"Not … at present."
Tsipis drooped. "Ah," he murmured, in a tone of disappointment. Then a look of belated enlightenment came over his face. "My lord … do you need money?"
"Er . . . yes. That was what I had in mind. To, like, pay a driver, maybe a cook, pay bills, buy things … a suitable living allowance, you know." His ImpSec pay, accumulating in his lengthy absences on duty, had always been more than enough. He wondered how much to ask Tsipis for.
"But of course. How would you like it? A weekly deposit into your Service account, perhaps?"
"No … I'd like a new account. Separate. Just . . . to me as Lord Vorkosigan."
"Excellent thinking. Your father is always very careful to keep his personal and Imperial funds identifiably separated. It's a good habit to start. Not that the most foolhardy Imperial Auditor would ever have dared to take him on, of course. Nor have looked anything but a fool afterwards, when the numbers were laid out." Tsipis tapped on his comconsole, and glanced aside at some data readout. "Suppose I transfer the entire accumulated unused Household fund over into your new account, for seed money. And then just send the usual weekly allotment to follow."
"Fine."
"Now, if you need any more, do call me right away."
"Sure."
"I'll send you your new account chit by courier within the hour."
"Thank you." Miles reached to cut the com, then added as an afterthought, "How much is it?"
"Five thousand marks."
"Oh, good."
"And eighty thousand marks to start," Tsipis added.
Miles did a quick mental reversal, and calculation, "This place was sucking down five thousand marks a week?"
"Oh, much more than that, with the Armsmen, and the Countess's personal account. And this does not include major repairs, which are budgeted separately."
"I … see."
"Now, should you take an interest, I should be happy to go over all your financial affairs with you in much more detail," Tsipis added eagerly. "There's so much that could be done with a somewhat more aggressive, entrepreneurial, and, dare I say, less conservative and more inventive approach."
"If … I ever have the time. Thank you, Tsipis." Miles quit the com much less casually.
Good God. He could buy . . . damn near anything he wanted. He tried to think of something he wanted.
The Dendarii.
Yeah. We know. But their price, for him, wasn't measured in money. What else?
Once, in his increasingly distant youth, he'd lusted briefly after a lightflyer, faster and redder than Ivan's.
A particularly fine model, albeit several years old now, sat in the garage downstairs, only lightly used. Of course, he couldn't fly it at all now.
It was never what I wanted to buy that held my heart's hope. It was what I wanted to be.
What had that been? Well, an admiral, of course, a Barrayaran one, by age 35, one year younger than when his father had become the youngest in post-Isolation history at age 36. Despite Miles's height, and in the teeth of his handicaps. But even had he been abnormal of body, his era had brought him no convenient major wars to speed promotion. ImpSec covert ops had been the best he could do, not just the one branch of the Service that would take him, but the only one that could put him in the forefront of the only significant action presently available. How could you be a Great Man if history brought you no Great Events, or brought you to them at the wrong time, too young, too old? Too damaged.
He turned to his list of five retired Vorkosigan Armsmen living in the Vorbarr Sultana area. Though elderly, an Armsman, with his wife perhaps to cook, would be the ideal solution to his problem. He wouldn't have to teach them anything about Vorkosigan House's routine, and they'd have no objection to a short-term gig. He began coding his calls. Maybe I'll get lucky on the first try.
One was too doddering to drive anymore himself. The other four's wives all said no, or rather, No!
It wasn't as if he were in the heat of battle; he could not justify invoking certain archaic loyalty oaths. With a snort, he gave it up, and went to collect last night's scraps from the kitchen in his ongoing campaign to convince Zap the Cat to not snatch food with razor claws, run under a chair, and growl through her gorge, but rather, eat daintily, and sit on one's lap and purr gratefully afterwards, like a proper Vor cat. In all, there was a lot about Zap that reminded Miles of his clone-brother Mark, and he'd done all right with Mark in the end. It wouldn't hurt to let the gate guard know about Tsipis's courier, too.
Miles arrived to find the gate guard had a visitor, a tall, blond young man who bore a notable, if softer, resemblance to the sharper-featured Corporal Kosti. He also bore a large lacquered box.
