Star, who in Ivan’s estimation had been drinking pretty heavily, unless she had some sort of gengineered Cetagandan liver, looked up and said, “How did you and the old general come to have the Baronne, anyway? Did your old Constellation order it? Must have—it’s said the haut keep their outcrosses tightly controlled.”
“That is incorrect, dear. Although by then my Constellation and I had long parted ways. It’s the haut-haut crosses that are meticulously planned. It is precisely the outcrosses which are loosened, so as to permit the possibility of genetic serendipity.”
Udine smiled rather grimly across the table at her mother. “Did you find me so serendipitous?”
“In the longer view—ultimately. I admit, at the time, my motivations were more short-term and emotional.”
Star’s brow furrowed. “Were you in love with Grandfather ghem Estif, back then?”
Moira ghem Estif waved away this romantic notion. “Rae ghem Estif was not a lovable man, as such. I did feel, strongly, that he—that all of us who chose to stop on Komarr rather than return to the Empire—had suffered our efforts to be betrayed by our respective superiors. It was Rae’s one loss to the Ninth Satrapy that I could make up.”
Jet, next to her, looked confused. “What loss was that?”
Udine sipped her wine, smiled affectionately across at her son-and/or-construct, and said, “What, you never heard that tale?” Jet, Ivan was reminded, was the last Arqua, even younger than Tej.
Conversation had died, all along the table, as those at the far end strained to hear. Tej leaned forward and peered around the line of her seatmates, alert for some new tidbit. Their materfamilias must not often bore them with accounts of her youth, Ivan decided.
“It’s a very Barrayaran story, all waste and aggravation and futility, which I must suppose makes it appropriate to tell here,” said Lady ghem Estif, with a glance down the table at her presumed host. Simon smiled distantly back, but his eyes had gone quite attentive. “The general’s son by one of his prior wives was lost in the Ninth Satrapy.”
“Blown up by Ivan Xav’s ancestors?” Rish inquired brightly from her end.
“We initially thought so, but our best later guess was that he was killed by what is so oxymoronically called friendly fire. Captain ghem Estif vanished while on a three-day leave. Normally this would have been put down to his being murdered by the guerillas or having deserted—desertions were a growing problem by then—but Rae insisted it could not be the second and there was no sign of the first. It was only much later—we had already reached Komarr, as I recall—that one of his son’s friends spoke privately with us, and we found out that the captain had taken a Barrayaran lover.”
She paused to sip soup; fourteen people refrained from interrupting, in unison.
She swallowed delicately and went on: “The captain had apparently penetrated enemy lines to the most dire and notorious nest of guerrillas on the planet in search of his young man. It is entirely unclear if he had found out the city was secretly slated to be destroyed by the ruling ghem-junta—of which General ghem Estif was not a part, so he could not have had the news that way—and was trying to get him out, or if it was just bad luck and bad timing. For all the ironic horror of his son’s immolation, Rae did seem to take some consolation in the assurance that it was not desertion.”
The four Barrayarans around the table were not, actually, quieter than the rest of the audience, Ivan thought—but maybe he was getting a worked demonstration of the difference between attentive and choked silence. The infamous nuclear destruction of the Vorkosigan’s District capital had been the act that had galvanized the war-torn and exhausted planet into its final push against the Occupation.
“My cousin Miles actually owns the site of Vorkosigan Vashnoi,” Ivan put in, affably. Pseudo-affably? Even he wasn’t sure. “It’s finally stopped glowing.”
“Has it,” said Lady ghem Estif, unruffled. “Well, salute the brave ghem-captain and his beloved for me, next time you fly over. I assume you do not land there.”
“No,” said Ivan. “Not even now.”
Lady Alys, with thirty years of diplomatic experience under her belt, looked as if she was discovering a whole new meaning for the term, conversation pit. But she made a valiant effort to recover. “Is that why you and the ghem-general took up Komarran citizenship?”
“I believe Rae’s motivations for that were more practical—he had been given access to a large block of planetary voting shares.”
