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Winterfair Gifts

Lois McMaster Bujold

from Irresistible Forces

First Printing, February 2004

ISBN 0-451-21111-1

From Armsman Roic's wrist

com the gate guard's voice reported laconically, “They're in.

Gate's locked.”

“Right,” Roic returned.

“Dropping the house shields.” He

turned to the discreet security

control panel beside the carved

double doors of Vorkosigan House's main entry hall, pressed

his palm to the read-pad, and

entered a short code. The faint

hum of the force shield protecting the great house faded.

Roic stared anxiously out one

of the tall, narrow windows

flanking the portal, ready to throw the doors wide when m'lord's

groundcar pulled into the porte

cochere. He glanced no less

anxiously down the considerable

length of his athletic body, checking his House uniform:

half-boots polished to mirrors,

trousers knife-creased, silver

embroidery gleaming, dark brown

fabric spotless.

His face heated in mortified

memory of a less expected arrival

in this very hall-also of Lord

Vorkosigan with honored company

in tow-and the unholy tableau

m'lord had surprised with the

Escobaran bounty hunters and the

gooey debacle of the bug butter.

Roic had looked an utter fool in

that moment, nearly naked except

for a liberal coating of sticky

slime. He could still hear Lord

Vorkosigan's austere, amused

voice, as cutting as a razor-slash

across his ears: Armsman Roic,

you're out of uniform.

He thinks I'm an idiot. Worse, the Escobarans' invasion had been

a security breach, and while he'd

not, technically, been on duty-he'd been asleep, dammit-he'd been present in the house and therefore on call for emergencies. The mess

had been in his lap, literally.

M'lord had dismissed him from

the scene with no more than an

exasperated Roic . . . get a bath,

somehow more keenly excoriating

than any bellowed dressing-down.

Roic checked his uniform

again.

The long silvery groundcar

pulled up and sighed to the

pavement. The front canopy rose on the driver, the senior and

dauntingly competent Armsman

Pym. He released the rear canopy

and hurried around the car to

assist m'lord and his party. The

senior armsman spared a glance

through the narrow window as he

strode by, his eye passing coolly

over Roic and scanning the hall

beyond to make sure it contained

no unforeseen drama this time.

These were Very Important

Off-World Wedding Guests, Pym

had impressed upon Roic. Which

Roic might have been left to

deduce by m'lord going personally

to the shuttleport to greet their

descent from orbit-but then, Pym

had walked in on the bug butter

disaster, too. Since that day, his

directives to Roic had tended to be couched in words of one syllable,

with no contingency left to chance.

A short figure in a

well-tailored gray tunic and

trousers hopped out of the car

first: Lord Vorkosigan, gesturing

expansively at the great stone

mansion, talking nonstop over his

shoulder, smiling in proud

welcome. As the carved doors

swung wide, admitting a blast of

Vorbarr Sultana winter night air

and a few glittering snow crystals, Roic stood to attention and

mentally matched the other people

exiting the groundcar with the

security list he'd been given. A tall woman held a baby bundled in

blankets; a lean, smiling fellow

hovered by her side. They had to be the Bothari-Jeseks. Madame

Elena Bothari-Jesek was the

daughter of the late, legendary

Armsman Bothari; her right of

entree into Vorkosigan House,

where she had grown up with

m'lord, was absolute, Pym had

made sure Roic understood. It

scarcely needed the silver circles of a jump pilot's neural leads on

midforehead and temples to

identify the shorter middle-aged

fellow as the Betan jump pilot,

Arde Mayhew-should a jump pilot

look so jump-lagged? Well,

m'lord's mother, Countess

Vorkosigan, was Betan, too; and

the pilot's blinking, shivering

stance was among the most

physically unthreatening Roic had

ever seen. Not so the final guest.

Roic's eyes widened.

The hulking figure unfolded

from the groundcar and stood up,

and up. Pym, who was almost as

tall as Roic, did not come quite up to its shoulder. It shook out the

swirling folds of a gray-and-white greatcoat of military cut and

threw back its head. The light

from overhead caught the face and

gleamed off . . . were those fangs

hooked over the outslung lower

jaw?

Sergeant Taura was the name that went with it, by process of

elimination. One of m'lord's old

military buddies, Pym had given

Roic to understand, and-don't be

fooled by the rank-of some

particular importance (if rather mysterious, as was everything

connected with Lord Miles

Vorkosigan's late career in

Imperial Security). Pym was

former ImpSec himself. Roic was

not, as he was reminded, oh, three times a day on average.

At Lord Vorkosigan's urging,

the whole party poured into the

entry hall, shaking off

snow-spotted garments, talking,

laughing. The greatcoat was

swung from those high shoulders

like a billowing sail, its owner

turning neatly on one foot, folding the garment ready to hand over.

Roic jerked back to avoid being

clipped by a heavy,

mahogany-colored braid of hair as

it swept past, and rocked forward to find himself face to . . . nose to .

. . staring directly into an entirely unexpected cleavage. It was

framed by pink silk in a plunging

vee. He glanced up. The outslung

jaw was smooth and beardless.

The curious pale amber eyes, irises circled with sleek black lines,

looked back down at him with, he

instantly feared, some amusement.

Her fang-framed smile was deeply alarming.

Pym was efficiently organizing

servants and luggage. Lord

Vorkosigan's voice yanked Roic

back to focus. “Roic, did the count and countess get back in from

their dinner engagement yet?”

“About twenty minutes ago,

m'lord. They went upstairs to their suite to change.”

Lord Vorkosigan addressed

the woman with the baby, who was

attracting cooing maids. “My

parents would skin me if I didn't

take you up to them instantly.

Come on. Mother's pretty eager to

meet her namesake. I predict Baby

Cordelia will have Countess

Cordelia wrapped around her

pudgy little fingers in about, oh, three and a half seconds. At the

outside.”

He turned and started up the

curve of the great staircase,

shepherding the Bothari-Jeseks

and calling over his shoulder,

“Roic, show Arde and Taura to

their assigned rooms, make sure

they have everything they want.

We'll meet back in the library

when you all are freshened up or

whatever. Drinks and snacks will

be laid on there.”

So, it was a lady sergeant.

Galactics had those; m'lord's

mother had been a famous Betan

officer in her day. But this one's a

bloody giant mutant lady sergeant

was a thought Roic suppressed

more firmly. Such backcountry

prejudices had no place in this

household. Though, she was

clearly bioengineered, had to be.

He recovered himself enough to

say, “May I take your bag, um . . .

Sergeant?”

“Oh, all right.” With a

dubious look down at him, she

handed him the satchel she'd had slung over one arm. The pink

enamel on her fingernails did not

quite camouflage their shape as

claws, heavy and efficient as a

leopard's. The bag's descending

weight nearly jerked Roic's arm

out of its socket. He managed a

desperate smile and began lugging

it . two-handed up the staircase in m'lord's wake.

He deposited the tired-looking

pilot first. Sergeant Taura's

second-floor guest room was one

of the renovated ones, with its own bath, around the corridor's corner from m'lord's own suite. She

reached up and trailed a claw

along the ceiling and smiled in

evident approval of Vorkosigan

House's three-meter headspace.

“So,” she said, turning to Roic,

“is a Winterfair wedding

considered especially auspicious,

in Barrayaran custom?”

“They're not so common as in

summer. Mostly I think it's now

because m'lord's fiancee is

between semesters at university.”

Her thick brows rose in

surprise. “She's a student?”

“Yes, ma'am.” He had a

notion one addressed female

sergeants as ma'am. Pym would have known.

“I didn't realize she was such a

young lady.”

“No, ma'am. Madame

Vorsoisson's a widow-she has a little boy, Nikki-nine years old.

Mad about jumpships. Do you

happen t' know-does that pilot

fellow like children?” Mayhew

was bound to be a magnet for

Nikki.

“Why . . . I don't know. I don't

think Arde knows either. He

hardly ever meets any in a free

mercenary fleet.”

He would have to watch, then,

to be sure little Nikki didn't set himself up for a painful rebuff.

M'lord and m'lady-to-be might

not be paying their usual attention to him, under the circumstances.

Sergeant Taura circled the

room, gazing with what Roic

hoped was approval at its comfortable appointments, and

glanced out the window at the

back garden, shrouded in winter

white, the snow luminous in the

security lighting. “I suppose it

makes sense that he'd have to wed

one of his own Vor kind, in the

end.” Her nose wrinkled. “So, are

the Vor a social class, a warrior

caste, or what? I never could quite figure it out from Miles. The way

he talks about them you'd half

think they were a religion. Or at

any rate, his religion.”

Roic blinked in bafflement.

“Well, no. And yes. All of that. The Vor are . . . well, Vor.”

“Now that Barrayar has

modernized, isn't a hereditary

aristocracy resented by the rest of your classes?”

“But they're our Vor.”

“Says the Barrayaran. Hmm.

So, you can criticize them, but heaven help any outsider who

dares to?”

“Yes,” he said, relieved that

she seemed to have grasped it

despite his stumbling tongue.

“A family matter. I see.” Her grin faded into a frown that was

actually less alarming-not so much fang. Her fingers clenching the

curtain inadvertently poked claws

through the expensive fabric;

wincing, she shook her hand free

and tucked it behind her back.

Her voice lowered. “So she's Vor,

well and good. But does she love

him?”

Roic heard the odd emphasis

in her voice but was unclear how

to interpret it. “I'm very sure of it, ma'am,” he avowed loyally.

M'lady-to-be's frowns, her

darkening mood, were surely just

prewedding nerves piled atop

examination stress on the

substrate of her not-so-distant

bereavement.

“Of course.” Her smile flicked

back in a perfunctory sort of way.

“Have you served Lord

Vorkosigan long, Armsman Roic?”

“Since last winter, ma'am,

when a space fell vacant in the

Vorkosigans' armsmen's score. I

was sent up on recommendation from the Hassadar Municipal

Guard,” he added a bit

truculently, challenging her to

sneer at his humble, nonmilitary

origins. “A count's twenty

armsmen are always from his own

district, y'see.”

She did not react; the

Hassadar Municipal Guard

evidently meant nothing to her.

He asked in return, “Did you .

. . serve him very long? Out

there?” In the galactic

backbeyond where m'lord had

acquired such exotic friends.

Her face softened, the fanged

smile reappearing. “In a sense, all my life. Since my real life began,

ten years ago, anyway. He is a great man.” This last was

delivered with unself-conscious

conviction.

Well, he was a great man's son,

certainly. Count Aral Vorkosigan

was a colossus bestriding the last half century of Barrayaran

history. Lord Miles had led a less public career. Which no one would

tell Roic anything about, the most junior armsman not being

ex-ImpSec like m'lord and most of

the rest of the armsmen, eh.

Still, Roic liked the little lord.

What with the birth injuries and

all-Roic shied away from the

pejorative mutations-he'd had a rough ride all his life despite his high blood. Hard enough for him

to just achieve normal things, like .

. . like getting married. Although, m'lord had brains enough, belike,

in compensation for his stunted

body. Roic just wished he didn't

think his newest armsman a dolt.

“The library is to the right of

the stairs as you go down, through the first room.” He touched his

hand to his forehead in a farewell salute, by way of paving his escape from this unnerving giant female.

“The dining's to be casual tonight; you don't need t' dress.” He

added, as she glanced down in

bewilderment at her

travel-rumpled loose pink jacket

and trousers, “Dress up, that is.

Fancy. What you're wearing is

fine.”

“Oh,” she replied with evident relief. “That makes more sense.

Thank you.”

***

Having made his routine

security circuit of the house, Roic arrived back at the antechamber

just outside the library to find the huge woman and the pilot fellow

examining the array of wedding

presents temporarily staged there.

The growing assortment of objects

had been arriving for weeks. Each

had been handed in to Pym to be

unwrapped and to undergo a

security check, rewrapped, and as

the affianced couple's time

permitted, unwrapped again and

displayed with its card.

“Look, here's yours, Arde,”

said Sergeant Taura. “And here's

Elli's.”

“Oh, what did she finally

decide on?” asked the pilot. “At

one point she told me she was

thinking of sending the bride a

barbed-wire choke chain for

Miles, but was afraid it might be

misinterpreted.”

“No . . .” Taura held up a thick

fall of shimmering black stuff as

long as she was tall. “It seems to be some sort of fur coat. No, wait-it's a blanket. Beautiful! You should

feel this, Arde. It's incredibly soft.

And warm.” She held a supple fold

up to the side of her head, and a

delighted laugh broke from her

long lips. “It's purring!”

Mayhew's eyebrows climbed halfway to his receding hairline.

“Good God! Did she . . . ? Now,

that's a bit edgy.”

Taura stared down at him in

puzzled inquiry. “Edgy? Why?”

Mayhew made an uncertain

gesture. “It's a live fur-a genetic construct. It looks just like one

Miles once gave to Elli. If she's recycling his gifts, that's a pretty pointed message.” He hesitated.

“Though I suppose if she bought a

fresh new one for the happy

couple, that's a different message.”

“Ouch.” Taura tilted her head

to one side and frowned at the fur.

“My life's too short for arcane

mind games, Arde. Which is it?”

“Search me. In the dark, all cat blankets are . . . well, black, in this case. I wonder if it's intended as an editorial?”

“Well, if it is, don't you dare let on to the poor bride, or I swear I'll turn both your ears into doilies.”

She held up her clawed fingers

and wriggled them. “By hand.”

Judging by the pilot's brief

grin, the threat was a jest, but by his little bow of compliance, not an entirely empty one. Taura

observed Roic, just then, refolded the live fur into its box, and tucked her hands discreetly behind her

back.

The door to the library swung

open, and Lord Vorkosigan stuck

his head out. “Ah, there you two are.” He strolled into the

antechamber. “Elena and Baz will

be down in a little-she's feeding

Baby Cordelia. You must be

starving by now, Taura. Come on

in and try the hors d'oeuvres. My

cook has outdone herself.”

He smiled up affectionately at

the enormous sergeant. While the

top of Roic's head barely came up

to her shoulder, m'lord just about faced her belt buckle. It occurred to Roic that Taura towered over

himself in almost exactly the same proportions that ladies of average height towered over Lord

Vorkosigan. This must be what

women looked like to m'lord all

the time.

Oh.

M'lord waved his guests

through to the library but, instead of following them, shut the door

and motioned Roic to his side. He

looked thoughtfully up at his

tallest armsman and lowered his.

voice.

“Tomorrow morning, I want

you to drive Sergeant Taura to the Old Town. I've prevailed upon

Aunt Alys to present Taura to her

modiste and fix her up with a

Barrayaran lady's wardrobe

suitable for the upcoming bash.

