A Civil Campaign

brother for advice. Now would be the perfect opportunity, trading on Miles's newly-revealed infatuation. Trouble was, Mark was by no means sure which side Miles would be on . Commodore Koudelka had been Miles's mentor and friend, back when Miles had been a fragile youth hopelessly wild for a military career. Would Miles be sympathetic, or would he lead, Barrayaran-style, the posse seeking Mark's head? Miles was being terrifically Vorish these days.

Yes, and so after all his exotic galactic romances, Miles had finally settled on the Vor next door. If settled was the term—the man mouthed certainties that the twitching of his body belied. Mark's brow wrinkled in puzzlement. 'Does Madame Vorsoisson know this?' he asked at last.

'Know what?'

'That you're, um . . . hustling her for the next Lady Vorkosigan.' And what an odd way to say, I love her, and I want to marry her . It was very Miles, though.

'Ah.' Miles touched his lips. 'That's the tricky part. She's very recently widowed. Tien Vorsoisson was killed rather horribly less than two months ago, on Komarr.'

'And you had what, to do with this?'

Miles grimaced. 'Can't give you the details, they're classified. The public explanation is a breath-mask accident. But in effect, I was standing next to him. You know how that one feels.'

Mark flipped up a hand, in sign of surrender; Miles nodded, and went on. 'But she's still pretty shaken up. By no means ready to be courted. Unfortunately, that doesn't stop the competition around here. No money, but she's beautiful, and her bloodlines are impeccable.'

'Are you choosing a wife, or buying a horse?'

'I am describing how my Vor rivals think, thank you. Some of them, anyway.' His frown deepened. 'Major Zamori, I don't trust. He may be smarter.'

'You have rivals already?' Down, Killer. He didn't ask for your help.

'God, yes. And I have a theory about where they came from . . . never mind. The important thing is for me to make friends with her, get close to her, without setting off her alarms, without offending her. Then, when the time is right—well, then.'

'And, ah, when are you planning to spring this stunning surprise on her?' Mark asked, fascinated.

Miles stared at his boots. 'I don't know. I'll recognize the tactical moment when I see it, I suppose. If my sense of timing hasn't totally deserted me. Penetrate the perimeter, set the trip lines, plant the suggestion—strike. Total victory! Maybe.' He counter-rotated his feet the other way.

'You have your campaign all plotted out, I see,' said Mark neutrally, rising. Enrique would be glad to hear the good news about the free bug fodder. And Kareen would be here for work soon—her organizational skills had already had notable effect on the zone of chaos surrounding the Escobaran.

'Yes, exactly. So take care not to foul it up by tipping my hand, if you please. Just play along.'

'Mm, I wouldn't dream of interfering.' Mark made for the door. 'Though I'm not at all sure I'd choose to structure my most intimate relationship as a war. Is she the enemy, then?'

His timing was perfect; Miles's feet had come down and he was still sputtering just as Mark passed the door. Mark stuck his head back through the frame to add, 'I hope her aim is as good as Countess Vormuir's.'

Last word: I win. Grinning, he exited.

CHAPTER SIX

'Hello?' came a soft alto voice from the door of the laundry room- cum-laboratory. 'Is Lord Mark here?'

Kareen looked up from assembling a new stainless steel rack on wheels to see a dark-haired woman leaning diffidently through the doorway. She wore very conservative widow's garb, a long-sleeved black shirt and skirt set off only by a somber gray bolero, but her pale face was unexpectedly young.

Kareen put down her tools and scrambled to her feet. 'He'll be back soon. I'm Kareen Koudelka. Can I help you?'

A smile illuminated the woman's eyes, all too briefly. 'Oh, you must be the student friend who is just back from Beta Colony. I'm glad to meet you. I'm Ekaterin Vorsoisson, the garden designer. My crew took out that row of amelanchier bushes on the north side this morning, and I wondered if Lord Mark wanted any more compost.'

So that's what those scrubby things had been called. 'I'll ask. Enrique, can we use any um, amel-whatsit bush chippings?'

Enrique leaned around his comconsole display and peered at the newcomer. 'Is it Earth-descended organic matter?'

'Yes,' replied the woman.

'Free?'

'I suppose. They were Lord Vorkosigan's bushes.'

'We'll try some.' He disappeared once more behind the churning colored displays of what Kareen had been assured were enzymatic reactions.

The woman stared curiously around the new lab. Kareen followed her gaze proudly. It was all beginning to look quite orderly and scientific and attractive to future customers. They'd painted the walls cream white; Enrique had picked the color because it was the exact shade of bug butter. Enrique and his comconsole occupied a niche in one end of the room. The wet-bench was fully plumbed, set up with drainage into what had once been the washtub. The dry-bench, with its neat array of instruments and brilliant lighting, ran along the wall all the way to the other end. The far end was occupied by racks each holding a quartet of meter-square custom-designed new bughouses. As soon as Kareen had the last set assembled, they could release the remaining queen-lines from their cramped travel box into their spacious and sanitary new homes. Tall shelves on both sides of the door held their proliferating array of supplies. A big plastic waste bin brimmed with a handy supply of bug fodder; a second provided temporary storage for bug guano. The bugshit had not proved nearly as smelly or abundant as Kareen had expected, which was nice, as the task of cleaning the bughouses daily had fallen to her. Not half bad for a first week's work.

'I must ask,' said the woman, her eye falling on the heaped-up maple bits in the first bin. 'What does he want all those chippings for ?'

'Oh, come in, and I'll show you,' said Kareen enthusiastically. The dark-haired woman responded to Kareen's friendly smile, drawn in despite her apparent reserve.

'I'm the Head Bug Wrangler of this outfit,' Kareen went on. 'They were going to call me the lab assistant, but I figured as a shareholder I ought to at least be able to pick my own job title. I admit, I don't have any other wranglers to be the head of, yet, but it never hurts to be optimistic.'

'Indeed.' The woman's faint smile was not in the least Vor- supercilious; drat it, she hadn't said if it was Lady or Madame Vorsoisson. Some Vor could get quite huffy about their correct title, especially if it was their chief accomplishment in life so far. No, if this Ekaterin were that sort, she would have made a point of the Lady at the first possible instant.

Kareen unlatched the steel-screen top of one of the bug hutches, reached in, and retrieved a single worker-bug. She was getting quite good at handling the little beasties without