Bribed, did that translate as?
“I did not actually apply for Komarran citizenship myself, merely claiming umbrella residency as a spouse,” Lady ghem Estif went on. “Later, when I lived with Udine and Shiv, the question of governmental loyalties was, mm, locally moot. I have actually managed to remain a stateless person for the better part of a century, which, I can tell you, is not something the Nexus generally makes easy to do.”
“Indeed,” said Illyan from the other end of the table, staring at her in fascination, “not.”
The next course arrived and the conversation broke apart, the female-dominated end of the table going on to Cetagandan genetic techniques as applied to Jacksonian outcrosses, with a side-order of current Barrayaran techno-obstetrical fashions, the other end to military history and its financing. Ivan was maddened by not quite being able to hear the details when Simon and Shiv began to compare-and-contrast, or possibly one-up, anecdotes of brigandage and covert ops in the Jackson’s Whole system, presumably heavily edited on both sides.
Ivan decided to let someone else explain the provenance of the mouth-melting maple ambrosia served for dessert, but to his relief no one inquired; Lady Alys’s description of it as ‘a traditional Barrayaran confection’ seemed to cover it. The menu item was likely inevitable, given the cook; Ma Kosti was collecting royalties on the recipe, Ivan understood.
Dinner ended without disaster, despite Lady ghem Estif’s little wobble into ancient angst. With the seniors setting the pace, it was clear the evening was not going to run late or turn raucous. Ivan followed when Simon drew Shiv off to his study, an unusual postprandial honor; he normally only permitted the most select guests into this private space, such as Gregor or Miles or Uncle Aral when he was on-world. The honor was underscored when Simon rummaged in his credenza and emerged with a bottle of the even more select brandy, the one from the Vorkosigan’s District so rare that it didn’t even have a label, being distributed solely as a gift from the Count’s own hand.
And two glasses. Simon studied Ivan with his most annoying blandness, and murmured, “I expect Lady Tej will be wanting your support out there, eh, Ivan?”
They eyed each other; Ivan tried not to let his gaze fix on the bottle gently dangling from Simon’s hand. “I’m very concerned for Tej’s future, sir.”
“I am aware, Ivan. It’s one of the things in the forefront of my mind.”
Ivan couldn’t say, out loud in front of his putative father-in-law watching this play with keen interest, Dammit, I need to be dealing with Shiv! Wait your turn! Nor, as Simon chivvied him firmly to the door and evicted him, Don’t forget! Just how many things could Simon keep in the forefront of his mind these days without losing track? The very soundproof, not to mention projectile-, plasma-, and poison gas-proof, door slid closed in front of Ivan’s nose, exiling him to the hallway.
Byerly wandered up, looking faintly frazzled. “Have you seen where Arqua and Illyan disappeared to?”
Ivan jerked his thumb at the study. “Private conclave, evidently. Discussing Vorkosigan brandy, and I’m not sure what else.”
Byerly stared at the blank door with curiosity second only to Ivan’s own. “Well…Illyan. Presumably he has things in hand.”
“I’m not so sure. You were closer to that end of the table than I was. Did you get the impression that Shiv was hustling Simon? I mean, subtly, of course.”
By shrugged. “Well, of course. Arqua has to be hustling every possibility he sees, right about now. Trying to get supp
ort for his House in exile, in the interest of making it not in exile. It was less clear”—By hesitated—“why Simon seemed to be hustling him back. Even more subtly, note. Unless it was just habit, I suppose.”
“That’s a disturbing thought. The two of them, hustling each other.”
“Yeah. It was…kind of like watching two women trying to make each other pregnant.”
Ivan contemplated this arresting, not to mention distracting, metaphor for a moment. “That’s done. Technologically. Even on Barrayar, these days.”
Byerly waved a dissociating hand. “You see what I mean, though.”
“Yeah.” Ivan nibbled his lip. “Are you outed, by the way?”
“By Rish? I’m not yet sure. Do you know if Tej has told her family anything?”
