable they remain a threat we can never ignore. It is no longer imminent but it is real. We contain it with constant effort, but cannot make it fade. So.”

He paused to let the summary point be taken. Watching the crowd in fascination Miles thought all followed the logic-Gregor was always clear and for all his gravitas as relaxed today as Miles had ever seen him in public. But even one or two ImpSec duty-men were allowing surprise to show, while the villagers, deeply flattered to be taken into their Emperor’s confidence, were also mentally bracing themselves.

“In such a situation we can try to be good enemies. That has been the Barrayaran way and we are masters of it.” More wry smiles came, including the Viceroy’s and Vicereine’s. “Or … we can try to be friends. My question is this. If opportunity arose, would we now be willing to make a proper peace with them? To accept them as our allies and partners?” He turned to acknowledge the Viceroy, who nodded, and back to the surprised faces assembled about him. “I know you would normally look to your Count for your lead in this, but I have asked him to forgo first place and speak later, that I may better hear what you truly think yourselves, and believe in your hearts.” He narrowed his gaze to the forty-year man who had greeted him. “Captain Penderecki, I believe.”

“Sire.”

That was an interesting sign, Miles thought-Penderecki had earlier observed the niceties of the Count Vorbarra fiction with ease. And his father must have supplied Gregor with the name of the Jankowski in-laws that had been eluding his own twitching memory.

“May I ask you, once you have had a chance to confer, to speak on behalf of your service colleagues, and to make sure any others who wish to speak do so?”

“Of course, Sire. It will be my pleasure.”

“Thank you. Carry on.” Penderecki saluted, swung round to rejoin his veteran colleagues, and after a moment began crisply calling the names of senior men and women. A circle began to gather about him. Gregor watched them a moment, seeming oddly alone, then sat. He looked at Miles; so did the rest of the party. “Do you disapprove?”

“Not at all, Sire. It is your privilege.” Miles wanted to stick out his tongue but instead glanced around at the currents swirling in the square. “Though I’m not sure Captain Khourakis would agree. But I am surprised, I confess, Gregor. As are the villagers. You’re not going to start commissioning public opinion polls, are you, like those dreadful Betan politicians?”

Across the table his mother grinned reminiscently. After all, according to family legend even Miles had found difficulty believing before he saw the old footage, and still hadn’t dared tell Ekaterin about, Captain Naismith had once (admittedly in considerable confusion and distress, largely the man’s own fault) kicked an elected President of Beta Colony somewhere she really should not, especially that hard at a ceremony being broadcast planetwide.

“No, Miles, I shan’t do that.” Gregor’s voice was neutral. “The decision is mine alone. But I want to hear what these people have to say. They too will have to make this hypothesis work. And it’s not as if I have an ImpSec analysis to draw on today, even from your enterprising kitten.” Miles winced. “Besides-aren’t you curious, my Lord Auditor?”

“I am.” His father’s face was thoughtful. “Command, not consultation, has always been the Barrayaran way. And in a liege-village like this feudal and military traditions run deep as well as strong. But they know the world is changing; has changed already. Even in the forces, I am not in the least sorry to say, prolonged peace has greatly lessened the worst rigidities of absolute command, and here there are the effects of dawning prosperity to consider also.” His powerful, blunt-fingered hands moved ambivalently in the fresh summer light. “So I shall be interested to hear what they have to say. And if this thing happens, Sire, we shall have to sell it politically to your subjects en masse as well as finagling the Counts and Staff.”

At Miles’s side Ekaterin was listening with fascination. Now she sat forward, as she would not have done a few months ago. Medals, he thought, had more than one use, though perhaps all came to the same thing in the end.

“You speak of our military forces, sir, and so of men. Can you tell me how those considerations are affected by consciousness of gender here? Will the village women speak also?”

“They’d better.” The Vicereine’s voice was tart. “I haven’t been coaching them for thirty years to have them all go shy on me now.”

Her husband grinned. “Indeed not, dear Captain. But you ask an interesting question, Ekaterin.” His eyes were distant. “The Occupation was a great leveller, but didn’t permanently alter our traditional gender prejudices in the same way it flattened the Vor into our wider class structure and made our forces meritocratic. Everyone knows the guerrilla war in the mountains was fought by all, no matter age or shape, just as the resistance war in the cities was, but Ezar and the Count-my-father did nothing to sustain the equality Cetagandans bred between the men and women who fought them.” He grimaced. “I doubt it ever occurred to either of them.”

“Not to Piotr, certainly.” For all his parents had been reconciled with his Gran’da when Miles was five, and the General later made it as clear as he knew how that he deeply regretted his late identity as infanti­cide manqué, Miles knew his mother never really forgave the old man and had liked him no more than he liked her. His father went on.

“At the same time, certainly here where the service ethos is binding, Vor traditions have extended to all classes. All the village girls are weapons-trained; no man here would doubt a woman’s armed competence, nor offer one casual insult.” The Viceroy smiled. “You needn’t worry about Lara Jankowski, Ekaterin. Miles is fanning flames not playing arsonist. You know we have an integrated militia and police-force on Sergyar, and two girls who came out with their families are already in ImpSec training for Cordelia’s bodyguard unit. They haven’t been able to come back here since leaving, I fear, but word will have percolated.”

“Oh. Good. I did wonder at the look her poor mother gave Miles.”

“I saw that too.” The Count grinned with a touch of wolf. “Don’t worry, my dear. Jankowskis understand recruit­ment, if sometimes little else. As to your excellent question, I think women will certainly speak. But”-a smile-“for all your efforts, dear Captain, I think they will be speaking because of the topic. Were it a strictly military issue, they might well not. But then, Gregor would not ask them such a question.”

“Hmmm.” The Vicereine sniffed. “Perhaps. But really, Gregor dear, when are you going to integrate the imperial forces as a whole? It’s-“

Gregor raised his hand. “Spare me, Cordelia. I know what it is. Has it occurred to you our present hypothesis might incidentally provide a most interesting opportunity in that respect also, for if it all happens we are going to be appallingly short of military personnel.” He gave a genuine smile. “One of my nicer thoughts so far about what might happen in the next two years is an image of the General Staff asking me in painful, pitiable panic to open the services to female recruitment.”

“Oh, now that is a thought.”

“Isn’t it just, dear Captain?” His father was nodding, not only in amused agreement. “This hypothesis just goes on ramifying, doesn’t it? Angles upon angles. It’s going to make life very interesting.”

“Indeed.” Illyan’s voice was dry as old bone; his gaze rested on Miles. “Still more dragons out of the hat. In Guy’s absence, Miles, perhaps I should thank you for thinking of ImpSec’s future needs.”