Figure to hold yourself at their

disposal for the day.”

Roic gulped. M'lord's aunt,

Lady Alys Vorpatril, was in her

own way more terrifying than any woman Roic had ever

encountered, regardless of height.

She was the acknowledged social

arbiter of the high Vor in the

capital, the last word in fashion, taste, and etiquette, the official hostess for Emperor Gregor

himself. And her tongue could slice a fellow to ribbons and tie up the remains in a bowknot before

they hit the ground.

“How t' devil did you-” Roic began, then cut himself off.

M'lord smirked. “I was very

persuasive. Besides, Lady Alys

relishes a challenge. With luck, she may even be able to part Taura

from that shocking pink she

favors. Some damned fool once

told her it was a nonthreatening color, and now she uses it in the

most unsuitable garments-and

quantities. It's so wrong on her.

Well, Aunt Alys will be able to

handle it. If anyone asks for your opinion-not that they're likely

to-vote for whatever Alys picks.”

I shouldn't dare do otherwise,

Roic managed not to blurt aloud.

He stood to attention and tried to look as though he were listening

intelligently.

Lord Vorkosigan tapped his

fingers on his trouser seam, his

smile fading. “I'm also relying on you to see that Taura is not, um,

offered insult, or made

uncomfortable, or . . . well, you

know. Not that you can keep

people from staring, I don't suppose. But be her outrider in

any public venue, and be alert to

steer her away from any problems.

I wish I had time to squire her

myself, but this wedding prep has

gone into high gear. Not much

longer now, thank God.”

“How is Madame Vorsoisson

holding up?” Roic inquired

diffidently. He had been

wondering for two days if he ought to report the crying jag to

someone, but m'lady-to-be had

surely not realized her muffled

breakdown in one of Vorkosigan

House's back corridors had

included a hastily retreating

witness.

Judging by m'lord's suddenly

guarded expression, perhaps he knew. “She has . . . extra stresses just now. I've tried to take as

much of the organizing off her

shoulders as possible.” His shrug

was not as reassuring as it might

be, Roic felt.

M'lord brightened. “Anyway,

I want Sergeant Taura to have a

great time on her visit to Barrayar, a fabulous Winterfair season. It's probably the only chance she'll

ever have to see the place. I want her to look back on this week like, like . . . dammit, I want her to feel like Cinderella magicked off to the ball. She's earned it, God knows.

Midnight tolls too damned soon.”

Roic tried to wrap his mind

around the concept of Lord

Vorkosigan as the enormous woman's fairy godfather. “So . . .

who's t' handsome prince?”

M'lord's smile went crooked;

something almost like pain

sounded in his indrawn breath.

“Ah. Yes. That would be the

central problem, now. Wouldn't

it.”

He dismissed Roic with his

usual casual half-salute, a vague

wave of his hand in the vicinity of his forehead, and joined his guests in the library.

***

Roic had never in his whole

career as a Hassadar municipal

guardsman been in a clothing

store resembling that of Lady

Vorpatril's modiste. Nothing betrayed its location in the

Vorbarr Sultana thoroughfare but

a discreet brass plaque, labeled

simply ESTELLE. Cautiously, he

mounted to the second floor,

Sergeant Taura's massive

footsteps creaking on the carpeted stairs behind him, and poked his

head into a hushed chamber that

might have been a Vor lady's

drawing room. There was not a

garment rack nor even a

mannequin in sight, just a thick

carpet, soft lighting, and tables

and chairs that looked suitable for offering high tea at the Imperial

Residence. To his relief Lady

Vorpatril had arrived before them

and was standing chatting with

another woman in a dark dress.

The two women turned as Taura ducked her head under the

lintel behind Roic and

straightened up again. Roic

nodded a polite greeting. He

couldn't imagine what m'lord had

said to his aunt, but her eyes

widened only slightly, looking up

at Taura. The second woman

didn't quail at the fangs, claws, or height either, but when her glance swept down the pink trouser

outfit, she winced.

There was a brief pause; Lady

Alys shot Roic an inquiring look,

and he realized it must be his job to do the announcing, as when he

brought a visitor into Vorkosigan

House. “Sergeant Taura, my

lady,” he said loudly, then

stopped, hoping for more cues.

After another moment, Lady

Alys abandoned further hope of

him and came forward, smiling,

her hands held out. “Sergeant

Taura. I am Miles Vorkosigan's

aunt, Alys Vorpatril. Permit me to welcome you to Barrayar. My

nephew has told me something

about you.”

Uncertainly, Taura stuck out

one huge hand, engulfing Lady

Alys's slender fingers, and shook

with care. “I'm afraid he hasn't

told me too much about you,” she

said. Shyness made her voice a

gruff rumble. “I don't know many

aunts. I somehow thought you

would be older. And . . . and not so beautiful.”

Lady Vorpatril smiled, not without approval. Only a few

streaks of silver in her dark

coiffure and a slight softening of her skin betrayed her age to Roic's eyes; she was trim and elegant and utterly self-possessed, as always.

She introduced the other woman,

Madame Somebody-not Estelle,

though Roic promptly dubbed her

that in his mind-apparently the

senior modiste.

“I'm very happy to have a

chance to visit Miles's-Lord

Vorkosigan's homeworld,” Taura

told them. “Although, when he

invited me to come for the

Winterfair season, I wasn't sure if it was hunting or social, and

whether I should pack weapons or

dresses.”

Lady Vorpatril's smile

sharpened. “Dresses are weapons, my dear, in sufficiently skilled

hands. Permit us to introduce you

to the rest of our ordnance team.”

She gestured toward a door at the

far end of the room, through

which presumably lay more

utilitarian workrooms, full of laser scanners and design consoles and

bolts of exotic fabrics and expert seamstresses. Or magic wands, for

all Roic knew.

The other woman nodded. “Do

please come this way, Sergeant

Taura. We have a great deal to

accomplish today, Lady Alys tells

me . . .”

“My lady?” Roic called in faint panic to their disappearing

forms. “What should I do?”

“Wait here a few moments,

Armsman,” Lady Alys murmured

over her shoulder to him. “I'll be back.”

Taura, too, glanced back at

him, just before the door eased

silently closed behind her, the

expression flitting over her odd

features seeming for a moment

almost beseeching- Don't abandon

me.

Did he dare sit on one of the

chairs? He decided not. He stood

for a few moments, walked around

the chamber, and finally took up a guardsman's stance, which by dint

of much recent practice he could hold for an hour at a stretch, his back to one delicately decorated

wall.

In a while Lady Vorpatril

returned, a pile of bright pink

cloth folded over her arm. She

shoved it at Roic.

“Take these back to my

nephew and tell him to hide them.

Or better, burn them. Or

anything, but do not under any

circumstances allow them to fall

into that young woman's hands

again. Come back in about, oh,

four hours. You are by far the

most ornamental of Miles's

armsmen, but there's no need to

have you lurking about cluttering

up Estelle's reception room till

then. Run along.”

He looked down on the top of

her perfectly groomed head and

wondered how she could always

make him feel four years old, or as though he wanted to hide in a

large bag. For his consolation,

Roic reflected as he made his way

out, she seemed to have the same

effect on her nephew, who was

thirty-one and ought to be

immune by now.

He reported again for duty at

the appointed time, only to cool his heels for another twenty minutes

or so. A sub-modiste of some sort

offered him a choice of tea or

wines while he waited, which he

politely declined. At last, the door opened; voices drifted through.

Taura's vibrant baritone was unmistakable. “I'm not so sure,

Lady Alys. I've never worn a skirt like this in my life.”

“We'll have you practice for a

few minutes, sitting and standing

and walking. Oh, here's Roic back, good.”

Lady Alys stepped through

first, folded her arms, and looked, oddly enough, at Roic.

A stunning vision in hunter

green stepped through behind her.

Oh, it was still Taura,

certainly, but . . . the skin that had been sallow and dull against the

pink was now revealed as a

glowing ivory. The green jacket fit very trimly about the waist.

Above, her pale shoulders and long neck seemed to bloom from a

white linen collar; below, the

jacket skirt skimmed out briefly

around the upper hips. A narrow

skirt continued the long green fall to her firm calves. Wide linen cuffs decorated with subtle white braid

made her hands look, if not small, well-proportioned. The pink nail

polish was gone, replaced by a

dark mahogany shade. The heavy

braid hanging down her back had

been transformed into a

mysteriously knotted

arrangement, clinging close to her head and set off with a green . . .

hat? feather? anyway, a neat little accent tilted to the other side. The odd shape of her face seemed

suddenly artistic and sophisticated

rather than distorted.

“Ye-es,” said Lady Vorpatril.

“That will do.”

Roic closed his mouth.

With a lopsided smile, Taura

stepped carefully forward. “I am a bodyguard by trade,” she said,

evidently continuing a

conversation with Lady Vorpatril.

“How can I kick someone's teeth

in wearing this?”

“A woman wearing that suit, my dear, will have volunteers to

kick in annoying persons' teeth for her,” said Lady Alys. “Is that not so, Roic?”

“If they don't trample each

other in the rush,” gulped Roic

and turned red.

One corner of that wide mouth lifted; the golden eyes seemed to

sparkle like champagne. She

caught sight of a long mirror on a carved stand in one corner and

walked over to it to stare

somewhat uncertainly at the

portion of her it reflected. “It's effective, then?”

“Downright terrifying,” Roic

averred.

Roic intercepted a furious

glower from Lady Alys behind

Taura's back. Her lips formed the

words No, you idiot! He shrank into cowed silence.

“Oh.” Taura's fanged smile

fled. “But I already terrify people.

Human beings are so fragile. If

you get a good grip, you can pull their heads right off. I want to

attract . . . somebody. For a change. Maybe I should have that

pink dress with the bows after all.”

Lady Alys said smoothly, “We

agreed that the ingenue look is for much younger girls.”

“Smaller ones, you mean.”

“There is more than one kind

of beauty. Yours needs dignity. I

would never deck myself in pink

bows,” she threw in, a little

desperately it seemed to Roic.

Taura eyed her, seeming

struck by this. “No . . . I suppose not.”

“You will simply attract

braver men.”

“Oh, I know that. ” Taura shrugged. “I was just . . . hoping for a larger selection, for once.”

She added under her breath,

“Anyway, he's taken now.”

What he? Roic couldn't help wondering. She sounded rather

sad about it. Some very tall

admirer, now out of the picture?

Larger than Roic? There weren't

too many men of that description

around.

Lady Alys rounded out the

afternoon by guiding her new

protegee to an exclusive tearoom,

much frequented by high Vor

matrons. This proved to be partly

for the purposes of tutorial, party to refuel Taura's ferocious

metabolism. While the server

brought dish after dish, Lady Alys offered a brisk stream of advice on everything from gracefully exiting a groundcar in restrictive clothing to posture to table manners to the intricacies of Vor social rank.

Despite her outsized scale, Taura

was naturally athletic and

coordinated, seeming to improve

almost as Roic watched.

Drafted as practice gentleman,

Roic found himself coming in for a few sharp corrections himself. He

felt very conspicuous and clumsy

at first, until he realized that, next to Taura, he might as well be

invisible. If they drew sidelong

looks from other diners, at least

the comments were low-voiced or

far enough away that he was not

compelled to take notice; besides, Taura's attention was entirely

upon her mentor. Unlike Roic, she

never needed the same instruction

twice.

When Lady Vorpatril removed

herself to consult with the head

server about some fine point,

Taura leaned over to whisper,

“She's very good at this, isn't she?”

“Yes. The best.”

She sat back with a smile of

satisfaction. “Miles's people

generally are.” She regarded Roic

appraisingly.

A server guided a well-dressed

Vor matron shepherding a

girl-child about Nikki's age past

their table toward their own

seating. The girl stopped short and stared at Taura. Her hand lifted,

pointing in astonishment. “Mama,

look at that gigantic-”

The mother captured the

hand, shot an alarmed glance at

them, and began some hushed

admonishment about it not being

polite to point. Taura essayed a big friendly smile at the girl. A

mistake . . .

The girl screamed and buried

her face in her mother's skirts,

hands frantically clutching. The

woman shot Taura a furious,

frightened glower and hustled the

little girl away, not toward their table but to the exit. Across the

tearoom, Lady Alys's head

swiveled around.

Roic looked back at Taura, then wished he hadn't. Her face

froze, appalled, then crumpled in

distress; she seemed about to burst into tears but caught herself with a long indrawn breath, held for a

moment.

Tensed to spring-where?-Roic

instead eased back helplessly in his chair. Hadn't m'lord specifically

detailed him to prevent this sort of thing?

With a gulp, Taura brought

her breathing back under control.

She looked as wan as though she'd

been wounded by a knife thrust.

Yet what could he have done? He

couldn't very well draw his

stunner and pot some Vor lady's

terrified kid . . .

Lady Alys, taking in the incident, returned quickly. With a special frown at Roic, she slid back into her seat. She smoothed over

the moment with some light

comment, but the outing did not

recover its cheerful tone; Taura

kept trying to shrink down and sit smaller, a futile exercise, and

whenever she began to smile,

stopped and tried to hold her hand over her mouth.

Roic wished he were back

patrolling Hassadar alleys.

***

Roic arrived with his charges

back at Vorkosigan House feeling

as though he'd been run through a

wringer. Backward. Several times.

He peered around the tower of garment boxes he carried-the rest, Madame Estelle had assured

Taura, would be delivered-and

managed not to drop them getting

through the carved doors. Under

Lady Vorpatril's direction, he

handed off the boxes to a pair of

maidservants, who whisked them

away.

M'lord's voice wafted from the

antechamber to the library. “Is

that you, Aunt Alys? We're in

here.”

Roic trod belatedly after the

two disparate women just in time

to see m'lord introduce Sergeant

Taura to his fiancee, Madame

Ekaterin Vorsoisson. Like, it

seemed, everyone but Roic, she

had apparently been warned in advance; she didn't even blink,

holding out one hand to the huge

galactic woman and offering her

an impeccably polite welcome.

M'lady-to-be looked fatigued this

evening, although that might be

partially the effect of the drab

gray half-mourning she still wore, her dark hair drawn back in a

severe knot. The garb went with

the gray civilian suits m'lord

favored, though, giving the effect of two players on the same team.

M'lord regarded the new

green outfit with unfeigned

enthusiasm. “Splendid work, Aunt

Alys! I knew I could rely on you.

That's a stunning look with the

hair, Taura.” He peered upward.

