A Civil Campaign

'But are the chromosomes of your body still double-X?'

'Well, yes.' Dono frowned uneasily, and scratched his beard. 'I expect Richars to try to make a point with that, if he thinks of it. I did look into the retrogenetic treatment for complete somatic transformation. I didn't have time for it, the complications can be strange, and for a gene splice this large the result is usually no better than a partial cellular mosaic, a chimera, hit-or-miss. Sufficient for treating some genetic diseases, but not the legal disease of being some-little-cell-female. But the portion of my tissues responsible for fathering the next little Vorrutyer heir is certifiably XY, and incidentally, made free of genetic disease, damage, and mutation while we were about it. The next Count Vorrutyer won't have a bad heart. Among other things. The prick's always been the most important qualification for a Countship anyway. History says so.'

By chuckled. 'Maybe they'll just let the prick vote.' He made an X gesture down by his crotch, and intoned sonorously, 'Dono, his mark .'

Lord Dono grinned. 'While it wouldn't be the first time a real prick has held a seat in the Council of Counts, I'm hoping for a more complete victory. That's where you come in, Ivan.'

'Me? I don't have anything to do with this! I don't want anything to do with this.' Ivan's startled protests were cut short by the car slowing in front of the Vorrutyers' townhouse and turning in.

Vorrutyer House was a generation older than Vorkosigan House and correspondingly notably more fortresslike. Its severe stone walls threw projections out to the sidewalk in a blunted star pattern, giving crossfire onto what had been a mud street decorated with horse dung in the great house's heyday. It had no windows on the ground floor at all, just a few gun-slits. Thick iron-bound planks, scorning carving or any other decorative effect, formed the double doors into its inner courtyard; they now swung aside at an automated signal, and the groundcar squeezed through the passage. The walls were marked with smears of vehicle enamel from less careful drivers. Ivan wondered if the murder-holes in the dark arched roof, above, were still functional. Probably.

The place had been restored with an eye to defense by the great general Count Pierre 'Le Sanguinaire' Vorrutyer himself, who was principally famous as Emperor Dorca's trusted right arm/head thug in the civil war that had broken the power of the independent Counts just before the end of the Time of Isolation. Pierre had made serious enemies, all of whom he had survived into a foul-tongued old age. It had taken the invading Cetagandans and all their techno-weaponry to finally put an end to him, with great difficulty, after an infamous and costly siege—not of this place, of course. Old Pierre's eldest daughter had married an earlier Count Vorkosigan, which was where the Pierre of Mark's middle name had come down from. Ivan wondered what old Pierre would think of his offshoots now. Maybe he would like Richars best. Maybe his ghost still walked here. Ivan shuddered, stepping out onto the dark cobblestones.

The driver took the car off to its garage, and Lord Dono led the way, two steps at a time, up the green-black granite staircase out of the courtyard and into the house. He paused to sweep a glance back over the stony expanse. 'First thing is, I'm going to get some more light out here,' he remarked to Szabo.

'First thing is, get the title deed in your name,' Szabo returned blandly.

'My new name.' Dono gave him a short nod, and pushed onward.

The interior of the house was so ill-lit, one couldn't make out the mess, but apparently all had been left exactly as it had been dropped when Count Pierre had last gone down to his District some months ago. The echoing chambers had a derelict, musty odor. They fetched up finally, after laboring up two more gloomy staircases, in the late Count's abandoned bedroom.

'Guess I'll sleep here tonight,' said Lord Dono, staring around dubiously. 'I want clean sheets on the bed first, though.'

'Yes, m'lord,' said Szabo.

Byerly cleared a pile of plastic flimsies, dirty clothes, dried fruit rinds, and other detritus from an armchair, and settled himself comfortably, legs crossed. Dono prowled the room, staring rather sadly at his dead brother's few and forlorn personal effects, picking up and putting down a set of hairbrushes—Pierre had been balding—dried-up cologne bottles, small coins. 'Starting tomorrow, I want this place cleaned up. I'm not waiting for the title deed for that, if I have to live here.'

'I know a good commercial service,' Ivan couldn't help volunteering. 'They clean Vorkosigan House for Miles when the Count and Countess aren't in residence, I know.'

'Ah? Good.' Lord Dono made a gesture at Szabo. The Armsman nodded, and promptly collected the particulars from Ivan, noting them down on his pocket audiofiler.

'Richars made two attempts to take possession of the old pile while you were gone,' Byerly reported. 'The first time, your Armsmen stood firm and wouldn't let him in.'

'Good men,' muttered Szabo.

'Second time, he came round with a squad of municipal guardsmen and an order he'd conned out of Lord Vorbohn. Your officer of the watch called me, and I was able to get a counter-order from the Lord Guardian of the Speaker's Circle with which to conjure them away. It was quite exciting, for a little while. Pushing and shoving in the doorways . . . no one drew weapons, or was seriously injured, though, more's the pity. We might have been able to sue Richars.'

'We've lawsuits enough.' Dono sighed, sat on the edge of the bed, and crossed his legs. 'But thanks for what you did, By.'

By waved this away.

'Below the knees, if you must,' said Szabo. 'Knees apart is better.'

Dono immediately rearranged his pose, crossing his ankles instead, but noted, 'By sits that way.'

'By is not a good male model to copy.'

By made a moue at Szabo, and flipped one wrist out limply. 'Really, Szabo, how can you be so cruel? And after I saved your old homestead, too.'

Everyone ignored him. 'How about Ivan?' Dono asked Szabo, eyeing Ivan speculatively. Ivan was suddenly unsure of where to put his feet, or his hands.

'Mm, fair. The very best model, if you can remember exactly how he moved, would be Aral Vorkosigan. Now, that was power in motion. His son doesn't do too badly, either, projecting beyond his real space. Young Lord Vorkosigan is just a bit studied, though. Count Vorkosigan just is.'

Lord Dono's thick black brows snapped up, and he rose to stalk across the room, flip a desk chair around, and straddle it, arms crossed along its back. He rested his chin on his arms and glowered.

'Huh! I recognize that one,' said Szabo. 'Not bad, keep working on it. Try to take up more space with your elbows.'

Dono grinned, and leaned one hand on his thigh, elbow cocked out. After a moment, he jumped up again, and went to Pierre's closet, flung the doors wide, and began rooting within. A Vorrutyer House uniform tunic sailed out to land on the bed, followed by trousers and a shirt; then one tall boot after another thumped to the bed's end. Dono reemerged, dusty and bright-eyed.

'Pierre wasn't that much taller than me, and I always could wear his shoes, if I had thick socks. Get a seamstress in here tomorrow—'

'Tailor,' Szabo corrected.

'Tailor, and we'll see how much of this I can use in a hurry.'

'Very good, m'lord.'

Dono began unfastening his black tunic.

'I think it's time for me to go now,' said Ivan.