Fic: It's a long way to Escobar (9/20)
It's a long way to Escobar
by jetta_e_rus aka Georgette
Vorkosiverse. Slash, PG-13. Drama, action, a detective story.
Translated from Russian.
The table of contents is here
Chapter Nine,
where Illyan figures out who is behind the door, but still doesn't understand, why.
***
Illyan was unpleasantly surprised by the bell.
The surgeon would call him up via comm. And any other person's visit would be utterly inopportune. Actually, Illyan could simply not show his presence in Commodore Vorkosigan's cabin, since Aral was in heavy sleep and didn't hear the buzz. But the sound repeated immediately, therefore, the man behind the door was impatient and wasn't going to go away. Illyan rose, automatically shook off the dust from his trouser's knees, though the mat on the floor was quite clean, and looked around to find any possible mess. Then he went to open the door.
Speak of the devil and he was sure to appear; it was the worst kind of visitor, in other words, Ges Vorrutyer.
Illyan thought that it had been useless two hours ago to fence himself to the cabin's door like an armsman covering his lord with his body against fire if Vorrutyer now arrived here in person. His face expressed anticipate and irritation at the same time; he held under his arm a bottle of a transparent glass, filled to the brim with a dense, lightly opalescent, olive green liquid. Absinthe? It didn't matter. Anyway, it was strong drink, flatly contra-indicated for Vorkosigan, whether the matter concerned his false ulcer or his true hard drinking.
"Vice Admiral, sir." Illyan nodded briefly, automatically stepping forward. Now he stood in the doorframe leaning his shoulder against the door-post and setting the opposite hand against the door slot. This posture was far from a Regulation stand at attention and open to rebuke. But it blocked the way completely.
Vorrutyer was as much surprised with his presence as Illyan himself. His amazement was so great that he stretched out his neck in an attempt to discern something in the shadow over Illyan's shoulder, but it was in vain. Then the Admiral eyed him from head to foot; his stare was evaluating, as if Illyan was a horse being traded.
"Lieu-te-nant?" Vorrutyer syllabled his rank with a venomous distrust. "Does the Commodore feel so bad?"
"Commodore Vorkosigan's health is satisfactory; he fell asleep after the ulcer attack," Illyan reported; this was a brief version of his official communique.
Vorrutyer stared at the hand that prevented him from entering as he might have at an odd physical phenomenon, for example, a double halo; a thing that he had heard and read about in the manual, but hadn't expected to encounter. "Then what are you doing in his cabin?"
It was a reasonable question. The true answers would be 'I am searching the cabin' or 'I banish Aral's nightmares', but he couldn't say that, even with the principal nightmare of Aral's list now standing on the threshold of Vorkosigan's cabin. "I am making a report, Vice Admiral."
"At night?"
Illyan hadn't imagined before that one could attach significant indecency to that phrase with only an emphasizing inflection. He shrugged. "Junior officers have to give up to duty all their time, regardless of hours."
Vorrutyer moved forward slightly. "Do you need to have your ward right in front of you in order to make a report about his... misdeed? Such an odd method; this is the first time I've heard of it."
A kind of trap like 'Have you stopped beating your wife?'. Ges Vorrutyer was good at casuistry.
"Your question, sir, has two answers, No and Yes. No, I didn't intend to qualify the Commodore's illness as a misdeed. Yes, when I write my report I must see him in person, his comconsole and all the room. And yes again, I stick to my directions," he added, his tone edged with inflexibility of a Serviceman, who would act by all the rules even as the world collapsed.
"Is this procedure so complex?" The Admiral flicked his brow with a deliberate amazement, "It gives the impression that the Commodore's illness was something... extraordinary."
Extraordinary, to be sure! But how had Vorrutyer happened to know it? Why did he long to enter this door so much if there was only a victim of ulcerous colic behind it? Was it possible that the Vice Admiral had managed to miss Aral Vorkosigan's company during the few hours after the lunch?
"You would be better to inquire of the fleet surgeon whether this illness was extraordinary or normal," Illyan answered with a blank face. "Could I help you with something else, sir?"
Vorrutyer winced clearly. "You can. Would you be so kind as to move away from this damned door and not hold me in the corridor, lieutenant? This is an order."
