Shards of Honour

by Lois McMaster Bujold

  "I don't know. But—you will get to meet a lot of the big names from the Expeditionary Force, and Security, when you get back from Escobar. I promise." Will you ever . . .

  "May I ask you a personal question, ma'am?"

  "Why not? Everyone else does."

  "Why are you wearing slippers?"

  She stared down at her feet. "I'm—sorry, Pilot Officer Mayhew. That's classified."

  "Oh." He went forward to lift ship.

  Alone at last, she leaned her forehead against the cool, smooth, plastic side of a packing case, and wept silently for herself.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was about noon, local time, when the lightflyer she had rented in Vorbarr Sultana brought her over the long lake. The shore was bordered by vine-garlanded slopes backed in turn by steep, scrub-covered hills. The population here was thinly scattered, except around the lake, which had a village at its foot. A cliffed headland at the water's edge was crowned by the ruins of an old fortification. She circled it, rechecking her map on which it was a principal landmark. Counting northward from it past three large properties, she brought her flyer down on a driveway that wound up the slope to a fourth.

  A rambling old house built of native stone blended with the vegetation into the side of the hill. She retracted the wings, killed the engine, pocketed the keys, and sat staring uncertainly at its sun-warmed front.

  A tall figure in a strange brown-and-silver uniform ambled around the corner. He bore a weapon in a holster on his hip, and his hand rested on it caressingly. She knew then that Vorkosigan must be nearby, for it was Sergeant Bothari. He looked to be in good health, at least physically.

  She hopped out of the lightflyer. "Uh, good afternoon, Sergeant. Is Admiral Vorkosigan at home?"

  He stared at her, narrow-eyed, then his face seemed to clear, and he saluted her. "Captain Naismith. Ma'am. Yes."

  "You're looking a lot better than when we last met."

  "Ma'am?"

  "On the flagship. At Escobar."

  He looked troubled. "I—can't remember Escobar. Admiral Vorkosigan says I was there."

  "I see." Took away your memory, did they? Or did you do it yourself? No telling now. "I'm sorry to hear that. You served bravely."

  "Did I? I was discharged, after."

  "Oh? What's the uniform?"

  "Count Vorkosigan's livery, ma'am. He took me into his personal guard."

  "I'm—sure you'll serve him well. May I see Admiral Vorkosigan?"

  "He's around back, ma'am. You can go up." He wandered away, evidently making some kind of patrol circuit.

  She trudged around the house, the sun warm on her back, kicking at the unaccustomed skirts of her dress and making them swirl about her knees. She had bought it yesterday in Vorbarr Sultana, partly for fun, mostly because her old tan Survey fatigues with the insignia taken off collected stares in the streets. Its dark floral pattern pleased her eye. Her hair hung loose, parted in the middle and held back from her face by two enameled combs, also purchased yesterday.

  A little farther up the hill was a garden, surrounded by a low, gray stone wall. No, not a garden, she realized as she approached: a graveyard. An old man in old coveralls was working in it, kneeling in the dirt planting young flowers from a flat. He squinted up at her as she pushed through the little gate. She did not mistake his identity. He was a little taller than his son, and his musculature had gone thin and stringy with age, but she saw Vorkosigan in the bones of his face.

  "General Count Vorkosigan, sir?" She saluted him automatically, then realized how peculiar it must look in the dress. He rose stiffly to his feet. "My name is Cap—my name is Cordelia Naismith. I'm a friend of Aral's. I—don't know if he mentioned me to you. Is he here?"

  "How do you do, madam." He came more or less to attention, and gave her a courteous half nod that was achingly familiar. "He said very little, and it did not lead me to think I might meet you." A smile creaked across his face, as if those muscles were stiff from long disuse. "You have no idea how pleased I am to be wrong." He gestured over his shoulder up the hill. "There is a little pavilion at the top of our property, overlooking the lake. He, ah, sits up there most of the time."

  "I see." She spotted the path, winding up past the graveyard. "Um. I'm not sure how to put this . . . is he sober?"