“About your line of work? Not a clue. No one has given me any time to talk with my wife for the past day.” Ivan hesitated. “She has talked with them about something.”
“Well, try to find out, will you? Both,” By added in afterthought.
Ivan growled. “Spying is supposed to be your job.”
“I’m trying,” By bit out.
“Hey. You’re the one who outed yourself, back on Komarr. Surprised the hell out of me at the time. Were you trying to impress the pretty python with your daring dual identity, or what?”
“At the time, there were only the two of them, and I never imagined they’d ever get closer than five jumps to Vorbarr Sultana. It seemed a fair deal, and they seemed to agree. They weren’t going to blab to their enemies. Never pictured it lasting more than a couple of days before we went our separate ways. Or Rish having to choose me over her family, for God’s sake.”
Or Tej having to choose me over her family? Ivan had just time to think, before a door slid open down the hall, and By’s teeth snapped shut. Tall and cinnamon Pidge emerged from the guest lav, began to stride back toward the living room, spied the two of them lingering, and hove to with a smile. Snazzy heels on her shoes positioned her to look Ivan directly in the eye, and down on Byerly, very Baronette Sophia Arqua. Strange courtesy title, that. Ivan kept hearing it as bayonet, which…might not be so wrong.
“Oh, Ivan Xav.” A nod included Byerly in the greeting. “What a very pleasant evening this has been, after the tensions of our travels.”
“I’m glad,” said Ivan. “Do tell my mother. Entertaining is an art form, to her.”
“I could see that,” said Pidge, with near-Cetagandan approval. “Your mother’s partner is an interesting fellow, too,” she went on. Yes, she had been closer to Simon’s end of the table, through dinner. In the place next to Tej that should have been Ivan’s, eh. “Illyan is a, what do you call your grubbers, a prole name, though, isn’t it? Not one of you Vor.”
“No twice-twenty-years Imperial Service man need yield to any Vor for his place in our military caste,” said Ivan firmly.
Pidge looked to Byerly for confirmation of this cultural detail; he nodded cordially.
“Still, a captain. Even after, what, forty years—why do you call it twice-twenty, I wonder? But isn’t that the same rank as you?”
“No,” said Ivan. “Chief of Imperial Security, which was his job title, technically isn’t a military rank at all, but a direct Imperial appointment. He froze his military rank at captain because his predecessor, Emperor Ezar’s security chief Captain Negri—the man they called Ezar’s Familiar—never took a higher rank, either. A political statement, that. It was, after all, a very political job.”
Pidge tilted her head. “And what did they call your Illyan?”
“Aral Vorkosigan’s Dog,” By put in, lips quirking with amusement.
“But…Vorkosigan wasn’t an emperor. Was he…?”
“Imperial Regent for sixteen years, you know, when Emperor Gregor was a minor,” Byerly charitably glossed for her outworlder benefit. “All of the work, none of the perqs.” Ivan wondered if that was a direct quote from Uncle Aral. Or Aunt Cordelia, more likely.
“And what do they call the current Chief of ImpSec?”
“Allegre? They call him the Chief of ImpSec.” Byerly cast her the hint of an apologetic bow. “I fear we live in less colorful times.”
Thank God, Ivan thought. “Allegre was already a general at the time of his appointment. They didn’t make him give it back, so I suppose that’s the end of that tradition.”
Pidge’s generous mouth pursed, as she puzzled through this. “It seems quite odd. Are Barrayaran captains very well paid, then?”
“No,” said Ivan, sadly. He added, lest she think less of his um-stepfather, “Illyan was given a vice-admiral’s salary, though, which makes more sense considering the workload.” Or perhaps it didn’t—26.7 hours a day for thirty years, all-consuming? Such a pyre wasn’t something a man entered into for pay. “Half-salary, now he’s retired.”
“How much would that be?”
Ivan, who dealt with military payrolls regularly and could have recited the wage ranges for every IS-number/rank ever invented, current or historical, said, “I imagine you could look it up somewhere.” Byerly smiled a little; the sweep of his lashes invited Ivan to carry on.