Unfortunately, is was impossible to contest this. Illyan stepped aside, letting Vorrutyer pass into the narrow passage along the bathroom. The Commander-in-Chief almost shouldered his way in; he strove to get into the cabin as soon as possible.
Illyan wondered what Vorrutyer had expected to see here. There was the usual ascetic order in Vorkosigan's cabin; Aral breathed heavily, but quietly, covered with a bedspread. Evidently, he had been slightly reanimated by the injection, and his fainting unconsciousness had gave place to normal sleep. Illyan hadn't wanted to disturb him and dimmed the light to minimum luminance, since his hand light was enough for searching. The ceiling panel smoldered dimly amber in the "night-lamp" mode. The light from the passage formed a yellow rectangle on the floor, that did not reach the bed. The comconsole display was turned off and dark: the open files didn't shimmer like moonlight above the vidplate. Illyan figured that, all things considered, his remark about the report now fell on a fertile breeding ground in Ges's mind, if he effectively grasped Vorrutyer's way of thinking.
"As I have just reported," Illyan explained under his breath, "the Commodore had just taken a strong soporific. When he wakes up, he will pay his respects to you in person."
The unspoken part of the phrase meant: "Up to that moment you have nothing to do in his cabin which you weren't invited to, so it would be better for you to go away as far as possible." But a junior officer couldn't say that to his Commander-in-Chief unless he wanted to get a disciplinary punishment and, what would be worse, to make him a personal enemy, in addition to the animosity that the C.-in-C. already felt towards Illyan's ward.
Vorrutyer certainly caught the implication but didn't answer. He only glanced aside to the sleeping man, and then strolled along the cabin. The floor mat muffled his steps, and the Vice Admiral, rather corpulent, moved softly as if he slunk. Finally he nodded, coming to some decision, and made for Illyan. He approached so closely that Illyan had to make an effort not to shrink back after this intrusion into his personal space.
Vorrutyer grinned and offered kind-heartedly, "Well, if the Commodore is sleeping, you could be his pinch-hitter," Vorrutyer sustained a brief significant pause like an actor on stage, "Where is his might-have-been report? Give it to me.”
I have a feeling that Vorrutyer just doesn't want to go away, and so tries a plausible pretext. It's so touching! Ges Vorrutyer supposedly feels miserable, all alone; he has nobody to exchange a few words with and seeks sympathy and cordiality from his former friend. But such ill luck; this friend has drunk himself into oblivion and sleeps. Now poor Ges has nothing to do but to loaf around Vorkosigan's cabin in the company of his lieutenant.
Illyan carefully noted the atypical behavior of these two men, when inflexible Vorkosigan had takes anxiolytics and cynical Vorrutyer looks for his company. He managed not to change his face from bland to surprised or sarcastic.
"I don't have it, Vice Admiral. The Staff strategical plans are outside my competence; moreover, I was not appointed Vorkosigan's aide-de-camp."
"Pack it in, Illyan. It's dead certain you have thoroughly rummaged through Vorkosigan's files while he slept." The insult was accentuated by his nod towards the sleeping comconsole, "And you know where it is. Indeed, don't you want to correct the misdeed of the officer who is in your charge? Taking into account the necessity of strict observance of discipline and seniority," this was almost an exact quote from Prince's speeches during lunch, "the Commodore had to remember that the fruits of his thought were supposed to appear in the nick of time."
"To avoid any misunderstanding, sir," Illyan put in, "My business is only Lord Vorkosigan personally, and guarding his safety. Discipline or the Commodore's staff duties aren't my prerogative. I do nothing but observe and analyze; my time for reporting will come only on our return."
The implication, that wasn't spoken aloud due to their disparity of ranks, clearly said: "... and you are not the person I'll report to". It seemed that for a split second Ezar's shadow revealed itself on the dark wall, and Vorrutyer saw it.
"Of course, when Vorkosigan wakes up, I'll cite your words, to the letter," Illyan added after the tiny pause.
He had no choice but to hope that Vorkosigan's sleep wasn't too light, and this awakening wouldn't take place right now. Illyan thought that his ongoing face to face encounter with Vorrutyer was utterly undesirable for Vorkosigan to witness. It might seem that it was ridiculous to shelter him physically from the awful Vorrutyer; they had rubbed shoulders for many years and managed not to kill each other yet. But Illyan suddenly found himself moving in such a strange way; when Vorrutyer stepped towards the sleeping man, Illyan shifted unconsciously from foot to foot, Vorrutyer tried to outflank him stealthily, and he repeated the step. This waltz went on for a long time.