“Are the fleet medicos making some new headway with the

extension treatments? I don't see

any gray at all. Great!”

She hesitated, then replied,

“No, I just got some customized

dye to match it.”

“Ah.” He made an apologetic

motion, as if brushing away his

last words. “Well, it looks lovely.”

New voices sounded from the

entry hall, Armsman Pym

admitting a visitor.

“No need to announce me,

Pym.”

“He's right in there, then, sir.

Lady Alys just arrived.”

“Better still.”

Simon Illyan (ImpSec, retired) entered upon these words, bent to

kiss Lady Alys's hand, then tucked it through one arm as he

straightened. She smiled fondly at him, and he snugged her in close

to his side. He, too, absorbed his introduction to the towering

Sergeant Taura with unruffled

calm, bowing over her hand and

saying, “I am so pleased to have a chance to meet you at last,

Sergeant. I hope your visit to

Barrayar has been pleasant so

far?”

“Yes, sir,” she rumbled back,

apparently controlling an impulse

to salute the man only because he

still held her hand. Roic didn't

blame her; he was taller than

Illyan, too, but the formidable former Chief of Imperial Security

made him want to salute, and he'd never even been in the military.

“Lady Alys has been wonderful.”

No one, it seemed, was going to

mention the unfortunate incident

in the tearoom.

“I'm not surprised. Oh,

Miles,” Illyan continued, “I've just come from the Imperial

Residence. Some good news came

in when I was saying good-bye to

Gregor. Lord Vorbataille was

arrested this afternoon at the

Vorbarr Sultana shuttleport,

trying to leave the planet in

disguise.”

M'lord blew out his breath.

“That's going to put that ugly little

case to bed, then. Good. I was afraid it was going to drag on over Winterfair.”

Illyan smiled. “I wondered if

that might have had something to

do with the energy with which you

tackled it.”

“Heh. I shall give dear Gregor

the benefit of the doubt and

assume he did not have my

personal deadline in mind when he

assigned me to it. The mess did

proliferate unexpectedly.”

“Case?” Sergeant Taura

inquired.

“My new job as one of the

nine Imperial Auditors for

Emperor Gregor took an odd and

unexpected turn into criminal

investigation a month or so back,”

m'lord explained. “We found that

Lord Vorbataille, who is a count's heir-like me-from one of our

southern districts, had involved

himself with a Jacksonian

smuggling ring. Or, possibly, been suborned by it. Anyway, by the

time his sins caught up with him

he was up to his eyebrows in illicit traffic, hijacking, and murder.

Very bad company, now wholly

out of business, I'm pleased to

report. Gregor is considering

sending the Jacksonians home in a

box, suitably frozen; let their

backers decide if they are worth

the expense of reviving. If

everything is finally proved on

Vorbataille that I think will be . . .

for his father's sake, he may be

allowed to suicide in his cell.”

M'lord grimaced. “If not, the

Council of Counts will have to be

persuaded to endorse a more

direct redemption of the honor of

the Vor. Corruption on this level

can't be allowed to slop over and

give us all a bad name.”

“Gregor is very pleased with

your work on this one,” Illyan

remarked.

“I'll bet. He was livid about

the Princess Olivia hijacking, in his own understated way. An

unarmed ship, all those poor dead

passengers-God, what a

nightmare.”

Roic listened a bit wistfully to

all this. He thought he might have

done more this past month when m'lord was buzzing in and out on

the high-profile case, but Pym

hadn't assigned him to the duty.

Granted, someone had to stand

night guard for Vorkosigan House.

Week after week . . .

“But enough of this nasty

business”-m'lord caught Madame

Vorsoisson's grateful glance-“let's turn to more cheerful affairs. Why don't you finish opening that next package, love?”

Madame Vorsoisson turned

back to the crowded table and the

task everyone's arrival had

interrupted. “Here's the card. Oh.

Admiral Quinn, again?”

M'lord took it, brows rising.

“What, no limerick this time?

How disappointing.”

“Perhaps this one is to make

up for-Oh, my. I imagine so. And

all the way from Earth!” From a

small box, she drew a short, triple strand of matched pearls and held

them up to her throat.

“Choker-style . . . oh, how pretty.”

Momentarily, she let the iridescent spheres line up upon her neck,

touching the two ends of the clasp in back.

“Would you like me to fasten

it?” her bridegroom offered.

“Just for a moment . . .” She

bent her head, and m'lord reached

up and fiddled with the catch at

her nape. She walked to the mirror

over the room's unlit fireplace, turning to watch the exquisite

ornament catch the light, and gave m'lord a quizzical smile. “I believe they would go perfectly with what

I'm wearing the day after

tomorrow. Don't you think, Lady

Alys?”

Lady Alys tilted her head in

sartorial judgment. “Why, yes,

indeed.”

M'lord bowed at this

endorsement by the highest

authority. The look he exchanged

with his bride was less

decipherable to Roic, but he

seemed very pleased, even

relieved. Sergeant Taura,

watching the byplay, frowned in

unease.

Madame Vorsoisson removed the strands and laid them back in

their velvet-lined box, where they glowed softly. “I believe we should let your guests freshen up before

dinner, Miles.”

“Oh, yes. Except I need to

borrow Simon for a moment. Will

you excuse us? There will be

drinks in the library again when

you are all ready. Someone let

Arde know. Where is Arde?”

“Nikki captured him and

carried him off,” said Madame

Vorsoisson. “I should probably go

rescue the poor man.”

M'lord and Illyan withdrew to

the library. Lady Alys escorted

Taura away, presumably for one

last tutorial on Barrayaran etiquette before the impending

formal dinner with Count and

Countess Vorkosigan. Taura

glanced back at the bride, still

frowning. Roic watched the giant

woman out with some regret,

distracted by the sudden

speculation of what it would be

like to patrol a Hassadar alley with

her.

“M'lady-Madame Vorsoisson,

that is,” Roic began as she started to turn away.

“Not for much longer.” She

smiled, turning back.

“What's with . . . that is, how

old is Sergeant Taura? Do you

know?”

“Around twenty-six standard, I believe.”

A little younger than Roic,

actually. It felt unfair that the

galactic woman should seem so

much more . . . complicated.

“Then why is her hair turning

gray? If she's bioengineered, I

wouldn't have thought they'd

muff up such details.”

Madame Vorsoisson made a

little gesture of apology. “I believe that is a private matter for her,

which is not mine to discuss.”

“Oh.” Roic's brow wrinkled in

bafflement. “Where'd she come

from? Where did m'lord meet

her?”

“On one of his old covert ops

missions, he tells me. He rescued her from a particularly vile

bioengineering facility on the

planet of Jackson's Whole. They

were trying to develop a

super-soldier. Having escaped

enslavement, she became an

especially valued colleague on his ops team.” She added after a

contemplative moment, “And

sometime-lover. Also especially

valued, I understand.”

Roic felt suddenly very . . .

rural. Backcountry. Not up to

speed on the sophisticated,

galactic-tinged Vor life of the

capital. “Er . . . he told you?

And-and you're all right with

that?” He wondered if meeting

Sergeant Taura had rattled her

more than she'd let on.

“It was before my time, Roic.”

Her smile crimped a little. “I

actually wasn't sure if he was

confessing or bragging, but now

that I've seen her, I rather think he was bragging.”

“But-but how would . . . I

mean, she's so tall, and he's, um . .

.”

Now her eyes narrowed with

laughter at him, although her lips remained demure. “He didn't

supply me with that much detail, Roic. It wouldn't have been

gentlemanly.”

“To you? No, I guess not.”

“To her.”

“Oh. Oh. Um, yeah.”

“For what it's worth, I have

heard him remark that a height

differential matters much less

when two people are lying down. I

find I must agree.” With a smile

he really didn't dare try to interpret, she moved off in search of Nikki.

***

A scant hour later, Roic was

surprised when Pym gave him a

heads-up on his wrist com to bring m'lord's groundcar around. He

parked it under the porte cochere

and entered the black-and-white

paved hall to find m'lord assisting Madame Vorsoisson on with her

wraps.

“Are you sure you don't want me to go with you?” m'lord asked

her anxiously. “I'd like to go with you, see you get home and in all

right.”

Madame Vorsoisson pressed a

hand to her forehead. Her face

was pale and damp, almost

greenish. “No. No. Roic will get

me there. Go back to your guests.

They've come so far, and you'll

only be getting to see them for

such a short time. I'm sorry to be such a drip. Give my abject

apologies to the count and

countess.”

“If you don't feel well, you

don't feel well. Don't apologize. Do you think you're coming down

with something? I could send our

personal physician round.”

“I don't know. I hope not, not

now! It mostly seems to be a

headache.” She bit her lip. “I

don't think I have a fever.”

He reached up to touch her

brow; she winced. “No, you're not

hot. But you're all clammy.” He

hesitated, then asked more quietly,

“Nerves, d'you think?”

She hesitated, too. “I don't

know.”

“I have all the wedding

logistics under control, you know.

All you have to do is show up.”

Her smile was pained. “And

not fall over.”

He was silent a little longer

this time. “You know, if you decide that you really can't go

through with it, you can call a halt.

Any time. Right up to the last.

Hope you won't, of course. But I

need you to know you could.”

“What, with everyone from

the emperor and the empress on

down coming? I think not.”

“I'd cover it, if I had to.” He

swallowed. “I know you said you

wanted a small wedding, but I

didn't realize you meant tiny. I'm sorry.”

She blew out her breath in

something like exasperation.

“Miles, I love you dearly, but if

I'm going to start throwing up, I'd really prefer to be home first.”

“Oh. Yes. Roic, if you please?”

He motioned to his armsman.

Roic took Madame

Vorsoisson's arm, which was

trembling.

“I'll send Nikki home safely

with one of the armsmen after

dessert, or after he wears Arde

out. I'll call your house and let

them know you're coming,”

m'lord called after her.

She waved in

acknowledgment; Roic helped her

into the rear compartment and

closed the canopy. Her shadowed

form sat bent, head clutched in

her hands.

M'lord chewed on his knuckle

and stared in distress as the house

doors swung shut upon him.

***

Roic's night shift was cut short

at dawn the next morning when

the count's guard commander

called him on his wrist com and

told him to report to the front hall in running gear; one of m'lord's

guests wanted to go out to take

some exercise.

He arrived, shrugging on his

jacket, to find Taura bending and

stretching in a vigorous series of warm-ups under Pym's bemused

eye. Lady Alys's modiste hadn't

gotten around to providing active

wear, it appeared, because the

huge woman wore a plain set of

well-worn ship knits, although in

neutral gray rather than blinding pink. The fabric hugged the

smooth curves of a lean

musculature that, without being

bulky, gave an unmistakable

impression of coiled power. The

braid down her back looked

cheery and sporting in this

comfortable context.

“Oh, Armsman Roic, good

morning,” she said, started to

smile, then lifted her hand to her mouth.

“You don't-” Roic motioned

inarticulately. “You don't have to do that for me. I like your smile.”

It wasn't, he realized, altogether a polite lie. Now that I'm getting

used to it.

Her fangs glinted. “I hope they didn't drag you out of bed.

Miles said his people just used the sidewalk around this block for

their running track, since it was

about a kilometer. I don't think I can go astray.”

Roic intercepted a Look from

Pym. Roic hadn't been called out

to keep m'lord's galactic guest

from getting lost; he was there to deal with any altercations that

might result from startled Vorbarr Sultana drivers crashing their

vehicles onto the sidewalk or each other at the sight of her.

“No problem,” said Roic

promptly. “We usually use the

ballroom for a sort of gymnasium

in weather like this, but it's being

all decorated for the reception. So I'm behind on my fitness training

for the month. It'll be a nice

change to do my laps with

someone who's not so much older,

um, that is, so much shorter than

me.” He sneaked a glance at Pym.

Pym's wintry smile promised

retribution for that dig as he

coded open the doors for them.

“Enjoy yourselves, children.”

The biting air blew away

Roic's night's fatigue. He guided

Taura out past the guard at the

main gate and turned right along

the high gray wall. After a few

steps, she extended herself and

began an easy lope. Within a very

few minutes, Roic was regretting

his cheap shot at the middle-aged

Pym; Taura's long legs ate the distance. Roic kept half an eye on the early morning traffic,

fortunately still light, and

concentrated the rest of his

attention on not disgracing House

Vorkosigan by collapsing in a

gasping heap. Taura's eyes grew

brilliant with exhilaration as she ran, as if her spirit expanded into her body as her body stretched out to make room.

Half a dozen laps barely

winded her, but she slowed at last to a walk, perhaps out of pity for her guide. “Let's circle through

the garden to cool down,” Roic

wheezed. Madame Vorsoisson's

garden, which occupied a third of

the block and was her bride-gift to

m'lord, was among other things sheltered from view of the cross

streets by walls and banks. They

dodged around the barricades

temporarily barring public access

till after the wedding.

“Oh, my,” said Taura as they

turned down the winding walk

descending between curving snow

hillocks. The chilly brook, its water running black and silky between

feathery fingers of ice, snaked

gracefully from one corner to the

other. The peach-colored dawn

light glimmered off the ice on the young trees and shrubs in the blue shadows. “Why, it's beautiful. I

didn't expect a garden to be so

pretty in winter. What are those

men doing?”

A crew was unloading some float pallets piled high with boxes of all sizes, marked FRAGILE.

Another pair was going around

with water hoses, misting selected branches marked with yellow tags

to create yet more delicate,

shimmering icicles. The shapes of

the native Barrayaran vegetation

grew luminous and exotic with this silver-gilding.

“They're putting out all the ice

sculptures. M'lord ordered ice

flowers and sculptured creatures

and things to fill up the garden,

since all the real plants are under the snow, pretty much. And fresh

snow to be added, too, if there isn't enough. They can't put out t' real live flowers for the ceremony till

the very last gasp, late tomorrow morning.”

“Good grief, he's having an

outdoor garden wedding in this

weather? Is that-a Barrayaran

thing, is it?”

“Um, no. Not exactly. I believe

m'lord originally was shooting for fall, but Madame Vorsoisson

wasn't ready yet. But he'd got his heart set on getting married in the garden, because it was hers, y'see.

So he is, by damn, going to have

the wedding in the garden. The

idea is people will assemble in

Vorkosigan House, then troop out

here for the vows, then scurry

back into the ballroom for the

reception and the food and

dancing and all.” And the frostbite

and hypothermia treatments. “It'll be all right if the weather stays

clear, I guess.” The backstairs

commentary on the potential

disasters inherent in this scenario, Roic decided to keep to himself.

