"It's . . . certainly possible. I'm not sure how it would fly with the fossils. They damn near choked on Mark, year before last." Miles frowned in thought. Could this damage Mark's position? "I heard she was practically running the District for Pierre these last five years. If she could get herself appointed the clone's legal guardian, she could continue to run it for the next twenty. It's unusual to have a female relative be a Count's guardian, but there are some historical precedents."
"Including that Countess who was legally declared a male in order to inherit," Ren? put in. "And then had that bizarre suit later about her marriage."
"Oh, yeah, I remember reading about that one. But there was a civil war on, at the time, which broke down the barriers for her. Nothing like being on the side of the right battalions. No civil war here except for whatever lies between Donna and Richars, and I've never heard an inside story on that feud. I wonder . . . if you're right—would she use a uterine replicator for the clone, or would she have the embryo implanted as a body-birth?"
"Body-birth seems weirdly incestuous," Ren? said, with a grimace of distaste. "You do wonder about the Vorrutyers, sometimes. I hope she uses a replicator."
"Mm, but she never had a child of her own. She's what, forty or so . . . and if the clone were growing inside her own body, she'd at least be sure to have it—excuse me, him—as thoroughly personally guarded as possible. Much harder to take away from her, that way, or to argue that someone else should be his guardian. Richars, for example. Now that would be a sharp turn of events."
"With Richars as guardian, how long do you think the child would live?"
"Not past his majority, I suspect." Miles frowned at this scenario. "Not that his death wouldn't be impeccable."
"Well, we'll find out Lady Donna's plan soon," said Ren?. "Or else her case will collapse by default. Her three months to bring her evidence are almost up. It seems a generous allotment of time, but I suppose in the old days they had to allow everyone a chance to get around on horseback."
"Yes, it's not good for a District to leave its Countship empty for so long." One corner of Miles's mouth turned up. "After all, you wouldn't want the proles to figure out they could live without us."
Ren?'s brows twitched acknowledgment of the jibe. "Your Betan blood is showing, Miles."
"No, only my Betan upbringing."
"Biology isn't destiny?"
"Not anymore, it's not."
The light music of women's voices echoed up the curving staircase into the sitting room. A low alto burble Miles thought he recognized was answered by a silvery peal of laughter.
Ren? sat up, and turned around; his lips parted in a half smile. "They're back. And she's laughing. I haven't heard Tatya laugh in weeks. Bless Martya."
Had that been Martya Koudelka's voice? The thump of a surprising number of feminine feet rippled up the stairs, and three women burst into Miles's appreciative view. Yes . The two blond Koudelka sisters, Martya and Olivia, set off the dark good looks of the shorter third woman. The young Countess Tatya Vorbretten had bright hazel eyes, wide-set in a heart-shaped face with a foxy chin. And dimples. The whole delightful composition was framed by ringlets of ebony hair that bounced as she now did.
"Hooray, Ren?!" said Martya, the owner of the alto voice. "You're not still sitting alone here in the dark and gloom. Hi, Miles! Did you finally come to cheer Ren? up? Good for you!"
"More or less," said Miles. "I didn't realize you all knew each other so well."
Martya tossed her head. "Olivia and Tatya were in school together. I just came along for the ride, and to boot them into motion. Can you believe, on this beautiful morning, they wanted to stay in ?"
Olivia smiled shyly, and she and Countess Tatya clung together for a brief supportive moment. Ah, yes. Tatya Vorkeres had not been a countess back in those private-school days, though she had certainly already been a beauty, and an heiress.
"Where all did you go?" asked Ren?, smiling at his wife.
"Just shopping in the Caravanserai. We stopped for tea and pastries at a caf? in the Great Square, and caught the changing of the guard at the Ministry." The Countess turned to Miles. "My cousin Stannis is a directing officer in the fife and drum corps of the City Guard now. We waved at him, but of course he couldn't wave back. He was on duty."
"I was sorry we hadn't made you come out with us," said Olivia to Ren?, "but now I'm glad. You would have missed Miles."
"It's all right, ladies," said Martya stoutly. "Instead I vote we make Ren? escort us all to the Vorbarr Sultana Hall tomorrow night. I happen to know where I can get four tickets."