"Are you going to wait for his awakening, Simon? Right here?"
"Perhaps."
"What attention!" Vorrutyer gestured in a pointed manner, holding the bottle in the left hand, "Simon, you are just a model wife."
Illyan smiled carefully, and his nail flicked on the collar rectangle and the silver pin on it. "Security often have to fulfill an unusual job, including concern for some people round-the-clock."
Vorrutyer stepped back and sat on the station chair, at last putting his bottle on the smooth glass surface. His features blurred over with shadow, dark eyes shone with excitement and the smile spread slowly. "Perhaps, I'm lacking for this... cordial concern. And safety. Did this never occur to you?"
Does he make advances to me, really? Oh, shit. I certainly can't be Vorkosigan's pinch-hitter in this way.
The bright, expressive eyes on the thoroughbred face watched every move of his lips, noticed every tiniest detail of his expression. Lieutenant Illyan had to be very prudent...
Illyan slowly unfastened the folding chair from the wall and hooked it into its floor bolts next to the comconsole. He sat, and only then answered, "Unlike your work schedule, Vice Admiral, mine is round-the-clock. I can't spare you time for a permanent concern. No more than a quarter of an hour."
"Should you drink with me, Simon?" Vorrutyer unscrewed the bottle's cap. "I think we might not find any wineglasses in this barracks, but we could drink straight from the bottle's neck, by turns."
"Unfortunately, I'm on duty." This was a proper excuse, since ImpSec men on duty weren't allowed to eat or drink anything but their own military-issued rations; a fact that the Vice Admiral had to know. Besides, for caution, Illyan would take nothing from Vorrutyer's hands, not excepting even an award, and disdained to drink after him.
"You are trying in vain to look like a stubborn martinet. I beg to differ. Such a fellow would hardly find a common language with my Aral." He sighed expressively. "He is too unsociable. I wonder, do you imitate your companion as a faceless mirror on your own initiative, or have specialists worked on you before?"
Vorrutyer paused, waiting, and took a gulp of his beverage with pleasure. Did he expect that the scurrilous things he had just said would also bring him a pleasing, delicious result? Alas, he missed, and did not hit. These attentions hadn't been a trigger point for the ImpSec lieutenant for a long time. Illyan only smiled in return.
"You have guessed almost right. But I'm a glass, not a mirror. And any clever man doesn't argue with the person behind this glass. As for the rest, I'm lucky, because I resemble Vorkosigan just enough."
Skepticism was written all over Vorrutyer's face.
"Resemble? I wouldn't say so. You are dead serious and excel in self-control better than any other of our officers." He paused and glanced aside, checking whether the lieutenant fell for the bait of flattery or not. "They couldn't say that about Aral; he is a sheer fount of emotions which he has never learned to restrain. You witnessed our talks at the table, didn't you? Oh, yes, the poor fellow is sure that his stony mask can deceive anybody, until now. If you believe it, you understand your ward very poorly still, I'm afraid."
"This disadvantage is transient, like youth. I get rid of more of it every day," Illyan promised.
"And every night?"
Illyan wondered if it was Vorrutyer's company that made him take any gentle obscene hint, or his own peccadillo of today. What a pity that he couldn't omit all ambiguities and and directly answer directly the Vice-Admiral's unspoken question, "No, we don't have sex, Aral and me. Are you interested in something else?" Alas, the virtual Ges in the bottom of his subconsciousness struck back easily, "You haven't gotten laid by him yet, but it's only a matter of time, isn't it?" Illyan succeeded in forcing this uninvited mental guest to shut up only by will-power, and after a promise to set against him a virtual Negri.
"Sometimes I do, as you see", Illyan said briefly.
"I hope you will not have to know Commodore Vorkosigan as well as I know him. Then you will be able to keep some respect for the Butcher of Komarr. Alas, I failed to do it, but anyway I have some responsibility for him."
Was it jealousy or just hypocritical peacockery? He should try to draw more.
Illyan gestured palms up, tilted his head.
"I can say with all due certainty that the Commodore isn't your responsibility any more, sir. Rather mine than yours."
