“I don’t want a pill. I have to check the garden. I have to check everything—”
“The garden is fine. Everything is fine. As you have just discovered in Armsman Roic here, your staff is more than competent.” She started down the stairs, a distinctly steely look in her eye. “It’s either a sleeptimer or a sledgehammer for you, son. I am not handing you off to your blameless bride in the state you’re in, or the worse one it’ll be if you don’t get some real sleep before this afternoon. It’s not fair to her.”
“Nothing about this marriage is fair to her,” m’lord muttered, bleak. “She was afraid it would be the nightmare of her old marriage all over again. No! It’s going to be a completely different nightmare—much worse. How can I ask her to step into my line of fire if—”
“As I recall, she asked you. I was there, remember? Stop gibbering.” The countess took his arm, and began more or less frog-marching him upstairs. Roic made a mental note of her technique for future reference. She glanced over her shoulder and gave Roic a reassuring, if rather unexpected, wink.
The brief remainder of the most memorable night shift of his career passed, to Roic’s relief, without further incident of note. He dodged excited maidservants hurrying to the big day’s tasks and mounted the stairs to his tiny fourth-floor bedroom thinking that m’lord wasn’t the only one who should get some sleep before the afternoon’s more public duties. M’lord’s last, decidedly free-floating comments kept him awake for some time, though, beguiling him with visions of somewhat shocking charm. Such as he’d never dreamed of back in Hassadar. He fell asleep with his lips curling up.
A few minutes before his alarm was set to go off, Roic was awakened by Armsman Jankowski tapping at his bedroom door.
“Pym says you’re to report to m’lord’s suite right away. Some kind of briefing—you don’t have to be in your uniform yet.”
“Right.”
Dress uniform, Jankowski meant, although Jankowski was already sharp in his own. Roic slipped on last night’s wear and ran a comb through his hair, frowned in frustration at his beard shadow—right away presumably meant just that—and hurried downstairs.
Roic found m’lord in his suite’s sitting room, halfway dressed in a silk shirt, the brown trousers with silver side-piping and the silver-embroidered suspenders that went with, and slippers. He was attended by his cousin Ivan Vorpatril, resplendent in his own House’s blue-and-gold uniform. As m’lord’s Second and chief witness in the imminent ceremony, Lord Ivan was also playing groom’s batman as well as general supporter.
One of Roic’s fonder secret memories from the past weeks was of witnessing, in his role as disregarded coat-rack, the great Viceroy Count Vorkosigan himself taking his handsome nephew aside and promising, in a voice so low as to be almost a whisper, to have Ivan’s hide for a drumskin if he allowed his misplaced sense of fun to do anything at all to screw up the impending ceremony for m’lord. Ivan had been humorless as a judge all week; side bets were being taken belowstairs for how long it would last. Remembering that deeply ominous voice, Roic had selected the longest shot in the pool—and thought himself likely to win.
Taura, also in last night’s gear of skirt and lacy blouse, lounged on one of the small sofas in the bay window, apparently offering bracing advice. M’lord had evidently taken the sleeptimer, for he looked vastly better: clean, shaved, clear-eyed, and very nearly calm.
“Ekaterin’s here,” he told Roic, in the awed tone of a besieged garrison commander describing the unexpected relieving force. “The bride’s party is using my mother’s suite for their staging area. Mother’s going to bring her down in a moment. She needs to be in on this.”
In on what? was answered before Roic could voice the question by the entry of ImpSec chief General Allegre himself, in dress greens, escorted by the count, also already in his best House uniform. Allegre was a wedding guest in his own right, but it clearly wasn’t for social reasons that he’d arrived an hour early.
The countess and Ekaterin followed on their heels, the countess graceful in something sparkling and green, m’lady-to-be still in her drab dress but with her hair already braided up and thickly entwined with tiny roses and other exquisite little scented flowers that Roic could not name. Both women looked grave, but a smile like a fugitive gleam from paradise lit Ekaterin’s eyes as they met m’lord’s. Roic found he had to look away from that brief intensity, feeling a clumsy intruder. He thus surprised Taura’s expression: shrewdly approving, but more than a little wistful.