"Good morning, or should I say, afternoon, sir," the guard greeted him with a vague aborted salute almost worthy of an HQ analyst, belatedly recognizing the fact that Miles wore no uniform. "Um . . . may I introduce my younger brother Martin?"
You're not old enough to have a younger brother. Hello." Miles stuck out his hand. The blond youth shook it without hesitation, though is eyes did widen a bit, looking down at Miles. "Uh . . hello. Lieutenant. Lord Vorkosigan." Nobody'd briefed Kosti either, it appeared. The corporal was too far down in the hierarchy, maybe. Miles glanced away from the ImpSec silver eyes on Kosti-the-elder's stiff collar. Well, get it over with. "No more the lieutenant, I'm afraid. I've just mustered out of the Service altogether. Medical discharge."
"Oh. I'm sorry to hear that, si—my lord." The gate guard sounded quite sincere. But he did not demand embarrassing explanations. Nobody, looking at Miles, would question the medical discharge story. Zap oozed from under the kiosks chair, and growled lightly at Miles, whom she was growing to recognize.
"That hairy beast isn't getting any friendlier, is she?" said Miles. "Just fatter."
"I'm not surprised," said Corporal Kosti. "Every time we change shifts she tries to convince whoever is coming on duty she's been starved by the last man."
Miles offered a scrap, which Zap deigned to accept in the usual manner, and then retreated to scarf her spoils. Miles sucked on the scratch on the back of his thumb. "Clearly, she's training to be a guard cat. If only we could teach her to tell friend from foe." He stood up again.
"Nobody wants to hire me for just two months," Martin said to his brother, evidently continuing a conversation Miles s arrival had interrupted. Miles's brow rose. "Looking for work, are you, Martin?' "Looking to turn eighteen, and apply to the Service," said Martin stoutly. "I've two more months to wait. But my mother said if I don't find something for me to do in the meanwhile she will. And I'm afraid it has something do with cleaning."
Wait till you meet your first master sergeant, kid. You'll find out about cleaning. "I cleaned drains on Kyril Island, once," Miles reminisced. "I was quite good at it."
"You, my lord?" Martin's eyes grew round.
Miles's lips crimped. "It was exciting. I found a body."
"Oh." Martin settled. "ImpSec business, right?"
"Not … at the time."
"His first sergeant will straighten him out," the corporal confided confidently to Miles.
He treats me as an honorable veteran. He does not know. "Oh, yes." The two insiders grinned malevolently at the would-be apprentice. "The Service is getting pickier with its recruits, these days. … I hope you didn't slack your schoolwork."
"No, my lord," said Martin.
If true, this one would be a shoo-in. He had the physique for a ceremonial guard; his brother, obviously, had the brains to be a real one. "Well, good luck to you." Better luck than mine. No, unjust to use his daily gift of breath to complain about his luck. "So, Martin . . . can you drive?"
"Of course, my lord."
"Lightflyer?"
A slight hesitation. "I've done a bit."
"I happen to be in temporary need of a driver."
"Really, my lord? Do you think—could I—?"
"Perhaps."
The corporal's forehead crinkled in mild d
ismay. "It's part of my job to keep him alive, Martin. You wouldn't embarrass me, would you?"
Martin gave him a brotherly curl of the lip, but disdained, interestingly, to rise to the bait. His attention was on Miles. "When could I start?"
"Any time, I suppose. Today, if you like." Yes, he needed to at least go to the grocery and get another crate of Reddi-Meals! "There probably wouldn't be much to do at first, but I wouldn't know in advance when I wanted you, so I'd like you to live in. You could spend your spare time studying up for your Service entrance evaluations." Plus, of course, the medical watch. Would the acquisition of the possibly-more-pliable Martin be enough to displace Ivan? He would have to apprise Martin of that extra little detail of his job later.
No. Sooner. The next attack could happen any time. Unfair, to hit the kid with a convulsing employer and no warning. Elli Quinn would agree. "I can't drive myself. I've been having trouble with seizures. An after-affect of an acute case of death I picked up last year, courtesy of … a well-aimed needle grenade. The cryo-revival almost worked."
The corporal looked enlightened. "I never thought a courier's job was the feather bed some people make it out to be."