In a split second Ges' handsome face became harsh with sharp features, that of a dying man. "Aral Vorkosigan," he said, "is my personal responsibility. Formerly, now and always, not dependent on any official assignment."
It gave Illyan the shivers, despite himself. This "my" sounded so peremptory that it explained much. Vorrutyer's perpetual mockery proved to be not some little revenge, taken out of boredom, but the possessiveness of a man who was sure of his power by right, the power of the lord over his own thing. This conviction was irrational, and therefore it made the pure logician Illyan shiver. He realised suddenly that Vorrutyer was restrained only by a thin thread of law. If the Vice Admiral could find a way at the same time to not break the Emperor's order and to skin Aral alive, literally, he would do it in the firm belief that he acted for Vorkosigan's good, since he was never wrong in this matter.
"Neverless, I'm a typical man of Service, Admiral. I don't divide personal responsibility from official assignment." Illyan sat cross-legged, leaned forward supposedly confidentially. "Besides, you shouldn't bear this burden. You are already charged with the most important person, the Heir of the Imperium. Concentrate on him, please, and leave Vorkosigan to me. As the folk of our District say, 'nobody can hold two melons in the hand at once.'"
Vorrutyer narrowed maliciously, as he found himself getting really and truly brushed off. He shrugged with deliberate indifference. "As you wish. But I warn that you are playing with fire, Illyan. Believe me, it makes burns that hurt a long while, never heal completely, and leave behind ugly scars." He rose abruptly, took his bottle from the tabletop, glanced aside to Vorkosigan and nearly stepped toward the bed but caught sight of Illyan's slight move and thought better of it.
"Thank you for your advice, sir," Illyan answered, almost without an edge of acidity in his tone. "I would be glad to listen to it in future. It will be easy for you to find me; every time you encounter Commodore Vorkosigan you'll spot me nearby."
"I have no doubt of it." Vorrutyer's face remained arrogant, but his eyelid twitched slightly. "You are a model guard."
Illyan saluted without words, seeing the Admiral to the door.
Unfortunately Vorrutyer said in the end, when he was already in the doorway, "I wonder what a kind of lover you are. Have you had this special training too?"
Illyan had a chance to swear in return, under his breath, only when he locked the door.
by jetta_e_rus aka Georgette
Vorkosiverse. Slash, PG-13. Drama, action, a detective story.
Translated from Russian.
The table of contents is here
Chapter Nine,
where Illyan figures out who is behind the door, but still doesn't understand, why.
***
Illyan was unpleasantly surprised by the bell.
The surgeon would call him up via comm. And any other person's visit would be utterly inopportune. Actually, Illyan could simply not show his presence in Commodore Vorkosigan's cabin, since Aral was in heavy sleep and didn't hear the buzz. But the sound repeated immediately, therefore, the man behind the door was impatient and wasn't going to go away. Illyan rose, automatically shook off the dust from his trouser's knees, though the mat on the floor was quite clean, and looked around to find any possible mess. Then he went to open the door.
Speak of the devil and he was sure to appear; it was the worst kind of visitor, in other words, Ges Vorrutyer.
Illyan thought that it had been useless two hours ago to fence himself to the cabin's door like an armsman covering his lord with his body against fire if Vorrutyer now arrived here in person. His face expressed anticipate and irritation at the same time; he held under his arm a bottle of a transparent glass, filled to the brim with a dense, lightly opalescent, olive green liquid. Absinthe? It didn't matter. Anyway, it was strong drink, flatly contra-indicated for Vorkosigan, whether the matter concerned his false ulcer or his true hard drinking.
"Vice Admiral, sir." Illyan nodded briefly, automatically stepping forward. Now he stood in the doorframe leaning his shoulder against the door-post and setting the opposite hand against the door slot. This posture was far from a Regulation stand at attention and open to rebuke. But it blocked the way completely.
Vorrutyer was as much surprised with his presence as Illyan himself. His amazement was so great that he stretched out his neck in an attempt to discern something in the shadow over Illyan's shoulder, but it was in vain. Then the Admiral eyed him from head to foot; his stare was evaluating, as if Illyan was a horse being traded.
"Lieu-te-nant?" Vorrutyer syllabled his rank with a venomous distrust. "Does the Commodore feel so bad?"
