General Halify and some Felician officers were watching at a distance from a balcony overlooking the docking bay. Miles's glance crossed Halify's. And so my word to you, at least, is redeemed.
Miles marched across the broad expanse, the whole herd, all Dendarii now, strung out behind him. Let's see, Miles thought, the Pied Piper of Hamlin led all the rats into the river—he looked back—and all the children he led to a mountain of gold. What would he have done if the rats and the children had been inextricably mixed?
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Miles reclined on a liquid-filled settee in the refinery's darkside observation chamber, hands behind his head, and stared into the depths of a space no longer empty. The Dendarii fleet glittered and winked, riding at station in the vacuum, a constellation of ships and men.
In his bedroom at the summer place at Vorkosigan Surleau, he had owned a mobile of space warships, classic Barrayaran military craft held in their carefully balanced arrangement by nearly invisible threads of great tensile strength. Invisible threads. He pursed his lips, and blew a puff of breath toward the crystalline windows as if he might set the Dendarii ships circling and dancing.
Nineteen ships of war and over 3000 troops and techs. 'Mine,' he said experimentally. 'All mine.' The phrase did not produce a suitable feeling of triumph. He felt more like a target.
In the first place, it was not true. The actual ownership of those millions of Betan dollars worth of capital equipment out there was a matter of amazing complexity. It had taken four solid days of negotiations to work out the 'details' he had so casually waved his hand over in the docking bay. There were eight independent captain- owners, in addition to Oser's personal possession of eight ships. Almost all had creditors. At least ten percent of 'his' fleet turned out to be owned by the First Bank of Jackson's Whole, famous for its numbered accounts and discreet services; for all Miles knew, he was now contributing to the support of gambling rackets, industrial espionage, and the white slave trade from one end of the wormhole nexus to the other. It seemed he was not so much the possessor of the Dendarii mercenaries as he was their chief employee.
The ownership of the Ariel and the Triumph was made particularly complex by Miles's capture of them in battle. Tung had owned his ship outright, but Auson had been deeply in debt to yet another Jackson's Whole lending institution for the Ariel. Oser, when still working for the Pelians, had stopped payments after its capture, and left the, what was it called?—Luigi Bharaputra and Sons Household Finance and Holding Company of Jackson's Whole Private Limited—to collect on its insurance, if any. Captain Auson had turned pale upon learning that an inquiry agent from said company would be arriving soon to investigate.
The inventory alone was enough to boggle Miles's mind, and when it came to the assorted personnel contracts—his stomach would hurt if it still could. Before Oser had arrived, the Dendarii had been due for a tidy profit from the Felician contract. Now the profit for 200 must be spread to support 3000.
Or more than 3000. The Dendarii kept ballooning. Another free ship had arrived through the wormhole just yesterday, having heard of them through God-knew-what rumor mill, and excited would-be recruits from Felice managed to turn up with each new ship from the planet. The metals refinery was operating as a refinery again, as control of local space fell into the hands of the Felicians; their forces were even now gobbling up Pelian installations all over the system.
There was talk of re-hiring to Felice, to blockade the wormhole in turn for the former underdogs. The phrase, 'Quit while you're winning,' popped unbidden into Miles's mind whenever this subject came up; the proposal secretly appalled him. He itched to be gone from here before the whole house of cards collapsed. He should be keeping reality and fantasy separate in his own mind at least, even while mixing them as much as possible in others.
Voices whispered from the catwalk, reflected to his ear by some accident of acoustics. Elena's alto captured his attention.
'You don't have to ask him. We're not on Barrayar, we're never going back to Barrayar—'
'But it will be like having a little piece of Barrayar to take with us,' Baz's voice, gentle and amused as Miles had never heard it, followed. 'A breath of home in airless places. God knows I can't give you much of that 'right and proper' your father wanted for you, but all the pittance I can command shall be yours.'
'Mm.' Her response was unenthusiastic, almost hostile. All references to Bothari seemed to fall on her like hammer blows to dead flesh these days, a muffled thud that sickened Miles but brought no response from Elena herself.
They emerged from the catwalk, Baz close behind her. He smiled at his leige-lord in shy triumph. Elena smiled too, but not with her eyes.
'Deep meditation?' she inquired lightly. 'It looks more like staring out the window and biting your nails to me.'
He struggled upright, causing the settee to slither under him, and responded in kind. 'Oh, I just told the guard that to keep the tourists out. I actually came up here for a nap.'
Baz grinned at Miles. 'My lord. I understand, in the absence of other relations, that Elena's legal guardianship has fallen to you.'
'Why—so it has. I haven't had much time to think about it, to tell you the truth.' Miles stirred uneasily at this turn in the conversation, not quite sure just what was coming.
'Right. Then as her leige-lord and guardian, I formally request her hand in marriage. Not to mention the rest of her.' His silly smile made Miles long to kick him in the teeth. 'Oh, and as my leige-commander, I request your permission to marry, uh, 'that my sons may serve you, lord.' ' Baz's abbreviated version of the formula was only slightly scrambled.
You're not going to have any sons, because I'm going to chop your balls off, you lamb-stealing, double- crossing, traitorous—he got control of himself before his emotion showed as more than a drawn, lipless grin. 'I see. There—there are some difficulties.' He marshalled logical argument like a shield-wall, protecting his craven, naked rage from the sting of those two honest pairs of brown eyes.
'Elena is quite young, of course—' he abandoned that line at the ire that lit her eye, as her lips formed the soundless word, You—!
'More to the point, I gave my own word to Sergeant Bothari to perform three services for him in the event of his death. To bury him on Barrayar, to see Elena betrothed with all correct ceremony, and, ah—to see her married to a suitable officer of the Barrayaran Imperial Service. Would you see me forsworn?'
Baz looked as stunned as if Miles had kicked him. His mouth opened, closed, opened again. 'But—aren't I your liege-sworn Armsman? That's certainly the equal of an Imperial officer—hell, the Sergeant was an Armsman himself! Has—has my service been unsatisfactory? Tell me how I have failed you, my lord, that I may correct it!' His astonishment turned to genuine distress.
'You haven't failed me,' Miles's conscience jerked the words from his mouth. 'Uh . . . But of course, you've only served me for four months, now. Really a very short time, although I know it seems much longer, so much has happened .. .' Miles floundered, feeling more than crippled; legless. Elena's furious glower had chopped him off at the knees. How much shorter could he afford to get in her eyes? He trailed off weakly. 'This is all very sudden …'
Elena's voice dropped to a gravelled register of rage. 'How dare you—' her voice burst in her indrawn breath like a wave, formed again, 'What do you owe—what can anybody owe that?' she asked, referring. Miles realized, to the Sergeant. 'I was not his chattel and I am not yours, either. Dog in the manger—'
Baz's hand closed anxiously on her arm, stemming the breakers crashing across Miles. 'Elena—maybe this isn't the best time to bring it up. Maybe later would be better.' He glanced at Miles's stony face, and winced, confusion in his eyes.
'Baz, you're not going to take this seriously—'
'Come away. We'll talk about it.'
She forced her voice back to its normal timbre. 'I'll meet you at the bottom of the catwalk. In a minute.'
Miles nodded a dismissal to Baz for emphasis.
'Well…' the engineer left, walking slowly, and looking back over his shoulder in worry.