Vorkosigan House's staff seemed

united in their determination to

make the eccentric scheme work

for m'lord, anyway.

Taura's eyes glinted in the

level dawn light now filtering

between the buildings of the

surrounding cityscape. “I can

hardly wait to try out the dress

Lady Alys got up for me to wear to the ceremony. Barrayaran ladies'

clothes are so interesting. But

complicated. In a way, I suppose

they're another kind of uniform,

but I don't know whether I feel like a recruit or an enemy spy in

them. Well, I don't suppose the

real ladies will shoot me in any

case. So much to learn about how

to go on-though I suppose it all

seems ridiculously easy to you.

You grew up with it.”

“I didn't grow up with this. ”

Roic waved a hand toward the

imposing stone pile of Vorkosigan

House rising above the high, bare

trees on its grounds. “My father is just a construction hand in

Hassadar-that's the Vorkosigan's

District capital city, just this side of the Dendarii Mountains, a few

hundred kilometers south of here.

Lots of building going on there.

He offered to apprentice me to the

trade, but I got the chance to become a street guard, and I took

it-sort of an impulse, truth to tell. I was eighteen, didn't know up from

down. Sure learned a lot after

that.”

“What does a street guard

guard? Streets?”

“Among other things. The

whole city, really. You do what

needs done. Sort out traffic, before or after it's a big bent pile. Deal with upset people's problems, try

to keep 'em from murdering their

relatives, or clean up the mess

after if you can't. Trace stolen

property, if you get lucky. I did a lot of night foot patrol. You learn a lot about a place on foot, up

close. I learned how to handle

stunners and shock-sticks and big, hostile drunks. I was getting pretty good at it, I thought, after a few years.”

“How did you end up here?”

“Oh . . . there was a little

incident . . .” He gave an

embarrassed shrug. “Some crazed

loon tried to shoot up Hassadar

Square at rush hour with an

auto-needler. I, um, took it away

from him.”

Her brows went up. “With a

stunner?”

“No, unfortunately, I was off

duty at the time. Had to do it by

hand.”

“A little hard to get up close

and personal with someone firing

a needler.”

“That was a problem, yeah.”

Her lips curved up, or at least

the ivory hooks lengthened.

“It seemed to make perfect

sense at the moment, though later

I wondered what t' hell I'd been

thinking. I don't think I was

thinking. At any rate, he only

killed five and not fifty-five.

People seemed to think it was a big deal, but I'm sure it's nothing

compared to what you've seen out

there.” His glance upward was

meant to indicate the distant stars, though the sky was now a paling

blue.

“Hey, I may be big, but I'm

not needler-proof. I hate the

shrieky sound when the razor-strands unwind and whiz

around, even though I know in my

head that those are the ones that

missed. ”

“Yeah,” Roic said in heartfelt

agreement. “Anyways, after that

there was a stupid fuss, and

someone recommended me to

m'lord's own armsman

commander, Pym, and here I am.”

He glanced around the sparkling

fairy garden. “I think I was a

better fit in the Hassadar alleys.”

“Naw, Miles always did like

having big backup. Saves a lot of

small-scale grief. Though the

large-scale grief we still had to

take as it came.”

He asked after a moment,

“How did you bodyguard, um,

m'lord?”

“Such a funny way of thinking

of him. To me, he'll always be the little admiral. Mostly, I just

loomed at people. If I had to, I

smiled.”

“But your smile's really kind

of nice,” he protested, and

managed not to add the once you

get used to it out loud. He'd get the hang of this savoir faire thing yet.

“Oh, no. The other smile.” She demonstrated, her lips wrinkling

back, her jaw thrusting out. Roic

had to admit, it was a much wider

smile. And, um, sharper. They were just treading past a workman

on the rising path; he gasped and fell backward into a snowbank.

With lightning reflexes, Taura

reached past Roic and caught the

heavy, life-size ice sculpture of a crouching fox before it hit the

pavement and shattered into

shards. Roic lifted the gibbering

man to his feet and dusted snow

off his parka, and Taura handed

back the elegant ornament with a

compliment upon its artistry.

Roic managed not to choke

with muffled laughter till they

both had their backs to the fellow, heading away. “See what you

mean. Did it ever not work?”

“Occasionally. Next step was

to pick up the recalcitrant one by the neck. Since my arms were

invariably longer than theirs, they'd swing like mad but couldn't connect. Very frustrating for

them.”

“And after that?”

She grinned. “Stunner, by

preference.”

“Heh.Yep.”

They'd fallen unconsciously

into an easy side-by-side pace,

tracing loops around the garden

paths. Talking shop, Roic thought.

“What mass d'you lift?”

“With or without adrenaline?”

“Oh, without, say.”

“Two hundred fifty kilos, with

a good grip and a good angle.”

He emitted a respectful whistle. “If you ever want to give up mercenary-ing, I can think of a fire fighting cadre might could

welcome you. M'brother's in one,

down Hassadar way. Though come

to think of it, m'lord'd be a more powerful reference.”

“Now, there's an idea I'd never

thought of.” She pursed her long

lips, and her brows bent in a

quizzical curve. “But, no. I expect I'll be, as you say, mercenary-ing till . . . for the rest of my life. I like seeing new planets. I like seeing

this one. I could never have

imagined it.”

“How many have you seen?”

“I think I've lost count. I used

to know. Dozens. How many have you seen?”

“Just t' one,” he admitted.

“Though hanging around m'lord,

this one keeps getting wider till

I'm almost dizzy. More

complicated. Does that make

sense?”

She threw back her head and

laughed. “That's our Miles.

Admiral Quinn always said she'd

follow him halfway to hell just to find out what happened next.”

“Wait-this Quinn you all keep

talking about is a lady admiral?”

“She was a lady commander

when I first met her.

Second-sharpest tactical brain it's ever been my privilege to know.

Things may get tight, following Elli Quinn, but you know they

won't get stupid. She didn't sleep her way to the top by a long shot, and they're half-wits who say so.”

She grinned briefly. “That was just a perk. Some might say his, but I'd say hers.”

Roic's eyes crossed, trying to

unravel this. “Y'mean m'lord was

lovers with her, t-” He cut off the

too not quite in time, and flushed.

It seemed m'lord's covert ops

career was even more . . .

complicated than he'd ever imagined.

Taura cocked her head and

regarded him with crinkling eyes.

“That's my favorite shade of pink, Roic. You are a country boy,

aren't you? Life's uncertain out there. Things can go down bad,

fast, anytime. People learn to grab what they can, when they can. For

a time. We all just get a time, in our different ways.” She sighed.

“Their ways diverged when he

took those horrible injuries that

bounced him out of ImpSec. He

couldn't go back up, and she

wouldn't come down here. Elli

Quinn's got no one but herself to

blame for any chances she threw

away. Though some people are

born with more chances to waste

than others, I'll admit. I say, grab the ones you're issued, run with

them, and don't look back.”

“Something might be gaining

on you?”

“I know perfectly well what's gaining on me.” Her grin flashed,

oddly tilted this time. “Anyway,

Quinn might be more beautiful,

but I was always taller.” She gave a satisfied nod. Glancing at him,

she added, “I guarantee Miles

likes your height. It's sort of an issue with him. I know recruiting

officers in three genders who

would swoon for your shoulders, as well.”

He hadn't the least idea how to

respond to that. He hoped she was enjoying the pink. “M'lord thinks

I'm a fool,” he said glumly.

Her brows shot up. “Surely

not.”

“Oh, yeah. You have no idea

how I screwed up.”

“I've seen him forgive

screwups that put his guts on the bloody ceiling. Literally. You'd

have to go some to top that. How

many people died?”

If you put it in that perspective

. . . “No one,” he admitted. “I just wished I could have.”

She grinned in sympathy. “Ah,

one of those kinds of screwups.

Oh, c'mon, tell.”

He hesitated. “Y'know those

nightmares where you find

yourself walking around naked in

the town square, or in front of

your schoolteachers, or

something?”

“My nightmares tend to be a

bit more exotic, but yeah?”

“So, no lie, there I was . . . Last summer, m'lord's brother Mark

brought home this damned

Escobaran biologist, Dr. Borgos,

that he'd picked up somewheres,

and put him up in the basement of

Vorkosigan House. An investment

scheme. The biologist made bugs.

And the bugs made bug butter.

Tons of it. Slimy white stuff,

edible, sort of. We found out the

biologist had jumped bail back on

Escobar-for fraud, no

surprise-when t' skip-tracers

they'd sent to arrest him showed

up and talked their way into

Vorkosigan House. Naturally, they

picked a time when almost

everyone had gone out. Lord Mark

and the Koudelka sisters, who were in on the bug butter scheme,

got in a fight with them when they tried to carry off Borgos, and the house staff waked me up to go sort it out. All in a tearing

panic-wouldn't even let me grab

my uniform trousers. I'd just got to sleep . . . Martya Koudelka claims it was friendly fire, but I dunno.

I'd just about pushed the whole

mess of 'em out the front door

when in walks m'lord with

Madame Vorsoisson and all her

relatives. He'd just got engaged

and wanted to make a good

impression on 'em all . . . It was an unforgettable one, I guarantee. I

was wearing briefs, boots, and

about five kilos of bug butter,

trying to deal wit' all these

screaming, sticky maniacs . . .”

A muffled sound escaped from

Taura. She had her hand over her

mouth, but it wasn't helping; little squeaks still leaked out. Her eyes were alight.

“I swear it wouldn't a' been

half so bad if I'd had my briefs on backwards and my stunner holster

on frontways. I can still hear

Pym's voice . . .” He mimicked the senior armsman's driest tones:

“'Your weapon is worn on the

right, Armsman.'”

She laughed out loud then,

and looked him up and down in

somewhat unsettling appreciation.

“That's a pretty amazing word

picture, Roic.”

Despite himself, he smiled a little. “I guess so. I dunno if

m'lord's forgiven me, but I'm

right sure Pym hasn't.” He sighed.

“If you see one of those damned

vomit bugs still around, squash it on sight. Hideous bioengineered

mutant things, kill 'em all before they multiply.”

Her laughter stopped cold.

Roic reran his last sentence in

his head and made the unpleasant

discovery that one could do far

worse things to oneself with words than with dubious food products,

or possibly even with needlers. He hardly dared look up to see her

face. He forced his eyes right.

Her face was perfectly still,

perfectly pale, perfectly blank.

Perfectly appalling.

I meant those devil-bugs, not

you! He managed to stop that idiocy on his lips before it escaped to do even more damage, but only

just. He couldn't think of any way to apologize that wouldn't make it worse.

“Ah, yes,” she said at last.

“Miles did warn me that

Barrayarans had some pretty ugly

issues about gene manipulation. I

just forgot.”

And I reminded you. “We're getting better,” he tried.

“Good for you.” She inhaled, a

long breath. “Let's go in. I'm

getting cold.”

Roic was frozen straight through. “Um. Yeah.”

They walked back to the gate

in silence

***

Roic slept the day around,

trying to force his body back onto the boring night shift cycle that by the duty roster was to be his junior armsman's fate this Winterfair.

He was quite sorry to thus miss

seeing m'lord take his galactic

guests and a selection of his

in-laws-to-be on a tour of Vorbarr Sultana. He'd have been

fascinated by what the two

disparate parties made of each

other. Madame Vorsoisson's

family, the Vorvaynes, were solid

provincial Vor types of the sort Roic had always regarded as

normal to the class, before he'd

taken up his duties in Vorkosigan

House's high Vor milieu. M'lord,

well . . . m'lord wasn't standard by anybody's standard. The four

Vorvayne brothers, though

dutifully pleased with their

widowed sister's upward social

leap, plainly found m'lord an

unnerving catch. Roic wished he

could see what they would make of

Taura. He melted into sleep with a vague scenario drifting through

his reeling brain of somehow

imposing his body between her

and some undefined social insult.

Maybe then she would see that he

hadn't meant anything by his

awful gaffe . . .

He woke at sunset and made a foray down to Vorkosigan House's

huge kitchen, below stairs. Usually m'lord's genius cook, Ma Kosti,

left delectable surprises in the

staff refrigerator and was always

looking for a good gossip, but

tonight the pickings were slim and the personal attention nonexistent.

The place was plunged into final

preparations for tomorrow's great

event, and Ma Kosti, driving her

harried scullions before her, made it plain that anyone below the rank of count, or perhaps emperor, was

very much in the way just now.

Roic fueled up and retreated.

At least the kitchen did not

have to deal with a formal dinner

atop all the rest. M'lord, the count

and countess, and all the guests were off to the Imperial Residence for the Winterfair Ball and

midnight bonfire, the heart of the festivities marking solstice night and the turning of the season.

When they all decamped from

Vorkosigan House, Roic had the

vast place to himself, but for the rumble from the kitchen and the

servants rushing about completing

the last-minute decorations and

arrangements in the public rooms,

the great dining room, and the

seldom-used ballroom.

He was therefore surprised,

about an hour before midnight,

when the gate guard called him to

code open the front door. He was

even more surprised when a small

car with government markings pulled up under the porte cochere

and m'lord and Sergeant Taura

climbed out. The car buzzed off,

and its passengers entered the

hall, shaking the cold air out of

their outer garments and handing

them off to Roic.

M'lord was dressed in the

most elaborate version of the

brown and silver Vorkosigan

House uniform, befitting a count's heir attending upon the emperor,

complete with custom-fitted

polished riding boots to his knees.

Taura wore a close-fitting,

embroidered russet jacket, made

high to the neck where a bit of lace showed, and a matching skirt

sweeping to ankles clad in soft,

russet-colored leather boots. A graceful spray of cream-and-rust

colored orchids was wound into

her braided-up hair. Roic wished

he could have seen her entrance

into the Imperial Winterfair Ball, and heard what the emperor and

empress had said upon meeting

her . . .

“No, I'm all right,” Taura was

saying to m'lord. “I saw the palace and the ball-they were

beautiful-but I've had enough. It's just that I was up at dawn, and to tell the truth, I think I'm still a little jump-lagged. Go see to your bride. Is she still sick?”

“I wish I knew.” M'lord

paused on the steps, three up, and leaned on the banister to speak

face-to-face with Taura, who was watching him in concern. “She

wasn't sure even last week about

attending the emperor's bonfire

tonight, though I thought it would be a valuable distraction. She

insisted she was all right when I

talked to her earlier. But her aunt Helen says she's all to pieces,

hiding in her room and crying.

