Roic would probably just sit there in inarticulate silence and gawp at her…
Martya Koudelka passed him in the entryway, where he'd temporarily taken up guard stance, and smiled cheerily at him. "Hi, Roic."
He nodded. "Miss Martya."
She followed his glance to the head table. "Taura looks wonderful, doesn't she?"
"Sure does." He hesitated. "How come you're not up there?"
Her voice lowered. "I heard the story about last night from Ekaterin. She asked me if I'd mind trading. I said, God, no. Gets me out of having to sit there and make small talk with Ivan, for one thing." She wrinkled her nose.
"It was well thought of, of m'lady."
She hitched up one shoulder. "It was the one honor here that was wholly hers to bestow. The Vorkosigans are amazing, but you have to admit, they do eat you up. They give you a wild ride in return, though." She stood on tiptoe and planted an unexpected kiss on Roic's cheek.
He touched the spot in surprise. "What's that for?"
"For your half of last night. For saving us all from having to live with a really insane Miles Vorkosigan. As long as he lasted." A brief quaver shook her flippant voice. She tossed her blond hair and bounced off.
The toasts were made with the count's very best wines, including a few historical bottles, reserved for the head table, that had been laid down before the end of the Time of Isolation. Afterward the party moved to the brilliant ballroom, seeming another garden, heady with the scent of a sudden spring. Lord and Lady Vorkosigan opened the dancing. Those who could still move after the dinner followed them onto the polished marquetry floor.
Roic found himself, all too briefly, passing by Taura as she watched the dancers sway and twirl.
"Do you dance, Roic?" she asked him.
"Can't. I'm on duty. You?"
"I'm afraid I don't know any of these dances. Although, I'm sure Miles would have foisted an instructor on me if he'd thought of it."
"Actually," he admitted in a lower voice, "I don't know how either."
Her lips curled up. "Well, don't let Miles know if you want it to stay that way. He'd have you out there thumping around before you knew what hit you."
He tried not to snicker. He hardly knew what to say to this, but his parting half-salute did not betoken disagreement.
On the sixth number, m'lady danced past Roic with her eldest brother, Hugo.
"Splendid necklace, Kat. From your spouse, is it?"
"No, actually. From one of his… business associates."
"Expensive!"
"Yes." M'lady's faint smile made the hairs stir on Roic's arms. "I expect it to cost him everything he has."
They spun away.
Taura nailed it. She'll do for m'lord, all right. And God help their enemies.
Promptly on schedule, the aircar was brought round for the bridal couple's getaway. The night was still fairly young, but it was more than an hour's flight to Vorkosigan Surleau and the lakeside estate that was to be the honeymoon refuge. The place would be quiet this time of year, blanketed with snow and peace. Roic could not imagine two people more in need of a little peace.
The guests in residence were to be left behind under the care of the count and countess for a few days, although the galactic guests would travel down to the lake later. Among other things, Roic was given to understand, Madame Bothari-Jesek wished to visit her father's grave there with her husband and new daughter and burn a death offering.
Roic had thought Pym would be doing the flying, but to his surprise, Armsman Jankowski took the controls as the newlyweds ran the gauntlet of raucous family and friends and made it to the rear compartment.
"I've shuffled some assignments," Pym murmured to Roic as they both stood smiling in the porte cochere to watch and salute. M'lord and m'lady seemed to melt into each other's arms in an equal mix of love and exhaustion as the silvered canopy finally closed over them. "I'm taking night watch in Vorkosigan House for the next week. You have the week off with double holiday pay. With m'lady's own thanks."
"Oh," said Roic. He blinked. Pym had been quite frustrated by the fact that no one, from the count down, had seen fit to censure him for the slipup with the necklace. He could only conclude that Pym had given up and decided to supply his own penance. Well, if the senior armsman looked to be carrying it too far, the countess could be relied upon to step in. "Thanks!"
"You can consider yourself free from whenever Count and Countess Vorbarra leave." Pym nodded and stepped back as the aircar eased out from under the overhang and began to rise into the cold night air as if buoyed up by the yells and cheers of the well-wishers.
