Ivan balanced mercy against a tempting heartlessness. Mercy won by a hair, so he brought Byerly a clean glass to share out their champagne and orange juice, heavy on the champs. Byerly evidently wasn’t in a fussy mood, for he didn’t even look at the label till after he’d poured and taken his first sip, not quite a gulp, and raised a brow in belated appreciation.
“I’d have thought you would’ve had the sense to duck her,” said Ivan, settling back into his own chair.
“Wasn’t given a chance. I was publicly arrested in the Vorbarr Sultana shuttleport by an ImpSec goon squad as soon as I stepped off the shuttle yesterday, and hauled away in handcuffs.”
“Ivan Xav’s mother did that?” said Tej, sounding impressed. “She just sent Christos and a car for us.”
Byerly appeared to contemplate this. “Much the same thing, I suppose. It was actually my handler’s bright idea for getting me to my debriefing discreetly, now that the Vormercier scandal has hit the news. The public tale for me will be that I had no idea that all this brotherly chicanery was going on; I was just the caterer for the party yacht. Drinks, drugs, girls, you know.”
“Girls?” said Ivan. “I don’t think the term for that is caterer, By.”
By shrugged one shoulder. “They were actually my co-agents. ImpSec has found that it’s often better to recruit from those already in the trade, giving them a step up in the world in return for their loyalty, than to start with a trained agent and persuade them to—well, you see. I called right after I left your wedding, told them to get the hell off Vormercier’s yacht, met them on the orbital transfer station to, supposedly, go shopping—that was our code phrase for pulling the plug. We were all three boarding a commercial flight to Barrayar by the time Desplains and your crew descended on the Kanzian. Desplains’s jump-pinnace passed us by us en route, I suppose—ours wasn’t the fastest ship. Nor the best cabin. We had to share.” A smile flickered over Byerly’s face. “We were commended for our economy, though. ImpSec being in the throes of one of its periodic budget spasms.”
“Hot bunks?” inquired Ivan. “What suffering you ImpSec weasels do endure, to be sure. Just you and two beautiful call girls, stuck together for eight days in a tiny room with nothing to do. It must have been hell.”
“Not quite nothing,” Byerly murmured back, taking another sip of champagne and orange juice. “We had all those reports to write…”
“What’s a call girl?” asked Tej, her brows crimping in puzzlement.
“Uh…” Ivan sought a translation. “Like a Betan licensed practical sexuality therapist, only without the licensed and the therapy parts.”
“Oh.” She frowned. “Like a grubber sex worker. That doesn’t sound altogether safe.”
“It isn’t,” said By. “It’s not a trade that attracts the risk-averse, let us say.”
“Like an informer?” inquired Rish, with a small blue smile.
He raised his glass to her, and drained it. “There are parallels. Combine that with informer, and you may perhaps guess why I was anxious to extract them before the hammer came down.”
“Hm,” she said, eyeing him in fresh evaluation.
“So ImpSec released me back into the wild today, supposedly after a grueling night of incarceration and involuntary fast-penta interrogation, which cleared me of complicity in Vormercier’s crimes. But left me looking rather a public fool. All good so far.” He scowled, and added, “I was also commended for my months of meticulous and, if I may say it, wearing work on the Vormercier case, and raised one pay grade.”
“Congratulations!” said Rish. “But…you don’t look happy…?”
By’s lips twisted. “And then I was promptly reprimanded and docked one pay grade for involving you, Ivan.”
“Oh.” Ivan almost added Sorry! till he reflected that, actually, it wasn’t his fault. Had he asked By to hand-deliver him a bride? No. Not to mention the stunned, tied up, and threatened with arrest and/or the admiral’s sarcasm parts.
“They did it that way on purpose, you know.” By brooded. “If they’d presented it the other way around, it wouldn’t have been nearly so stinging. Or just said nothing at all, which would have come to the exact same end. Far more efficiently.”
Ivan assured Rish, who seemed taken aback, “Don’t worry about it. Byerly’s pay grade goes up and down a lot. Think of it as white noise in a general upward trend.”
“This marked a new speed record, though,” By grumbled.
Tej was still looking thoughtful. “How does one become a spy?” she asked Byerly.
