Vorkosigan snorted, and they exchanged an ironic bow.
'Anyway, you will have to tell him so yourself.'
'I'd be—curious, to see the man,' murmured Cordelia. 'If it's really the last chance.'
Vortala smiled at her, and Vorkosigan yielded, reluctantly. They returned to his bedroom to dress, Cordelia in her most formal afternoon wear, Vorkosigan in the dress greens he had not worn since their wedding.
'Why so jumpy?' asked Cordelia. 'Maybe he just wants to bid you farewell or something.'
'We're talking about a man who can make even his own death serve his political purposes, remember? And if there's some way to govern Barrayar from beyond the grave, you can bet he's figured it out. I've never come out ahead on any dealing I've ever had with him.'
On that ambiguous note they joined the Prime Minister for the flight back to Vorbarr Sultana.
The Imperial Residence was an old building, almost a museum piece, thought Cordelia, as they climbed the worn granite steps to its east portico. The long facade was heavy with stone carving, each figure an individual work of art, the aesthetic opposite of the modern, faceless Ministry buildings rising a kilometer or two to the east.
They were ushered into a room half hospital, half antique display. Tall windows looked out on the formal gardens and lawns to the north of the Residence. The room's principal inhabitant lay in a huge carved bed inherited from some splendor—minded ancestor, his body pierced in a dozen places by the utilitarian plastic tubes that kept him alive this day.
Ezar Vorbarra was the whitest man Cordelia had ever seen, as white as his sheets, as white as his hair. His skin was white and wrinkled over his sunken cheeks. His eyelids were white, heavy and hooded over hazel eyes whose like she had seen once before, dimly in a mirror. His hands were white, with blue veins standing up on their backs. His teeth, when he spoke, were ivory yellow against their bloodless backdrop.
Vortala and Vorkosigan, and after an uncertain beat Cordelia, went down on one knee beside the bed. The Emperor waved his attendant physician out of the room with a little effortful jerk of one finger. The man bowed and left. They stood, Vortala rather stiffly.
'So, Aral,' said the Emperor. 'Tell me how I look.'
'Very ill, sir.'
Vorbarra chuckled, and coughed. 'You refresh me. First honest opinion I've heard from anyone in weeks. Even Vortala beats around the bush.' His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat of phlegm. 'Pissed away the last of my melanin last week. That damned doctor won't let me out into my garden anymore during daylight.' He snorted, for disapproval or breath. 'So this is your Betan, eh? Come here, girl.'
Cordelia approached the bed, and the white old man stared into her face, hazel eyes intent. 'Commander Illyan has told me of you. Captain Negri, too. I've seen all your Survey records, you know. And that astonishing flight of fancy of your psychiatrist's. Negri wanted to hire her, just to generate ideas for his section. Vorkosigan, being Vorkosigan, has told me much less.' He paused, as if for breath. 'Tell me quite truly, now—what do you see in him, a broken-down, ah, what was that phrase? Hired killer?'
'Aral has told you something, it seems,' she said, startled to hear her own words in his mouth. She stared back at him with equal curiosity. The question seemed to demand an honest answer, and she struggled to frame it.
'I suppose—I see myself. Or someone like myself. We're both looking for the same thing. We call it by different names, and look in different places. I believe he calls it honor. I guess I'd call it the grace of God. We both come up empty, mostly.'
'Ah, yes. I recall from your file that you are some sort of theist,' said the Emperor. 'I am an atheist, myself. A simple faith, but a great comfort to me, in these last days.'
'Yes, I have often felt the pull of it myself.'
'Hm.' He smiled at that. 'A very interesting answer, in light of what Vorkosigan said about you.'
'What was that, sir?' asked Cordelia, her curiosity piqued.
'You must get him to tell you. It was in confidence. Very poetic, too. I was surprised.' He waved her away, as if satisfied, and motioned Vorkosigan closer. Vorkosigan stood in a kind of aggressive parade rest. His mouth was sardonic but his eyes, Cordelia saw, were moved.
'How long have you served me, Aral?' asked the Emperor.
'Since my commission, twenty—six years. Or do you mean body and blood?'
'Body and blood. I always counted it from the day old Yuri's death squad slew your mother and uncle. The night your father and Prince Xav came to me at Green Army Headquarters with their peculiar proposition. Day One of Yuri Vorbarra's Civil War. Why is it never called Piotr Vorkosigan's Civil War, I wonder? Ah, well. How old were you?'
'Eleven, sir.'
'Eleven. I was just the age you are now. Strange. So body and blood you have served me—damn, you know this thing is starting to affect my brain, now …'
'Thirty-three years, sir.'
'God. Thank you. Not much time left.'
From the cynical expression on his face Cordelia gathered that Vorkosigan was not in the least convinced of the Emperor's self-proclaimed senility.
The old man cleared his throat again. 'I always meant to ask what you and old Yuri said to each other, that day two years later when we finally butchered him in that old castle. I've developed a particular interest in Emperors' last words, lately. Count Vorhalas thought you were playing with him.'
Vorkosigan's eyes closed briefly, in pain or memory. 'Hardly. Oh, I thought I was eager for the first cut, until he was stripped and held before me. Then—I had this impulse to strike suddenly at his throat, and end it cleanly, just be done with it.'
The Emperor smiled sourly, eyes closed. 'What a riot that would have started.'
'Mm. I think he knew by my face I was funking out. He leered at me. 'Strike, little boy. If you dare while you wear my uniform. My uniform on a child.' That was all he said. I said, 'You killed all the children in that room,' which was fatuous, but it was the best I could come up with at the time, then took my cut out of his stomach. I often wished I'd said—said something else, later. But mostly I wished I'd had the guts to follow my first Impulse.'
'You looked pretty green, out on the parapet in the rain.'
'He'd started screaming by then. I was sorry my hearing had come back.'
The Emperor sighed. 'Yes, I remember.'
'You stage-managed it.'
'Somebody had to.' He paused, resting, then added, 'Well, I didn't call you here to chat over old times. Did my Prime Minister tell you my purpose?'
'Something about a post. I told him I wasn't interested, but he refused to convey the message.'
Vorbarra closed his eyes wearily and addressed, apparently, the ceiling. 'Tell me—Lord Vorkosigan—who should be Regent of Barrayar?'
Vorkosigan looked as if he'd just bitten into something vile, but was too polite to spit it out. 'Vortala.'
'Too old. He'd never last sixteen years.'
'The Princess, then.'
'The General Staff would eat her alive.'
'Vordarian?'
The Emperor's eyes snapped open. 'Oh, for God's sake! Gather your wits, boy.'
'He does have some military background.'
'We will discuss his drawbacks at length—if the doctors give me another week to live. Have you any other jokes, before we get down to business?'
'Quintillan of the Interior. And that is not a joke.'
The Emperor grinned yellowly. 'So you do have something good to say for my Ministers after all. I may die now; I've heard everything.'
'You'd never get a vote of consent out of the Counts for anyone without a Vor in front of his name,' said Vortala. 'Not even if he walked on water.'
'So, make him one. Give him a rank to go with the job.'
'Vorkosigan,' said Vortala, aghast, 'he's not of the warrior caste!'