A splendid and prolonged burst of fireworks made the send-off a thing of beauty and a joy to Barrayaran hearts. Taura applauded and hooted, too, and, along with Arde Mayhew, joined Nikki's cohort for some added, unscheduled crackers and sparklers in the back garden. Powder smoke perfumed the air in clouds as the children ran around Taura, urging her to throw the lights higher. Security and an assortment of mothers might have quashed the game, except for the fact that the large bag of most remarkable incendiary goodies had been slipped to Nikki by Count Vorkosigan.
The party wound down. Sleepy, protesting children were carried past Roic to their cars or to their beds. The emperor and empress were seen out fondly by the count and countess; soon after their departure, a score of unobtrusive, efficient servants, on loan from ImpSec, vanished quietly and without fanfare. The remaining energetic young people hijacked the ballroom to dance to music more to their taste. Their tired elders sought quieter corners in the succession of public rooms in which to converse and sample more of the count's very best wines.
Roic found Taura sitting alone in one of the small side rooms on a sturdy-looking sofa of the style she favored, reflectively working her way through a platter of Ma Kosti's dainties on a low table before her. She looked drowsy and contented, and yet little apart from it all. As if she were a guest in her own life…
Roic gave her a smile, a nod, a semi-salute. He wished he'd thought to provide himself with roses or something. What could a fellow give to a woman like this? The finest chocolate, maybe, yeah, although that was redundant at the moment. Tomorrow for sure. "Um… have you had a good time?"
"Oh, yes. Wonderful."
She sat back and smiled almost up at him—an unusual angle of view. She looked good from this direction, too. M'lord's comment about horizontal height differentials drifted through his memory. She patted the sofa beside her; Roic glanced around, overcame his guard-stance habits, and sat down. His feet hurt, he realized.
The silence that fell was companionable, not strained, but after a time he broke it. "You like Barrayar, then?"
"It's been a great visit. Better than my best dreams."
Ten more days. Ten days was an eyeblink. Ten days was just not enough for all he had to say, to give, to do. Ten years might be a start. "You, uh, have you ever thought of staying? Here? It could be done, y'know. Find a place you could fit. Or make one." M'lord would figure out how, if anyone could. With great daring, he let his hand curl over hers on the seat between them.
Her brows rose. "I already have a place I fit."
"Yeah, but… forever? Your mercs seem like a chancy sort of thing to me. No solid ground under them. And nothing lasts forever, not even organizations;"
"Nobody lives long enough to have all their choices." She was silent for a moment, then added, "The people who bioengineered me to be a super-soldier didn't consider a long life span to be a necessity. Miles has a few biting remarks about that, but oh well. The fleet medics give me about a year yet."
"Oh." It took him a minute to work through this; his stomach felt suddenly tight and cold. A dozen obscure remarks from the past few days fell into place. He wished they hadn't. No, oh, no…!
"Hey, don't look so bludgeoned." Her hand curled around to clasp his in return. "The bastards have been giving me a year yet for the past four years running. I've seen other soldiers have their whole careers and
die in the time the medics have been screwing around with me. I've stopped worrying about it."
He had no idea what to say to this. Screaming was right out. He shifted a bit closer to her instead.
She eyed him thoughtfully. "Some fellows, when I tell them this, get spooked and veer off. It's not contagious."
Roic swallowed hard. "I'm not running away."
"I see that." She rubbed her neck with her free hand; an orchid petal parted from her hair and caught upon her velvet-clad shoulder. "Part of me wishes the medics would get it settled. Part of me says, the hell with it. Every day is a gift. Me, I rip open the package and wolf it down on the spot."
He looked up at her in wonder. His grip tightened, as though she might be pulled from him as they sat, right now, if he didn't hold hard enough. He leaned over, reached across and picked off the fragile petal, touched it to his lips. He took a deep, scared breath. "Can you teach me how to do that?"
Her fantastic gold eyes widened. "Why, Roic! I think that's the most delicately worded proposition I've ever received. S' beautiful." An uncertain pause. "Um, that was a proposition, wasn't it? I'm not always sure I parlay Barrayaran."