  He glanced at the sun, and pursed leathery lips. "Probably not, by this hour. When he first came home he only drank after dinner, but the time has been creeping up, gradually. Very disturbing, but there isn't much I can do about it. Although if that gut of his starts bleeding again I may . . ." He broke off, looking her over with intense, uncertain speculation. "He has taken this Escobar failure unnecessarily personally, I think. His resignation was not in the least called for."

  She deduced the old count was not in his emperor's confidence on this matter, and thought, it wasn't its failure that slew his spirit, sir; it was its success. Aloud, she said, "Loyalty to your emperor was a very great point of honor for him, I know." Almost its last bastion, and your emperor chose to flatten it to its foundations in the service of his great need. . . .

  "Why don't you go on up," suggested the old man. "Although, this isn't a very good day for him, I—had better warn you."

  "Thank you. I understand."

  He stood looking after her as she left the walled enclosure and went on up the winding walk. It was shaded by trees, most of them Earth imports, and some other vegetation that had to be local. The hedge of bush-like things with flowers—she assumed they were flowers, Dubauer would have known—that looked like pink ostrich feathers was particularly striking.

  The pavilion, a faintly oriental structure of weathered wood, commanded a fine view of the sparkling lake. Vines climbed it, seeming to claim it for the rocky soil. It was open on all four sides, and furnished with a couple of shabby chaises, a large faded armchair and footstool, and a small table holding two decanters, some glasses, and a bottle of a thick white liquid.

  Vorkosigan lay back in the chair, eyes closed, bare feet on the stool, a pair of sandals kicked carelessly over the side. Cordelia paused at the pavilion's edge to study him with a sort of delicate enjoyment. He wore an old pair of black uniform trousers and a very civilian shirt, a loud and unexpected floral print. He obviously had not shaved that morning. His toes, she noticed, had a little wiry black hair on them like the backs of his fingers and hands. She decided she definitely liked his feet; indeed, could easily become quite foolishly fond of every part of him. His generally seedy air was less amusing. Tired, and more than tired. Ill.

  He opened his eyes to slits and reached for a crystal tumbler filled with an amber liquid, then appeared to change his mind and picked up the white bottle instead. A small measuring cup stood beside it, which he ignored, knocking back a slug of the white liquid directly from its source instead. He sneered briefly at the bottle, then traded it for the crystal tumbler and took a drink, rinsing it around in his mouth and swallowing. He hunched back down in the armchair at a slightly lower level than before.

  "Liquid breakfast?" Cordelia inquired. "Is it as tasty as oatmeal and blue cheese dressing?"

  His eyes snapped open. "You," he said hoarsely after a moment, "are not a hallucination." He started to get up, then appeared to think better of it and sank back in frozen self-consciousness. "I never wanted you to see . . ."

  She mounted the steps to the shade, pushed a chaise closer to him, and seated herself. Blast, I've embarrassed him, catching him all awry like this. Off balance. How to put him at his ease? I would have him at his ease, always. . . . "I tried to call ahead, when I first landed yesterday, but I kept missing you. If hallucinations are what you expect, that must be remarkable stuff. Pour me one too, please."

  "I think you'd prefer the other." He poured from the second decanter, looking shaken. Curious, she tasted from his glass.

  "Faugh! That's not wine."

  "Brandy."

  "At this hour?"

  "If I start after breakfast," he explained, "I
can generally achieve total unconsciousness by lunch."

  Pretty close to lunch now. His speech had misled her at first, being perfectly clear, only slower and more hesitant than usual. "There must be less poisonous general anesthetics." The straw-pale wine he had poured her was excellent, although dry for her taste. "You do this every day?"

  "God, no." He shuddered. "Two or three times a week at most. One day drinking, the next day being ill—a hangover is quite as good as being drunk for taking your mind off other things—the next day running errands and such for my father. He's slowed down a great deal in the last few years."

  He was gradually pulling himself into better focus, as his initial awkward terror of being repellant to her ebbed. He sat up and rubbed his hand over his face in the familiar gesture, as if to scrub away the numbness, and made a stab at light conversation. "That's a pretty dress. A great improvement over those orange things."

  "Thanks," she said, falling in immediately with his lead. "I'm sorry I can't say the same for your shirt—does that represent your own taste, by chance?"

  "No, it was a gift."

  "I'm relieved."