This is just not like her. I thought she was tough as anything. Oh,

God, Taura. I think I've screwed

up this whole wedding thing so

badly . . . I rushed her into it, and now it's all coming apart. I can't imagine how bad the stress must

be to make her physically ill.”

“Slow down, dammit, Miles.

Look. You said her first marriage

was dire, yes?”

“Not bruises and black eyes

bad, no. Draining the blood of

your spirit out drop by drop for

years bad, maybe. I only saw the

very end of it. It was pretty

gruesome by then.”

“Words can cut worse than

knives. The wounds take longer to

heal, too.”

She didn't look at Roic. Roic

didn't look back.

“Isn't that the truth,” said

m'lord, who wasn't looking at

either of them. “Damn! Should I

go over there or not? They say it's bad luck to see the bride before

the wedding. Or was that the

wedding dress? I can't remember.”

Taura made a face. “And you accuse her of having wedding heebie-jeebies! Miles, listen. You know how the recruits got

precombat nerves before they

went out on a mission the first

time?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Now. Do you remember how

they got precombat nerves before

they had to go out on a big drop

for the second time?”

After a long pause, m'lord

said, “Oh.” Another silence. “I

hadn't thought of it like that. I

thought it was me. ”

“That's because you're an

egotist. I only met the woman for

one hour, but even I could see that

you're the delight of her eyes. At least consider, for five consecutive seconds, the possibility that it

might be him. The late Vorsoisson, whoever he was.”

“Oh, he was something else,

all right. I've cursed him before

for the scars he left on her soul.”

“I don't think you have to say

anything much. Just be there. And be not him.”

M'lord drummed his fingers

on the banister. “Yes. Maybe.

God. Pray God. Dammit . . .” He

glanced across at Roic, ignored as if he were Vorkosigan House

furniture, a rack to hold coats. A dummy. “Roic, scrape up a

vehicle; meet me back here in a

few minutes. I want you to drive me over to Ekaterin's aunt and

uncle's house. I'm going to run up and change out of this

armor-plating first, though.” He

ran his fingers across the elaborate silver embroidery upon his sleeve.

He turned away, and his bootsteps

scuffed up the stairs.

This was way too alarming.

“What in t' world's going on?”

Roic dared to ask Taura.

“Ekaterin's aunt called him. I

gather Ekaterin lives at her

house-”

“With Lord Auditor and

Professora Vorthys, yes. She's

been going to University from

there.”

“Anyway, the bride-to-be seems to be having some sort of

awful nervous breakdown or

something.” She frowned. “Or

something . . . Miles isn't sure if he should go over and sit with her or not. I think he should.”

That didn't sound good. In

fact, it sounded about as not-good as it could be.

“Roic . . .” Taura's brows

knotted. “Do you happen to know

if I could find any commercial

pharmaceutical laboratories open

at this time of night in Vorbarr

Sultana?”

“Pharmaceutical labs?” Roic

repeated blankly. “Why, do you

feel sick, too? I can call out the

Vorkosigans' personal physician for you, or one of the medtechs

who ride herd on the count and

countess . . .” Would she need

some kind of off-world specialist?

No matter, the Vorkosigan name

could access one, he was sure.

Even on Bonfire Night.

“No, no, I feel fine. I was just

wondering.”

“Nothing much is open

tonight. It's a holiday. Everyone's out to the parties and bonfires and the fireworks. Tomorrow, too. It'll be the first day of the new year

here, by the Barrayaran calendar.”

She smiled briefly. “It would

be. A new start all round; I'll bet he liked the symbolism of that.”

“I suppose hospital labs are open all night. Their emergency

treatment intakes will be. Busy as hell, too. We used to bring the ones in Hassadar all kinds of customers on Bonfire Night.”

“Hospitals, yes, of course! I

should have thought of them at

once.”

“Why do you want one?” he

asked again.

She hesitated. “I'm not sure

that I do. It was just a train of

thought I had earlier this evening, when that aunt-lady called Miles.

Not sure I like its destination,

though . . .” She turned away and

swung up the stairs, taking them

two at a time without effort. Roic

frowned, then went off to scare up a vehicle from whatever remained

in the sub-basement garage. With

so many signed out to transport

the household and its guests

already, this might take some

rapid extemporizing.

But Taura had spoken to him,

almost normally. Maybe . . .

maybe there were such things as

second chances. If a fellow was

brave enough to take them.

***

Lord Auditor and Professora

Vorthys's home was a tall, old,

colorfully tiled structure close to the District University. The street was quiet when Roic pulled the

car-borrowed without notification,

ultimately, from one of the armsmen off with the count at the

Residence-up to the front. From a

distance, mainly in the direction of the university, drifted the sharp

crackle of fireworks, harmonious

singing, and blurred drunken

singing. A rich, heady scent of

wood smoke and black powder

permeated the frosty night air.

The porch light was on. The

Professora, an aging, smiling, neat Vor lady who intimidated Roic

only slightly less than did Lady

Alys, let them in herself. Her soft round face was tense with worry.

“Did you tell her I was

coming?” m'lord asked in a low

tone as he shed his coat. He stared anxiously up the stairs leading

from the narrow, wood-paneled hallway.

“I didn't dare.”

“Helen . . . what should I do?”

M'lord looked suddenly smaller,

and scared, and younger and older

all at the same time.

“Just go up, I think. This isn't

something that's about talking, or words, or reason. I've run through all those.”

He buttoned then unbuttoned

the gray tunic he'd thrown on over an old white shirt, pulled down his sleeves, took a deep breath,

mounted the stairs, and turned out of sight. After a minute or two, the Professora stopped picking

nervously at her hands, gestured

Roic to a straight chair beside a small table piled with books and

flimsies, and tiptoed up after him.

Roic sat in the hall and

listened to the old house creak.

From the sitting room, visible

through one archway, a glow from

a fireplace gilded the air. Through the opposite archway, the

Professora's study lay, lined with books; the light from the hall

picked out an occasional bit of

gold lettering on an ancient spine in the gloom. Roic wasn't bookish

himself, but he liked the

comfortable academic smell of this place. It occurred to him that back when he was a Hassadar guard,

he'd never once gone into a house

to clean up a bad scene, blood on

the walls and evil smells in the air, where there were books like this.

After a long time, the

Professora came back down to the

hall.

Roic ducked his head

respectfully. “Is she sick, ma'am?”

The tired-looking woman

pursed her lips and let her breath run out. “She certainly was last

night. Terrible headache, so bad

she was crying and almost

vomiting. But she thought she was

much better this morning. Or she

said she was. She wanted to be

better. Maybe she was trying too

hard.”

Roic peered anxiously up the

staircase. “Would she see him?”

The tension in her face eased a little. “Yes.”

“Is it going to be all right?”

“I think so, now.” Her lips

sought a smile. “Anyway, Miles

says you are to go on home. That

he expects to be a while, and that he'll call if he needs anything.”

“Yes, ma'am.” He rose, gave

her a kind of vague salute copied

from m'lord's own style, and let

himself out.

***

The night duty guard at the

gate kiosk reported no entries

since Roic had left. The festivities at the Imperial Residence would

go on till dawn, although Roic

didn't expect Vorkosigan House's

attendees to stay that late, not with the grand party planned here

for tomorrow afternoon and

evening. He put the borrowed car

away in the sub-basement garage,

relieved that it hadn't acquired

any hard-to-explain dings in its

passage back through some of the

rowdier crowds between here and

the university.

He made his way softly up

through the mostly darkened great

house. All was quiet now. The

kitchen crew had at last retreated till tomorrow's onslaught. The

maids and menservants had gone

to roost. For all that he

complained about missing the

daytime excitements, Roic usually

enjoyed these quiet night hours

when the whole world seemed his personal property. Granted, by

three hours before dawn, coffee

would be a necessity little less

urgent than oxygen. But by two

hours before dawn, life would start trickling back, as those with early duties roused themselves and

padded down to start work. He

checked the security monitors in

the basement HQ and started his

physical rounds. Floor by floor,

window and door, never in quite

the same order or at quite the

same hour.

As he crossed the great entry

hall, a creak and a clink sounded

from the half-lit antechamber to

the library. He paused for a

moment, frowned, and rose on his

toes, moving his feet as gently as possible across the marble

pavement, breathing through his

open mouth for silence. His

shadow wavered, passed along

from dim wall sconce to dim wall

sconce. He made sure it was not

thrown before him as he moved to

the archway. Easing up beside the

door frame, he stared into the

half-gloom.

Taura stood with her back to

him, sorting through the gifts

displayed upon the long table by

the far wall. Her head bent over

something in her hands. She shook

out a cloth and upended a small

box. The elegant triple strand of

pearls slithered from their velvet backing into the cloth, which she

wrapped around them. She clicked the box closed, set it back on the table, and slipped the folded cloth into a side pocket of her russet

jacket.

Shock held Roic paralyzed for

a moment longer. M'lord's

honored guest, rifling the gifts?

But I liked her. I really liked

her. Only now, in this moment of hideous revelation, did he realize just how much he'd come to . . . to

admire her in their brief time together. Brief, but so damned

awkward. She was really beautiful

in her own unique way, if only you looked at her right. For a moment

it had seemed as though far suns

and strange adventures had

beckoned to him from her gold

eyes; just possibly, more intimate and exotic adventures than a shy

backcountry boy from Hassadar

had ever dared to imagine. If only he were a braver man. A

handsome prince. Not a fool. But

Cinderella was a thief, and the

fairy tale was gone suddenly sour.

Sick dismay flooded him as he

imagined the altercation, the

shame, the wounded friendship

and shattered trust that must

follow this discovery-he almost

turned away. He didn't know the

value of the pearls, but even if it were a city's ransom he was

certain m'lord would trade them

in a heartbeat for the ease of spirit he'd had with his old followers.

It was no good. They'd be

missed first thing tomorrow in any case. He drew a breath and

touched the light pad.

Taura spun like a huge cat at

the flare of the overhead lights.

After a moment, she let out her

breath in a huff, visibly powering down. “Oh. It's you. You startled

me.”

Roic moistened his lips. Could

he patch up this shattered

fantasy? “Put them back, Taura.

Please.”

She stood still, looking back at

him, tawny eyes wide; a grimace

crossed her odd features. She

seemed to coil, tension flowing

back into her long body.

“Put them back now,” Roic

tried again, “and I won't tell.” He bore a stunner. Could he draw it

in time? He'd seen how fast she

moved . . .

“I can't.”

He stared at her without

comprehension.

“I don't dare. ” Her voice grew edgy. “Please, Roic. Let me go

now, and I promise I'll bring them back again tomorrow.”

Huh? What? “I . . . can't. All the gifts have to go through a

security check.”

“Did this?” Her hand

twitched by her pocket full of

spoils.

“Yes, certainly.”

“What kind? What did you check it for?”

“Everything is scanned for

devices and explosives. All food

and drink and their containers are tested for chemicals and

biologicals.”

“Only the food and drink?”

She straightened, eyes glinting in rapid thought. “Anyway, I wasn't

stealing it.”

Maybe it was the covert ops

training that enabled her to stand there and utter bald-faced . . .

what? Counter-factual

statements? Complicated things?

“Well . . . then what were you doing?”

Again, a kind of frozen misery

stiffened her features. She looked down, away, into the distance.

“Borrowing it,” she said in a gruff voice. She glanced across at him,

as if to check his reaction to this feeble statement.

But Taura wasn't feeble, not

by any definition. He felt out of his depth, flailing for firm footing and not finding it. He dared to move

closer, to hold out his hand. “Give them to me.”

“You mustn't touch them!”

Her voice went frantic. “No one

must touch them.”

Lies and treachery? Trust and

truth? What was he seeing here?

Suddenly, he wasn't sure. Back up,

guardsman. “Why not?”

She glowered at him narrow-eyed, as if trying to see

through to the back of his head.

“Do you care about Miles? Or is

he just your employer?”

Roic blinked in increasing

confusion. He considered his

armsman's oath, its high honor

and weight. “A Vorkosigan

armsman isn't just what I am; it's

who I am. He's not my employer at all. He's my liege lord.”

She made a frustrated gesture.

“If you knew a secret that would

hurt him to the heart-would you,

could you, keep it from him even if

he asked?”

What secret? This? That his

ex-lover was a thief? It didn't seem

as though that could be what she was talking about-around. Think,

man.

“I . . . can't pass a judgment

without knowledge.” Knowledge.

What did she know that he didn't?

A million things, he was sure. He'd glimpsed some of them, dizzying

vistas. But she didn't know him,

now, did she? Not the way she

evidently knew, say, m'lord. To

her, he was a blank in a

brown-and-silver uniform. With

his mirror-polished boot stuck in

his mouth, eh. He hesitated, then

countered, “M'lord can

requisition my life with a word. I gave him that right on my name

and breath. Can you trust me to hold his best interests to heart?”

Stare met stare, and no one blinked.

“Trust for trust,” Roic

breathed at last. “Trade, Taura.”

Slowly, not dropping her

intent, searching gaze from his

face, she drew the cloth from her

pocket. She shook it gently,

spilling the pearls back into their velvet box. She held the box out.

“What do you see?”

Roic frowned. “Pearls. Pretty.

White and shiny.”

She shook her head. “I have a

host of genetic modifications.

Hideous bioengineered mutant or

no-”

He flinched, his mouth

opening and shutting.

“-among other things I can see slightly farther into the ultraviolet, and quite a bit farther into the

infrared, than a normal person. I

see dirty pearls. Strangely dirty

pearls. And that's not what I

usually see when I look at pearls.

And then Miles's bride touched

them, and an hour later was so

sick she could hardly stand up.”

An unpleasant tremor coursed

down Roic's body. And why the

devil hadn't he noticed that progression of events? “Yes.

That's so. They'll have to be

checked.”

“Maybe I'm wrong. I could be

wrong. Maybe I'm just being

horrible and paranoid and-and

jealous. If they were proved clean,

that would be the end of it. But, Roic- Quinn. You don't have any idea how much he loved Quinn.

And vice versa. I've been going

half-mad all evening, ever since it all clicked in, wondering if Quinn really sent these. It would about

slay him, if it were so.”

“Wasn't him these are meant

to slay.” It seemed his liege lord's love life was as deceptively

complicated as his intelligence,

both camouflaged by his crippled

body. Or by the assumptions

people made about his crippled

body. Roic considered the

ambiguous message Arde Mayhew

had evidently seen in the live fur blanket. Had this Quinn woman, the other ex-lover-and how many

more of them were going to turn up at this wedding, anyway? And

in what frame of mind? How

many were there, altogether? And what t' hell did the little guy do to have acquired what was beginning

to seem far more than his fair

share, when Roic didn't even

have-He cut off the gyrating

digression. “Or-is this necklace

lethal, or not? Could it be some

nasty practical joke, to just make the bride sick on her wedding

night?”

