Miles sighed and began to work his way cautiously up the steps, legs stiff in their plastic immobilizers.
The painkillers he'd taken before he'd left the military infirmary were beginning to wear off. He felt unutterably weary. The night had been a sleepless one, sitting up under local anesthetics, talking and joking with the surgeon as he puttered endlessly, piecing the minute shattered fragments of bone back together like an unusually obstreperous jigsaw puzzle. I put on a pretty good show, Miles reassured himself; but he longed to get off stage and collapse. Just a couple more acts to go.
'What kind of fellow are you planning to shop for?' Miles probed delicately during a pause in his climb.
'An officer,' Bothari said firmly.
Miles's smile twisted. So that's the pinnacle of your ambition, too, Sergeant? he inquired silently. 'Not too soon, I trust.'
Bothari snorted. 'Of course not. She's only …' He paused, the creases deepening between his narrow eyes. 'Time's gone by …' his mutter trailed off.
Miles negotiated the steps successfully, and entered Vorkosigan House, bracing for relatives. The first was to be his mother, it seemed; that was no problem. She appeared at the foot of the great staircase in the front hall as the door was opened for him by a uniformed servant-cum-guard. Lady Vorkosigan was a middle-aged woman, the fiery red of her hair quenched by natural grey, her height neatly disguising a few extra kilos weight. She was breathing a bit heavily; probably had run downstairs when he was spotted approaching. They exchanged a brief hug. Her eyes were grave and unjudgemental.
'Father here?' he asked.
'No. He and Minister Quintillian are down at headquarters, arm-wrestling with the General Staff about their budget this morning. He said to give you his love and tell you he'd try to be here for lunch.'
'He, ah—hasn't told Grandfather about yesterday yet, has he?'
'No—I really think you should have let him, though. It's been rather awkward this morning.'
'I'll bet.' He gazed up at the stairs. It was more than his bad legs that made them seem mountainous. Well, let's get the worst over with first… 'Upstairs, is he?'
'In his rooms. Although he actually took a walk in the garden this morning, I'm glad to say.'
'Mm.' Miles started working his way upstairs.
'Lift tube,' said Bothari.
'Oh, hell, it's only one flight.'
'Surgeon said you're to stay off them as much as possible.'
Miles's mother awarded Bothari an approving smile, which he acknowledged blandly with a murmured, 'Milady.' Miles shrugged grudgingly and headed for the back of the house instead.
'Miles,' said his mother as he passed, 'don't, ah … He's very old, he's not too well, and he hasn't had to be polite to anybody in years—just take him on his own terms, all right?'
'You know I do.' He grinned ironically, to prove how unaffected he proposed to be. Her lips curved in return, but her eyes remained grave.
He met Elena Bothari, coming out of his grandfather's chambers. His bodyguard greeted his daughter with a silent nod, and won for himself one of her rather shy smiles.
For the thousandth time Miles wondered how such an ugly man could have produced such a beautiful daughter. Every one of his features was echoed in her face, but richly transmuted. At eighteen she was tall, like her father, fully six feet to his six-and-a-half; but while he was whipcord lean and tense, she was slim and vibrant. His nose a beak, hers an elegant aquiline profile; his face too narrow, hers with the air of some perfectly bred aristocratic sight-hound, a borzoi or a greyhound. Perhaps it was the eyes that made the difference; hers were dark and lustrous, alert, but without his constantly shifting, unsmiling watchfulness. Or the hair; his greying, clipped in his habitual military burr, hers long, dark, straight-shining. A gargoyle and a saint, by the same sculptor, facing each other across some ancient cathedral portal.
Miles shook himself from his trance. Her eyes met his briefly, and her smile faded. He straightened up from his tired slouch and produced a false smile for her, hoping to lure her real one back. Not too soon. Sergeant . . .
'Oh, good, I'm so glad you're here,' she greeted him. 'It's been gruesome this morning.'
'Has he been crotchety?'
'No, cheerful. Playing Strat-O with me and paying no attention—do you know, I almost beat him? Telling his war stories and wondering about you—if he'd had a map of your course, he'd have been sticking pins in it to mark your imaginary progress … I don't have to stay, do I?'
'No, of course not.'
Elena twitched a relieved smile at him, and trailed off down the corridor, casting one disquieted look back over her shoulder.
Miles took a breath, and stepped across General Count Piotr Vorkosigan's inner threshold.
CHAPTER TWO
The old man was out of bed, shaved and crisply dressed for the day. He sat up in a chair, gazing pensively out the window overlooking his back garden. He glanced up with a frown at the interrupter of his meditations, saw that it was Miles, and smiled broadly.
'Ah, come, boy …' He gestured at the chair Miles guessed Elena had recently vacated. The old man's smile became tinged with puzzlement. 'By God, have I lost a day somewhere? I thought this was the day you were out on that 100 kilometer trot up and down Mt. Sencele.'
'No, sir, you haven't lost a day.' Miles eased into the chair. Bothari set another before him and pointed at his feet. Miles started to lift them, but the effort was sabotaged by a particularly savage twinge of pain. 'Yeah, put 'em up. Sergeant,' Miles acquiesced wearily. Bothari helped him place the offending feet at the medically correct angle and withdrew, strategically Miles thought, to stand at attention by the door. The old Count watched this pantomime, understanding dawning painfully in his face.
'What have you done, boy?' he sighed.
Let's make it quick and painless, like a beheading … 'Jumped off a wall in the obstacle course yesterday and broke both my legs. Washed myself out of the physical tests completely. The others—well, they don't matter now.'
'So you came home.'
'So I came home.'
'Ah.' The old man drummed his long gnarled fingers once on the arm of the chair. 'Ah.' He shifted uncomfortably in his seat and thinned his lips, staring out the window, not looking at Miles. His fingers drummed again. 'It's all the fault of this damned creeping democratism,' he burst out querulously. 'A lot of imported off- planet nonsense. Your father did not do Barrayar a service to encourage it. He had a fine opportunity to stamp it out when he was Regent—which he wasted totally, as far as I can see …' he trailed off. 'In love with off-planet notions, off-planet women,' he echoed himself more faintly. 'I blame your mother, you know. Always pushing that egalitarian tripe …'
'Oh, come on,' Miles was stirred to object. 'Mother's as apolitical as you can get and still be conscious and walking around.'
'Thank God, or she'd be running Barrayar today. I've never seen your father cross her yet. Well, well, it could have been worse …' The old man shifted again, twisting in his pain of spirit as Miles had in his pain of body.
Miles lay in his chair, making no effort to defend the issue or himself. The Count could be trusted to argue himself down, taking both parts, in a little time.
'We must bend with the times, I suppose. We must all bend with the times. Shopkeepers' sons are great soldiers, now. God knows, I commanded a few in my day. Did I ever tell you about the fellow, when we were fighting the Cetagandans up in the Dendarii Mountains back behind Vorkosigan Surleau—best guerilla lieutenant I ever had. I wasn't much older than you, then. He killed more Cetagandans that year . .. His father had been a tailor. A tailor, back when it was all cut and stitched by hand, hunched over all the little detailing …' He sighed for the