  "Something of a joke. Some of my officers got together and purchased it on the occasion of my first promotion to admiral, before Komarr. I always think of them, when I wear it."

  "Well, that's nice. In that case I guess I can get used to it."

  "Three of the four are dead, now. Two died at Escobar."

  "I see." So much for light chitchat. She swirled her wine around in the bottom of her glass. "You look like hell, you know. Pasty."

  "Yes, I stopped exercising. Bothari's quite offended."

  "I'm glad Bothari didn't get in too much trouble over Vorrutyer."

  "It was touch and go, but I got him off. Illyan's testimony helped."

  "Yet they discharged him."

  "Honorably. On a medical."

  "Did you put your father up to hiring him?"

  "Yes. It seemed like the right thing to do. He'll never be normal, as we think of it, but at least he has a uniform, and a weapon, and regulations of a sort to follow. It seems to give him an anchor." He ran a finger slowly around the rim of the brandy tumbler. "He was Vorrutyer's batman for four years, you see. He was not too well, when he was first assigned to the General Vorkraft. On the verge of a split personality—separating memories, the works. Rather scary. Being a soldier seems to be about the only human role he can meet the demands of. It allows him a kind of self-respect." He smiled at her. "You, on the other hand, look like heaven. Can you, ah—stay long?"

  There was a hesitant hunger in his face, soundless desire suppressed by uncertainty. We have hesitated so long, she thought, it's become a habit. Then it dawned on her that he feared she might only be visiting. Hell of a long trip for a chat, my love. You are drunk.

  "As long as you like. I discovered, when I went home—it was changed. Or I was changed. Nothing fit anymore. I offended nearly everybody, and left one step ahead of, um, a whole lot of trouble. I can't go back. I resigned my commission—mailed it in from Escobar—and everything I own is in the back of that flyer down there."

  She savored the delight that ignited his eyes during this speech, as it finally penetrated that she was here to stay. It contented her.

  "I would get up," he said, sliding to the side of his chair, "but for some reason my legs go first and my tongue last. I'd rather fall at your feet in some more controlled fashion. I'll improve shortly. Meantime, will you come sit here?"

  "Gladly." She changed chairs. "But won't I squash you? I'm kind of tall."

  "Not a bit. I loathe tiny women. Ah, that's better."

  "Yes." She nestled down with him, arms around his chest, resting her head on his shoulder, and hooking one leg over him as well, to emphatically complete his capture. The captive emitted something between a sigh and a laugh. She wished they might sit like that forever.

  "You'll have to give up this suicide-by-alcohol thing, you know."

  He cocked his head. "I thought I was being subtle."

  "Not noticeably."

  "Well, it suits me. It's extraordinarily uncomfortable."

  "Yes, you've worried your father. He gave me the funniest look."

  "Not his glare, I hope. He has a very withering glare. Perfected over a lifetime."

  "Not at all. He smiled."

  "Good God." A grin crinkled the corners of his eyes.

  She laughed, and craned her neck for a look at his face. That was better. . . .

  "I'll shave, too," he promised in a burst of enthusiasm.

  "Don't go overboard on my account. I came to retire, too. A separate peace, as they say."

  "Peace, indeed." He nuzzled her hair, breathing its scent. His muscles unwound beneath her like an overtaut bow unstrung.

  * * *

  A few weeks after their marriage they took their first trip together, Cordelia accompanying Vorkosigan on his periodic pilgrimmage to the Imperial Military Hospital in Vorbarr Sultana. They traveled in a groundcar borrowed from the Count, Bothari taking what was evidently his usual role as combination driver and bodyguard. To Cordelia, who was just beginning to know him well enough to see through his taciturn facade, he seemed on edge. He glanced uncertainly over her head, seated between him and Vorkosigan.

  "Did you tell her, sir?"

  "Yes, everything. It's all right, Sergeant."

  Cordelia added encouragingly, "I think you're doing the right thing, Sergeant. I'm, um, very pleased."

  He relaxed a little, and almost smiled. "Thank you, milady."

  She studied his profile covertly, her mind ranging over the array of difficulties he would be taking back to the hired village woman at Vorkosigan Surleau this day, gravely doubtful of his ability to handle them. She risked probing a little.