"Commodore Vorkosigan's health is satisfactory; he fell asleep after the ulcer attack," Illyan reported; this was a brief version of his official communique.
Vorrutyer stared at the hand that prevented him from entering as he might have at an odd physical phenomenon, for example, a double halo; a thing that he had heard and read about in the manual, but hadn't expected to encounter. "Then what are you doing in his cabin?"
It was a reasonable question. The true answers would be 'I am searching the cabin' or 'I banish Aral's nightmares', but he couldn't say that, even with the principal nightmare of Aral's list now standing on the threshold of Vorkosigan's cabin. "I am making a report, Vice Admiral."
"At night?"
Illyan hadn't imagined before that one could attach significant indecency to that phrase with only an emphasizing inflection. He shrugged. "Junior officers have to give up to duty all their time, regardless of hours."
Vorrutyer moved forward slightly. "Do you need to have your ward right in front of you in order to make a report about his... misdeed? Such an odd method; this is the first time I've heard of it."
A kind of trap like 'Have you stopped beating your wife?'. Ges Vorrutyer was good at casuistry.
"Your question, sir, has two answers, No and Yes. No, I didn't intend to qualify the Commodore's illness as a misdeed. Yes, when I write my report I must see him in person, his comconsole and all the room. And yes again, I stick to my directions," he added, his tone edged with inflexibility of a Serviceman, who would act by all the rules even as the world collapsed.
"Is this procedure so complex?" The Admiral flicked his brow with a deliberate amazement, "It gives the impression that the Commodore's illness was something... extraordinary."
Extraordinary, to be sure! But how had Vorrutyer happened to know it? Why did he long to enter this door so much if there was only a victim of ulcerous colic behind it? Was it possible that the Vice Admiral had managed to miss Aral Vorkosigan's company during the few hours after the lunch?
"You would be better to inquire of the fleet surgeon whether this illness was extraordinary or normal," Illyan answered with a blank face. "Could I help you with something else, sir?"
Vorrutyer winced clearly. "You can. Would you be so kind as to move away from this damned door and not hold me in the corridor, lieutenant? This is an order."
Unfortunately, is was impossible to contest this. Illyan stepped aside, letting Vorrutyer pass into the narrow passage along the bathroom. The Commander-in-Chief almost shouldered his way in; he strove to get into the cabin as soon as possible.
Illyan wondered what Vorrutyer had expected to see here. There was the usual ascetic order in Vorkosigan's cabin; Aral breathed heavily, but quietly, covered with a bedspread. Evidently, he had been slightly reanimated by the injection, and his fainting unconsciousness had gave place to normal sleep. Illyan hadn't wanted to disturb him and dimmed the light to minimum luminance, since his hand light was enough for searching. The ceiling panel smoldered dimly amber in the "night-lamp" mode. The light from the passage formed a yellow rectangle on the floor, that did not reach the bed. The comconsole display was turned off and dark: the open files didn't shimmer like moonlight above the vidplate. Illyan figured that, all things considered, his remark about the report now fell on a fertile breeding ground in Ges's mind, if he effectively grasped Vorrutyer's way of thinking.
"As I have just reported," Illyan explained under his breath, "the Commodore had just taken a strong soporific. When he wakes up, he will pay his respects to you in person."
The unspoken part of the phrase meant: "Up to that moment you have nothing to do in his cabin which you weren't invited to, so it would be better for you to go away as far as possible." But a junior officer couldn't say that to his Commander-in-Chief unless he wanted to get a disciplinary punishment and, what would be worse, to make him a personal enemy, in addition to the animosity that the C.-in-C. already felt towards Illyan's ward.
Vorrutyer certainly caught the implication but didn't answer. He only glanced aside to the sleeping man, and then strolled along the cabin. The floor mat muffled his steps, and the Vice Admiral, rather corpulent, moved softly as if he slunk. Finally he nodded, coming to some decision, and made for Illyan. He approached so closely that Illyan had to make an effort not to shrink back after this intrusion into his personal space.
Vorrutyer grinned and offered kind-heartedly, "Well, if the Commodore is sleeping, you could be his pinch-hitter," Vorrutyer sustained a brief significant pause like an actor on stage, "Where is his might-have-been report? Give it to me.”
