A Civil Campaign

Vorkosigan . . . Grudgingly, he back-pedaled. 'After dinner,' he suggested. 'We'll all come back after dinner and help.' Yes, if anyone was going to crawl around on the floor hunting bugs alongside Ekaterin, it would be him, dammit. 'The Armsmen too.' He pictured Pym's joy at the news of this task, and cringed inside. 'For now, perhaps we had better return and make polite conversation and all that,' Miles went on. 'Except Dr. Borgos, who will be busy.'

'I'll stay and help him,' Mark offered brightly.

'What?' cried Kareen. 'And send me back up there with my parents all alone? And my sisters—I'll never hear the end of this from them . . .'

Miles shook his head in exasperation. 'Why in God's name did you take Kareen to the Orb in the first place, Mark?'

Mark stared at him in disbelief. 'Why d'you think ?'

'Well . . . yes . . . but surely you knew it wasn't, um, wasn't, um . . . proper for a young Barrayaran la—'

'Miles, you howling hypocrite!' said Kareen indignantly. 'When Gran' Tante Naismith told us you'd been there yourself—several times . . . !'

'That was duty,' Miles said primly. 'It's astounding how much interstellar military and industrial espionage gets filtered through the Orb. You'd better believe Betan security tracks it, too.'

'Oh, yeah?' said Mark. 'And are we also supposed to believe you never once sampled the services while you were waiting for your contacts—?'

Miles could recognize the moment for a strategic retreat when he saw it. 'I think we should all go eat dinner now. Or it will burn up or dry out or something, and Ma Kosti will be very angry with us for spoiling her presentation. And she'll go work for Aunt Alys instead, and we'll all have to go back to eating Reddi-Meals.'

This hideous threat reached both Mark and Kareen. Yes, and who had inspired his cook to come up with all those tasty bug butter recipes? Ma Kosti surely hadn't volunteered on her own. It reeked of conspiracy.

He exhaled, and offered his arm to Ekaterin. After a moment of hesitation, and a worried glance back at Enrique, she took it, and Miles managed to get them all marshaled out of the lab and back upstairs to the dining room again without anyone bolting off.

'Was all well, belowstairs, m'lord?' Pym inquired in a concerned undervoice.

'We'll talk about it later,' Miles returned, equally sotto voce . 'Start the next course. And offer more wine.'

'Should we wait for Dr. Borgos?'

'No. He'll be occupied.'

Pym gave a disquieted twitch, but moved off about his duties. Aunt Alys, bless her etiquette, didn't ask for enlargement, but led the conversation immediately onto neutral topics; her mention of the Emperor's wedding diverted most people's thoughts at once. Possibly excepted were the thoughts of Mark and Commodore Koudelka, who eyed each other in wary silence. Miles wondered if he ought to privately warn Kou what a bad idea it would be to pull his swordstick on Mark, or whether that might do more harm than good. Pym topped up Miles's own wineglass before Miles could explain that his whispered instructions hadn't been meant to apply to himself. What the hell. A certain . . . numbness, was beginning to seem like an attractive state.

He was not at all sure if Ekaterin was having a good time; she'd gone all quiet again, and glanced occasionally toward Dr. Borgos's empty place. Though Lord Dono's remarks made her laugh, twice. The former Lady Donna made a startlingly good-looking man, Miles realized on closer study. Witty, exotic, and just possibly heir to a Countship . . . and, come to think of it, with the most appalling unfair advantage in love-making expertise.

The Armsmen cleared away the plates for the main course, which had been grilled vat beef fillet with a very quick pepper garnish, accompanied by a powerful deep red wine. Dessert appeared: sculpted mounds of frozen creamy ivory substance bejeweled with a gorgeous arrangement of glazed fresh fruit. Miles caught Pym, who had been avoiding his eye, by the sleeve in passing, and leaned over for a word behind his hand.

'Pym, is that what I think it is?'

'Couldn't be helped, m'lord,' Pym muttered back in wary self- exculpation. 'Ma Kosti said it was that or nothing. She's still right furious about the sauces, and says she wants a word with you after this.'

'Oh. I see. Well. Carry on.'

He picked up his spoon, and took a valiant bite. His guests followed suit doubtfully, except for Ekaterin, who regarded her portion with every evidence of surprised delight, and leaned forward to exchange a smile with Kareen, downtable; Kareen returned her a mysterious but triumphant high-sign. To make it even worse, the stuff was meltingly delicious, seeming to lock into every primitive pleasure-receptor in Miles's mouth at once. The sweet and potent golden dessert wine followed it with an aromatic shellburst on his palate that complemented the frozen bug stuff perfectly. He could have cried. He smiled tightly, and drank, instead. His dinner party limped on somehow.

Talk of Gregor and Laisa's wedding allowed Miles to supply a nice, light, amusing anecdote about his duties in obtaining, and transporting, a wedding gift from the people of his District, a life-sized sculpture of a guerilla soldier on horseback done in maple sugar. This won a brief smile from Ekaterin at last, this time toward the right fellow. He mentally marshaled a leading question about gardens to draw her out; she could sparkle, he was sure, if only she had the right straight line. He briefly regretted not priming Aunt Alys for this ploy, which would have been more subtle, but in his original plan, she hadn't been going to be seated right there—

Miles's pause had lasted just a little too long. Genially taking his turn to fill it, Illyan turned to Ekaterin.

'Speaking of weddings, Madame Vorsoisson, how long has Miles been courting you? Have you awarded him a date yet? Personally, I think you ought to string him along and make him work for it.'

A chill flush plunged to the pit of Miles's stomach. Alys bit her lip. Even Galeni winced.

Olivia looked up in confusion. 'I thought we weren't supposed to mention that yet.'

Kou, next to her, muttered, 'Hush, lovie.'

Lord Dono, with malicious Vorrutyer innocence, turned to her and inquired, 'What weren't we supposed to mention?'

'Oh, but if Captain Illyan said it, it must be all right,' Olivia concluded.

Captain Illyan had his brains blown out last year, thought Miles. He is not all right. All right is precisely what he is not . . .

Her gaze crossed Miles's. 'Or maybe . . .'

Not , Miles finished silently for her.

Ekaterin's face, animate and amused moments ago, was turning to sculpted marble. It was not an instantaneous process, but it was relentless, implacable, geologic. The weight of it, pressing on Miles's heart, was crushing. Pygmalion in reverse; I turn breathing women to white stone. . . . He knew that bleak and desert look; he'd seen it one bad day on Komarr, and had hoped never to see it in her lovely face again.

Miles's sinking heart collided with his drunken panic. I