"Very well. It will be done."
What will be done? Miles wondered warily. The Count was leaning back in his chair, looking satisfied himself, but with a dangerous tension around his eyes hinting that something had aroused his true anger. Not anger at the woman, clearly they were in some sort of agreement, and — Miles searched his conscience quickly — not at Miles himself. He cleared his throat gently, cocking his head and baring his teeth in an inquiring smile.
The Count steepled his hands and spoke to Miles at last. "A most interesting case. I can see why you sent her up."
"Ah…" said Miles. What had he got hold of? He'd only greased the woman's way through Security on a quixotic impulse, for God's sake, and to tweak his father at breakfast. "…ah?" he continued noncommittally.
Count Vorkosigan's brows rose. "Did you not know?"
"She spoke of a murder, and a marked lack of cooperation from her local authorities about it. Figured you'd give her a lift on to the district magistrate."
The Count settled back still further and rubbed his hand thoughtfully across his scarred chin. "It's an infanticide case."
Miles's belly went cold. I don't want anything to do with this. Well, that explained why there was no baby to go with the breasts. "Unusual… for it to be reported."
"We've fought the old customs for twenty years and more," said the Count. "Promulgated, propagandized… In the cities, we've made good progress."
"In the cities," murmured the Countess, "people have access to alternatives."
"But in the backcountry — well — little has changed. We all know what's going on, but without a report, a complaint — and with the family invariably drawing together to protect its own — it's hard to get leverage."
"What," Miles cleared his throat, nodded at the woman, "what was your baby's mutation?"
"The cat's mouth." The woman dabbed at her upper lip to demonstrate. "She had the hole inside her mouth, too, and was a weak sucker, she choked and cried, but she was getting enough, she was…"
"Hare-lip," the Count's off-worlder wife murmured half to herself, translating the Barrayaran term to the galactic standard, "and a cleft palate, sounds like. Harra, that's not even a mutation. They had that back on Old Earth. A… a normal birth defect, if that's not a contradiction in terms. Not a punishment for your Barrayaran ancestors' pilgrimage through the Fire. A simple operation could have corrected -" Countess Vorkosigan cut herself off. The hill woman was looking anguished.
"I'd heard," the woman said. "My lord had made a hospital to be built at Hassadar. I meant to take her there, when I was a little stronger, though I had no money. Her arms and legs were sound, her head was well-shaped, anybody could see — surely they would have" — her hands clenched and twisted, her voice went ragged — "but Lem killed her first."
A seven-day walk, Miles calculated, from the deep Dendarii Mountains to the lowland town of Hassadar. Reasonable, that a woman newly risen from childbed might delay that hike a few days. An hour's ride in an aircar…
"So one is reported as a murder at last," said Count Vorkosigan, "and we will treat it as exactly that. This is a chance to send a message to the farthest corners of my own district. You, Miles, will be my Voice, to reach where it has not reached before. You will dispense Count's justice upon this man — and not quietly, either. It's time for the practices that brand us as barbarians in galactic eyes to end."
Miles gulped. "Wouldn't the district magistrate be better qualified…?"
The Count smiled slightly. "For this case, I can think of no one better qualified than yourself."
The messenger and the message all in one; Times have changed. Indeed. Miles wished himself elsewhere, anywhere — back sweating blood over his final examinations, for instance. He stifled an unworthy wail, My home leave…!
Miles rubbed the back of his neck. "Who, ah… who is it killed your little girl?" Meaning, who is it I'm expected to drag out, put up against a wall, and shoot?
"My husband," she said tonelessly, looking at — through — the polished silvery floorboards.
I knew this was going to be messy…
"She cried and cried," the woman went on, "and wouldn't go to sleep, not nursing well — he shouted at me to shut her up -"
"Then?" Miles prompted, sick to his stomach.
"He swore at me, and went to go sleep at his mother's. He said at least a working man could sleep there. I hadn't slept either…"
This guy sounds like a real winner. Miles had an instant picture of him, a bull of a man with a bullying manner — nevertheless, there was something missing in the climax of the woman's story.