“Ekaterin barely touched

them. I don't know what this

horrible goo may be, but I

wouldn't lay those pearls against

my skin for Betan dollars.” Her

face twisted up. “I want it to not

be true. Or I want it to not be Quinn!”

Her dismay, Roic was

increasingly convinced, was

unfeigned, a cry from her heart.

“Taura, think. You know this

Quinn woman. I don't. But you

said she was smart. D'you think

she'd be plain stupid enough to

sign her own name to murder?”

Taura looked taken aback, but

then shook her head in renewed

doubt. “Maybe. If it were done for rage or revenge, maybe.”

“What if her name was stolen

by another? If she didn't send

these, she deserves to be cleared.

And if she did . . . she doesn't

deserve anything.”

What was Taura going to do?

He hadn't the least doubt she

could kill him with one clawed

hand before he could fumble his

stunner out. The box was still

tightly clutched in her great hand.

Her body radiated tension the way

a bonfire radiated heat.

“It seems almost

unimaginable,” she said. “Almost.

But people mad in love do the

wildest things. Sometimes things

they regret forever afterward. But then it's too late. That's why I

wanted to sneak the pearls away

and check them in secret. I was

praying I'd be proved wrong.”

Tears stood in her eyes now.

Roic swallowed and stood

straighter. “Look, I can call

ImpSec. They can have those-whatever they are-on the

best forensics lab bench on the

planet inside half an hour. They

can check the wrappings, check

the origin-everything. If another

person stole your friend Quinn's

name to cloak their crime . . .” He shuddered as his imagination

sketched that crime in elaborating and grotesque detail: m'lady dying at m'lord's feet in the snow while her vows were still frost in the air; m'lord's shock, disbelief, howling anguish-“Then they should be

hunted down without mercy.

ImpSec can do that, too.”

She still stood poised in doubt,

on the balls of her feet. “They

would hunt her down with the

same . . . un-mercy. What if they got it wrong, made a mistake?”

“ImpSec is competent.”

“Roic, I'm an ImpSec employee. I can absolutely

guarantee you, they are not

infallible.”

He ran his gaze down the

crowded table. “Look. There's that other wedding gift.” He pointed to the folds of shimmering black

blanket, still piled in the box. The room was so quiet he could hear

the live fur's gentle rumble from

here. “Why would she send two?

The blanket even came with a

dirty limerick, handwritten on a

card.” Not presently on display,

true. “Madame Vorsoisson

laughed out loud when m'lord read it to her.”

A reluctant smile twitched

Taura's mouth for a moment.

“Oh, that's Quinn, all right.”

“If that's truly Quinn, then this”-he pointed at the

pearls-“can't be. Eh? Trust me.

Trust your own judgment.”

Slowly, with the deepest

distress in her strange gold eyes, Taura wrapped the box in the

cloth and handed it to him.

***

Then Roic found himself

facing the task, all by himself, of stirring up ImpSec Supreme

headquarters in the middle of the

night. He almost wanted to wait

for Pym's return. But he was a Vorkosigan armsman: senior man

present, even if merely because

sole man present. It was his duty, it was his right, and time was of

the essence, if only to relieve

Taura's troubled mind at the

earliest possible instant. She

hovered, bleak and worried, as he

gulped for nerve and fired up the

secured comconsole in the nearby

library.

A serious-looking ImpSec

captain reported to the front hall in less than thirty minutes. He

recorded everything, including

Roic's verbal report, Taura's

description of what the pearls had looked like to her, both their

accounts of Madame Vorsoisson's

witnessed symptoms, and a copy of Pym's original security check

records. Roic tried to be

straightforward, as he'd often

wished witnesses would have been

to him back in Hassadar, although

in this version the fraught

confrontation in the antechamber

became merely Sergeant Taura

voiced a suspicion to me. Well, it was true.

For Taura's sake, Roic made

sure to mention the possibility that the pearls had not been sent by

Quinn at all and pointed out the

other gift certainly known to be

from her. The captain frowned

and bundled up the live fur as

well, and looked as though he

wanted to bundle up Taura along

with it. He carried off the pearls, the still-purring blanket, and all related packaging in a series of

sealed and labeled plastic bags. All this chill efficiency took a bare

half hour more.

“Do you want to go to bed?”

Roic asked Taura when the doors

closed behind the ImpSec captain.

She looks so tired. “I have to stay up anyway. I can give you a call to your room when there's any news.

If there's any news.”

She shook her head. “I

couldn't sleep. Maybe they'll have something soon.”

“There's no telling, but I hope

so.”

They settled down to wait

together on a sturdy-looking sofa in the antechamber opposite the

one displaying the gifts. The noises of the night-odd squeaks of the

house settling against the winter

cold, the faint whir or hum of

distant automated

machinery-were very noticeable in

the stillness. Taura stretched what Roic suspected were knotted

shoulders, and he was briefly

inspired to offer a back rub, but he wasn't sure how she'd take it. The impulse dissolved in cowardice.

“Quiet around here at night,”

she said after a moment.

She was speaking to him

again. Please, don't stop. “Yeah. I sort of like it, though.”

“Oh, you, too? The night watch is a philosophical kind of

time. Its own world. Nothing

moving out there but maybe

people being born or people dying, necessity, and us.”

“Eh, and the bad night people

we're put on watch against.”

She glanced through the

archway into the great hall and

beyond. “Apparently so. What an

evil trick . . .” She trailed off in a grimace.

“This Quinn, you've known

her a long time?”

“She was in the Dendarii

mercenaries at the time I joined

the fleet-'original equipment,' as she says. A good leader, a friend

by many shared disasters. And victories, sometimes. Ten years

adds up to some weight, even if

you're not watching. Especially if you're not watching, I suppose.”

He followed the thought

spoken by her glance, as well as

her words. “Eh, yeah. God spare

me from ever facing such a puzzle.

It would be as bad as having your

count revolt against the emperor, I suppose. Or like finding m'lord in on some insane plot to murder

Empress Laisa. Shouldn't wonder

that you've been running around

in circles in your head all night.”

“Tighter and tighter, yes. I

couldn't enjoy the emperor's party from the moment I thought of it,

and I know Miles so wanted me to.

And I couldn't tell him why-I'm afraid he thought I was feeling out of place. Well, I was, but it wasn't a problem, exactly. I'm usually out of place.” She blinked tawny eyes

gone dark and wide in the

half-light. “What would you do? If you discovered or suspected such a horror?”

His lips twisted. “That's a

tough one. A higher honor must

underlie ours, the count says. We

can't ever obey unthinkingly.”

“Huh. That's what Miles says,

too. Is that where he got it, from his father?”

“I shouldn't be surprised.

M'lord's brother Mark says

integrity is a disease, and you can

only catch it from someone who has it.”

A little laugh sounded in her

throat. “That sounds like Mark, all right.”

He considered her question

with the seriousness it merited.

“I'd have to turn him in, I guess. I hope I'd have the courage,

anyways. Nobody would win, in

the end. Least of all me.”

“Oh, yeah. I can see that.”

Her hand lay on the sofa

fabric between them, clawed

fingers tapping. He wanted to take it and squeeze it for comfort-hers, or his? But he didn't dare.

Dammit, try, can't you?

His argument with himself

was interrupted when his wrist com sounded. The gate guard

reported the return of the

Vorkosigan House party from the

Imperial Residence. Roic coded

down the house shields and stood

aside as the crowd disembarked

from a small fleet of groundcars.

Pym was in close attendance upon

the countess, smiling at something she was saying over her shoulder

to him. The guests, variously

cheerful, drowsy, or drunk,

streamed past chatting and

laughing.

“Anything to report?” Pym

inquired perfunctorily. He glanced in curiosity past Roic at Taura,

looming over his shoulder.

“Yes, sir. See me in private as

soon as you can, please.”

The benign sleepy look

evaporated from Pym's features.

“Oh?” He glanced back at the

mob now divesting wraps and

streaming up the stairs. “Right.”

Low-voiced as Roic had been,

the countess had caught the

exchange. A wave of her finger

dismissed Pym from her side.

“Although, if this is of moment,

Pym, I'll take a report before

bed,” she murmured.

“Yes, my lady.”

Roic jerked his head toward

the antechamber of the library,

and Pym followed him and Taura

through the archway. The moment

the guests had cleared the next

room, Roic decanted a short precis of the night's adventure,

self-plagiarized from the one he'd given to the ImpSec forensics

captain. Omitting, again, the part about Taura's attempted theft. He

hoped like hell that it wasn't going to turn out to be horribly

pertinent later. He would submit

the full account to m'lord's

judgment, he decided. When the

devil was m'lord going to return?

Pym grew rigid as he took in

the report. “I checked that

necklace myself, Roic. Scanned it

clear of devices-the chemical

sniffer didn't pick up anything

either.”

“Did you touch it?” asked

Taura.

Pym's eyes narrowed in memory. “I mainly handled it by

the clasp. Well . . . well, ImpSec will run it through the wringer.

M'lord always claims they can use

the exercise. It can't hurt. You

acted correctly, Armsman Roic.

You can continue about your

duties now. I'll follow it up with ImpSec.”

With this tepid praise, he

moved off, frowning.

“Is that all we get?” Taura

whispered as Pym's ascending

footsteps faded on the winding

staircase.

Roic glanced at his chrono.

“Till ImpSec reports back, I guess.

It depends on how hard that dirty

stuff you saw”-he didn't insult her by phrasing it as you claimed you

saw-“is to identify.”

She scrubbed tired-looking

eyes with the back of her hand.

“Can I, uh, can I stay with you till they call?”

“Sure.”

In a moment of true

inspiration, he led her down to the kitchen and introduced her to the

staff refrigerator. He'd been

correct; her extraordinary

metabolism was in need of fuel

again. Ruthlessly, he cleared out

everything on the shelves and laid it in front of her. The early

morning crew could fend for

themselves. There was no shame

here in offering up servants' food to a guest; everyone ate well from Ma Kosti's kitchen. He dialed up

coffee for himself and tea for her, and they perched together on two

stools at the counter.

Pym found them there as they

were finishing eating. The senior

armsman's face was so drained of

blood as to be nearly green.

“Well done, Roic, Sergeant

Taura,” he began in a stiff voice.

“Very well done. I just now spoke

with ImpSec headquarters. The

pearls were doctored-with a designer neurotoxin. ImpSec

thinks it's of Jacksonian origin,

but they're still cross-checking.

The dose was sealed under a

chemically neutral transparent

lacquer that dissolves with body heat. Casual handling wouldn't

release it, but if someone put the necklace on and wore it for a time .

. . half an hour or so . . .”

“Enough to kill someone?”

Taura's tone was tense.

“Enough to kill a bloody

elephant, the lab boys say.” Pym

moistened dry lips. “And I

checked it myself. I bloody passed

it.” His teeth clenched. “She was

going to wear them to-M'lord

would have-” He choked himself

off and ran a hand over his face,

hard.

“Does ImpSec know who really

sent them?” asked Taura.

“Not yet. But they're all over

it, you can believe.”

A vision of the deadly pale

spheres lying on m'lady-to-be's

warm throat flashed through

Roic's memory. “Madame

Vorsoisson touched the pearls last night-night before last, that is

now,” said Roic urgently. “She

had them on for at least five

minutes. Is she going to be all

right?”

“ImpSec is dispatching a

physician to Lord Auditor

Vorthys's to check her-one of their toxins experts. If she'd taken in

enough to kill her, she'd have died right then, so that's not going to happen, but I don't know what

other . . . I have to go now and call m'lord there and warn him to

expect a visitor. And-and tell him why. Well done, Roic. Did I say

well done? Well done.” Pym drew

a shaken, unhappy breath and

strode back out.

Taura, her chin in her hand as

she drooped over her plate,

scowled after him. “Jacksonian

neurotoxin, eh? That doesn't

prove much. The Jacksonians will

sell anything to anyone. Miles

made enough enemies there in

some of our old sorties-if they

knew it was intended for him,

they'd probably offer a deep

discount.”

“Yeah, I imagine tracing the

source is going to take a little

longer. Even for ImpSec.” He

hesitated. “Although, wouldn't

they know him on Jackson's Whole only under his old covert ops

identity? Your little admiral?”

“That cover's been well-blown

for a couple of years, he tells me.

Partly as a result of the mess his last mission there produced, partly from some other things. Over my

head.” She yawned, hugely. It was

. . . impressive. She'd been up

since dawn, Roic was reminded,

and hadn't slept through the

afternoon as he had. Stranded in

what must seem to her an alien

place and wrestling terrible fears.

All by herself. For the first time, he wondered if she was lonely. One of a kind, the last of her kind if he understood correctly, without

home or kin except for that chancy

wandering mercenary fleet. And then he wondered why he hadn't

noticed her essential aloneness

sooner. Armsmen were supposed

to be observant. Yeah?

“If I promise to come by and

tell you if I get any news, d'you

suppose you could try to sleep?”

She rubbed the back of her

neck. “Would you? Then I think I

could. Try, that is.”

He escorted her to her door,

past m'lord's dark and empty

suite. When he clasped her hand

briefly, she clasped back. He

swallowed, for courage.

“Dirty pearls, eh?” he said,

still holding her hand. “Y'know . .

. I can't speak for any other

Barrayarans . . . but I think your genetic modifications are

beautiful.”

Her lips curved up, he hoped

not altogether bleakly. “You are

getting better.”

When she let go and turned in,

a claw trailing lightly over the skin of his palm made his body shudder

in involuntary, sensual surprise.

He stared at the closing door and

swallowed a perfectly foolish urge to call her back. Or follow her

inside . . . He was still on duty, he reminded himself. The next

monitors check was overdue. He

forced himself to turn away.

***

The sky outside was shifting

from the amber night of the city to a chill blue dawn when the gate

guard called Roic to code down

the house shields for m'lord's

return. As the armsman who'd

been called out to chauffeur drove the big car off to put away, Roic

opened one door to admit the

hunched, frowning figure. M'lord

looked up to recognize Roic, and a rather ghastly smile lightened his furrowed features.

Roic had seen m'lord looking

strung-out before, but never so

alarmingly as this, not even after one of his bad seizures or when

he'd had that spectacular

hangover after the disastrous

butter bug banquet. His eyes

stared out from gray circles like

feral animals from their dens. His skin was pale, and lines of tension mapped the anxiety across his

face. His movements were

simultaneously tired and stiff, and jerky and nervous, a spinning

exhaustion that could find no

place of rest.