Ivan drew up extra chairs, and all disposed themselves around the small table near the window. Madame Vorsoisson took a seat beside m’lord, decorously but with no wasted centimeters between. He gripped her hand. Roic managed to slip in next to Taura; she smiled down at him. These chambers had once belonged to the late great General Piotr Vorkosigan, before they’d been claimed by his grandson, the rising young Lord Auditor. This spot, not the grand public rooms downstairs, was the site of more military, political, and secret conferences of historic import to Barrayar than Roic could readily imagine.
“I dropped by early to give you ImpSec’s latest report in person, Miles, Madame Vorsoisson, Count, Countess.” Allegre, half leaning on a sofa arm, nodded around. He reached into his tunic and withdrew a plastic bag in which something white glimmered and gleamed. “And to return these. I had my forensics people clean them after collecting and recording the evidence. They’re safe now.”
Gingerly, m’lord took the pearls from his hand and set them down on the table. “And do you know yet who gets the thank-you note for this gift? I’m rather hoping to deliver it in person.” Ill-concealed menace vibrated beneath his light tone.
“That has actually broken open much faster than I was expecting,” said Allegre. “It was a very nice forgery job on the date stamps from Escobar on the outer packaging, but the inner decorative wrapping checked out under analysis as of Barrayaran origin. Once we knew which planet to look on, the item was sufficiently unique—the necklace is of Earth origin, by the way—we were able to trace it by jeweler’s import records almost at once. It was purchased two weeks ago in Vorbarr Sultana for a large sum of cash, and the store security vids for the month hadn’t been erased yet. My agent positively identified Lord Vorbataille.”
M’lord hissed through his teeth. “He was on my short list, yes. No wonder he was trying so hard to get off planet.”
“He was up to his eyebrows in the plan, but he wasn’t its originator. Do you remember how you said to me three weeks ago that while there had to be brains behind this operation, you’d swear they weren’t in Vorbataille’s head?”
“Yes,” said m’lord. “I had him pegged for a front man, suborned for his connections. And his yacht, of course.”
“You were right. We picked up his Jacksonian crime consultant about three hours ago.”
“You have him!”
“We have him. He’ll keep, now.” Allegre gave m’lord a grim nod. “Although he had the wit to not bring attention to himself by trying to get off planet, one of my analysts, who came in last night to look over the new evidence that came in with the necklace, was able to run a back-trace and cross-connect, and so identify him. Well, actually he fingered three suspects, but fast-penta cleared two of them. The source for the toxin was a fellow by the name of Luca Tarpan.”
M’lord mouthed the syllables; his face screwed up. “Damn. Are you sure? I’ve never heard of him.”
“Quite sure. He appears to have ties with the Bharaputra syndicate on Jackson’s Whole.”
“Well, that would give him access to quite a lot of somewhat scrambled two-year-old information about me and Quinn, yes. Both mes, in fact. And it accounts for the superior forgery. But why such a heinous attack? It’s almost more disturbing to think that some total stranger would—Have we crossed paths before?”
Allegre shrugged. “It seems not. The preliminary interrogation suggests it was a purely professional ploy—although he clearly had no love left for you by the t
ime you were about half done ripping open this case. Your talent for making interesting new enemies has evidently not deserted you. The plan was to create distracting chaos in your investigation just after the group made its getaway—Vorbataille was preselected to be thrown to us for a goat, it turns out—but we shut them down about eight days early. The necklace had only just been slipped into the delivery service’s records and dispatched at that point.”
M’lord’s teeth set. “You’ve had Vorbataille in your hands for two days. And fast-penta didn’t turn this up?”
Allegre grimaced. “I just reviewed the transcripts before I drove over here. It came very close to surfacing. But to get an answer, even—especially—under fast-penta, as useful a truth drug as it is, you must first know enough to ask the question. My interrogators were concentrating on the Princess Olivia. It was Vorbataille’s yacht that was used to insert the hijacking team, by the way.”
“Knew it had to be,” grunted m’lord.
“We’d have caught up with this necklace scheme in a few more days on our own, I think,” said Allegre.
M’lord glanced at his chrono and said rather thickly, “You’d have caught up with it in about one more hour, actually. On your own.”