Desperately terrified now, he blurted in what he imagined to be merc-speak, "Ma'am, yes, ma'am!"
This won an immense fanged smile—not in a version he'd ever seen before. It made him, too, want to fall over backward, though preferably not into a snowbank. He glanced around. The softly lit room was littered with abandoned plates and wineglasses, detritus of pleasure and good company. Low voices chatted idly in the next chamber. Somewhere in another room, softened by the distance, a clock was chiming the hour. Roic declined to count the beats.
They floated in a bubble of fleeting time, live heat in the heart of a bitter winter. He leaned forward, raised his face, slid his hand around her warm neck, drew her face down to his. It wasn't hard. Their lips brushed, locked.
Several minutes later, in a shaken, hushed voice, he breathed, "Wow."
Several minutes after that, they went upstairs, hand in hand.
The Alchemical Marriage by Mary Jo Putney
1
The Tower of London, July 1588
Though the chambers were spacious and furnished as befitted a prisoner of rank, the cold stone walls were saturated with pain and death. Sir Adam Macrae paced his prison, shackles rattling, wondering if he would be granted the formality of a trial before he was executed. Or would he be kept here forever, quietly rotting as his spirit and body withered away?
The heavy door squealed open. He turned warily, knowing it was not time for food to be delivered. His expression hardened at the entrance of two men in dark cowled cloaks. So the Virgin Queen and her counselors had chosen to silence him by assassination rather than risk beheading a prominent Scot.
Well, by God, he'd not be taken down without a fight. He gripped the length of chain that connected his manacles. Though the damnable iron curbed his power, the heavy links would make a fair weapon.
The taller of the men pushed back his hood, revealing a long white beard and piercing eyes. It was John Dee, the queen's own sorcerer.
Macrae caught his breath. Dee had true power as well as influence with the queen, but he would not be sent here to perform a simple assassination. "I thought you were living on the Continent, Master Dee. 'Tis said that you might end your days in Bohemia, where your work is so much valued."
Dee gave a dry little smile. "Officially, I am in Bohemia still, but my queen has need of me, for a great crisis looms."
"England is threatened? Splendid." Macrae applauded, the manacles jangling. "I pray strength to her enemies."
"Don't be so swift to invoke destruction. There are worse fates than Elizabeth, no matter how little you like her."
"She murdered the Queen of Scots," Macrae said flatly. "She deserves everything I said, and more."
"No one regretted Mary Stuart's death more than Elizabeth. She stayed her hand for years—decades—despite all the evidence that your queen was involved in treasonous plots. The necessity of executing her own cousin and fellow sovereign drove Elizabeth half-mad with grief."
"Nonetheless, murder her cousin she did."
"Couldn't you have waited until you returned to Scotland before cursing Elizabeth's name and predicting that the wrath of God would strike her? She had no choice but to imprison you." The old sorcerer shook his head dourly. "You supported Mary at the risk of your own life, even though she was Catholic and you a Protestant. Though your loyalty is commendable, one must wonder about your sense."
As a stubborn Scot, sense had never been Macrae's strong point. "What is a man without loyalty? She was my queen, and Elizabeth had no right to execute her. Did you come here to taunt me for my foolish tongue?"
"No, Sir Adam." Dee's gaze was steady. "I've come to ask if you would like to earn your freedom."
Freedom? A vision of Glen Rath washed over Macrae. The most beautiful place on God's green earth, with wild clear air where a man could breathe…
He clamped down on his longing, knowing it would weaken him. "Of course I want to be free, but it's possible for freedom to come at too high a price."
" 'Tis said you are the finest weather mage in Britain, Sir Adam." The shrewd eyes glinted. "I want you to conjure me a tempest."
So Dee knew of his powers. That would explain why Macrae's jailers had known to keep him bound with the iron that curbed his magic. He had wondered about that, since rarely were prisoners of rank manacled. The fact that the queen's soldiers had burst into his lodgings at night and slapped irons on him before he could fight back had made him wonder if he had been betrayed by another Guardian, but apparently not. The formidable Dee had his own ways of learning. "Perhaps I could, but why should I?"