“Roic. Thank you. Bless you,”

m'lord began in a voice that

sounded as though it were coming

from the bottom of a well.

“Is m'lady-to-be all right?”

Roic asked in some apprehension.

M'lord nodded. “Yes, now.

She fell asleep in my arms, finally, after the ImpSec doctor left. God, Roic! I can't believe I missed the signs. Poisoning! And I fastened

that death around her neck with my own hands! It's a damned

metaphor for this whole thing,

that's what it is. She thought it

was just her. I thought it was just her. How little faith in herself, or me in her, to misidentify dying of poison for dying of self-doubt?”

“She's not dying, is she?” Roic asked again, to be sure. In this

spate of dramatic angst, it was a

little hard to tell. “T' bit of

exposure she got isn't going to

have any permanent effects, is it?”

M'lord began to pace in circles

around the entry hall, while Roic

followed vainly trying to take his coat. “The doctor said not, not

once the headaches pass off, which they seem to have done now. She

was so relieved to find out what it really was she burst into tears. Go figure that one out, eh?”

“Yeah, except that-” Roic

began, then bit his tongue. Except that the crying jag he'd

inadvertently witnessed had

occurred well before the poisoning.

“What?”

“Nothing, m'lord.”

Lord Vorkosigan paused at the

archway to the antechamber.

“ImpSec. We must call ImpSec to

take away all those gifts and

recheck them for-”

“They already came and

collected them, m'lord,” Roic

soothed him, or tried to. “An hour ago. They say they'll try t' get as

many as possible cleared and back before the wedding guests start

arriving come midafternoon.”

“Oh. Good.” M'lord stood still

a moment, staring into nothing,

and Roic finally managed to get

his coat away from him.

“M'lord . . . you don't think your Admiral Quinn sent that

necklace, do you?”

“Oh, good heavens, no. Of

course not.” M'lord dismissed this fear with a startlingly casual wave of his hand. “Not her style at all. If she were ever that mad at me,

she'd kick me downstairs

personally. Great woman, Quinn.”

“Sergeant Taura was worried.

I think she thought this Quinn

might a' been, um, jealous.”

M'lord blinked. “Why? I

mean, yes, it's almost exactly a

year since Elli and I parted

company, but Ekaterin had

nothing to do with that. Didn't even meet her till a couple of

months later. The timing's pure

coincidence, you can assure her.

Yeah, so Elli turned down the

wedding invitation-she has

responsibilities. She got the fleet, after all.” A small sigh escaped

him. His lips screwed up in further thought. “I'd sure like to know

who knew enough to steal Quinn's

name to smuggle that hellish

package in here, though. That's the real puzzle. Quinn's connected to

Admiral Naismith, not to Lord

Vorkosigan. Which was the sticking point in the first place, but never mind now. I want

ImpSec to put every available

resource on to tearing that one apart.”

“I believe they already are,

m'lord.”

“Oh. Good.” He looked up,

and his face grew, if possible, more serious. “You saved my House last

night, you know. Eleven

generations of Vorkosigans have

narrowed down to the choke point

of me, this generation, this

marriage. I'd have been the last,

but for that chance-no, not

chance-that moment of shrewd

observation.”

Roic waved an embarrassed hand. “Wasn't me who spotted it,

m'lord. It was Sergeant Taura.

She'd have reported it herself

earlier, if she hadn't been

half-taken in by t' bad guy's nasty camouflage with your, um, friend

Admiral Quinn's name.”

M'lord took up his taut orbit

of the hall again. “Bless Taura,

then. A woman beyond price.

Which I already knew, but

anyway. I could kiss her feet, by

God. I could kiss her all over!”

Roic was beginning to think

that line about the barbed-wire

choke chain wasn't such a joke

after all. All this frenetic tension was, if not precisely infectious,

starting to get on what was left of

his nerves. He remarked dryly, in Pym-like periods, “I was given to

understand you already had,

m'lord.”

M'lord jerked to a halt again.

“Who told you that?”

Under the circumstances, Roic

decided not to mention Madame

Vorsoisson. “Taura.”

“Eh, maybe it's the women's

secret code. I don't have the key, though. You're on your own there,

boy.” He snorted a trifle

hysterically. “But if you ever do

win an invitation from her,

beware-it's like being mugged in a dark alley by a goddess. You're

not the same man after. Not to

mention critical feminine body

parts on a scale you can actually

find, and as for the fangs, there's no thrill quite like-”

“Miles,” a bemused voice

interrupted from overhead. Roic

glanced up to see the countess,

wrapped in a robe, leaning over

the balcony railing and observing

her son. How long had she been

standing there? She was Betan;

maybe m'lord's last remarks

wouldn't discombobulate her as

much as they did Roic. In fact, he reflected, he was certain they

couldn't.

“Good morning, Mother,”

m'lord managed. “Some bastard

tried to poison Ekaterin, did you

hear? When I catch up with him, I

swear I'm going to make the

Dismemberment of Mad Emperor Yuri look like a house party-”

“Yes, ImpSec has kept your

father and me fully apprised

during the night, and I just spoke with Helen. Everything seems

under control for the moment,

except for persuading Pym not to

throw himself off the Star Bridge

in expiation. He's pretty

distraught over this slipup. For

pity's sake, come up and take a

sleeptimer and lie down for a

while.”

“I don't want a pill. I have to

check the garden. I have to check

everything-”

“The garden is fine.

Everything is fine. As you have

just discovered in Armsman Roic here, your staff is more than

competent.” She started down the

stairs, a distinctly steely look in her eye. “It's either a sleeptimer or a sledgehammer for you, son. I am

not handing you off to your blameless bride in the state you're in, or the worse one it'll be if you don't get some real sleep before

this afternoon. It's not fair to her.”

“Nothing about this marriage

is fair to her,” m'lord muttered,

bleak. “She was afraid it would be the nightmare of her old marriage

all over again. No! It's going to be a completely different

nightmare-much worse. How can I ask her to step into my line of fire if-”

“As I recall, she asked you. I was there, remember? Stop

gibbering.” The countess took his

arm, and began more or less

frog-marching him upstairs. Roic

made a mental note of her

technique for future reference.

She glanced over her shoulder and

gave Roic a reassuring, if rather

unexpected, wink.

The brief remainder of the

most memorable night shift of his

career passed, to Roic's relief,

without further incident of note.

He dodged excited maidservants

hurrying to the big day's tasks and mounted the stairs to his tiny

fourth-floor bedroom thinking

that m'lord wasn't the only one

who should get some sleep before

the afternoon's more public duties.

M'lord's last, decidedly

free-floating comments kept him

awake for some time, though,

beguiling him with visions of

somewhat shocking charm. Such

as he'd never dreamed of back in

Hassadar. He fell asleep with his

lips curling up.

***

A few minutes before his

alarm was set to go off, Roic was

awakened by Armsman Jankowski

tapping at his bedroom door.

“Pym says you're to report to

m'lord's suite right away. Some

kind of briefing-you don't have to be in your uniform yet.”

“Right.”

Dress uniform, Jankowski meant, although Jankowski was

already sharp in his own. Roic

slipped on last night's wear and

ran a comb through his hair,

frowned in frustration at his beard shadow- right away presumably meant just that-and hurried

downstairs.

Roic found m'lord in his

suite's sitting room, halfway

dressed in a silk shirt, the brown trousers with silver side-piping

and the silver-embroidered

suspenders that went with and

slippers. He was attended by his

cousin Ivan Vorpatril, resplendent in his own House's blue-and-gold

uniform. As m'lord's Second and

chief witness in the imminent

ceremony, Lord Ivan was also playing groom's batman as well as

general supporter.

One of Roic's fonder secret

memories from the past weeks was

of witnessing, in his role as

disregarded coatrack, the great

Viceroy Count Vorkosigan himself

taking his handsome nephew aside

and promising, in a voice so low as to be almost a whisper, to have

Ivan's hide for a drumskin if he

allowed his misplaced sense of fun to do anything at all to screw up the impending ceremony for

m'lord. Ivan had been humorless

as a judge all week; side bets were being taken belowstairs for how

long it would last. Remembering

that deeply ominous voice, Roic

had selected the longest shot in the pool-and thought himself likely to win.

Taura, also in last night's gear

of skirt and lacy blouse, lounged

on one of the small sofas in the bay window, apparently offering

bracing advice. M'lord had

evidently taken the sleeptimer, for he looked vastly better: clean,

shaved, clear-eyed, and very

nearly calm.

“Ekaterin's here,” he told

Roic, in the awed tone of a

besieged garrison commander

describing the unexpected

relieving force. “The bride's party is using my mother's suite for their staging area. Mother's going to

bring her down in a moment. She

needs to be in on this.”

In on what? was answered before Roic could voice the

question by the entry of ImpSec

chief General Allegre himself, in

dress greens, escorted by the

count, also already in his best

House uniform. Allegre was a

wedding guest in his own right,

but it clearly wasn't for social

reasons that he'd arrived an hour

early.

The countess and Ekaterin

followed on their heels, the

countess graceful in something

sparkling and green, m'lady-to-be

still in her drab dress but with her hair already braided up and

thickly entwined with tiny roses

and other exquisite little scented

flowers that Roic could not name.

Both women looked grave, but a

smile like a fugitive gleam from

paradise lit Ekaterin's eyes as they met m'lord's. Roic found he had to look away from that brief

intensity, feeling a clumsy

intruder. He thus surprised

Taura's expression: shrewdly

approving, but more than a little

wistful.

Ivan drew up extra chairs, and

all disposed themselves around the small table near the window.

Madame Vorsoisson took a seat

beside m'lord, decorously but with no wasted centimeters between.

He gripped her hand. Roic

managed to slip in next to Taura;

she smiled down at him. These

chambers had once belonged to the late great General Piotr

Vorkosigan, before they'd been

claimed by his grandson, the rising young Lord Auditor. This spot, not the grand public rooms

downstairs, was the site of more

military, political, and secret

conferences of historic import to

Barrayar than Roic could readily

imagine.

“I dropped by early to give

you ImpSec's latest report in

person, Miles, Madame

Vorsoisson, Count, Countess.”

Allegre, half-leaning on a sofa

arm, nodded around. He reached

into his tunic and withdrew a

plastic bag in which something

white glimmered and gleamed.

“And to return these. I had my forensics people clean them after

collecting and recording the

evidence. They're safe now.”

Gingerly, m'lord took the

pearls from his hand and set them

down on the table. “And do you

know yet who gets the thank-you

note for this gift? I'm rather

hoping to deliver it in person.”

Ill-concealed menace vibrated

beneath his light tone.

“That has actually broken

open much faster than I was

expecting,” said Allegre. “It was a

very nice forgery job on the date stamps from Escobar on the outer

packaging, but the inner

decorative wrapping checked out

under analysis as of Barrayaran

origin. Once we knew which planet to look on, the item was

sufficiently unique-the necklace is

of Earth origin, by the way-we

were able to trace it by jeweler's import records almost at once. It

was purchased two weeks ago in

Vorbarr Sultana for a large sum of cash, and the store security vids

for the month hadn't been erased

yet. My agent positively identified Lord Vorbataille.”

M'lord hissed through his

teeth. “He was on my short list,

yes. No wonder he was trying so

hard to get off planet.”

“He was up to his eyebrows in

the plan, but he wasn't its

originator. Do you remember how

you said to me three weeks ago

that while there had to be brains behind this operation, you'd swear they weren't in Vorbataille's

head?”

“Yes,” said m'lord. “I had him

pegged for a front man, suborned

for his connections. And his yacht, of course.”

“You were right. We picked

up his Jacksonian crime

consultant about three hours ago.”

“You have him!”

“We have him. He'll keep,

now.” Allegre gave m'lord a grim

nod. “Although he had the wit to

not bring attention to himself by trying to get off planet, one of my analysts, who came in last night to look over the new evidence that

came in with the necklace, was able to run a back-trace and

cross-connect, and so identify him.

Well, actually he fingered three

suspects, but fast-penta cleared

two of them. The source for the

toxin was a fellow by the name of

Luca Tarpan.”

M'lord mouthed the syllables;

his face screwed up. “Damn. Are

you sure? I've never heard of him.”

“Quite sure. He appears to

have ties with the Bharaputra

syndicate on Jackson's Whole.”

“Well, that would give him

access to quite a lot of somewhat

scrambled two-year-old

information about me and Quinn,

yes. Both mes, in fact. And it

accounts for the superior forgery.

But why such a heinous attack?

It's almost more disturbing to think that some total stranger

would-Have we crossed paths

before?”

Allegre shrugged. “It seems

not. The preliminary interrogation suggests it was a purely

professional ploy-although he

clearly had no love left for you by the time you were about half done

ripping open this case. Your talent for making interesting new

enemies has evidently not deserted you. The plan was to create

distracting chaos in your

investigation just after the group made its getaway-Vorbataille was

preselected to be thrown to us for

a goat, it turns out-but we shut them down about eight days early.

The necklace had only just been

slipped into the delivery service's records and dispatched at that

point.”

M'lord's teeth set. “You've

had Vorbataille in your hands for

two days. And fast-penta didn't

turn this up?”

Allegre grimaced. “I just

reviewed the transcripts before I

drove over here. It came very close to surfacing. But to get an answer, even-especially-under fast-penta,

as useful a truth drug as it is, you must first know enough to ask the

question. My interrogators were

concentrating on the Princess

Olivia. It was Vorbataille's yacht

that was used to insert the hijacking team, by the way.”

“Knew it had to be,” grunted

m'lord.

“We'd have caught up with

this necklace scheme in a few more days on our own, I think,” said

Allegre.

M'lord glanced at his chrono

and said rather thickly, “You'd

have caught up with it in about

one more hour, actually. On your

own.”

Allegre tilted his head in frank

acknowledgment. “Yes,

unfortunately. Madame

Vorsoisson”-he touched his brow

in a considerably more formal

gesture than the usual ImpSec

salute-“on behalf of myself and my organization, I wish to offer

you my most abject apologies. My

Lord Auditor. Count. Countess.”

He looked up at Roic and Taura,

sitting side by side on the sofa

opposite. “Fortunately, ImpSec

was not your last line of defense.”

“Indeed,” rumbled the count,

who had seated himself on a

straight chair turned backward,

arms comfortably crossed over its

back, listening intently but

without comment till now.

Countess Vorkosigan stood by his

side; her hand touched his

shoulder, and he caught it under

his own thicker one.

