Elli reported in daily on the secured comm link on the status of the Dendarii fleet, still holding in orbit. Miles, closeting himself with the comm link, found himself increasingly hungry for that outside voice. Her reports were succinct. But afterwards they drifted off into inconsequential small talk, as Miles found it harder and harder to cut her off, and she never hung up on him. Miles fantasized about courting her in his own persona—would a commander accept a date from a mere lieutenant? Would she even like Lord Vorkosigan? Would Galeni ever let him leave the embassy to find out?
* * *
Ten days of clean living, exercise, and regular hours had been bad for him, Miles decided. His energy level was up. Up, and bottled in the immobilized persona of Lord Vorkosigan, while the list of chores facing Admiral Naismith piled up and up and up. . . .
"Will you stop fidgeting, Miles?" Ivan complained. "Sit down. Take a deep breath. Hold still for five minutes. You can do it if you try."
Miles made one more circuit of the computer room, then flung himself into a chair. "Why hasn't Galeni called me yet? The courier from Sector HQ got in an hour ago!"
"So, give the man time to go to the bathroom and get a cup of coffee. Give Galeni time to read his reports. This is peacetime, everybody's got lots of leisure to sit around writing reports. They'd be hurt if nobody read 'em."
"That's the trouble with your government-supported troops," said Miles. "You're spoiled. You get paid not to make war."
"Wasn't there a mercenary fleet that did that once? They'd show up in orbit somewhere, and get paid—to not make war. Worked, didn't it? You're just not a creative enough mercenary commander, Miles."
"Yeah, LaVarr's fleet. It worked real good till the Tau Cetan Navy caught up with 'em, and then LaVarr was sent to the disintegration chamber."
"No sense of humor, the Tau Cetans."
"None," Miles agreed. "Neither has my father."
"Too true. Well—"
The comconsole blinked. Ivan had to duck out of the way as Miles pounced on it. "Yes sir?" said Miles breathlessly.
"Come to my office, Lieutenant Vorkosigan," said Galeni. His face was as saturnine as ever, no cues there.
"Yes, sir, thank you sir." Miles cut the com and plunged for the door. "My eighteen million marks, at last!"
"Either that," said Ivan genially, "or he's found a job for you in inventory. Maybe you're going to get to count all the goldfish in the fountain in the main reception court."
"Sure, Ivan."
"Hey, it's a real challenge! They keep moving around, you know."
"How do you know?" Miles paused, his eyes lighting. "Ivan, did he actually make you do that?"
"It had to do with a suspected security breach," said Ivan. "It's a long story."
"I'll bet." Miles beat a brief tattoo on the desk and vaulted around its corner. "Later. I'm gone."
* * *
Miles found Captain Galeni sitting staring dubiously at the display on his comconsole, as if it was still in code.
"Sir?"
"Hm." Galeni leaned back in his chair. "Well, your orders have arrived from Sector HQ, Lieutenant Vorkosigan."
"And?"
Galeni's mouth tightened. "And they confirm your temporary assignment to my staff. Officially and publicly. You may now draw your lieutenant's pay from my department as of ten days ago. As for the rest of your orders, they read the same as Vorpatril's—in fact, they could be templated from Vorpatril's orders with the name changed. You are to assist me as required, hold yourself at the disposal of the ambassador and his lady for escort duties, and as time permits take advantage of educational opportunities unique to Earth and appropriate to your status as an Imperial officer and lord of the Vor."
"What? This can't be right! What the devil are escort duties?" Sounds like a call-girl.
A slight smile turned one corner of Galeni's mouth. "Mostly, standing around in parade dress at official embassy social functions and being Vor for the natives. There are a surprising number of people who find aristocrats—even off-planet aristocrats—peculiarly fascinating." Galeni's tone made it clear that he found this fascination peculiar indeed. "You will eat, drink, dance perhaps . . ." his tone grew doubtful for a second, "and generally be exquisitely polite to anyone the ambassador wants to, ah, impress. Sometimes, you will be asked to remember and report conversations. Vorpatril does it all very well, rather to my surprise. He can fill in the details for you."
1 don't need to take social notes from Ivan, Miles thought. And the Vor are a military caste, not an aristocracy. What the hell was HQ thinking of? It seemed extraordinarily obtuse even for them.
