Mirror Dance

looked at me like that. Ivan, you are a filthy ingrate!

“Are you looking forward to the dance?” she inquired of Ivan, transparently encouraging.

“Not particularly,” shrugged Ivan. “It’s the same every year.”

She wilted. Her first time here, Mark bet. If there had been stairs, Mark would have been tempted to kick Ivan down them. He cleared his throat. Ivan’s eye fell on him, and lit with inspiration.

“Cassie,” Ivan purred, “have you met my new cousin, Lord Mark Vorkosigan, yet?”

She seemed to notice him for the first time. Mark gave her a tentative smile. She stared back dubiously. “No … I’d heard … I guess he doesn’t look exactly like Miles, does he.”

“No.” said Mark. “Fin not Miles. How do you do, Lady Cassia.”

Belatedly recovering her manners, she replied, “How do you do, um, Lord Mark.” A nervous bob of her head made the flowers shiver.

“Why don’t you two get acquainted. Excuse me, I have to see a man—” Ivan waved to a red-and-blue uniformed comrade across the room, and slithered away.

“Are you looking forward to the dance?” Mark tried. He’d been so concentrated on remembering all the formal moves of the taxation ceremony and the dinner, not to mention a Who’s Who approximately three hundred names long all starting with “Vor,” he’d hardly given the ensuing dance a thought.

“Um … sort of.” Her eyes reluctantly abandoned Ivan’s successful retreat, touched Mark, and flicked away.

Do you come here often? he managed not to blurt. What to say? How do you like Barrayar? No, that wouldn’t do. Nice fog we’rehaving outside tonight. Inside, too. Give me a cue, girl! Say something, anything!

“Are you really a clone?” Anything but that. “Yes.”

“Oh. My.”

More silence.

“A lot of people are,” he observed.

“Not here.”

“True.”

“Uh … oh!” Her face melted with relief. “Excuse me, Lord Mark. I see my mother is calling me—” She handed off a spasmodic smile like a ransom, and turned to hurry toward a Vorish dowager on the other side of the room. Mark had not seen her beckon.

Mark sighed. So much for the hopeful theory of the overpowering attraction of rank. Lady Cassia was clearly not anxious to kiss a toad. If I were Ivan I’d do handstands for a girl who looked at me like that.

“You look thoughtful,” observed Countess Vorkosigan at his elbow. He jumped slightly.

“Ah, hello again. Yes. Ivan just introduced me to that girl. Not a girlfriend, I gather.”

“Yes, I was watching the little playlet past Alys Vorpatril’s shoulder. I stood so as to keep her back to it, for charity’s sake.”

“I … don’t understand Ivan. She seemed like a nice enough girl to me.”

Countess Vorkosigan smiled. “They’re all nice girls. That’s not the point.”

“What is the point?”

“You don’t see it? Well, maybe when you’ve had more time to observe. Alys Vorpatril is a truly doting mother, but she just can’t overcome the temptation to try to micro-manage Ivan’s future. Ivan is too agreeable, or too lazy, to resist openly. So he does whatever she begs of him—except the one thing she wants above all others, which is to settle into a marriage and give her grandchildren. Personally, I think his strategy is wrong. If he really wants to take the heat off himself, grandchildren would absolutely divert poor Alys’s attention. Meanwhile her heart is in her mouth every time he takes a drive.”

“I can see that,” allowed Mark.

“I could slap him sometimes for his little game, except I’m not sure he’s conscious of it, and anyway it’s three-quarters Alys’s fault.”

Mark watched Lady Vorpatril catch up with Ivan, down the room. Checking his evening’s progress down the short list already, Mark feared. “You seem able to maintain a reasonably hands-off maternal attitude yourself,” he observed idly.

“That … may have been a mistake,” she murmured.

He glanced up and quailed inwardly at the deathly desolation he surprised, momentarily, in the Countess’s eyes. My mouth. Shit. The look twitched away so instantly, he didn’t even dare apologize.

“Not altogether hands-off,” she said lightly, attaching herself to his elbow again. “Come on, and I’ll show you how they cross-net, Barrayaran style.”

She steered him down the long room. “There are, as you have just seen, two agendas being pursued here tonight,” the Countess lectured amiably. “The political one of the old men—an annual renewal of the forms of the Vor—and the genetic agenda of the old women. The men imagine theirs is the only one, but that’s just an ego- serving self-delusion. The whole Vor system is founded on the women’s game, underneath. The old men in government councils spend their lives arguing against or scheming to fund this or that bit of off-planet military hardware. Meanwhile, the uterine replicator is creeping in past their guard, and they aren’t even conscious that the debate that will fundamentally alter Barrayar’s future is being carried on right now among their wives and daughters. To use it, or not to use it? Too late to keep it out, it’s already here. The middle classes are picking it up in droves. Every mother who loves her daughter is pressing for it, to spare her the physical dangers of biological childbearing. They’re fighting not the old men, who haven’t got a clue, but an old guard of their sisters who say to their daughters, in effect, We had to suffer, so must you! Look around tonight, Mark. You’re witnessing the last generation of men and women on Barrayar who will dance this dance in the old way. The Vor system is about to change on its blindest side, the side that looks to—or fails to look to—its foundation. Another half generation from now, it’s not going to know what hit it.”

Mark almost swore her calm, academic voice concealed a savagely vengeful satisfaction. But her expression was as detached as ever.

A young man in a captain’s uniform approached them, and split a nod of greeting between the Countess and Mark. “The Major of Protocol requests your presence, my lord,” he murmured. The statement too seemed to hang indeterminately in the air between them. “This way, please.”

They followed him out of the long reception room and up an ornately carved white marble staircase, down a corridor, and into an antechamber where half a dozen Counts or their official representatives were marshalled. Beyond a wide archway in the main chamber, Gregor was surrounded by a small constellation of men, mostly in red-and-blues, but three in dark Minister’s robes.

The Emperor was seated on a plain folding stool, even less than a chair. “I was expecting a throne, somehow,” Mark whispered to the Countess.

“It’s a symbol,” she whispered back. “And like most symbols, inherited. It’s a standard-issue military officer’s camp stool.”

“Huh.” Then he had to part from her, as the Major of Protocol herded him into his appointed place in line. The Vorkosigan’s place. This is it. He had a moment of utter panic, thinking he’d somehow mislaid or dropped the bag of gold along the way, but it was still looped safely to his tunic. He undid the silken cords with sweaty fingers. This is a stupid little ceremony. Why should I be nervous now?

Turn, walk forward—his concentration was nearly shattered by an anonymous whisper from somewhere in the antechamber behind him, “My God, the Vorkosigans are really going to do it … !”—step up, salute, kneel on his left knee; he proffered the bag right-handed, palm correctly up, and stuttered out the formal words, feeling as if plasma arc beams were boring into his back from the gazes of the waiting witnesses behind him. Only then did he look up to meet the Emperor’s eyes.

Gregor smiled, took the bag, and spoke the equally formal words of acceptance. He handed the bag aside to the Minister of Finance in his black velvet robe, but then waved the man away.