Borders of Infinity

Harra inhaled, controlling her own trembling. She gave Miles a short nod, as if to say Thank you, little man. He returned her a slight inclination of the head, Yes, I understand.

'I'm not sure yet where justice lies in this case,' said Miles, 'but this I swear to you, the days of cooperative concealment are over. No more secret crimes in the night. Daylight's here. And speaking of crimes in the night,' he turned back to Ma Mattulich, 'was it you who tried to cut my horse's throat last night?'

'I tried,' said Ma Mattulich, calmer now in a wave of fast-penta mellowness, 'but it kept rearing up on me.'

'Why my horse?' Miles could not keep exasperation from his voice, though a calm, even tone was enjoined upon fast-penta interrogators by the training manual.

'I couldn't get at you,' said Ma Mattulich simply.

Miles rubbed his forehead. 'Retroactive infanticide by proxy?' he muttered.

'You,' said Ma Mattulich, and her loathing came through even the nauseating fast-penta cheer, 'you are the worst. All I went through, all I did, all the grief, and you come along at the end. A mutie made lord over us all, and all the rules changed, betrayed at the end by an off-worlder woman's weakness. You make it all for nothing. Hate you. Dirty mutie . . .' her voice trailed off in a drugged mumble.

Miles took a deep breath, and looked around the room. The stillness was profound, and no one dared break it.

'I believe,' he said, 'that concludes my investigation into the facts of this case.'

The mystery of Raina's death was solved.

The problem of justice, unfortunately, remained.

Miles took a walk.

The graveyard, though little more than a crude clearing in the woodland, was a place of peace and beauty in the morning light. The stream burbled endlessly, shifting green shadows and blinding brilliant reflections. The faint breeze that had shredded away the last of the night fog whispered in the trees, and the tiny, short-lived creatures that everyone on Barrayar but biologists called bugs sang and twittered in the patches of native scrub.

'Well, Raina,' Miles sighed, 'and what do I do now?' Pym lingered by the borders of the clearing, giving Miles room. 'It's all right,' Miles assured the tiny grave, 'Pym's caught me talking to dead people before. He may think I'm crazy, but he's far too well-trained to say so.'

Pym in fact did not look happy, nor altogether well. Miles felt rather guilty for dragging him out; by rights the man should be resting in bed, but Miles had desperately needed this time alone. Pym wasn't just suffering the residual effect of having been kicked by Ninny. He had been silent ever since Miles had extracted the confession from Ma Mattulich. Miles was unsurprised. Pym had steeled himself to play executioner to their imagined hill bully; the substitution of a mad grandmother as his victim had clearly given him pause. He would obey whatever order Miles gave him, though, Miles had no doubt of that.

Miles considered the peculiarities of Barrayaran law, as he wandered about the clearing, watching the stream and the light, turning over an occasional rock with the toe of his boot. The fundamental principle was clear; the spirit was to be preferred over the letter, truth over technicalities. Precedent was held subordinate to the judgment of the man on the spot. Alas, the man on the spot was himself. There was no refuge for him in automated rules, no hiding behind the law says as if the law were some living overlord with a real Voice. The only voice here was his own.

And who would be served by the death of that half-crazed old woman? Harra? The relationship between mother and daughter had been wounded unto death by this, Miles had seen that in their eyes, yet still Harra had no stomach for matricide. Miles rather preferred it that way, having her standing by his ear crying for bloody revenge would have been enormously distracting just now. The obvious justice made a damn poor reward for Harra's courage in reporting the crime. Raina? Ah. That was more difficult.

'I'd like to lay the old gargoyle right there at your feet, small lady,' Miles muttered to her. 'Is it your desire? Does it serve you? What would serve you?' Was this the great burning he had promised her?

What judgment would reverberate along the entire Dendarii mountain range? Should he indeed sacrifice these people to some larger political statement, regardless of their wants? Or should he forget all that, make his judgment serve only those directly involved? He scooped up a stone and flung it full force into the stream. It vanished invisibly in the rocky bed.

He turned to find Speaker Karal waiting by the edge of the graveyard. Karal ducked his head in greeting and approached cautiously.

'So, m'lord,' said Karal.

'Just so,' said Miles.

'Have you come to any conclusion?'

'Not really.' Miles gazed around. 'Anything less than Ma Mattulich's death seems . . . inadequate justice, and yet … I cannot see who her death would serve.'

'Neither could I. That's why I took the position I did in the first place.'

'No . . .' said Miles slowly, 'no, you were wrong in that. For one thing, it very nearly got Lem Csurik killed. I was getting ready to pursue him with deadly force at one point. It almost destroyed him with Harra. Truth is better. Slightly better. At least it isn't a fatal error. Surely I can do … something with it.'

'I didn't know what to expect of you, at first,' admitted Karal.

Miles shook his head. 'I meant to make changes. A difference. Now … I don't know.'

Speaker Karal's balding forehead wrinkled. 'But we are changing.'

'Not enough. Not fast enough.'

'You're young yet, that's why you don't see how much, how fast. Look at the difference between Harra and her mother. God—look at the difference between Ma Mattulich and her mother. There was a harridan.' Speaker Karal shuddered. 'I remember her, all right. And yet, she was not so unusual, in her day. So far from having to make change, I don't think you could stop it if you tried. The minute we finally get a powersat receptor up here, and get on the comm net, the past will be done and over. As soon as the kids see the future—their future—they'll be mad after it. They're already lost to the old ones like Ma Mattulich. The old ones know it, too, don't believe they don't know it. Why d'you think we haven't been able to get at least a small unit up here yet? Not just the cost. The old ones are fighting it. They call it off planet corruption, but it's really the future they fear.'

'There's so much still to be done.'

'Oh, yes. We are a desperate people, no lie. But we have hope. I don't think you realize how much you've done, just by coming up here.'

'I've done nothing,' said Miles bitterly. 'Sat around, mostly. And now, I swear, I'm going to end up doing more nothing. And then go home. Hell!'

Speaker Karal pursed his lips, looked at his feet, at the high hills. 'You are doing something for us every minute. Mutie lord. Do you think you are invisible?'

Miles grinned wolfishly. 'Oh, Karal, I'm a one-man band, I am. I'm a parade.'

'As you say, just so. Ordinary people need extraordinary examples. So they can say to themselves, well, if he can do that, I can surely do this. No excuses.'

'No quarter, yes, I know that game. Been playing it all my life.'

'I think,' said Karal, 'Barrayar needs you. To go on being just what you are.'

'Barrayar will eat me, if it can.'

'Yes,' said Karal, his eyes on the horizon, 'so it will.' His gaze fell to the graves at his feet. 'But it swallows us all in the end, doesn't it? You will outlive the old ones.'

'Or in the beginning.' Miles pointed down. 'Don't tell me who I'm going to outlive. Tell Raina.'

Karal's shoulders slumped. 'True. S'truth. Make your judgment, lord. I'll back you.'

Miles assembled them all in Karal's yard for his Speaking, the porch now having become his podium. The