Allegre tilted his head in frank acknowledgment. “Yes, unfortunately. Madame Vorsoisson”—he touched his brow in a considerably more formal gesture than the usual ImpSec salute—“on behalf of myself and my organization, I wish to offer you my most abject apologies. My Lord Auditor. Count. Countess.” He looked up at Roic and Taura, sitting side by side on the sofa opposite. “Fortunately, ImpSec was not your last line of defense.”
“Indeed,” rumbled the count, who had seated himself on a straight chair turned backward, arms comfortably crossed over its back, listening intently but without comment till now. Countess Vorkosigan stood by his side; her hand touched his shoulder, and he caught it under his own thicker one.
Allegre said, “Illyan once told me that half the secret of House Vorkosigan’s preeminence in Barrayaran history was the quality of the people it drew to its service. I’m glad to see this continues to hold true. Armsman Roic, Sergeant Taura—ImpSec salutes you with more gratitude than I can rightly express.” He did so, in a sober gesture altogether free of his sporadic irony.
Roic blinked, ducking his head in lieu of the return salute he wasn’t sure he was supposed to make. He wondered if he was expected to say something. He hoped to hell no one would want him to make a speech, like after that incident in Hassadar. That had been more horrifying than the needler fire. He glanced up to find Taura glancing down at him, eyes bright. He wanted to ask her—he wanted to ask her a thousand things, but not here. Would they ever get a private moment again? Not for the next several hours, that was certain.
“Well, love,”—m’lord blew out his breath, staring down at the plastic bag—“I think that’s your final warning. Travel with me and you travel into hazard. I don’t want it to be so. But it’s going to go on being so, as long as I serve…what I serve.”
M’lady-to-be glanced at the countess, whose return smile was decidedly twisted. “I never imagined it would be otherwise for a Lady Vorkosigan.”
“I’ll have these destroyed,” m’lord said, reaching for the pearls.
“No,” said m’lady-to-be, her eyes narrowing. “Wait.”
He paused, raising his eyebrows at her.
“They were sent to me. They’re my souvenir. I shall keep them. I’d have worn them as a courtesy to your friend.” She reached past him and scooped up the bag, tossed it up and caught it again out of the air, her long fingers closing tightly around it. Her edged smile took Roic aback. “I’ll wear them now as a defiance to our enemies.”
M’lord’s eyes blazed back at her.
The countess seized the moment—possibly, Roic thought, to cut off her son from further blithering—and tapped her chrono. “Speaking of wearing things, it’s time to get dressed.”
M’lord went a shade paler. “Yes, of course.” He kissed m’lady-to-be’s hand as she rose, looking as if he never wanted to let it go again. Countess Vorkosigan herded everyone except m’lord and his cousin into the hallway, shutting the door to the suite firmly behind her.
“He looks much better now,” said Roic to her, glancing back. “I think your sleeptimer was just t’ thing.”
“Yes, plus the tranquilizers I had Aral give him when he went in to wake him up a while ago. The double dose seems to have been just about right.” She hooked her arm through her husband’s.
“Still think it should have been a triple,” he murmured.
“Now, now. Calm, not comatose, is the goal for our groom.” She escorted Madame Vorsoisson toward the stairs; the count went off with Allegre, taking advantage of the chance to discuss details, or perhaps drinks, in private.
Taura stared after them, her smile askew. “You know, I wasn’t sure about that woman for Miles at first, but I think she’ll do him very well. That Vor thing of his always baffled Elli. Ekaterin has it in her bones same as he does. God help them both.”
Roic had been about to say that he thought m’lady-to-be better than m’lord deserved, but Taura’s last remark brought him up short. “Huh. Yeah. She’s true Vor, all right. It’s no easy thing.”
Taura started down the corridor but stopped at the corner and half turned back to ask, “So, what are you doing after the party?”
“Night guard duty.” All bloody week, Roic realized in dismay. And Taura only had ten days left on-planet.
“Ah.”
She whisked away; Roic glanced at his chrono and gulped. The generous time he’d allotted to dress and report for wedding duty was almost gone. He ran for the stairs.