His dark brows flicked in amusement. “Thinking of applying? A portion of candidates are filtered in from the Service side of things. Good people in their way, but, let us say, afflicted with a certain uniformity of world-view. Some are purpose-recruited from the civilian side, generally for some special expertise.”
“So which way did you get recruited?” asked Rish.
He waved his glass in a what-would-you gesture. “I came in by the third route, recruited piecemeal by a working Domestic Affairs agent. I had arrived in the capital at the age of not quite twenty, bent on going to hell as expeditiously as possible in my own callow fashion—meaning, as like to the other callow, ah, what Ivan and his ilk call town clowns, as I could manage. It was not a very original period of my life. I won’t say I fell in with bad company—I more hunted them down—but among all the bad apples in my chosen barrel was one who was…not. He used me for a few favors, found me satisfactory, assigned me more small tasks, then larger ones, tested me…” Byerly grimaced at who-knew-what memory—Ivan suspected he wasn’t going to tell that one. “And then one day made me an offer which, by that time, did not astonish me—though it illuminated many things in retrospect. I was cycled through a few ImpSec short courses, and the rest was apprenticeship. And, ah…more spontaneous learning experiences.” He poured himself more champagne and orange juice. He doubtless needed the vitamins.
“Which brings me to the moment,” By went on. “We need to—”
“Wait, you skipped over my mother,” said Ivan.
“Would that I could have. She appeared to be remarkably well informed. I tried to explain that my testimony was redundant, but she insisted on the extra angle of view. What I was about to say is, that before any of you here go out into circulation in Vorbarr Sultana—I mean, beyond the extremely select company you’ve already kept—we need to get our stories straight about what really happened on Komarr.”
“Ah,” said Ivan, unsurprised. “Not a social visit, then.”
“Hardly.” Byerly glanced under his lashes at Rish. “Well, mostly not, but I’ll get to that later. Having, miraculously, not yet blown my cover and lost my livelihood, I would like to keep it that way.”
Ivan conceded the validity of this concern with a nod.
“The short version will be that Ivan met you, Tej, on Komarr when he went to mail his package. You indulged in a whirlwind affair, and, when you were suddenly threatened with deportation by Komarran immigration, he married you in a fit of gallantry.”
Tej wrinkled her nose. “Why?”
“What, you were beautiful, you were in danger, and I hadn’t got laid yet,” said Ivan. “Seems simple enough.”
Byerly tilted his head. “You know, you were doing well there, Ivan, till that last—never mind. Verisimilitude is everything. Speaking of which, I was told Tej and Rish may as well go on being themselves for as long as they are on Barrayar. Making a virtue of necessity, as erasing them from earlier in the record would be nearly impossible, with all the trail you’ve left—like an Emperor’s Birthday parade, compete with marching bands and an elephant. Highborn but destitute refugees fleeing from a disastrous palace coup—Barrayarans will understand that part, have no fear, even if they remain suspicious of your Jacksonian aspects.” His eye fell on Ivan, and he added meditatively, “You spotted me on Komarr by chance, and nabbed me for a known witness when you suddenly needed one. I wonder if you should have been drunk at the time?”
“At dawn?” said Ivan indignantly. “No!” He added in false cordiality, “You’re welcome to have been, if you like.”
“What, and besmirch my impeccability as a witness? Surely not.”
“In other words,” said Tej slowly, “pretty much the same tale as we’ve been telling everyone. Except for Admiral Desplains, Lady Vorpatril, Simon Illyan, Lord and Lady Vorkosigan, Emperor Gregor…” She trailed off, plainly finding it an uncomfortably long list for a closely-held secret.
“It’s all right,” Ivan assured her. “That bunch holds more secrets among ’em than I can rightly imagine.”
“Moving on to my concerns,” Byerly continued. “In the interests of spreading the correct cover story as soon as possible to as many observers as possible, Rish, I wonder if you would care to attend a select little soirée with me this evening. Dinner beforehand, perhaps?”
“Go out?” Rish’s eyes grew wide with both longing and alarm. “On a date? With you? On Barrayar?”