The Count had picked up on it too. He was listening with total attention, his strategy-session look, a slit-eyed intensity of thought you could mistake for sleepiness. That would be a grave mistake. "Were you an eyewitness?" he asked in a deceptively mild tone that put Miles on full alert. "Did you actually see him kill her?"
"I found her dead in the midmorning, lord."
"You went into the bedroom -" Count Vorkosigan led her on.
"We've only got one room." She shot him a look as if doubtful for the first time of his total omniscience. "She had slept, slept at last. I went out to get some brillberries, up the ravine a way. And when I came back… I should have taken her with me, but I was so glad she slept at last, didn't want to risk waking her -" Tears leaked from the woman's tightly-closed eyes. "I let her sleep when I came back, I was glad to eat and rest, but I began to get full" — her hand touched a breast — "and I went to wake her…"
"What, were there no marks on her? Not a cut throat?" asked the Count. That was the usual method for these backcountry infanticides, quick and clean compared to, say, exposure.
The woman shook her head. "Smothered, I think, lord. It was cruel, something cruel. The village Speaker said I must have overlain her, and wouldn't take my plea against Lem. I did not, I did not! She had her own cradle, Lem made it with his own hands when she was still in my belly…" She was close to breaking down.
The Count exchanged a glance with his wife, and a small tilt of his head. Countess Vorkosigan rose smoothly.
"Come, Harra, down to the house. You must wash and rest before Miles takes you home."
The hill woman looked taken aback. "Oh, not in your house, lady!"
"Sorry, it's the only one I've got handy. Besides the guard barracks. The guards are good boys, but you'd make 'em uncomfortable…" The Countess eased her out.
"It is clear," said Count Vorkosigan as soon as the women were out of earshot, "that you will have to check out the medical facts before, er, popping off. And I trust you will also have noticed the little problem with a positive identification of the accused. This could be the ideal public-demonstration case we want, but not if there's any ambiguity about it. No bloody mysteries."
"I'm not a coroner," Miles pointed out immediately. If he could wriggle off this hook…
"Quite. You will take Dr. Dea with you."
Lieutenant Dea was the Prime Minister's physician's assistant. Miles had seen him around — an ambitious young military doctor in a constant state of frustration because his superior would never let him touch his most important patient — oh, he was going to be thrilled with this assignment, Miles predicted morosely.
"He can take his osteo kit with him, too," the Count went on, brightening slightly, "in case of accidents."
"How economical," said Miles, rolling his eyes. "Look, uh — suppose her story checks out and we nail this guy. Do I have to, personally…?"
"One of the liveried men will be your bodyguard. And — if the story checks — the executioner."
That was only slightly better. "Couldn't we wait for the district magistrate?"
"Every judgment the district magistrate makes, he makes in my place. Every sentence his office carries out, is carried out in my name. Someday, it will be done in your name. It's time you gained a clear understanding of the process. Historically, the Vor may be a military caste, but a Vor lord's duties
were never only military ones."
No escape. Damn, damn, damn. Miles sighed. "Right. Well… we could take the aircar, I suppose, and be up there in a couple of hours. Allow some time to find the right hole. Drop out of the sky on 'em, make the message loud and clear… be back before bedtime." Get it over with quickly.
The Count had that slit-eyed look again. "No…" he said slowly, "not the aircar, I don't think."
"No roads for a groundcar, up that far. Just trails." He added uneasily — surely his father could not be thinking of — "I don't think I'd cut a very impressive figure of central Imperial authority on foot, sir."
His father glanced up at his crisp dress uniform and smiled slightly. "Oh, you don't do so badly."
"But picture this after three or four days of beating through the bushes," Miles protested. "You didn't see us in Basic. Or smell us."
"I've been there," said the Admiral dryly. "But no, you're quite right. Not on foot. I have a better idea."
My own cavalry troop, thought Miles ironically, turning in his saddle, just like Grandfather. Actually, he was pretty sure the old man would have had some acerbic comments about the riders now strung out behind Miles on the wooded trail, once he'd got done rolling on the ground laughing at the equitation being displayed. The Vorkosigan stables had shrunk sadly since the old man was no longer around to take an interest: the polo string sold off, the few remaining ancient and ill-tempered ex-cavalry beasts put permanently out to pasture. The handful of riding horses left were retained for their sure-footedness and good manners, not their exotic bloodlines, and kept exercised and gentle for the occasional guest by a gaggle of girls from the village.
