A Civil Campaign

absently, picked a couple of remaining shrimp from his salad, and deposited them before the little beast; it growled and purred through its enthusiastic chewing. 'The gate guard's cat keeps having these kittens,' he explained. 'I admire their approach to life, but they do turn up . . .' He picked the large cover off the tray, and deposited it over the creature, trapping it. The undaunted purr resonated against the silver hemisphere like some small machine stripping its gears. 'Dessert?'

The silver tray was loaded with eight different dessert pastries, so alarmingly beautiful Ekaterin thought it an aesthetic crime to eat them without making a vid recording for posterity first. 'Oh, my.' After a long pause, she pointed at one with thick cream and glazed fruit like jewels. Vorkosigan slipped it onto a waiting plate, and handed it across. He stared at the array longingly, but did not select one for himself, Ekaterin noticed. He was not in the least fat, she thought indignantly; when he'd played Admiral Naismith he must have been practically emaciated. The pastry tasted as wonderful as it looked, and Ekaterin's contribution to the conversation ceased for a short time. Vorkosigan watched her, smiling in, apparently, vicarious pleasure.

As she was scraping up the last molecules of cream from her plate with her fork, footsteps sounded in the hall, and men's voices. She recognized Pym's rumble, saying, ' . . . no, m'lord's in conference with his new landscape designer. I really don't think he wishes to be disturbed.'

A drawling baritone replied, 'Yeah, yeah, Pym. Nor did I. It's official business from m'mother.'

A look of extreme annoyance flashed over Vorkosigan's face, and he bit off an expletive too muffled to quite make out. As his visitor loomed in the doorway to the Yellow Parlor, his expression went very bland.

The man Pym was failing to impede was a young officer, a tall and startlingly handsome captain in undress greens. He had dark hair, laughing brown eyes, and a lazy smile. He paused to sweep Vorkosigan a mocking half- bow, saying, 'Hail, O Lord Auditor coz. My God, is that a Ma Kosti lunch I spy? Tell me I'm not too late. Is there anything left? Can I lick your crumbs?' He stepped inside, and his eye swept over Ekaterin. 'Oh ho! Introduce me to your landscape designer , Miles!'

Lord Vorkosigan said, somewhat through his teeth, 'Madame Vorsoisson, may I make you known to my feckless cousin, Captain Ivan Vorpatril. Ivan, Madame Vorsoisson.'

Undaunted by this disapproving editorial, Vorpatril grinned, bowed deeply over her hand, and kissed it. His lips lingered an appreciative second too long, but at least they were dry and warm; she didn't have to overcome an impolite impulse to wipe her hand on her skirt, when he at last released it. 'And are you taking commissions, Madame Vorsoisson?'

Ekaterin was not quite sure whether to be amused or offended at his cheerful leer, but amused seemed safer. She permitted herself a small smile. 'I'm only just starting.'

Lord Vorkosigan put in, 'Ivan lives in an apartment. I believe there is a flowerpot on his balcony, but the last time I looked, its contents were dead.'

'It was winter , Miles.' A faint mewing from the silver dome at his elbow distracted him. He stared at the cover, curiously tilted it up on one side, said, 'Ah. One of you,' and let it back down. He wandered around the table, spied the unused dessert plate, smiled beatifically, and helped himself to two of the pastries and the leftover fork at his cousin's plate. Returning to the empty place opposite, he settled his spoils, dragged up a chair, and seated himself between Lord Vorkosigan and Ekaterin. He regarded the mews of protest rising in volume from the dome, sighed, retrieved the feline prisoner, and settled it on his lap atop the fine cloth napkin, occupying it with a liberal smear of cream on its paws and face. 'Don't let me interrupt you,' he added around his first bite.

'We were just finishing,' said Vorkosigan. 'Why are you here , Ivan?' He added under his breath, 'And why couldn't three bodyguards keep you out? Do I have to give orders to shoot to kill?'

'My strength is great because my cause is just,' Vorpatril informed him. 'My mother has sent me with a list of chores for you as long as my arm. With footnotes.' He drew a roll of folded flimsies from his tunic, and waved them at his cousin; the kitten rolled on its back and batted at them, and he amused himself briefly, batting back. 'Tik-tik-tik!'