"To save Britain from a great evil." Dee moved stiffly to one of the chairs, shadowed by his attendant. "Do you mind if I sit, Sir Adam? My old bones ache from the journey across Europe."
Reminded of his duties as host, Macrae took wine from a well-stocked cabinet and filled three goblets. Dee accepted readily, but his companion hesitated before taking a goblet and withdrawing to the darkest corner of the room. He moved with the suppleness of youth. An apprentice sorcerer or a body servant? Whichever, he had Dee's trust. Macrae must hope the boy also had discretion.
Macrae took the chair opposite Dee, stretching his long legs out before him, a portrait of ease despite his chains. "You say you want a tempest."
"Spain and England have been at each other's throats since the death of Mary Tudor. Now Spain is gathering an Armada, the greatest fleet ever seen—more than one hundred thirty ships and thirty thousand men. Far more than England can muster." Dee stared into his wine. "I want you to call up a storm that will destroy the Spanish ships and save England from invasion."
Macrae gasped. "Have you any idea what you're asking? The greatest weather mage who ever lived could not conjure such a storm. Particularly not at this season. Magic must build on what exists in nature, and the light airs of summer offer little of the power I would need to spin a small storm into a great one."
"I know it will not be easy, but if any man can, it is you."
Macrae let the metal links slide between his fingers, the weight of the chain crushing his mind. "After more than a year of cold iron, I don't know if I still have power. Even if I do, I'll fry in hell before using it on Elizabeth's behalf."
"This is not about Elizabeth, but about Britain. That means Scotland as well as England. Do you really want the harsh hand of Spain to fall over this island?"
Macrae shrugged. "They may plunder London, but I doubt they'll touch my people in the wilds of Scotland. Let them come. It matters not to me whether English Elizabeth or Spanish Philip rules here."
"Not even if refusing my offer costs your life?"
His mouth twisted. "I've lived in daily expectation of my death for fifteen long months, Master Dee. How is this day any different?"
With a muffled oath, Dee's hooded companion swirled from the sh
adowed corner. "If you think a Spanish invasion doesn't matter, you are as ignorant as you are foolish, Macrae. Put aside your prejudices and think."
The whiskey-rich voice was female. Sweeping back her hood, the woman revealed blazing black eyes in a narrow, Byzantine face of fearsome intelligence. In her late twenties, she was not pretty. Instead, she was beautiful in the manner of a glittering, deadly sword.
"Sir Adam, meet my associate, Isabel de Cortes," Dee said dryly. "If you need persuasion or assistance, she can provide it."
Macrae studied the woman. Even his iron-crippled inner vision could see that she burned with a mage's power now that she was no longer masking her abilities. "Isabel de Cortes," he said musingly. "A Spanish name, and a Spanish face. Do you hate your own country so much, Mistress?"
"Spain birthed my ancestors, but it is not my country. England has my loyalty." Isabel's dark eyes narrowed.
"You think a Spanish invasion will not affect Scotland, but you are wrong. When Mary Tudor reigned, Philip of Spain was her husband, and the burning flesh of Protestant martyrs fouled the air of Smithfield. That was nothing compared to what will happen if the Inquisition comes to Britain."
"That will never happen."
"You think not? Your Queen of Scots bequeathed Philip her claims to the English throne, and his soldiers are coming to seize that bequest by fire and steel. Even your northern wilderness will not be distant enough to protect you."
"You do not know Scotland or the Scots."
She made a sound that reminded him of a wildcat. "As a mage, you must have some scrying ability. Take a long, true look into this, and then tell me it doesn't matter if the Spanish come." Delving into a pocket of her robe, she brought out a disk of polished obsidian perhaps four inches in diameter.
He refused to take the scrying glass. "You forget that iron chains bind me."
"The touch of iron curbs all your powers, even the smallest?" Isabel looked shocked. Worse, pitying. "Most mages are not so sensitive."
"I am." His voice was flat. For fifteen endless months, his inner senses had been blind and deaf and dumb, leaving aching emptiness that might never be filled again.
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