Byerly tilted his free hand judiciously back and forth. “Not exactly a date. I need to get out and about to complain, gossip, backstab, and of course curse Theo Vormercier and ImpSec—jointly, severally, and loudly. A tough job, but somebody’s got to, and all that.”
“What about my”—Rish waved a hand down the slim length of her body—“non-standard appearance?”
“Some extra distraction for people’s eyes and minds while I set about my tedious task of disseminating disinformation seems…useful. Famous foreign artist, enjoying refugee status in the train of a mysterious romance, or possibly scandal, involving the scion of one of the stodgiest of high Vor families—I guarantee they’ll muscle past their prejudices for a taste of that. And in the company of the Vorrutyer clan’s most debonair non-heir, at that. Our audience will be positively agog.” He smiled. Ivan bared his teeth. Byerly ignored him, and went on, “Simultaneously, it will begin the process of habituating them to you. Also, it will give you a chance to see a bit of Barrayar not in Ivan’s stodgy company.”
“I am not stodgy! And your company is notoriously, notoriously unfit for…well, unfit, anyway!”
Rish raised her golden brows, and murmured, “Hm!” She regarded Byerly for a long moment through, narrowed, considering eyes. And flared nostrils? “It sounds a small enough task to start on. I think…yes.”
“I believe you will find the evening not without elements of interest,” By purred in triumph. “And I shall be fascinated by your observations.”
“What should I wear?”
“Ah, cerulean on the surface, woman to the bone. Casual-chic and striking would do the job nicely. A touch of the exotic a plus.”
Ivan thought the exotic was more of a default, but Rish merely said, “I can do that.”
Ivan struggled with a formless frustration. Rish was not his spouse, nor did he stand in any way in loco parentis to her. But who would be blamed, if something went wrong? Yeah. On the other hand, this would give him and Tej the flat to themselves for the whole evening. They could order in, and, and…Ivan finally managed, “Well…well, if you’re taking my employee out into deep waters, make damn sure you give her a better briefing than you gave me!”
Byerly set down his emptied glass and raised a brow. “Ivan, do I tell you how to run Ops?”
As Ivan sputtered, By grinned, arranged the hour for his return to collect Rish, stood up, and sauntered out, all in fine By style again. About a liter of Ivan’s most expensive champagne had relaxed him, presumably.
Ivan returned from escorting Byerly to the door and making sure it was locked after him to find Tej and Rish dividing the last of the fresh orange juice and frowning curiously.
“So…is By bi?” Tej asked. “Bisexual, that is.”
“I have no idea what By’s real preferences are,” Ivan stated firmly. “Nor do I wish to know.”
“What, couldn’t you smell him, that first night he came in on Komarr?” said Rish. Addressing Tej, Ivan hoped. “He’d had a busy two days or so. Any lingering scents from prior to that were too attenuated to discern.”
“He was pretty confusing,” said Tej. “In all ways, including that one.”
“To be sure, though I’d call it more compounded than confusing. But whether his contacts were sequential or together, for business or pleasure, enjoyed or endured, even I couldn’t guess.”
“I don’t want to know this,” Ivan repeated, although in a smaller voice. He bethought him of a new caution. “You do realize, Byerly has almost certainly been ordered by his handlers to keep a close eye on you? Surveillance is what he does. What could be a more efficient way of keeping you under his thumb than to ask you out himself?”
Rish smirked and rose. “There’s nothing that says a man can’t enjoy his work.” She added over her shoulder, as she drifted out like some exotic blue blossom floating down a stream, “Come on, Tej. Help me sort through this crazy Barrayaran wardrobe.”
Tej paused to whisper in reassurance to Ivan, “She adores being seen, you know. She’s bound to have a good time.” She bounced after Rish with a sort of happy-teakettle chortle.
A more horrid notion occurred to Ivan then. What if Byerly wanted Rish not for a smokescreen, but as bait? What could be a more efficient method of drawing their syndicate pursuers out to where ImpSec could see and nail them than that?
Well, Ivan reflected morosely, one way or another, at least ImpSec is on the job.