“Then…is he rich independently?” Pidge persisted.
“I have no idea.”
Pidge tossed her head in surprise; the amber curls gathered in a clasp at her nape, far more controlled than Tej’s cloud, failed to bounce much. “How can you not know?”
“I expect he has his savings,” Byerly put in, stirring what imagined pot Ivan barely wanted to contemplate, but was probably going to have to. “He couldn’t have started out with much, as a young prole officer, but that social class tends to be frugal. And he had no visible vices.”
“Nor secret ones, either,” Ivan put in. “He wouldn’t have had time.” Not that Illyan hadn’t been good at secrets…many years of unrequited and largely unsuspected prole pining for Lady Alys, for example. Which had escaped Ivan’s attention entirely, till the shoes had dropped—both pairs…
Well, all right, one secret vice. They had both been very drunk at the Emperor’s Birthday celebration a couple of years ago, Ivan by habit and tradition, the retired Illyan because he’d always been on ImpSec duty before and had never, he said, had a chance to. Through a progression of subjects that were soon a blur in Ivan’s mind, they had somehow got on to just what Illyan did and did not recall or miss from his memory chip, at which point Ivan had learned just where the largest and most arcane pornography collection on Barrayar had been secreted…
It’s not as if I acquired most of it on purpose, Illyan had protested. But the damned chip didn’t allow me to delete anything, whether I picked it up inadvertently or in a moment of bad mood or bad judgment or bad company, and then I was stuck with it forever. Or in the line of work, oh, God, those were the worst. Do you have any idea how many truly appalling surveillance vids I had to review in forty years…?
There were some things, Ivan reflected, that no man should know about another, not even or perhaps especially his um-stepfather. People had occasionally—in Ivan’s hearing or even buttonholing him directly—speculated about just how long this matter between Illyan and Lady Alys had really been going on, since Illyan’s retirement when it had become…overt? Public? Not flaunted, Lady Alys didn’t flaunt, that would be tasteless. More like…they wore each other with well-earned pride. But it had occurred to Ivan then that the physical danger Illyan trailed from his work might not have been the only thing he’d been loath to take to bed with his esteemed Vor lady. Ivan had decided he was thankful when Illyan appeared to have forgotten the conversation the next day—hangovers were definitely for the young, the man had moaned—and didn’t remind him of it in any way.
And when Ivan had got over his own hangover, and the generational whiplash, and the unwanted lurid-but-maybe-not-even-lurid-enough imaginings, he’d finally decided that what it had mostly sounded like was lonely, actually.
Being married to a wife beat being married to a job, it seemed increasingly cl
ear to Ivan.
“Captain Illyan is—or was—a clever man, was he not?” said Pidge. “I should have thought that a position as a security chief would have lent itself to considerable personal acquisition, in three decades. If not directly, then through clever use of inside information.”
It was a measure of…something…that this thought had never crossed Ivan’s mind till now. If nothing else, Illyan had spent vast tracts of time and wells of energy dealing with corrupt people and the effects of their corruptions; really, there could hardly be anything he hadn’t learned about the depravity of the human condition. And yet…just because Illyan took confessions didn’t make him a priest.
“No,” said Ivan after a moment, grabbing for his tilting certainty. “ImpSec was his passion; he didn’t need another. If he had a drug, it was adrenaline.”
Byerly’s brows rose. “Really?”
“God, yes. He only looked normal by contrast because he hung around with a pack of the biggest adrenaline-junkies on three worlds. All the great men have to be, to ride the Imperial Horse. I mean, think who Illyan used to run in covert ops. And at whose request.”
“That,” said Byerly, “is a point.”
“But he’s retired from all that now.”
“A modest frugal retirement for a loyal Imperial bureaucrat?” said Pidge. “And yet your mother so wealthy.”
“Doesn’t bother her,” Ivan said stoutly.
“But does it bother him?”
Captain Vorpatril's alliance mv-14 Page 30
