A Civil Campaign

system, and Mark gave over navigation to the city computers. After a few more minutes and some brief coded transmissions, they were brought gently down on a very private and highly restricted landing pad atop the Count's Residence. The Residence was a large modern building faced with polished Dendarii mountain stone. With its connections to the municipal and District offices, it occupied most of one side of the city's central square.

Tsipis stood waiting by the landing ring, neat and gray and spare as ever, to receive them. He shook hands with Madame Vorsoisson as though they were old friends, and greeted off- worlder Enrique with the grace and ease of a natural diplomat. Kareen gave, and got, a familial hug.

They switched vehicles to a waiting aircar, and Tsipis shepherded them off for a quick tour of three possible sites for their future facility, whatever it was to be named, including an underutilized city warehouse, and two nearby farms. Both farm sites were untenanted because their former inhabitants had followed the Count to his new post on Sergyar, and no one else had wanted to take on the challenge of wrestling profit from their decidedly marginal land, one being swampy and the other rocky and dry. Mark checked the radioactivity plats carefully. They were all Vorkosigan properties already, so there was nothing to negotiate with respect to their use.

'You might even persuade your brother to forgo the rent, if you ask,' Tsipis pointed out with enthusiastic frugality about the two rural sites. 'He can; your father assigned him full legal powers in the District when he left for Sergyar. After all, the family's not getting any income from the properties now. It would conserve more of your capital for your other startup costs.'

Tsipis knew precisely what budget Mark had to work with; they'd gone over his plans via comconsole earlier in the week. The thought of asking Miles for a favor made Mark twitch a little, but . . . was he not a Vorkosigan too? He stared around the dilapidated farm, trying to feel entitled.

He put his head together with Kareen, and they ran over the choices. Enrique was permitted to wander about with Madame Vorsoisson, being introduced to various native Barrayaran weeds. The condition of the buildings, plumbing, and power-grid connections won over condition of the land, and they settled at last on the site with the newer—relatively—and more spacious outbuildings. After one more thoughtful tour around the premises, Tsipis whisked them back to Hassadar.

For lunch, Tsipis led them to Hassadar's most exclusive locale—the official dining room of the Count's Residence, overlooking the Square. The remarkable spread which the staff laid on hinted that Miles had sent down a few urgent behind-the-scenes instructions for the care and feeding of his . . . gardener. Mark confirmed this after dessert when Kareen led Enrique and the widow off to see the garden and fountain in the Residence's inner courtyard, and he and Tsipis lingered over the exquisite vintage of Vorkosigan estate-bottled wine usually reserved for visits from Emperor Gregor.

'So, Lord Mark,' said Tsipis, after a reverent sip. 'What do you think of this Madame Vorsoisson of your brother's?'

'I think . . . she is not my brother's yet.'

'Mm, yes, I'd understood that part. Or should I say, it has been explained to me.'

'What all has he been telling you about her?'

'It is not so much what he says, as how he says it. And how often he repeats himself.'

'Well, that too. If it were anyone but Miles, it would be hilarious. Actually, it's still hilarious. But it's also . . . hm.'

Tsipis blinked and smiled in perfect understanding. 'Heart-stopping . . . I think . . . is the word I should choose.' And Tsipis's vocabulary was always as precise as his haircut. He stared out over the square through the room's tall windows. 'I used to see him as a youngster rather often, when I was in company with your parents. He was constantly overmatching his physical powers. But he never cried much when he broke a bone. He was almost frighteningly self-controlled, for a child that age. But once, at the Hassadar District Fair it was, I chanced to see him rather brutally rejected by a group of other children whom he'd attempted to join.' Tsipis took another sip of wine.

'Did he cry then?' asked Mark.

'No. Though his face looked very odd when he turned away. Bothari was watching with me—there was nothing the Sergeant could do either, there wasn't any physical threat about it all. But the next day Miles had a riding accident, one of his worst ever. Jumping, which he had been forbidden to do, on a green horse he'd been told not to ride . . . Count Piotr was so infuriated—and frightened—I thought he was going to have a stroke on the spot. I came later to wonder how much of an accident that accident was.' Tsipis hesitated. 'I always imagined Miles would choose a galactic wife, like his father before him. Not a Barrayaran woman. I'm not at all sure what Miles thinks he's doing with this young lady. Is he setting himself up to go smash again?'

'He claims he has a Strategy.'

Tsipis's thin lips curved, and he murmured, 'And doesn't he always . . .'

Mark shrugged helplessly. 'To tell the truth, I've barely met the woman myself. You've been working with her—what do you think?'

Tsipis tilted his head shrewdly. 'She's a quick study, and meticulously honest.'

That sounded like faint praise, unless one happened to know those were Tsipis's two highest encomiums.

'Quite well-looking, in person,' he added as an afterthought. 'Not, ah, nearly as over-tall as I was expecting.'

Mark grinned.

'I think she could do the job of a future Countess.'

'Miles thinks so too,' Mark noted. 'And picking personnel was supposed to have been one of his major military talents.' And the better he got to know Tsipis, the more Mark thought that might be a talent Miles had inherited from his—their —father.

'It's not before time, that's certain,' Tsipis sighed. 'One does wish for Count Aral to have grandchildren while he's still alive to see them.'

Was that remark addressed to me?

'You will keep an eye on things, won't you?' Tsipis added.

'I don't know what you think I could do. It's not like I could make her fall in love with him. If I had that kind of power over women, I'd use it for myself!'

Tsipis smiled vaguely at the place Kareen had vacated, and back, speculatively, to Mark. 'What, and here I was under the impression you had.'

Mark twitched. His new-won Betan rationality had been losing ground on the subject of Kareen, this past week, his subpersonas growing restive with his rising tension. But Tsipis was his financial advisor, not his therapist. Nor even—this was Barrayar, after all—his Baba.

'So have you seen any sign at all that Madame Vorsoisson returns your brother's regard?' Tsipis went on rather plaintively.

'No,' Mark confessed. 'But she's very reserved.' And was this lack of feeling, or just frightening self-control? Who could tell from this angle? 'Wait, ha, I know! I'll set Kareen onto it. Women gossip to each other about that sort of thing. That's why they go off so long to the ladies' room together, to dissect their dates. Or so Kareen once told me, when I'd complained about being left bereft too long . . .'

'I do like that girl's sense of humor. I've always liked all the Koudelkas.' Tsipis's eye grew glinty for a moment. 'You will treat her properly, I trust?'