This was seconded and voted in without reference to the Count, but Miles couldn't see him offering much resistance to a proposal that he escort three beautiful women to hear music that he adored. And indeed, with a somewhat sheepish glance at Miles, he allowed himself to be persuaded. Miles wondered how Martya had cornered the tickets, which were generally sold out a year or two in advance, on such short notice. Was she drawing on her sister Delia's ImpSec connections, perhaps? This whole thing smelled of Team Koudelka in action.
The Countess smiled and held up a hand-calligraphed envelope. "Look, Ren?! Armsman Kelso handed this to me as we came in. It's from Countess Vorgarin."
"Looks like an invitation to me," said Martya in a tone of vast satisfaction. "See, things aren't so bad as you feared."
"Open it," urged Olivia.
Tatya did so; her eyes raced down the handwriting. Her face fell. "Oh," she said in a flattened tone. The delicate paper half-crumpled in her tight fist.
"What?" said Olivia anxiously.
Martya retrieved the paper, and read down it in turn. "The cat! It's an un –invitation! To her baby daughter's naming party. ` . . . afraid you would not be comfortable,' my eye! The coward. The cat!"
Countess Tatya blinked rapidly. "That's all right," she said in a muffled voice. "I hadn't been planning to go anyway."
"But you said you were going to wear—" Ren? began, then closed his mouth abruptly. A muscle jumped in his jaw.
"All the women—and their mothers—who missed catching Ren? these last ten years are being just . . . just . . ." Martya sputtered to Miles, "feline ."
"That's an insult to cats," said Olivia. "Zap has better character."
Ren? glanced across at Miles. "I couldn't help noticing . . ." he said in an extremely neutral voice, "we haven't received a wedding invitation from Gregor and Dr. Toscane as yet."
Miles held up a reassuring hand. "Local invitations haven't been sent out yet. I know that for a fact." This was not the moment to mention that inconclusive little political discussion on the subject he'd sat in on a few weeks ago at the Imperial Residence, Miles decided.
He stared around the tableau, Martya fuming, Olivia stricken, the Countess chilled, Ren? flushed and stiff. Inspiration struck. Ninety-six chairs. "I'm giving a little private dinner party in two nights time. It's in honor of Kareen Koudelka and my brother Mark getting home from Beta Colony. Olivia will be there, and all the Koudelkas, and Lady Alys Vorpatril and Simon Illyan, and my cousin Ivan and several other valued friends. I'd be honored if you both would join us."
Ren? managed a pained smile at this palpable charity. "Thank you, Miles. But I don't think—"
"Oh, Tatya, yes, you've got to come," Olivia broke in, squeezing her old friend's arm. "Miles is finally unveiling his lady-love for us all to meet. Only Kareen's seen her so far. We're all just dying of curiosity."
Ren?'s brows went up. "You, Miles? I thought you were as confirmed a bachelor as your cousin Ivan. Married to your career."
Miles grimaced furiously at Olivia, and twitched at Ren?'s last words. "I had this little medical divorce from my career. Olivia, where did you ever get the idea that Madame Vorsoisson—she's my landscape designer, you see, Ren?, but she's Lord Auditor Vorthys's niece, I met her on Komarr, she's just recently widowed and certainly not—not ready to be anybody's lady-love. Lord Auditor Vorthys and the Professora will be there too, y
ou see, a family party, nothing inappropriate for her."
"For who?" asked Martya.
"Ekaterin," escaped his mouth before he could stop it. All four lovely syllables.
Martya grinned unrepentantly at him. Ren? and his wife looked at each other—Tatya's dimple flashed, and Ren? pursed his lips thoughtfully.
"Kareen said Lord Mark said you said," Olivia said innocently. "Who was lying, then?"
"Nobody, dammit, but—but—" He swallowed, and prepared to run down the drill one more time. "Madame Vorsoisson is . . . is . . ." Why was this getting harder to explain with practice, instead of easier? "Is in formal mourning for her late husband. I have every intention of declaring myself to her when the time is right. The time is not right. So I have to wait." He gritted his teeth. Ren? was now leaning his chin on his hand, his finger across his lips, and his eyes alight. "And I hate waiting ," Miles burst out.