Allegre said, “Illyan once told

me that half the secret of House

Vorkosigan's preeminence in Barrayaran history was the quality of the people it drew to its service.

I'm glad to see this continues to

hold true. Armsman Roic,

Sergeant Taura-ImpSec salutes

you with more gratitude than I can rightly express.” He did so, in a

sober gesture altogether free of his sporadic irony.

Roic blinked, ducking his head

in lieu of the return salute he

wasn't sure if he was supposed to

make. He wondered if he was

expected to say something. He

hoped to hell no one would want

him to make a speech, like after

that incident in Hassadar. That

had been more horrifying than the

needler fire. He glanced up to find

Taura glancing down at him, eyes bright. He wanted to ask her-he

wanted to ask her a thousand

things, but not here. Would they

ever get a private moment again?

Not for the next several hours, that was certain.

“Well, love,”-m'lord blew out

his breath, staring down at the

plastic bag-“I think that's your

final warning. Travel with me and

you travel into hazard. I don't

want it to be so. But it's going to go on being so, as long as I serve . .

. what I serve.”

M'lady-to-be glanced at the

countess, whose return smile was

decidedly twisted. “I never

imagined it would be otherwise for a Lady Vorkosigan.”

“I'll have these destroyed,”

m'lord said, reaching for the

pearls.

“No,” said m'lady-to-be, her

eyes narrowing. “Wait.”

He paused, raising his

eyebrows at her.

“They were sent to me.

They're my souvenir. I shall keep them. I'd have worn them as a

courtesy to your friend.” She

reached past him and scooped up

the bag, tossed it up and caught it again out of the air, her long

fingers closing tightly around it.

Her edged smile took Roic aback.

“I'll wear them now as a defiance

to our enemies.”

M'lord's eyes blazed back at

her.

The countess seized the

moment-possibly, Roic thought, to

cut off her son from further

blithering-and tapped her chrono.

“Speaking of wearing things, it's

time to get dressed.”

M'lord went a shade paler.

“Yes, of course.” He kissed

m'lady-to-be's hand as she rose,

looking as if he never wanted to let it go again. Countess Vorkosigan

herded everyone except m'lord

and his cousin into the hallway,

shutting the door to the suite

firmly behind her.

“He looks much better now,”

said Roic to her, glancing back. “I think your sleeptimer was just t'

thing.”

“Yes, plus the tranquilizers I

had Aral give him when he went in

to wake him up a while ago. The

double dose seems to have been

just about right.” She hooked her

arm through her husband's.

“Still think it should have

been a triple,” he murmured.

“Now, now. Calm, not

comatose, is the goal for our

groom.” She escorted Madame

Vorsoisson toward the stairs; the

count went off with Allegre, taking advantage of the chance to discuss details, or perhaps drinks, in

private.

Taura stared after them, her

smile askew. “You know, I wasn't

sure about that woman for Miles at first, but I think she'll do him very well. That Vor thing of his

always baffled Elli. Ekaterin has it in her bones same as he does. God

help them both.”

Roic had been about to say

that he thought m'lady-to-be better

than m'lord deserved, but Taura's

last remark brought him up short.

“Huh. Yeah. She's true Vor, all

right. It's no easy thing.”

Taura started down the

corridor but stopped at the corner and half-turned back to ask, “So,

what are you doing after the

party?”

“Night guard duty.” All

bloody week, Roic realized in

dismay. And Taura only had ten days left on-planet.

“Ah.”

She whisked away; Roic

glanced at his chrono and gulped.

The generous time he'd allotted to dress and report for wedding duty

was almost gone. He ran for the

stairs.

***

The guests were already

starting to arrive, spilling from the entry hall through the succession

of flower-graced public rooms,

when Roic scuffed quickly down

the staircase to take up his allotted place as backup to Armsman Pym,

in turn backing up Count and

Countess Vorkosigan. Some

on-site guests were already in place: Lady Alys Vorpatril, acting as assistant hostess and general

expediter, and her benevolently

absentminded escort, Simon

Illyan; the Bothari-Jeseks;

Mayhew, in apparent permanent

tow of Nikki; an assortment of

Vorvaynes who had overflowed

from Lord Auditor Vorthys's

packed house to Vorkosigan House

guest rooms. M'lord's friend

Commodore Galeni, Chief of

ImpSec Komarran Affairs, and his

wife were early arrivals, along with m'lord's special Progressive Party colleagues, the Vorbrettens and

the Vorrutyers.

Commodore Koudelka and his

spouse, known universally as Kou

and Drou, arrived with their daughter Martya. Martya was

standing in as Madame

Vorsoisson's Second in place of

m'lady-to-be's closest friend-yet

another Koudelka daughter,

Kareen, still at school on Beta

Colony. Kareen and m'lord's

brother, Lord Mark, were much

missed (albeit, in remembrance of

the bug butter incident, not by

Roic) but the interstellar travel

time had proved too tight for their schedules. Lord Mark's wedding

present was a gift certificate for the bridal couple for a week at an exclusive and very expensive

Betan resort, however, so perhaps

m'lord and his lady would soon be

visiting his brother and their

friend, not to mention m'lord's

Betan relatives. As gifts went, it at least had the advantage of shifting all the security challenges inherent in the trip to some later time.

Martya was sped upstairs by a

maid detailed to that purpose.

Martya's escort and Lord Mark's

business partner, Dr. Borgos, was

quietly taken aside by Pym for an

unscheduled frisking for any

surprise gift insects he might have been harboring, but this time the

scientist proved clean. Martya

returned unexpectedly soon, her

brow wrinkled thoughtfully, and

repossessed him to stroll off in

search of drinks and company.

Lord Auditor and Professora

Vorthys arrived with the rest of

the Vorvaynes, altogether a goodly

company: four brothers, three wives, ten children, and

m'lady-to-be's father and

stepmother, in addition to her

beloved aunt and uncle. Roic

glimpsed Nikki showing off Arde

to his mob of awed young

Vorvayne cousins, pressing the

jump pilot to decant galactic war

stories to this enthralled audience.

Nikki didn't, Roic noted, seem to

have to press very hard. The Betan pilot grew downright expansive in

the warm glow of these attentions.

The Vorvayne side stood up

bravely to the glittering company

that was Vorkosigan House's

norm-well, Lord Auditor Vorthys

was notoriously oblivious to any

status not backed by proven

engineering expertise. But even the bride's most buoyant older

brother grew subdued and

thoughtful when Count Gregor

and Countess Laisa Vorbarra were

announced. The emperor and

empress had chosen to attend the

supposedly informal afternoon

affair as social equals to the

Vorkosigans, which saved a world

of protocol hassles for everyone,

not least themselves. Not in any

other uniform but that of his

Count's House could the emperor

have publicly embraced his little

foster brother Miles, who ran

downstairs to greet him, nor been

so sincerely embraced in return.

In all, m'lord's “little”

wedding numbered one hundred

twenty guests. Vorkosigan House absorbed them all.

At last, the moment arrived;

the hall and antechambers became

brief, crowded chaos as wraps

were redonned and the guests all

streamed out the gate and around

the corner to the garden. The air

was cold but not bitter, and

thankfully windless, the sky a

deepening clear blue, the slanting afternoon sun liquid gold. It

turned the snowy garden into as

gilded, glittering, spectacular and utterly unique a showplace as

m'lord's heart could ever have

desired. The flowers and ribbons

were concentrated around the

central place where the vows were

to be, complementing the wild

brilliance of the ice and snow and light.

Although Roic was fairly sure

that the two realistically detailed ice rabbits humping under a

discreet bush were not part of the decorations m'lord had ordered.

They did not pass unnoticed, as

the first person to observe them

immediately pointed them out to

everyone within earshot. Ivan

Vorpatril averted his gaze from

the cheerfully obscene artwork-the rabbits were grinning-a look of

innocence on his face. The count's menacing glower at him was alas

undercut by an escaping snicker,

which became a guffaw when the

countess whispered something in

his ear.

The groom's party took up their positions. In the center of the garden, the walkways, swept clear

of snow, met at a wide circle of

paving brick, with the Vorkosigan

crest of mountains and maple

leaves picked out in contrasting

brick. In this obvious spot, the

small circle of colored groats was laid out on the ground for the

oath-making couple, surrounded

by a multipointed star for the

principal witnesses. Another circle of groats crowned a temporary

pathway of tanbark flung wide

around the first two rings,

providing dry footing for the rest of the guests.

Roic, wearing a sword for the

first time since he'd taken his

liegeman's oath, took his place in the formal lineup of armsmen

making an aisle on either side of

the main pathway. He looked

around in worry, for Taura did not loom up among the groom's guests

sorting themselves out along the

outer circle. M'lord, his hand

clutching his cousin Ivan's blue

sleeve, gazed up at the entrance in almost painful anticipation.

M'lord had, with difficulty, been

talked out of hauling his horse in to town to fetch the bride from the house in the old Vor style, though Roic personally had no doubt that

the placid, elderly steed would

have proved much less nervous

and difficult to handle than its

master. So the Vorvayne party

made their entrance on foot.

Lady Alys, as Coach, led the way like some silken banner

carrier. The bride followed on her blinking father's arm, shimmering

in a jacket and skirt of beige velvet embroidered with shining silver,

her booted feet striding out

fearlessly, her eyes seeking only

one other face in the mob. The

triple stand of pearls gracing her throat glimmered their secret

message of bravado to only a few

persons here. A few extraordinary

persons. By his narrowed eyes and

wryly pursed lips, it was clear that Emperor Gregor was one of them.

Roic's might have been the

sole gaze not to linger on the bride, for following beside her

stepmother, in the place of-no, as

-the bride's Second, walked Sergeant Taura. Roic's eyes

shifted, though he kept his rigid

posture-yes, there was Martya

Koudelka with Dr. Borgos on the

outer circle, apparently demoted

to the status of mere guest but not looking in the least put-out. In

fact, she seemed to be watching

Taura with smug approval.

Taura's dress was everything that

Lady Alys had promised.

Champagne-colored velvet exactly

matched her eyes, which seemed

to spring to a brilliant prominence in her face. The jacket sleeves and long swinging skirt were decorated on their margins with black cord

shaped into winding patterns.

Champagne-colored orchids coiled

in her bound-back hair. Roic

thought he'd never seen anything so stunningly sophisticated in his life.

Everyone took their places.

M'lord and m'lady-to-be stepped

into the inner circle, hands

gripping hands like two lovers

drowning. The bride looked not so

much radiant as incandescent; the

groom looked gobsmacked. Lord

Ivan and Taura were handed the

two little bags of groats with which to close the circle, then stood back to their star points between Count and Countess Vorkosigan and

Vorvayne and his wife. Lady Alys

read out the vows, and m'lord and

m'lady-to- m'lady repeated their responses, her voice clear, his only cracking once. The kiss was

managed with remarkable grace, m'lady somehow bending her knee

in a curtsylike motion so m'lord

didn't have to stretch unduly. It

suggested thought and practice.

Lots of practice.

With immense panache, Lord

Ivan then swept the groat circle

wide with one booted foot,

triumphantly collecting his kiss

from the bride as she exited. Lord and Lady Vorkosigan passed out

of the dazzling ice garden between the lines of Vorkosigan armsmen;

swords, drawn and lowered at

their feet, rose in salute as they passed. When Pym led the

Armsmen's Shout, the sound of

twenty enthusiastic male voices

bounced and echoed off the

garden walls and thundered to the sky. M'lord grinned over his

shoulder and blushed with

pleasure at this deafening

endorsement.

As Seconds, Taura followed

next on Lord Ivan's arm, bending

her head to hear something he

said, laughing. The row of

armsmen remained to rigid

attention while all the principals streamed past them, then formed

up and marched smartly in their

wake, followed by the guests, back around and into Vorkosigan

House. It had all gone off perfectly.

Pym looked as though he wanted

to pass out there and then from

sheer relief.

***

Vorkosigan House's main state dining room boasted seating for

ninety-six when both tables were

brought out in parallel; the

overflow fit in the chamber

immediately beyond, through a

wide archway, so that the whole

company could sit down at once

essentially together. Serving was

not Roic's responsibility tonight, but in his role as arbiter of

emergencies and general assistant

for any guest needing anything, he kept to his feet and moving. Taura was seated at the head table with

the principals and the most

honored guests-the other most honored guests. Between tall,

dark, handsome Lord Ivan and

tall, dark, lean Emperor Gregor,

she looked really happy. Roic

could not wish her anywhere else, but he found himself mentally

erasing Ivan and replacing him

with himself . . . yet Ivan and the emperor were the very pattern of

debonair wit. They made Taura

laugh, fangs flashing without

constraint. 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, yet a 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 . . . I

“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.

About the Authors

Lois McMaster Bujold

Lois McMaster Bujold was

born in Columbus, Ohio, in 1949;

she now lives in Minneapolis. She began reading science fiction at

age nine. Romances came later,

when in her early twenties she

discovered Georgette Heyer. She

started writing for professional

publication in 1982, a goal

achieved in 1986 with the release

of her first three science fiction novels. Bujold went on to write the Nebula-winning Falling Free

(1988) and many other books

featuring her popular character

Miles Naismith Vorkosigan, his

family, friends, and enemies. The

series includes three Hugo

Award-winning novels; readers

interested in learning more about

the far-flung Vorkosigan clan are

encouraged to start with the

omnibus Cordelia's Honor.

Bujold's books have been translated into seventeen

languages. In 2001 came a new

fantasy, The Curse of Chalion

-which won the Mythopoeic

Award for Adult Literature. A

sequel in the same world, Paladin

of Souls, followed in 2003. A fan-run Web site devoted to her

work, The Bujold Nexus, may be

found at www.dendarii.com.

[Version History]

1.0 - scanned, formatted, and

spell-checked from trade paperback. This is only one of the novellas from the multi-author

anthology Irresistible Forces, ed by Catherine Asaro (which also has a

novella written by Asaro in her

Skolian world as well). At some

point, I will get around to editing the rest of the anthology.

2.0 - September 9, 2004 -

The_Ghiti - proofed in detail

against deadtree format. As usual, if there was an oddity in dialogue, or an obscure alternate form, I left

“as is.” Armstrong uses a lot of

mammoth paragraphs-this isn't a

proofreading or scanning error.

It's also apparent that major

publishers are cutting back on

their proofreading budgets-although the book had

been spellchecked, it obviously

hadn't been manually proofread

(“want” instead of “went”; “at”

instead of “it”; “then” and “than”

interchanged frequently; many

more).