A Civil Campaign

the final word on the Komarr accident, really? Was it sabotage?'

Miles shrugged, and let By and his habitual needling drop from his attention. 'After six weeks of sifting through the data, Lord Auditor Vorthys and I returned a probable cause of pilot error. We debated the possibility of pilot suicide, but finally discarded the idea.'

'And which was your opinion?' asked Zamori, sounding interested. 'Accident or suicide?'

'Mm. I felt suicide would explain a lot about certain physical aspects of the collision,' Miles replied, sending up a silent prayer of apology to the soul of the slandered pilot. 'But since the dead pilot neglected to supply us with any supporting evidence, such as notes or messages or therapy records, we couldn't make it an official verdict. Don't quote me,' he added, for verisimilitude.

Ekaterin, sheltered in her uncle's chair, nodded understanding to him of this official lie, perhaps adding it to her own repertoire of deflections.

'So what do you think of this Komarran marriage of the Emperor's?' Vormoncrief added. 'I suppose you must approve of it—you're in it.'

Miles took note of his dubious tone. Ah yes, Vormoncrief's uncle Count Boriz Vormoncrief, being just outside the spatter-zone, had inherited the leadership of the shrinking Conservative Party after the fall of Count Vortrifrani. The Conservative party's response to future-Empress Laisa had been lukewarm at best, though, prudently, no overt hostility had been permitted to leak into their public stances where someone—i.e., ImpSec—would have been compelled to take notice of it. Still, just because Boriz and Alexi were related didn't by any means guarantee they shared the same political views. 'I think it's great,' said Miles. 'Dr. Toscane is brilliant and beautiful, and Gregor, well, it's high time he produced an heir. And you have to figure, if nothing else it leaves one more Barrayaran woman for the rest of us.'

'Well, it leaves one more Barrayaran woman for one of us,' Byerly Vorrutyer corrected this sweetly. 'Unless you are proposing something delightfully outr?.'

Miles's smile thinned as he contemplated By. Ivan's wit, wearing as it could sometimes grow, was saved from being offensive by a certain ingenuousness. Unlike Ivan, Byerly never insulted anyone unintentionally.

'You gentlemen should all pay a visit to Komarr,' Miles recommended genially. 'Their domes are just chock full of lovely women, all with clean gene scans and galactic educations. And the Toscanes aren't the only clan fielding an heiress. Many of the Komarran ladies are rich—Byerly.' He restrained himself from helpfully explaining to all present that Madame Vorsoisson's feckless late husband had left her destitute, first because Ekaterin was sitting right there, with her eyebrows tilted at him, and secondly because he couldn't imagine that By, for one, didn't already know it.

Byerly smiled faintly. 'Money isn't everything, they say.'

Check . 'Still, I'm sure you could make yourself pleasant, if you ever chose to try.'

By's lip quirked. 'Your faith in me is touching, Vorkosigan.'

Alexi Vormoncrief said sturdily, 'A daughter of the Vor is good enough for me, thanks. I've no need or taste for off-world exotica.'

While Miles was still trying to work out if this was an intended slur on his Betan mother—with By, he would have been sure, but Vormoncrief had never struck him as over-supplied with subtlety—Ekaterin said brightly, 'I'll just step up to my room and get those data disks, shall I?'

'If you please, Madame.' Miles trusted By had not made her the object of any of his guerrilla conversational techniques. If so, Miles might have a little private word with his ersatz cousin. Or maybe even send his Armsmen to do so, just like the good old days. . . .

She rose, and made her way to the hall and up the stairs. She did not return. Vormoncrief and Zamori eventually exchanged disappointed looks, and noises about time to be going , and made to rise. The military raincoat Vormoncrief shrugged on had had time to dry since his arrival, Miles noted with disapproval. The gentlemen courteously took their leave of their putative hostess, the Professora.

'Tell Madame Vorsoisson I'll bring that disk of jumpship designs around for Nikki as soon as I may,' Major Zamori assured the Professora, glancing up the stairway.

Zamori's been here often enough to know Nikki already? Miles regarded his regular profile uneasily. He seemed tall, too, though not as tall as Vormoncrief; it was his bulk that helped make his presence loom like that. Byerly was slim enough that his height was not so apparent.

They lingered a moment in an awkward crowded gaggle in the tiled hall, but Ekaterin did not descend again, and at last they gave up and let themselves be shepherded out the front door. It was raining harder now, Miles saw with some satisfaction. Zamori plunged off into the shower, head-down. The Professora closed the door on them with a grimace of relief.

'You and Ekaterin can use the comconsole in my study,' she directed Miles, and turned to start collecting the plates and cups left derelict in her parlor.

Miles trod across the hall into her office-cum-library, and looked around. Yes, this would be a fine and cozy spot for his conference. The front window was propped open to catch a fresh draft. Voices from the porch carried through the damp air with unfortunate clarity.

'By, you don't think Vorkosigan is dangling after Madame Vorsoisson, is he?' That was Vormoncrief.

Byerly Vorrutyer replied indifferently, 'Why not?'

'You'd think she'd be revolted. No, it must be just some leftover business from his case.'

'I wouldn't wager on that. I know women enough who would hold their noses and take the plunge for a Count's heir even if he came covered in green fur.'

Miles's fist clenched, then carefully unclenched. Oh, yeah? So why didn't you ever supply me with that list, By? Not that Miles cared now . . .

'I don't claim to understand women, but Ivan's the catch I could see them going for,' Vormoncrief said. 'If the assassins had been a little more competent, way back when, he might have inherited the Vorkosigans' Countship. Too bad. My uncle says he'd be an ornament to our party, if he didn't have that family alliance with Aral Vorkosigan's damned Progressives.'

'Ivan Vorpatril?' Byerly snorted. 'Wrong type of party for him, Alexi. He only goes to the kind where the wine flows freely.'

Ekaterin appeared in the archway and smiled crookedly at Miles. He considered slamming the window shut, hard. There were technical difficulties with that idea; it had a crank-latch. Ekaterin too had caught the voices—how soon? She drifted in, and cocked her head, and lifted an inquiring and unrepentant brow at him, as if to say, At it again, are you? Miles managed a brief embarrassed smile.

'Ah, here's your driver at last,' Byerly added. 'Lend me your coat, Alexi; I don't wish to damp my lovely new suit. What do you think of it? The color flatters my skin tone, no?'

'Hang your skin tone, By.'

'Oh, but my tailor assured me it does. Thank you. Good, he's opening the canopy. Now for the dash through the wet; well, you can dash. I shall saunter with dignity, in this ugly but inarguably waterproof Imperial garment. Off we go now . . .' Two sets of footsteps faded into the drizzle.

'He is a character, isn't he?' said Ekaterin, half-laughing.

'Who? Byerly?'

'Yes. He's very snarky. I could scarcely believe the things he dared to say. Or keep my face straight.'