* * *
Rish returned to the flat very late that night; to Tej’s secret bemusement, Ivan Xav stayed up to let her in—but not Byerly, who had escorted her to the door, whom he sent to the right-about with complaints about keeping people awake past their bedtimes. By’s ribald return remarks merely made him grumpier. The next night, Rish had Ivan Xav issue her a door remote. Byerly took her out again, although not to a party, but to a dance performance put on by some touring folk group from the western part of the continent, his former and apparently forsaken home. On the third night, Rish called on Byerly’s wristcom to tell Tej not to wait up; she’d probably be back around noon the next day. Ivan Xav grumbled disjointedly.
The next morning, however, was his birthday, an event Tej had been anticipating with growing curiosity. They arose in the dark before dawn and dressed rather formally, he donning his green captain’s uniform for the first time on his week’s leave. They ate no breakfast, merely drank tea, and then he bundled her into his sporty groundcar and they threaded the dark, quiet streets, although to no great distance away. His driving was, thankfully, subdued, though whether because of the bleary hour of the day or the solemn task they were to undertake, she wasn’t sure.
He hadn’t been very forthcoming about the ceremony, some traditional Barrayaran memorial for his dead father that apparently involved burning a small sacrifice of hair—after it had been clipped from one’s head, Tej was relieved to learn. They pulled up in a street lined by older, grubbier, lower buildings, where a municipal guard vehicle was parked, its lights blinking. Two guardsmen were setting up a pair of lighted traffic deflectors on either side of a bronze plaque set in the pavement. The guard sergeant hurried over and started to wave Ivan out of the parking spot into which they eased, but then reversed his gesture into a beckoning upon recognizing the car and its driver.
“Captain Vorpatril, sir.” The man saluted as Ivan Xav helped Tej out. “We’re just about ready for you, here.”
Ivan nodded. “Thank you, sergeant, as always.”
Tej stood on the sidewalk in the damp autumn chill and stared around. “This is where your father died, then?”
Ivan Xav pointed to the plaque, glinting among the amber-and-shadow patterns woven by the street lights. “Right over there, according to Mamere. Shot down by the Pretender’s security forces, while they were trying to make their escape.”
“Wait, she was there? I mean, here? At the time?”
“Oh, yes.” He yawned and stared sleepily down the street, then perked up slightly as a long, sleek, familiar grou
ndcar turned onto the block. The municipal guardsman waved it into its reserved parking space with studied officiousness, and saluted its occupants as they disembarked. Lady Vorpatril was accompanied, or escorted, by Simon Illyan, with the driver Christos bringing up the rear and holding a large cloth bag that clanked.
The guardsmen took up parade-rest poses at a respectful distance away, and Christos knelt in the street to withdraw a bronze tripod and bowl from the bag, setting them up next to the plaque. He nodded to his mistress and went to join the guardsmen; they greeted each other and conversed in low tones, then one of the guardsmen went out into the street to direct the growing trickle of traffic safely around the site.
“Good morning, Ivan,” Lady Alys greeted her son. “Happy birthday, dear.” She hugged him, and he returned her what seemed to be the regulation peck on the cheek. He nodded thanks to Illyan’s echoed, “Happy birthday, Ivan. Thirty-fifth, isn’t it?
“Yes, sir.”
“Halfway through your Old Earth three-score-and-ten, eh? Incredible that we’ve all survived so long.” He shook his head, as if in wonder. Ivan grimaced.
The War of Vordarian’s Pretendership had been more in the nature of an abortive palace coup, as Tej understood it from her recent reading. Shortly after the ascension of the five-year-old Emperor Gregor under the regency of Aral Vorkosigan, the rival Count Vidal Vordarian and his party had made a grab for power. In the first strike, they’d secured the capital city, the military and ImpSec headquarters, and the young emperor’s mother, but the boy himself had slipped through their fingers, to be hidden in the countryside by Vorkosigan’s gathering forces. It had proved an ultimately fatal fumble.
There had followed a months-long standoff, minor skirmishes while each side frantically maneuvered for allies among the other counts, the military, and the people. Captain Lord Padma Vorpatril and his wife, Lady Alys, relatives and known allies of Regent Vorkosigan, had been cut off in the capital during the coup and gone into hiding. Padma’s death rated barely a footnote, less even than the skirmishes. Had it been a chill and foggy night like this?
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