A Civil Campaign

my experience, it's a bad idea to ignore your expert consultants.'

By shrugged. 'It's not like we're paying him anything.'

'I am calling in some old favors. This costs me. And it's not from a fund I can replace.' Dono's glance swept to Ivan. 'So what exactly do you suggest we do?'

'Ask Gregor for a brief interview. Before you talk to or see anyone else at all, even over the comconsole. Chin up, look him in the eye—' An ungodly thought occurred to Ivan then. 'Wait, you didn't ever sleep with him , did you?'

Dono's lips, and mustache, twitched up with amusement. 'No, unfortunately. A missed opportunity I now regret deeply, I assure you.'

'Ah.' Ivan breathed relief. 'All right. Then just tell him what you plan to do. Claim your rights. He'll either decide to let you run, or he'll impound you. If he cuts you off, well, the worst will be over, and quickly. If he decides to let you run . . . you'll have a silent backer even Richars at his most vicious can't top.'

Dono leaned against Pierre's bureau, and drummed his fingers in the dust atop it. The orchids now lay there in a forlorn heap. Wilted, like Ivan's dreams. Dono's lips pursed. 'Can you get us in?' he asked at last.

'I, uh . . . I, uh . . .'

His gaze became more urgent, piercing. 'Tomorrow?'

'Ah . . .'

'Morning?'

'Not morning ,' By protested faintly.

'Early,' insisted Dono.

'I'll . . . seewhatIcando,' Ivan managed at last.

Dono's face lit. 'Thank you!'

The extraction of this reluctant promise had one beneficial side- effect: the Vorrutyers proved willing to let their captive audience go, the better for Ivan to hurry home and call Emperor Gregor. Lord Dono insisted on detailing his car and a driver to take Ivan the short distance to his apartment, thwarting Ivan's faint hope of being mugged and murdered in a Vorbarr Sultana alleyway on the way home and thus avoiding the consequences of this evening's revelations.

Blessedly alone in the back of the groundcar, Ivan entertained a brief prayer that Gregor's schedule would be too packed to admit the proposed interview. But it was more likely he'd be so shocked at Ivan breaking his rule of a low profile, he'd make room at once. In Ivan's experience, the only thing more dangerous to such innocent bystanders as himself than arousing Gregor's wrath was arousing his curiosity.

Once back safely in his little apartment, Ivan locked the door against all Vorrutyers past and present. He'd beguiled his time yesterday imagining entertaining the voluptuous Lady Donna here . . . what a waste. Not that Lord Dono didn't make a passable man, but Barrayar didn't need more men. Though Ivan supposed they might reverse Donna's ploy, and send the excess male population to Beta Colony to be altered into the more pleasing form . . . he shuddered at the vision.

With a reluctant sigh, he dug out the security card he'd managed to avoid using for the past several years, and ran it through his comconsole's read-slot.

Gregor's gatekeeper, a man in bland civilian dress who did not identify himself—if you had this access, you were supposed to know—answered at once. 'Yes? Ah. Ivan.'

'I would like to speak to Gregor, please.'

'Excuse me, Lord Vorpatril, but did you mean to use this channel?'

'Yes.'

The gatekeeper's brows rose in surprise, but his hand moved to one side, and his image blinked out. The comconsole chimed. Several times.

Gregor's image came up at last. He was still dressed for the day, relieving Ivan's alarmed visions of dragging him out of bed or the shower. The background showed one of the Imperial Residence's cozier sitting rooms. Ivan could just make out a fuzzy view of Dr. Toscane, in the background. She seemed to be adjusting her blouse. Ulp. Keep it brief. Gregor clearly has better things to do tonight.

I wish I did.

Gregor's blank expression changed to one of annoyance as he recognized Ivan. 'Oh. It's you.' The irritated look faded slightly. 'You never call me on this channel, Ivan. Thought it had to be Miles. What's up?'

Ivan took a deep breath. 'I just came from meeting . . . Donna Vorrutyer at the shuttleport. Back from Beta. You two need to see each other.'

Gregor's brows rose. 'Why?'

'I'm sure she'd much rather explain it all herself. I have nothing to do with this.'

'You do now. Lady Donna's calling in old favors, is she?' Gregor frowned, and added a bit dangerously, 'I am not a coin to be bartered in your love affairs, Ivan.'

'No, Sire,' Ivan agreed fervently. 'But you want to see her. Really and truly. As soon as possible. Sooner. Tomorrow. Morning. Early.'

Gregor cocked his head. Curiously. 'Just how important is this?'

'That's entirely for you to judge. Sire.'

'If you want nothing to do with it . . .' Gregor trailed off, and stared unnervingly at Ivan. His hand at last tapped on his comconsole control, and he glanced aside at some display Ivan could not see. 'I could move . . . hm. How about eleven sharp, in my office.'

'Thank you, Sire.' You won't regret this seemed a much too optimistic statement to add. In fact, adding anything at all had all the appeal of stepping over a cliff without a grav-suit. Ivan smiled instead, and ducked his head in a little half-bow.

Gregor's frown grew more thoughtful still, but after a moment of further contemplation, he returned Ivan's nod, and cut the com.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Ekaterin sat before the comconsole in her aunt's study, and ran again through the seasonal succession of Barrayaran plants bordering the branching pathways of Lord Vorkosigan's garden. The one sensory effect the design program could not help her model was odor. For that most subtle and emotionally profound effect, she had to rely on her own experience and memory.

On a soft summer evening, a border of scrubwire would emit a spicy redolence that would fill the air for meters around, but its color was muted and its shape low and round. Intermittent stands of chuffgrass would break up the lines, and reach full growth at the right time, but its sickly citrus scent would clash with the scrubwire, and besides, it was on the proscribed list of plants to which Lord Vorkosigan was allergic. Ah—zipweed! Its blond and maroon stripes would provide excellent vertical visual interest, and its faint sweet fragrance would combine well, appetizingly even, with the scrubwire. Put a clump there by the little bridge, and there and there. She altered the program, and ran the succession again. Much