Martin stared down at him in utter fascination, almost as impressed as he'd been by the drain-cleaning confession. "You were dead, my lord?"
"So they tell me."
"What was it like?"
"I don't know," said Miles shortly. "I missed it." He relented slightly. "Being alive again hurt, though."
"Wow." Martin shoved the lacquer box toward his brother. Zap the Cat emerged again to roll backwards across the mirror-polished toes of the corporal's boots, purring wildly, waving her claws in the air, and glaring at the box.
"Calm down, Zap, you'll set off the alarms," said the corporal, amused. He set the box down on the kiosk's tiny table and released the lid. Somewhat absently, he tore off the cover of his Service-issue ready-meal lunch, and set it on the floor; Zap sniffed it, and returned to clawing his booted leg and looking longingly at the lacquered box.
The inside of the box lid turned into a clever tray or plate, with little compartments. Onto it Kosti placed two temperature-controlled jugs, a bowl, and cups; there followed an assortment of sandwiches on two different kinds of bread with variously colored fillings, cut into circle, star, and square shapes, the crusts removed; carved fruit on a stick; buttery cookies; and round tarts with flaky, fluted, sugar-sprinkled crusts, oozing dark, thick fruit syrups. From one of the jugs Kosti poured a pinkish cream soup into the bowl; from the other, some spicy hot drink. Both steamed in the cool air. For Zap the Cat there was a wad of prettily tied green leaves that unfolded to reveal a meat paste of some kind, apparently the same as filled one of the sandwiches. Zap dived in the moment Kosti spread it on the floor, growling ecstatically, tail lashing.
Miles stared in amazement, and swallowed saliva. "What is all that, Corporal?"
"My lunch," said Kosti simply. "M' mother sends it over every day." He batted away a brotherly paw descending on one sandwich. "Hey. You can get yours at home. This is mine." He glanced up a little uncertainly at Miles.
Technically, ImpSec personnel on duty were not supposed to eat anything but ImpSec-issued rations, to avoid any attacks through ingestible drugs or poisons. But if you couldn't trust your mother and brother, who could you trust? Besides … it wasn't Miles's officerly job to enforce ImpSec regs in idiotic situations anymore. "Your mother makes all that? Every day?"
"Mostly," said Kosti. "With my sisters married—"
Of course.
"— and just Martin left in the house, I think she's getting a little bored."
"Corporal Kosti. Martin." Miles took a deep breath, laden with delectable aromas. "Do you think your mother would like a. job?"
"Things are looking up," said Ivan judiciously over their lunch the next day. Ma Kosti had deposited her artistic offering and withdrawn from the Yellow Parlor, possibly to bring the next load. Several minutes later he added, muffled around a full mouth, "What are you paying her?"
Miles told him.
"Double it," said Ivan decisively. "Or you'll lose her after your first dinner party. Someone will hire her away. Or kidnap her."
"Not with her son as my gate guard. Besides, I'm not planning any dinner parties."
"That would be a shame. Want me to?"
"No." Miles weakened, possibly a subtle and sinister effect of the spiced peach tart melting in his mouth. "Not at present, anyway." He smiled slowly. "But in the department of great leaders of history . . . you can tell everyone with perfect truth that Lord Vorkosigan eats the same food as his gate guard and driver."
A contract with Ivan's cleaning service to send in people twice a week completed the staffing of Vorkosigan House to Ivan's convenience. But as a ploy to get rid of Ivan, Miles realized, the acquisition of Ma Kosti had proved a slight miscalculation. He should have hired a bad cook.
If Ivan would only leave, Miles could go back to brooding in peace. He couldn't lock his bedroom door and not answer it without it being an invitation to Ivan to break it down; and there was a limit to how much he could snarl and sulk without risking another ice-water dip.
At least Ivan could start going back to work in the daytime, Miles thought. He tried a broad hint over dinner.
" 'Most men,'" he quoted, " 'are of naught more use in their lives but as machines for turning food into shit.'"
Ivan cocked an eyebrow at him. "Who said that? Your grandfather?"
"Leonardo da Vinci," Miles returned primly. But was compelled to add, "Grandfather quoted it to me, though."