Yet if they had no new project on line for the Dendarii, why not use the opportunity for Count Vorkosigan's son to acquire a little more diplomatic polish? No one doubted that he was destined for the most rarified levels of the service—he would hardly be exposed to less varied experience than Ivan. It wasn't the content of the orders, it was only the lack of separation from his other persona that was so . . . unexpected.
Still . . . report conversations. Could this be the start of some special spy work? Perhaps further, clarifying details were en route.
He didn't even want to think about the possibility that HQ had decided it was finally time to shut down Dendarii covert ops altogether.
"Well," said Miles grudgingly, "all right."
"So glad," murmured Galeni, "you find your orders to your taste, Lieutenant."
Miles flushed, closing his mouth tightly. But if only he could get his Dendarii taken care of, the rest didn't matter. "And my eighteen million marks, sir?" he asked, taking care to keep his tone humble this time.
Galeni drummed his fingers on his desk. "No such credit order arrived with this courier, Lieutenant. Nor any mention of one."
"What!" shrieked Miles. "There's got to be!" He almost lunged across Galeni's desk to examine the vid himself, caught himself up just in time. "I calculated ten days for all the . . ." His brain dumped unwanted data, streaming past his consciousness—fuel, orbital docking fees, re-supply, medical-dental-surgical, the depleted ordnance inventory, payroll, roll-over, liquidity, margin. . . . "Dammit, we bled for Barrayar! They can't—there must be some mistake!"
Galeni spread his hands helplessly. "No doubt. But not one in my power to repair."
"Send again—sir!"
"Oh, I shall."
"Better yet—let me go as courier. If I talked to HQ in person—"
"Hm." Galeni rubbed his lips. "A tempting idea . . . no, better not. Your orders, at least, were clear. Your Dendarii will simply have to wait for the next courier. If all is as you say," his emphasis was not lost on Miles, "I'm sure it will all be straightened out."
Miles waited an endless moment, but Galeni offered nothing more. "Yes, sir." He saluted and faced about. Ten days . . . ten more days . . . ten more days at least. They could wait out ten more days. But he hoped HQ would get the oxygen back to its collective brain by then.
* * *
The highest-ranking female guest at the afternoon reception was the ambassador from Tau Ceti. She was a slender woman of indeterminate age, fascinating facial bone structure, and penetrating eyes. Miles suspected her conversation would be an education in itself, political, subtle, and scintillating. Alas, as the Barrayaran ambassador had monopolized her, Miles doubted he was going to get a chance to find out.
The dowager Miles had been assigned to squire about held her rank by virtue of her husband, who was the Lord Mayor of London and now being entertained by the ambassador's wife. The mayor's lady seemed able to chatter on interminably, mainly about the clothing worn by the other guests. A passing servant of rather military bearing (all the human servants in the embassy were members of Galeni's department) offered Miles a wine glass full of straw-pale liquid from a gold tray, which Miles accepted with alacrity. Yes, two or three of those, with his low tolerance for alcohol, and he would be numb enough to endure even this. Was this not exactly the constrained social scene he had sweated his way,
despite his physical handicaps, into the Imperial Service to escape? Of course, more than three glasses, and he would be stretched out asleep on the inlaid floor with a silly smile on his face, and deep in trouble when he woke up.
Miles took a large sip, and almost choked. Apple juice. . . . Damn Galeni, he was thorough. A quick glance around confirmed that this was not the same beverage being served to the guests. Miles ran his thumb around the high collar of his uniform jacket and smiled tightly.
"Something wrong with your wine, Lord Vorkosigan?" the dowager inquired with concern.
"The vintage is a trifle, ah . . . young," Miles murmured. "I may suggest to the ambassador that he keep this one in his cellars a little longer." Like till I get off this planet.
The main reception court was a high-arched, skylighted, elegantly appointed chamber that looked as if it should echo cavernously, but was strangely hushed for the large crowd its levels and niches could enclose. Sound absorbers concealed somewhere, Miles thought—and, he bet, if you knew just where to stand, secure cones to baffle eavesdroppers both human and electronic. He noted where the Barrayaran and Tau Cetan ambassadors were standing, for future reference; yes, even their lip movements seemed shadowed and blurred somehow. Certain right-of-passage treaties through Tau Cetan local space were coming up for renegotiation soon.