Miles gathered his reins, tensed one calf, and shifted his weight slightly, and Fat Ninny responded with a neat half turn and two precise back steps. The thickset roan gelding could not have been mistaken by the most ignorant urbanite for a fiery steed, but Miles adored him, for his dark and liquid eye, his wide velvet nose, his phlegmatic disposition equally unappalled by rushing streams or screaming aircars, but most of all for his exquisite dressage-trained responsiveness. Brains before beauty. Just being around him made Miles calmer. The beast was an emotional blotter, like a purring cat. Miles patted Fat Ninny on the neck. "If anybody asks," he murmured, "I'll tell them your name is Chieftan." Fat Ninny waggled one fuzzy ear, and heaved a wooshing, barrel-chested sigh.
Grandfather had a great deal to do with the unlikely parade Miles now led. The great guerilla general had poured out his youth in these mountains, fighting the Cetagandan invaders to a standstill and then reversing their tide. Anti-flyer heatless seeker-strikers smuggled in at bloody cost from off-planet had a lot more to do with the final victory than cavalry horses, which, according to Grandfather, had saved his forces through the worst winter of that campaign mainly by being edible. But through retroactive romance, the horse had become the symbol of that struggle.
Miles thought his father was being overly optimistic, if he thought Miles was going to cash in thusly on the old man's residual glory. The guerilla caches and camps were shapeless lumps of rust and trees, dammit, not just weeds and scrub anymore — they had passed some, earlier in today's ride — the men who had fought that war had long since gone to ground for the last time, just like Grandfather. What was he doing here? It was jump ship duty he wanted, taking him high, high above all this. The future, not the past, held his destiny.
Miles's meditations were interrupted by Dr. Dea's horse, which, taking exception to a branch lying across the logging trail, planted all four feet in an abrupt stop and snorted loudly. Dr. Dea toppled off with a faint cry. "Hang onto the reins," Miles called, and pressed Fat Ninny back down the trail.
Dr. Dea was getting rather better at falling off; he'd landed more-or-less on his feet this time. He made a lunge at the dangling reins, but his sorrel mare shied away from his grab. Dea jumped back as she swung on her haunches and then, realizing her freedom, bounced back down the trail, tail bannering, horse body-language for Nyah, nyah, ya can't catch me! Dr. Dea, red and furious, ran swearing in pursuit. She broke into a canter.
"No, no, don't run after her!" called Miles.
"How the hell am I supposed to catch her if I don't run after her?" snarled Dea. The space surgeon was not a happy man. "My medkit's on that bloody beast!"
"How do you think you can catch her if you do?" asked Miles. "She can run faster than you can."
At the end of the little column, Pym turned his horse sideways, blocking the trail. "Just wait, Harra," Miles advised the anxious hill woman in passing. "Hold your horse still. Nothing starts a horse running faster than another running horse."
The other two riders were doing rather better. The woman Harra Csurik sat her horse wearily, allowing it to plod along without interference, but at least riding on balance instead of trying to use the reins as a handle like the unfortunate Dea. Pym, bringing up the rear, was competent if not comfortable.
Miles slowed Fat Ninny to a walk, reins loose, and wandered after the mare, radiating an air of calm relaxation. Who, me? I don't want to catch you. We're just enjoying the scenery, right. That's it, stop for a bite. The sorrel mare paused to nibble at a weed, but kept a wary eye on Miles's approach.
At a distance just short of starting the mare bolting off again, Miles stopped Fat Ninny and slid off. He made no move toward the mare, but instead stood still and made a great show of fishing in his pockets. Fat Ninny butted his head against Miles eagerly, and Miles cooed and fed him a bit of sugar. The mare cocked her ears with interest. Fat Ninny smacked his lips and nudged for more. The mare snuffled up for her share. She lipped a cube from Miles's palm as he slid his other arm quietly through the loop of her reins.
"Here you go, Dr. Dea. One horse. No running."
"No fair," wheezed Dea, trudging up. "You had sugar in your pockets."