The guests were already starting to arrive, spilling from the entry hall through the succession of flower-graced public rooms, when Roic scuffed quickly down the staircase to take up his allotted place as backup to Armsman Pym, in turn backing up Count and Countess Vorkosigan. Some on-site guests were already in place: Lady Alys Vorpatril, acting as assistant hostess and general expediter, and her benevolently absentminded escort, Simon Illyan; the Bothari-Jeseks; Mayhew, in apparent permanent tow of Nikki; an assortment of Vorvaynes who had overflowed from Lord Auditor Vorthys’s packed house to Vorkosigan House guest rooms. M’lord’s friend Commodore Galeni, Chief of ImpSec Komarran Affairs, and his wife were early arrivals, along with m’lord’s special Progressive Party colleagues, the Vorbrettens and the Vorrutyers.
Commodore Koudelka and his spouse, known universally as Kou and Drou, arrived with their daughter Martya. Martya was standing in as Madame Vorsoisson’s Second in place of m’lady-to-be’s closest friend—yet another Koudelka daughter, Kareen, still at school on Beta Colony. Kareen and m’lord’s brother, Lord Mark, were much missed (albeit, in remembrance of the bug butter incident, not by Roic) but the interstellar travel time had proved too tight for their schedules. Lord Mark’s wedding present was a gift certificate for the bridal couple for a week at an exclusive and very expensive Betan resort, however, so perhaps m’lord and his lady would soon be visiting his brother and their friend, not to mention m’lord’s Betan relatives. As gifts went, it at least had the advantage of shifting all the security challenges inherent in the trip to some later time.
Martya was sped upstairs by a maid detailed to that purpose. Martya’s escort and Lord Mark’s business partner, Dr. Borgos, was quietly taken aside by Pym for an unscheduled frisking for any surprise gift insects he might have been harboring, but this time the scientist proved clean. Martya returned unexpectedly soon, her brow wrinkled thoughtfully, and repossessed him to stroll off in search of drinks and company.
Lord Auditor and Professora Vorthys arrived with the rest of the Vorvaynes, altogether a goodly company: four brothers, three wives, ten children, and m’lady-to-be’s father and stepmother, in addition to her beloved aunt and uncle. Roic glimpsed Nikki showing off Arde to his mob of awed young Vorvayne cousins, pressing the jump pilot to decant galactic war stori
es to this enthralled audience. Nikki didn’t, Roic noted, seem to have to press very hard. The Betan pilot grew downright expansive in the warm glow of these attentions.
The Vorvayne side stood up bravely to the glittering company that was Vorkosigan House’s norm—well, Lord Auditor Vorthys was notoriously oblivious to any status not backed by proven engineering expertise. But even the bride’s most buoyant older brother grew subdued and thoughtful when Count Gregor and Countess Laisa Vorbarra were announced. The emperor and empress had chosen to attend the supposedly informal afternoon affair as social equals to the Vorkosigans, which saved a world of protocol hassles for everyone, not least themselves. Not in any other uniform but that of his Count’s House could the emperor have publicly embraced his little foster brother Miles, who ran downstairs to greet him, nor been so sincerely embraced in return.
In all, m’lord’s “little” wedding numbered one hundred twenty guests. Vorkosigan House absorbed them all.
At last, the moment arrived; the hall and antechambers became brief, crowded chaos as wraps were redonned and the guests all streamed out the gate and around the corner to the garden. The air was cold but not bitter, and thankfully windless, the sky a deepening clear blue, the slanting afternoon sun liquid gold. It turned the snowy garden into as gilded, glittering, spectacular and utterly unique a show-place as m’lord’s heart could ever have desired. The flowers and ribbons were concentrated around the central place where the vows were to be, complementing the wild brilliance of the ice and snow and light.
Although Roic was fairly sure that the two realistically detailed ice rabbits humping under a discreet bush were not part of the decorations m’lord had ordered. They did not pass unnoticed, as the first person to observe them immediately pointed them out to everyone within earshot. Ivan Vorpatril averted his gaze from the cheerfully obscene artwork—the rabbits were grinning—a look of innocence on his face. The count’s menacing glower at him was, alas, undercut by an escaping snicker, which became a guffaw when the countess whispered something in his ear.