Miles and his charge drifted toward the architectural center of the room, the fountain and its pool. It was a cool, trickling sort of sculptured thing, with color-coordinated ferns and mosses. Red-gold shapes moved mysteriously in the shadowed waters.
Miles stiffened, then forced his spine to relax. A young man in black Cetagandan dress uniform with the yellow and black face-paint markings of a ghem-lieutenant approached, smiling and watchful. They exchanged wary nods.
"Welcome to Earth, Lord Vorkosigan," murmured the Cetagandan. "Is this an official visit, or are you on a grand tour?"
"A little of both." Miles shrugged. "I've been assigned to the embassy for my, ah, education. But I believe you have the advantage of me, sir." He didn't, of course; both the two Cetagandans who were in uniform and the two who were not, plus three individuals suspected of being their covert jackals, had been pointed out to Miles first thing.
"Ghem-lieutenant Tabor, military attaché, Cetagandan Embassy," Tabor recited politely. They exchanged nods again. "Will you be here long, my lord?"
"I don't expect so. And yourself?"
"I have taken up the art of bonsai for a hobby. The ancient Japanese are said to have worked on a single tree for as long as a hundred years. Or perhaps it only seemed like it."
Miles suspected Tabor of humor, but the lieutenant kept his face so straight it was hard to tell. Perhaps he feared cracking his paint job.
A trill of laughter, mellow like bells, drew their attention toward the far end of the fountain. Ivan Vorpatril was leaning against the chrome railing down there, dark head bent close to a blonde confection. She wore something in salmon pink and silver that seemed to waft even when she was standing still, as now. Artfully artless golden hair cascaded across one white shoulder. Her fingernails flashed silver-pink as she gestured animatedly.
Tabor hissed slightly, bowed exquisitely over the dowager's hand, and passed on. Miles next saw him on the other side of the fountain jockeying for position near Ivan—but somehow Miles felt it was not military secrets Tabor was prowling for. No wonder he'd seemed only marginally interested in Miles. But Tabor's stalk on the blonde was interrupted by a signal from his ambassador, and he perforce followed the dignitaries out.
"Such a nice young man, Lord Vorpatril," Miles's dowager cooed. "We like him very much here. The ambassador's lady tells me you two are related?" She cocked her head at him, brightly expectant.
"Cousins, of a sort," Miles explained. "Ah—who is the young lady with him?"
The dowager smiled proudly. "That's my daughter, Sylveth."
Daughter, of course. The ambassador and his lady had a keen Barrayaran appreciation of the nuances of social rank. Miles, being of the senior family line, not to mention the son of Prime Minister Count Vorkosigan, outranked Ivan socially if not militarily. Which meant, oh God, he was doomed. He'd be stuck with the VIP dowagers forever while Ivan—Ivan carried off all the daughters. . . .
"A lovely couple," said Miles thickly.
"Aren't they? Just what sort of cousins, Lord Vorkosigan?"
"Uh? Oh, Ivan and me, yes. Our grandmothers were sisters. My grandmother was Prince Xav Vorbarra's eldest child, Ivan's was his youngest."
"Princesses? How romantic."
Miles considered describing in detail how his grandmother, her brother, and most of their children had been blown into hamburger during Mad Emperor Yuri's reign of terror. No, the mayor's lady might find it merely a shivery and outré tale, or even worse, romantic. He doubted she'd grasp the true violent stupidity of Yuri's affairs, with their consequences escaping in all directions to warp Barrayaran history to this day.
"Does Lord Vorpatril own a castle?" she inquired archly.
"Ah, no. His mother, my Aunt Vorpatril," who is a social barracuda who would eat you alive, "has a very nice flat in the capital city of Vorbarr Sultana." Miles paused. "We used to have a castle. But it was burned down at the end of the Time of Isolation."
"A ruined castle. That's almost as good."
"Picturesque as hell," Miles assured her.
Someone had left a small plate with the remains of their hors d'oeuvres sitting on the railing by the fountain. Miles took the roll and started breaking off bits for the goldfish. They glided up to snap at the crumbs with a brief gurgle.