"Of course I had sugar in my pockets. It's called foresight and planning. The trick of handling horses isn't to be faster than the horse, or stronger than the horse. That pits your weakness against his strengths. The trick is to be smarter than the horse. That pits your strength against his weakness, eh?"
Dea took his reins. "It's snickering at me," he said suspiciously.
"That's nickering, not snickering." Miles grinned. He tapped Fat Ninny behind his left foreleg, and the horse obediently grunted down onto one knee. Miles clambered up readily to his conveniently-lowered stirrup.
"Does mine do that?" asked Dr. Dea, watching with fascination.
"Sorry, no."
Dea glowered at his horse. "This animal is an idiot. I shall lead it for a while."
As Fat Ninny lurched back to his four feet Miles suppressed a riding-instructorly comment gleaned from his Grandfather's store such as, Be smarter than the horse, Dea. Though Dr. Dea was officially sworn to Lord Vorkosigan for the duration of this investigation, Space Surgeon Lieutenant Dea certainly outranked Ensign Vorkosigan. To command older men who outranked one called for a certain measure of tact.
The logging road widened out here, and Miles dropped back beside Harra Csurik. Her fierceness and determination of yesterday morning at the gate seemed to be fading even as the trail rose toward her home. Or perhaps it was simply exhaustion catching up with her. She'd said little all morning, been sunk in silence all afternoon. If she was going to drag Miles all the way up to the back of beyond and then wimp out on him…
"What, ah, branch of the Service was your father in, Harra?" Miles began conversationally.
She raked her fingers through her hair in a combing gesture more nervousness than vanity. Her eyes looked out at him through the straw-colored wisps like skittish creatures in the protection of a hedge.
"District Militia, m'lord. I don't really remember him. He died when I was real little."
"In combat?"
She nodded. "In the fighting around Vorbarr Sultana, during Vordarian's Pretendership."
Miles refrained from asking which side he had been swept up on — most foot soldiers had had little ch
oice, and the amnesty had included the dead as well as the living.
"Ah… do you have any sibs?"
"No, lord. Just me and my mother left."
A little anticipatory tension eased in Miles's neck. If this judgment indeed drove all the way through to an execution, one misstep could trigger a blood feud among the in-laws. Not the legacy of justice the Count intended him to leave behind. So the fewer in-laws involved, the better. "What about your husband's family?"
"He's got seven. Four brothers and three sisters."
"Hm." Miles had a mental flash of an entire team of huge, menacing hill hulks. He glanced back at Pym, feeling a trifle understaffed for his task. He had pointed out this factor to the Count, when they'd been planning this expedition last night.
"The village Speaker and his deputies will be your back-up," the Count had said, "just as for the district magistrate on court circuit."
"What if they don't want to cooperate?" Miles had asked nervously.
"An officer who expects to command Imperial troops," the Count had glinted, "should be able to figure out how to extract cooperation from a backcountry headman."
In other words, his father had decided this was a test, and wasn't going to give him any more clues. Thanks, Da.
"You have no sibs, lord?" said Harra, snapping him back to the present.
"No. But surely that's known, even in the back-beyond."
"They say a lot of things about you." Harra shrugged.
Miles bit down on the morbid question in his mouth like a wedge of raw lemon. He would not ask it, he would not… he couldn't help himself. "Like what?" forced out past his stiff lips.
"Everyone knows the Count's son is a mutant." Her eyes flicked defiant-wide. "Some said it came from the off-worlder woman he married. Some said it was from radiation from the wars, or a disease from, um, corrupt practices in his youth among his brother-officers -"
That last was a new one to Miles. His brow lifted.
"— but most say he was poisoned by his enemies."
"I'm glad most have it right. It was an assassination attempt using soltoxin gas, when my mother was pregnant with me. But it's not -" a mutation, his thought hiccoughed through the well-worn grooves — how many times had he explained this? — it's teratogenic, not genetic, I'm not a mutant, not… What the hell did a fine point of biochemistry matter to this ignorant, bereaved woman? For all practical purposes — for her purposes — he might as well be a mutant. " — important," he finished.
The Mountains of Mourning b-5 Page 2