"Oh," said Ren?. "I see."
"Is she in love with you too?" asked Tatya, with a furtive fond glance at her husband.
God, the Vorbrettens were as gooey as Gregor and Laisa, and after three years, too. This marital enthusiasm was a damned contagious disease. "I don't know," Miles confessed in a smaller voice.
"He told Mark he's courting her in secret," Martya put in to the Vorbrettens. "It's a secret from her. We're all still trying to figure that one out."
"Is the entire city party to my private conversations?" Miles snarled. "I'm going to strangle Mark."
Martya blinked at him with manufactured innocence. "Kareen had it from Mark. I had it from Ivan. Mama had it from Gregor. And Da had it from Pym. If you're trying to keep a secret, Miles, why are you going around telling everyone?"
Miles took a deep breath.
Countess Vorbretten said demurely, "Thank you, Lord Vorkosigan. My husband and I would be pleased to come to your dinner party." She dimpled at him.
His breath blew out in a, "You're welcome."
"Will the Viceroy and Vicereine be back from Sergyar?" Ren? asked Miles. His voice was tinged with political curiosity.
"No. In fact. Though they're due quite soon. This is my party. My last chance to have Vorkosigan House to myself before it fills up with the traveling circus." Not that he didn't look forward to his parents' return, but his head-of-the-House role had been rather . . . pleasant, these past few months. Besides, introducing Ekaterin to Count and Countess Vorkosigan, her prospective future parents-in-law, was something he wished to choreograph with the utmost care.
He'd surely done his social duty by now. Miles rose with some dignity, and bid everyone farewell, and politely offered Martya and Olivia a ride, if they wished it. Olivia was staying on with her friend the Countess, but Martya took him up on it.
Miles gave Pym a fishy look as the Armsman opened the groundcar canopy for them to enter the rear compartment. Miles had always put down Pym's extraordinary ability to collect gossip, a most valuable skill to Miles in his new post, to Pym's old ImpSec training. He hadn't quite realized Pym might be trading . Pym, catching the look but not its cause, went a bit blander than usual, but seemed otherwise unaffected by his liege-lord's displeasure.
In the rear compartment with Martya as they pulled away from Vorbretten House and swung down toward the Star Bridge, Miles seriously considered dressing her down for roasting him about Ekaterin in front of the Vorbrettens. He was an Imperial Auditor now, by God—or at least by Gregor. But then he'd get no further information out of her. He controlled his temper.
"How do the Vorbrettens seem to be holding up, from your view?" he asked her.
She shrugged. "They're putting up a good front, but I think they're pretty shaken. Ren? thinks he's going to lose the case, and his District, and everything."
"So I gathered. And he might, if he doesn't make more push to keep it." Miles frowned.
"He's hated the Cetagandans ever since they killed his da in the war for the Hegen Hub. Tatya says it just spooks him, to think the Cetagandans are in him." She added after a moment, "I think it spooks her a little, too. I mean . . . now we know why that branch of the Vorbrettens suddenly acquired that extraordinary musical talent, after the Occupation."
"I'd made that connection too. But she seems to be standing by him." Unpleasant, to think this mischance might cost Ren? his marriage as well as his career.
"It's been hard on her too. She likes being a Countess. Olivia says, back in their school days, envy sometimes made the other girls mean to Tatya. Being picked out by Ren? was kind of a boost for her, not that the rest of them couldn't see it coming, with her glorious soprano. She does adore him."
"So you think their marriage will weather this?" he asked hopefully.
"Mm . . ."
"Mm . . . ?"
"This whole thing began when they were going to start their baby. And they haven't gone ahead. Tatya . . . doesn't talk about that part of things. She'll talk about everything else, but not that."
"Oh." Miles tried to figure out what that might mean. It didn't sound very encouraging.
"Olivia is almost the only one of Tatya's old friends who've shown up, after all this blew up. Even Ren?'s sisters have kind of gone to ground, though for the opposite reason I suppose. It's like nobody wants to look her in the eye."
"If you go back far enough, we're all descended from off-worlders, dammit," Miles growled in frustration. "What's one-eighth? A tinge. Why should it disqualify one of the best people we have? Competence should count for something."