  "Have you thought about—what you're going to tell her about her mother, as she grows older? She's bound to want to know eventually."

  He nodded, was silent, then spoke. "Going to tell her she's dead. Tell her we were married. It's not a good thing to be a bastard here." His hand tightened on the controls. "So she won't be. No one must call her that."

  "I see." Good luck, she thought. She turned to a lighter question. "Do you know what you're going to name her?"

  "Elena."

  "That's pretty. Elena Bothari."

  "It was her mother's name."

  Cordelia was surprised into an unguarded remark. "I thought you couldn't remember Escobar!"

  A little time went by, and he said, "You can beat the memory drugs, some, if you know how."

  Vorkosigan raised his eyebrows. Evidently this was new to him, too. "How do you do that, Sergeant?" he asked, carefully neutral.

  "Someone I knew once told me . . . You write down what you want to remember, and think about it. Then hide it—the way we used to hide your secret files from Radnov, sir—they never figured it out either. Then first thing when you get back, before your stomach even settles, take it out and look at it. If you can remember one thing on the list, you can usually get the rest, before they come back again. Then do the same thing again. And again. It helps if you have an, an object, too."

  "Did you have, ah, an object?" asked Vorkosigan, clearly fascinated.

  "Piece of hair." He fell silent again for a long time, then volunteered, "She had long, black hair. It smelled nice."

  Cordelia, boggled and bemused by the implications of his story, settled back and found something to look at out the canopy. Vorkosigan looked faintly illuminated, like a man who'd found a key piece in a difficult puzzle. She watched the varied scenery, enjoying the clear sunlight, summer air so cool one needed no protective devices, and the little glimpses of green and water in the hollows of the hills. She also noticed something else. Vorkosigan saw the direction of her glance.

  "Ah, you spotted them, did you?"

  Bothari smiled slightly.

  "The flyer that doesn't outpace us?" said Cordelia. "Do you know who it is?"

  "Imperial Security."


  "Do they always follow you to the capital?"

  "They always follow me all the time. It hasn't been easy to convince people I was serious about retiring. Before you came I used to amuse myself flushing them out. Do things like go drunk driving in my flyer in those canyons to the south on the moonlit nights. It's new. Very fast. That used to drive them to distraction."

  "Heavens, that sounds positively lethal. Did you really do that?"

  He looked mildly ashamed of himself. "I'm afraid so. I didn't think you'd be coming here, then. It was a thrill. I hadn't gone adrenaline-tripping on purpose since I was a teenager. The Service rather supplied that need."

  "I'm surprised you didn't have a wreck."

  "I did, once," he admitted. "Just a minor crackup. That reminds me, I must check on the repairs. They seem to be taking forever at it. The alcohol made me limp as a rag, I suppose, and I never quite had the nerve to do without the shoulder harness. No harm done, except to the flyer and Captain Negri's agent's nerves."

  "Twice," commented Bothari unexpectedly.

  "I beg your pardon, Sergeant?"

  "You wrecked it twice." The sergeant's lips twitched. "You don't remember the second time. Your father said he wasn't surprised. We helped, um, pour you out of the safety cage. You were unconscious for a day."

  Vorkosigan looked startled. "Are you pulling my leg, Sergeant?"

  "No, sir. You can go look at the pieces of the flyer. They're scattered for a kilometer and a half down Dendarii Gorge."

  Vorkosigan cleared his throat, and shrunk down in his seat. "I see." He was quiet, then added, "How—unpleasant, to have a blank like that in one's memory."

  "Yes, sir," agreed Bothari blandly.

  Cordelia glanced up at the following flyer through a gap in the hills. "Have they been watching us all this time? Me, too?"

  Vorkosigan smiled at the look on her face. "From the moment you set foot in the Vorbarr Sultana shuttleport, I should imagine. I happen to be politically hot, after Escobar. The press, which is Ezar Vorbarra's third hand here, has me set up as a kind of hero-in-retreat, snatching victory spontaneously from the jaws of defeat and so on—absolute tripe. Makes my stomach hurt, even without the brandy. I should have been able to do a better job, knowing what I knew in advance. Sacrificed too many cruisers, covering the troopships—it had to be traded off that way, sheer arithmetic demanded it, though. . . ."