"Thought so," said Ivan, satisfied. "Sounds just like the old General. He was a monster in his day, wasn't he?" Ivan put another bite of roast dripping with wine sauce into his mouth, and started chewing.
Ivan . . . was a pain. The last thing a monster wanted was a fellow to follow him around all day long with a mirror.
The days had blended formlessly into a week before Miles found a message from the outside world on his comconsole. He hit the replay, and the fine-boned face of Lady Alys Vorpatril composed itself over his vid plate.
"Hello, Miles," she began. "I was very sorry to hear about your medical discharge. I know it must be a great disappointment to you, after all your efforts."
Credit to Ivan, he had certainly not told her the whole story, or her condolences would have been much differently phrased. She dismissed his utter destruction with an airy wave, and went on to her own concerns. "At Gregor s request I am hostessing an intimate luncheon in the Residences south garden tomorrow afternoon. He has asked me to invite you. He asks you to come an hour early for a personal conference. I'd take that as Requests and Requires your Attendance, rather than just invites, if I were you, on that first matter. Or so I read it between the lines, though he was all soft-voiced about it, the way he gets sometimes, you know. RSVP immediately you get this message, please." She cut the com.
Miles bent, and rested his forehead on the cool edge of the comconsole. He'd known this moment must come; it was inherent in choosing to live. Gregor was giving him the opportunity to formally apologize. They had to clear the air sooner or later. If only as Count of his District someday, Miles was going to be around Vorbarr Sultana for a long time yet. He wished he might render his apology in the old archaic belly-sticking sense. In absentia. It would be easier and less painful.
Why didn't they just leave me dead the first time?
He sighed, sat up, and punched in Lady Alys's number on the com.
CHAPTER NINE
Count Vorkosigan's armored groundcar sighed to the pavement under the east portico of the Imperial Residence. Martin looked nervously back over his shoulder toward the gates, and the gesturing guards clustered around them. "Are you sure that's going to be all right, my lord?"
"Don't worry about it," said Miles, seated beside him in the drivers compartment. "They'll have that little bit of wrought-iron straightened back up and repainted before I'm ready to be picked up again, I
wager."
Martin made to pop the canopy, or at least, hunted valiantly for the control to do so in the gleaming array before him. Miles pointed. "Thanks," Martin muttered.
The canopy rose; Miles escaped with his life. "Martin . . . tell you what. While I'm engaged in here, why don't you take this barge for a practice spin around the city." He dropped the groundcar's comm link into his pocket. "Ill call you back when I need you. If you"—Miles deleted run into a— "have a problem, call me . . . no." He suspected he would shortly be praying for interruptions to his upcoming interview with Gregor, but it was cheating to prearrange them. "Call this number." He leaned over and tapped a code into the car's elaborate console. "This will get you a very competent gentleman named Tsipis, nice fellow, he'll tell you what to do."
"Yes, my lord."
"Watch your forward momentum. The power in this beast fools you. The heavy-duty fuel cells add mass almost as badly as the armoring does. The handling is quite deceptive. Take it out someplace where you have a. lot of space, and experiment, so it won't surprise you again."
"Uh . . . thank you, sir." The canopy hissed shut; through the polarized half-mirroring Miles could see Martin suck on his lip in concentration, as the car rose and moved forward once more. The car's silvery-Reaming left rear edge was undamaged, Miles noted without surprise. Another trainee, ah yes. If he'd had his wits about him, he could have sent the boy out to practice all last week, and avoided that minor embarrassment with Gregor's gate. But Martin would do all right, once he'd been permitted enough experience, and the better for not having the unnerving presence of his lordly little new employer at his elbow. One of the Residences liveried servants met Miles at the door, and escorted him to the north wing; they were headed for Gregor's private office, then. The north wing was the only section of the sprawling Imperial Residence less than two hundred years old. It had been burned to the ground during the War of Vordarian's Pretendership, the year of Miles's soltoxin-gas-damaged birth, and subsequently rebuilt. The Emperors ground-floor office was one of Gregor's few truly private and personal spaces. The decoration was spare, the limited artwork all purchased from rising young artists who were actually still alive, and there wasn't an antique in it.
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