The seizure disorder was the last souvenir that ImpSec Captain Miles Vorkosigan had brought home from his decade of military missions. He'd been lucky to get out of the cryo-chamber alive and with his mind intact; Miles was fully aware that many did not fare nearly so well. Lucky to be merely medically discharged from the Emperor's Service, not buried with honors, the last of his glorious line, or reduced to some animal or vegetative existence. The seizure-stimulator the military doctors had issued him to bleed off his convulsions was very far from being a cure, though it was supposed to keep them from happening at random times. Miles drove, and flew his lightflyer—but only alone. He never took passengers anymore. Pym's batman's duties had been expanded to include medical assistance; he had by now witnessed enough of Miles's disturbing seizures to be grateful for this unusual burst of level-headedness.
One corner of Miles's mouth crooked up. After a moment, he asked, 'And how did you ever capture Ma Pym, back in the old days, Pym? Did you put your best foot forward?'
'It's been almost eighteen years ago. The details have gone a bit fuzzy.' Pym smiled a little. 'I was a senior sergeant at the time. I'd taken the ImpSec advanced course, and was assigned to security duty at Vorhartung Castle. She had a clerk's job in the archives there. I thought, I wasn't some boy anymore, it was time I got serious . . . though I'm not just sure that wasn't an idea she put into my head, because she claims she spotted me first.'
'Ah, a handsome fellow in uniform, I see. Does it every time. So why'd you decide to quit the Imperial Service and apply to the Count-my-father?'
'Eh, it seemed the right progression. Our little daughter'd come along by then, I was just finishing my twenty-years hitch, and I was facing whether or not to continue my enlistment. My wife's family was here, and her roots, and she didn't particularly fancy following the flag with children in tow. Captain Illyan, who knew I was District-born, was kind enough to give me a tip, that your father had a place open in his Armsmen's score. And a recommendation, when I nerved up to apply. I figured a Count's Armsman would be a more settled job, for a family man.'
The groundcar arrived at Vorkosigan House; the ImpSec corporal on duty opened the gates for them, and Pym pulled around to the porte coch?re and popped the canopy.
'Thank you, Pym,' Miles said, and hesitated. 'A word in your ear. Two words.'
Pym made to look attentive.
'When you chance to socialize with the Armsmen of other Houses . . . I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't mention Madame Vorsoisson. I wouldn't want her to be the subject of invasive gossip, and, um . . . she's no business of everyone and his younger brother anyway, eh?'
'A loyal Armsman does not gossip, m'lord,' said Pym stiffly.
'No, of course not. Sorry, I didn't mean to imply . . . um, sorry. Anyway. The other thing. I'm maybe guilty of saying a little too much myself, you see. I'm not actually courting Madame Vorsoisson.'
Pym tried to look properly blank, but a confused expression leaked into his face. Miles added hastily, 'I mean, not
Pym attempted a discreet but supportive-looking smile.
'We're just good friends,' Miles reiterated. 'Anyway, we're going to be.'
'Yes, m'lord. I understand.'
'Ah. Good. Thank you.' Miles climbed out of the groundcar, and added over his shoulder as he headed into the house, 'Find me in the kitchen when you've put the car away.'
* * *
Ekaterin stood in the middle of the blank square of grass with gardens boiling up in her head.
'If you excavated there,' she pointed, 'and piled it up on that side, you'd gain enough slope for the water flow. A bit of a wall there, too, to block off the street noise and to heighten the effect. And the walkway curving down—' She wheeled, to encounter Lord Vorkosigan watching her, smiling, his hands stuffed in his gray trouser pockets. 'Or would you prefer something more geometrical?'
'Beg pardon?' He blinked.
'It's an aesthetic question.'
'I, uh . . . aesthetics are not exactly my area of expertise.' He said this in a tone of sad confession, as though it might be something of which she was previously unaware.
Her hands sketched the bones of the projected piece, trying to call structure out of the air. 'Do you want an illusion of a natural space, Barrayar before it was touched by man, with the water seeming like rocks and a creek, a slice of backcountry in the city—or something more in the nature of a metaphor, with the Barrayaran plants in the interstices of these strong human lines—probably in concrete. You can do really wonderful things with water and concrete.'
'Which is better?'
'It's not a question of better. It's a question of what you are trying to say.'
'I hadn't thought of it as a political statement. I'd thought of it as a gift.'
'If it's your garden, it will be seen as a political statement whether you intended it or not.'
The corner of his lip quirked as he took this in. 'I'll have to think about that. But there's no doubt in your mind something could be done with the area?'
'Oh, none.' The two Earth trees, seemingly stuck in the flat ground at random, would have to go. That silver maple was punky in the heartwood and would be no loss, but the young oak was sound—perhaps it could be moved. The terraformed topsoil must also be salvaged. Her hands twitched with the desire to start digging into the dirt then and there. 'It's an extraordinary space to find preserved in the middle of Vorbarr Sultana.' Across the street, a commercial office building rose a dozen stories high. Fortunately, it angled to the north and did not block out much light. The hiss and huff of groundcar fans made continuous counterpoint along the busy thoroughfare crossing the top end of the block, where she'd mentally placed her wall. Across the park on the opposite side, a high gray stone wall topped with iron spikes was already in place; treetops rising beyond it half-screened from view the great house holding down the center of the block.
'I'd invite you to sit while I think about it,' said Lord Vorkosigan, 'but ImpSec never put in benches—they didn't want to encourage loitering around the Regent's residence. Suppose you run up both contrasting designs on your comconsole, and bring them to me for review. Meanwhile, shall we walk round to the house? I think my cook will have lunch ready soon.'
'Oh . . . all right . . .' With only one backward glance at the entrancing possibilities, Ekaterin let him lead her away.
They angled across the park. Around the corner of the gray wall at Vorkosigan House's front entrance, a concrete kiosk sheltered a guard in Imperial Security undress greens. He coded open the iron gate for the little Lord Auditor and his guest, and watched them pass through it, exchanging a short formal nod for Vorkosigan's thank-you half-salute, and smiling pleasantly at Ekaterin.
The somber stone of the mansion rose before them, four stories high in two major wings. What seemed dozens of windows frowned down. The short semicircle of drive curled around a brilliantly healthy patch of green grass and under a portico, which sheltered carved double doors flanked by tall narrow windows.
'Vorkosigan House is about two hundred years old, now. It was built by my great-great-great grandfather, the seventh Count, in a moment of historically unusual family prosperity ended by, among other things, the building of Vorkosigan House,' Lord Vorkosigan told her cheerfully. 'It replaced some decaying clan fortress down in the old Caravanserai area, and not before time, I gather.'
He started to hold his hand to a palm-lock, but the doors eased soundlessly open before he could even touch it. His brows twitched up, and he bowed her inside.
Two guardsmen in Vorkosigan brown-and-silver livery stood at attention, flanking the entrance to the black-and-white stone-paved foyer. A third liveried man, Pym, the tall driver whom she'd met when Vorkosigan had picked her up earlier, was just turning away from the door security control panel; he too braced before his lord. Ekaterin was daunted. She had not received the impression when she'd seen him on Komarr that Vorkosigan maintained the old Vor formalities to quite this extent. Though not totally formal—instead of being sternly expressionless, the large guardsmen all smiled down at them, in a friendly and most welcoming manner.
'Thank you, Pym,' said Vorkosigan automatically, and paused. After a moment regarding them back with a