'Your determination is relentless because you're more afraid of your mother than you are of my guardsmen.'

'So are you. So are your guardsmen,' observed Lord Vorpatril, downing another bite of dessert.

Vorkosigan swallowed an involuntary laugh, then recovered his severe look again. 'Ah . . . Madame Vorsoisson, I can see I'm going to have to deal with this. Perhaps we'd best break off for today.' He smiled apologetically at her, and pushed back his chair.

Lord Vorkosigan doubtless had important security matters to discuss with the young officer. 'Of course. Um, it was good to meet you, Lord Vorpatril.'

Impeded by the kitten, the captain didn't rise, but he nodded a most cordial farewell. 'Madame Vorsoisson, a pleasure. I hope we'll see each other again soon.'

Vorkosigan's smile went thin; she rose with him, and he shepherded her out into the hall, raising his wristcom to his lips and murmuring, 'Pym, please bring the car around front.' He gestured onward, and fell into step beside her down the corridor. 'Sorry about Ivan.'

She didn't quite see what he felt the need to apologize for, so concealed her bewilderment in a shrug.

'So do we have a deal?' he went on. 'Will you take on my project?'

'Maybe you'd better see a few possible designs, first.'

'Yes, of course. Tomorrow . . . or you can call me whenever you're ready. You have my number?'

'Yes, you gave me several of them back on Komarr. I still have them.'

'Ah. Good.' They turned down the great stairway, and his face went thoughtful. At the bottom, he looked up at her and added, 'And do you still have that little memento?'

He meant the tiny model Barrayar, pendant on a chain, souvenir of the grim events they couldn't talk about in any public forum. 'Oh, yes.'

He paused hopefully, and she was stricken that she couldn't pull the jewelry out of her black blouse and demonstrate it on the spot, but she'd thought it too valuable to wear everyday; it was put away, carefully wrapped, in a drawer in her aunt's house. After a moment, the sound of the groundcar came from the porte coch?re, and he ushered her back out the double doors.

'Good day, then, Madame Vorsoisson.' He shook her hand, firmly and without holding it for too long, and saw her into the groundcar's rear compartment. 'I guess I'd better go straighten out Ivan.' As the canopy closed and the car pulled away, he turned to stalk back indoors. By the time the car bore her smoothly out the gates, he'd vanished from view.

* * *

Ivan set one of the used salad plates down on the floor, and plunked the kitten next to it. He had to admit, a young animal of almost any kind made an excellent prop; he'd noted the way Madame Vorsoisson's cool expression had softened as he'd noodled with the furry little verminoid. Where had Miles found that astonishing widow? He sat back, and watched the kitten's pink tongue flash over the sauce, and reflected glumly on his own last night's outing.

His date had seemed such a possible young woman: University student, away from home for the first time, bound to be impressed with an Imperial Vor officer. Bold of gaze and not a bit shy; she'd picked him up in her lightflyer. Ivan was expert in the uses of a lightflyer for breaking down psychological barriers and creating the proper mood. A few gentle swoops and you could almost always evoke some of those cute little shrieks where the young lady clung closer, her chest rising and falling as her breath came faster through parted and increasingly-kissable lips. This girl, however . . . he hadn't come so near to losing his last meal in a lightflyer since being trapped by Miles in one of his manic phases for an updraft demonstration over Hassadar. She'd laughed, fiendishly, while Ivan had smiled helplessly through clenched teeth, his knuckles whitening on the seat straps.

Then, in the restaurant she'd picked, they'd met up oh-so-casually with that surly pup of a graduate student, and the playlet began to fall into place. She'd been using him, dammit, to test the pup's devotion to her cause; and the cur had rolled over and snarled right on cue. How do you do, sir. Oh, isn't this your uncle you said was in the Service? I beg your pardon. . . . The smooth way he'd managed to turn the overly respectful offer of a chair into a subtle insult had been worthy of, of Ivan's shortest relative, practically. Ivan had escaped early, silently wishing them joy of each other. Let the punishment fit the crime. He didn't know what was happening with young Barrayaran girls these days. They were turning almost . . .