One refused to rise to the bait, lurking in the depths. How interesting, a goldfish that did not eat—now, there was a solution to Ivan's fish-inventory problem. Perhaps the stubborn one was a fiendish Cetagandan construct, whose cold scales glittered like gold because they were.
He might pluck it out with a feline pounce, stamping it underfoot with a mechanical crunch and electric sizzle, then hold it up with a triumphal cry—"Ah! Through my quick wits and reflexes, I have discovered the spy among you!"
But if his guess were wrong, ah. The squish! under his boot, the dowager's recoil, and the Barrayaran prime minister's son would have acquired an instant reputation as a young man with serious emotional difficulties. . . . "Ah ha!" he pictured himself cackling to the horrified woman as the fish guts slithered underfoot, "you should see what I do to kittens!"
The big goldfish rose lazily at last, and took a crumb with a splash that marred Miles's polished boots. Thank you, fish, Miles thought to it. You have just saved me from considerable social embarrassment. Of course, if the Cetagandan artificers were really clever, they might have designed a mechanical fish that really ate, and excreted little . . .
The mayor's lady had just asked another leading question about Ivan, which Miles in his absorption failed to completely catch. "Yes, most unfortunate about his disease," Miles purred, and prepared to launch a monologue maligning Ivan's genes involving inbred aristocracies, radiation areas left from the First Cetagandan War, and Mad Emperor Yuri, when the secured comm link in his pocket beeped.
"Excuse me, ma'am. I'm being paged." Bless you, Elli, he thought as he fled the dowager to find a quiet corner to answer it. No Cetagandans in sight. He found an unoccupied niche on the second level made private by green plants, and opened the channel.
"Yes, Commander Quinn?"
"Miles, thank God." Her voice was hurried. "We seem to have us a Situation down there, and you're the closest Dendarii officer."
"What sort of situation?" He didn't care for situations that came capitalized. Elli was not normally inclined to panicky exaggerations. His stomach tightened nervously.
"I haven't been able to get details I can trust, but it appears that four or five of our soldiers on downside leave in London have barricaded themselves in some sort of shop with a hostage, holding off the police. They're armed."
"Our guys, or the police?"
"Both, unfortun
ately. The police commander I talked to sounded like he was prepared for blood on the walls. Very soon."
"Worse and worse. What the hell do they think they're doing?"
"Damned if I know. I'm in orbit right now, preparing to leave, but it'll be forty-five minutes to an hour before I can get down there. Tung's in worse position, it'd be a two-hour suborbital flight from Brazil. But I think you could be there in about ten minutes. Here, I'll key the address into your comm link."
"How were our guys permitted to take Dendarii weaponry off-ship?"
"A good question, but I'm afraid we'll have to save it for the post-mortem. So to speak," she said grimly. "Can you find the place?"
Miles glanced at the address on his readout. "I think so. I'll meet you there." Somehow . . .
"Right. Quinn out." The channel snapped closed.
CHAPTER THREE
Miles pocketed the comm link and gazed around the main reception court. The reception had peaked. There were perhaps a hundred people present, in a blinding variety of Earth and galactic fashions, and a fair sprinkling of uniforms besides Barrayaran. A few of the earlier arrivals were cutting out already, ushered past security by their Barrayaran escorts. The Cetagandans appeared to be truly gone, along with their friends. His escape must be opportune rather than clever, it appeared.
Ivan was still chatting with his beautiful charge down at the end of the fountain. Miles bore down upon him ruthlessly.
"Ivan. Meet me by the main doors in five minutes."
"What?"
"It's an emergency. I'll explain later."
"What sort of—?" Ivan began, but Miles was already slipping out of the room and making his way toward the back lift tubes. He had to force himself not to run.
When the door to his and Ivan's room slid shut behind him he tore off his boots, peeled out of the dress greens, and catapulted for the closet. He yanked on the black tee-shirt and gray trousers of his Dendarii uniform. Barrayaran boots were descended from a cavalry tradition; Dendarii had evolved from foot-soldiers' gear. In the presence of a horse the Barrayaran were the more practical, although Miles had never been able to explain that to Elli. It would take two hours or so in the saddle on heavy cross-country terrain, and her calves rubbed to bleeding blisters, to convince her that the design had a purpose besides looks. No horses here.
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