Martya's grin twisted. "If you want sympathy, you've come to the wrong store, Miles. If my da were a Count, it wouldn't matter how competent I was, I still wouldn't inherit. All the brilliance in the world wouldn't matter a bit. If you're just now finding out that this world is unjust, well, you're behind the times."
Miles grimaced. "It's not news to me, Martya." The car pulled up outside Commodore Koudelka's townhouse. "But justice wasn't my job, before." And power isn't nearly as all-powerful as it looks from the outside. He added, "But that's probably the one issue I can't help you on. I have the strongest personal reasons for not wanting to reintroduce inheritance through the female line into Barrayaran law. Like, my survival. I like my job very well. I don't want Gregor's."
He popped the canopy, and she climbed out, and gave him a sort of acknowledging salaam for both this last point and the ride. "See you at your dinner party."
"Give my best to the Commodore and Drou," he called after her.
She shot him a bright Team Koudelka smile over her shoulder, and bounced away.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Mark gently banked the lightflyer, to give the rear-seat passengers, Kareen and Madame Vorsoisson, a better view of the Vorkosigan's District capital of Hassadar glittering on the horizon. The weather was cooperating, a beautiful sunny day that breathed promise of imminent summer. Miles's lightflyer was a delight: sleek, fast, and maneuverable, knifing through the soft warm air, and best of all with the controls precisely aligned to be ergonomically perfect for a man just Mark's height. So what if the seat was a little on the narrow side. You couldn't have everything. For example, Miles can't have this anymore. Mark grimaced at the thought, and shunted it aside.
"It's lovely land," Madame Vorsoisson remarked, pressing her face to the canopy to take it all in.
"Miles would be flattered to hear you say so," Mark carefully encouraged this trend of thought. "He's pretty stuck on this place."
They were certainly viewing it in the best possible light, literally, this morning. A patchwork of spring verdure in the farms and woods—the woods no less a product of back-breaking human cultivation than the fields—rippled across the landscape. The green was broken up and set off by irregular slashes of Barrayaran native red-brown, in the ravines and creek bottoms and along uncultivable slopes.
Enrique, his nose also pressed to the canopy, said, "It's not at all what I was expecting, from Barrayar."
"What were you expecting?" asked Madame Vorsoisson curiously.
"Kilometers of flat
gray concrete, I suppose. Military barracks and people in uniform marching around in lockstep."
"Economically unlikely for an entire planetary surface. Though uniforms, we do have," Mark admitted.
"But once it gets up to several hundred different kinds, the effect isn't so uniform anymore. And some of the colors are a little . . . unexpected."
"Yes, I feel sorry for those Counts who ended up having to pick their House colors last," Mark agreed. "I think the Vorkosigans must have fallen somewhere in the middle. I mean, brown and silver isn't bad , but I can't help feeling that the fellows with the blue and gold—or the black and silver—do have a sartorial edge." He could fancy himself in black and silver, with Kareen all blond and tall on his arm.
"It could be worse," Kareen put in cheerfully. "How do you think you'd look in a House cadet's uniform of chartreuse and scarlet, like poor Vorharopulos, Mark?"
"Like a traffic signal in boots." Mark made a wry face. "The lockstep is lacking too, I've gradually come to realize. More like, milling around in a confused herd. It was . . . almost disappointing, at first. I mean, even disregarding enemy propaganda, it's not the image Barrayar itself tries to project, now is it? Though I've learned to kind of like it this way."
They banked again. "Where is the infamous radioactive area?" Madame Vorsoisson asked, scanning the changing scene.
The Cetagandan destruction of the old capital of Vorkosigan Vashnoi had torn the heart out of the Vorkosigan's District, three generations ago. "Southeast of Hassadar. Downwind and downstream," Mark replied. "We won't pass it today. You'll have to get Miles to show it to you sometime." He suppressed a slightly snarky grin. Betan dollars to sand the blighted lands hadn't been on Miles's projected itinerary.
"Barrayar doesn't all look like this," Madame Vorsoisson told Enrique. "The part of South Continent where I grew up was flat as a griddlecake, even though the highest mountain range on the planet—the Black Escarpment—was just over the horizon."
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