I have a feeling that Vorrutyer just doesn't want to go away, and so tries a plausible pretext. It's so touching! Ges Vorrutyer supposedly feels miserable, all alone; he has nobody to exchange a few words with and seeks sympathy and cordiality from his former friend. But such ill luck; this friend has drunk himself into oblivion and sleeps. Now poor Ges has nothing to do but to loaf around Vorkosigan's cabin in the company of his lieutenant.
Illyan carefully noted the atypical behavior of these two men, when inflexible Vorkosigan had takes anxiolytics and cynical Vorrutyer looks for his company. He managed not to change his face from bland to surprised or sarcastic.
"I don't have it, Vice Admiral. The Staff strategical plans are outside my competence; moreover, I was not appointed Vorkosigan's aide-de-camp."
"Pack it in, Illyan. It's dead certain you have thoroughly rummaged through Vorkosigan's files while he slept." The insult was accentuated by his nod towards the sleeping comconsole, "And you know where it is. Indeed, don't you want to correct the misdeed of the officer who is in your charge? Taking into account the necessity of strict observance of discipline and seniority," this was almost an exact quote from Prince's speeches during lunch, "the Commodore had to remember that the fruits of his thought were supposed to appear in the nick of time."
"To avoid any misunderstanding, sir," Illyan put in, "My business is only Lord Vorkosigan personally, and guarding his safety. Discipline or the Commodore's staff duties aren't my prerogative. I do nothing but observe and analyze; my time for reporting will come only on our return."
The implication, that wasn't spoken aloud due to their disparity of ranks, clearly said: "... and you are not the person I'll report to". It seemed that for a split second Ezar's shadow revealed itself on the dark wall, and Vorrutyer saw it.
"Of course, when Vorkosigan wakes up, I'll cite your words, to the letter," Illyan added after the tiny pause.
He had no choice but to hope that Vorkosigan's sleep wasn't too light, and this awakening wouldn't take place right now. Illyan thought that his ongoing face to face encounter with Vorrutyer was utterly undesirable for Vorkosigan to witness. It might seem that it was ridiculous to shelter him physically from the awful Vorrutyer; they had rubbed shoulders for many years and managed not to kill each other yet. But Illyan suddenly found himself moving in such a strange way; when Vorrutyer stepped towards the sleeping man, Illyan shifted unconsciously from foot to foot, Vorrutyer tried to outflank him stealthily, and he repeated the step. This waltz went on for a long time.
"Are you going to wait for his awakening, Simon? Right here?"
"Perhaps."
"What attention!" Vorrutyer gestured in a pointed manner, holding the bottle in the left hand, "Simon, you are just a model wife."
Illyan smiled carefully, and his nail flicked on the collar rectangle and the silver pin on it. "Security often have to fulfill an unusual job, including concern for some people round-the-clock."
Vorrutyer stepped back and sat on the station chair, at last putting his bottle on the smooth glass surface. His features blurred over with shadow, dark eyes shone with excitement and the smile spread slowly. "Perhaps, I'm lacking for this... cordial concern. And safety. Did this never occur to you?"
Does he make advances to me, really? Oh, shit. I certainly can't be Vorkosigan's pinch-hitter in this way.
The bright, expressive eyes on the thoroughbred face watched every move of his lips, noticed every tiniest detail of his expression. Lieutenant Illyan had to be very prudent...
Illyan slowly unfastened the folding chair from the wall and hooked it into its floor bolts next to the comconsole. He sat, and only then answered, "Unlike your work schedule, Vice Admiral, mine is round-the-clock. I can't spare you time for a permanent concern. No more than a quarter of an hour."
"Should you drink with me, Simon?" Vorrutyer unscrewed the bottle's cap. "I think we might not find any wineglasses in this barracks, but we could drink straight from the bottle's neck, by turns."
"Unfortunately, I'm on duty." This was a proper excuse, since ImpSec men on duty weren't allowed to eat or drink anything but their own military-issued rations; a fact that the Vice Admiral had to know. Besides, for caution, Illyan would take nothing from Vorrutyer's hands, not excepting even an award, and disdained to drink after him.
"You are trying in vain to look like a stubborn martinet. I beg to differ. Such a fellow would hardly find a common language with my Aral." He sighed expressively. "He is too unsociable. I wonder, do you imitate your companion as a faceless mirror on your own initiative, or have specialists worked on you before?"
Vorrutyer paused, waiting, and took a gulp of his beverage with pleasure. Did he expect that the scurrilous things he had just said would also bring him a pleasing, delicious result? Alas, he missed, and did not hit. These attentions hadn't been a trigger point for the ImpSec lieutenant for a long time. Illyan only smiled in return.
"You have guessed almost right. But I'm a glass, not a mirror. And any clever man doesn't argue with the person behind this glass. As for the rest, I'm lucky, because I resemble Vorkosigan just enough."
Skepticism was written all over Vorrutyer's face.
"Resemble? I wouldn't say so. You are dead serious and excel in self-control better than any other of our officers." He paused and glanced aside, checking whether the lieutenant fell for the bait of flattery or not. "They couldn't say that about Aral; he is a sheer fount of emotions which he has never learned to restrain. You witnessed our talks at the table, didn't you? Oh, yes, the poor fellow is sure that his stony mask can deceive anybody, until now. If you believe it, you understand your ward very poorly still, I'm afraid."
"This disadvantage is transient, like youth. I get rid of more of it every day," Illyan promised.
"And every night?"
Illyan wondered if it was Vorrutyer's company that made him take any gentle obscene hint, or his own peccadillo of today. What a pity that he couldn't omit all ambiguities and and directly answer directly the Vice-Admiral's unspoken question, "No, we don't have sex, Aral and me. Are you interested in something else?" Alas, the virtual Ges in the bottom of his subconsciousness struck back easily, "You haven't gotten laid by him yet, but it's only a matter of time, isn't it?" Illyan succeeded in forcing this uninvited mental guest to shut up only by will-power, and after a promise to set against him a virtual Negri.
"Sometimes I do, as you see", Illyan said briefly.
"I hope you will not have to know Commodore Vorkosigan as well as I know him. Then you will be able to keep some respect for the Butcher of Komarr. Alas, I failed to do it, but anyway I have some responsibility for him."
Was it jealousy or just hypocritical peacockery? He should try to draw more.
Illyan gestured palms up, tilted his head.
"I can say with all due certainty that the Commodore isn't your responsibility any more, sir. Rather mine than yours."
In a split second Ges' handsome face became harsh with sharp features, that of a dying man. "Aral Vorkosigan," he said, "is my personal responsibility. Formerly, now and always, not dependent on any official assignment."
It gave Illyan the shivers, despite himself. This "my" sounded so peremptory that it explained much. Vorrutyer's perpetual mockery proved to be not some little revenge, taken out of boredom, but the possessiveness of a man who was sure of his power by right, the power of the lord over his own thing. This conviction was irrational, and therefore it made the pure logician Illyan shiver. He realised suddenly that Vorrutyer was restrained only by a thin thread of law. If the Vice Admiral could find a way at the same time to not break the Emperor's order and to skin Aral alive, literally, he would do it in the firm belief that he acted for Vorkosigan's good, since he was never wrong in this matter.
"Neverless, I'm a typical man of Service, Admiral. I don't divide personal responsibility from official assignment." Illyan sat cross-legged, leaned forward supposedly confidentially. "Besides, you shouldn't bear this burden. You are already charged with the most important person, the Heir of the Imperium. Concentrate on him, please, and leave Vorkosigan to me. As the folk of our District say, 'nobody can hold two melons in the hand at once.'"
Vorrutyer narrowed maliciously, as he found himself getting really and truly brushed off. He shrugged with deliberate indifference. "As you wish. But I warn that you are playing with fire, Illyan. Believe me, it makes burns that hurt a long while, never heal completely, and leave behind ugly scars." He rose abruptly, took his bottle from the tabletop, glanced aside to Vorkosigan and nearly stepped toward the bed but caught sight of Illyan's slight move and thought better of it.
"Thank you for your advice, sir," Illyan answered, almost without an edge of acidity in his tone. "I would be glad to listen to it in future. It will be easy for you to find me; every time you encounter Commodore Vorkosigan you'll spot me nearby."
"I have no doubt of it." Vorrutyer's face remained arrogant, but his eyelid twitched slightly. "You are a model guard."
Illyan saluted without words, seeing the Admiral to the door.
Unfortunately Vorrutyer said in the end, when he was already in the doorway, "I wonder what a kind of lover you are. Have you had this special training too?"
Illyan had a chance to swear in return, under his breath, only when he locked the door.