“Unfortunate. But that can happen to the most supposedly secure bastions.” Simon touched his forehead in a frustration-gesture Ivan hadn’t seen for a while. “That was how the bastard took down my chip.”
“Your eidetic memory chip that was removed upon your retirement? Was this not ordered by your Imperial masters? I don’t follow.”
“The other way around, I’m afraid. First the chip was bio-sabotaged, quite thoroughly—Ivan would doubtless remember that part better than I do”—a sharp glance under his lidded eyes Ivan’s way—“then the slagged remains surgically excised, happily before and not after the ugly side-effects killed me. Not the way I would have chosen to retire from the Imperial Service, for all my daydreams of doing just that, after forty years.”
“Ah. I quite see,” said Shiv, sounding entirely sincere.
The two men toasted each other ironically with their nearly empty glasses, and drained them. The drinks-trolley elf appeared magically to refill them, then vanished into the mob again.
The marquetry doors on the end of the living room parted like the curtains on a play, revealing the stage, or at least the table, now pulled out to a spacious oblong and invitingly set. Mamere and her minions smoothly guided the guests to their places. Shiv seized the moment to murmur something in his daughter Pidge’s ear, before they were separated.
Ivan was unhappily parted from Tej, seated opposite her father who was placed at the foot of the table on Simon’s honored right. Alys, at the head, had Moira ghem Estif on her right, and Udine Arqua on her left—the usual protocols had plainly broken down in the face of the Arqua challenge, or things were being let to go a casual sort of family-style, or else Mamere had devised placements by some plan of her own, possibly with advice from ImpSec (retired). Ivan found himself plunked between his mother-in-law and his senior sister-in-law Star, with Byerly beyond her, separated from Rish by Emerald. Jet, Pearl, Amiri, and Pidge filled the opposite side of the table between Lady ghem Estif and Tej. The table was too long to maintain a single conversation except in spurts; most likely the talk would fragment into two or three parts. By, in the middle, was placed to either hear everything or be utterly distracted, depending.
A hearty Winterfair-style soup appeared, appropriate to the season—Ivan recognized the recipe on the first heavenly sniff. His mother had apparently kidnapped Ma Kosti for the evening, and he trusted Miles wouldn’t find out. Rish, down the table, was assuring her fellow-Jewel Emerald that everything was going to be just fine, and the genetically sense-enhanced portion of the table, which was most of it, raised their spoons in bliss.
Lady Alys diplomatically began the conversation with the most neutral topic available, inquiring of Lady ghem Estif how she had enjoyed Earth, and drawing Ivan in with a few leading remarks about his career-polishing stint there as an assistant military attaché, a decade—no, more—ago. A glance under her lashes warned Ivan to leave out the Interesting Bits, hardly necessary; it would take more drinks than this before Ivan would want to expand on his lingering feelings for those. Anyway, Lady ghem Estif relieved him of the necessity by being willingly led, describing her past eight years of residence on humanity’s homeworld in unexceptionable terms. To Ivan’s surprise, it seemed she had not spent her time there in a cloistered retirement, either rich or straitened, but in some sort of genetics-related consulting business, “To keep my hand in,” as she explained. “My original training is sadly out-of-date by Cetagandan standards; not so much by Earth’s. Though I have kept up.” She smiled complacently at her assorted grandchildren, ranged along the table.
Star, who in Ivan’s estimation had been drinking pretty heavily, unless she had some sort of gengineered Cetagandan liver, looked up and said, “How did you and the old general come to have the Baronne, anyway? Did your old Constellation order it? Must have—it’s said the haut keep their outcrosses tightly controlled.”
“That is incorrect, dear. Although by then my Constellation and I had long parted ways. It’s the haut-haut crosses that are meticulously planned. It is precisely the outcrosses that are loosened, so as to permit the possibility of genetic serendipity.”
Udine smiled rather grimly across the table at her mother. “Did you find me so serendipitous?”
“In the longer view—ultimately. I admit, at the time, my motivations were more short-term and emotional.”
Star’s brow furrowed. “Were you in love with Grandfather ghem Estif, back then?”
Moira ghem Estif waved away this romantic notion. “Rae ghem Estif was not a lovable man, as such. I did feel, strongly, that he—that all of us who chose to stop on Komarr rather than return to the Empire—had suffered our efforts to be betrayed by our respective superiors. It was Rae’s one loss to the Ninth Satrapy that I could make up.”
Jet, next to her, looked confused. “What loss was that?”
Udine sipped her wine, smiled affectionately across at her son-and/or-construct, and said, “What, you never heard that tale?” Jet, Ivan was reminded, was the last Arqua, even younger than Tej.
Conversation had died, all along the table, as those at the far end strained to hear. Tej leaned forward and peered around the line of her seatmates, alert for some new tidbit. Their materfamilias must not often bore them with accounts of her youth, Ivan decided.
“It’s a very Barrayaran story, all waste and aggravation and futility, which I must suppose makes it appropriate to tell here,” said Lady ghem Estif, with a glance down the table at her presumed host. Simon smiled distantly back, but his eyes had gone quite attentive. “The general’s son by one of his prior wives was lost in the Ninth Satrapy.”
“Blown up by Ivan Xav’s ancestors?” Rish inquired brightly from her end.
“We initially thought so, but our best later guess was that he was killed by what is so oxymoronically called friendly fire. Captain ghem Estif vanished while on a three-day leave. Normally this would have been put down to his being murdered by the guerillas or having deserted—desertions were a growing problem by then—but Rae insisted it could not be the second and there was no sign of the first. It was only much later—we had already reached Komarr, as I recall—that one of his son’s friends spoke privately with us, and we found out that the captain had taken a Barrayaran lover.”
She paused to sip soup; fourteen people refrained from interrupting, in unison.
She swallowed delicately and went on: “The captain had apparently penetrated enemy lines to the most dire and notorious nest of guerrillas on the planet in search of his young man. It is entirely unclear if he had found out the city was secretly slated to be destroyed by the ruling ghem-junta—of which General ghem Estif was not a part, so he could not have had the news that way—and was trying to get him out, or if it was just bad luck and bad timing. For all the ironic horror of his son’s immolation, Rae did seem to take some consolation in the assurance that it was not desertion.”
The four Barrayarans around the table were not, actually, quieter than the rest of the audience, Ivan thought—but maybe he was getting a worked demonstration of the difference between attentive and choked silence. The infamous nuclear destruction of the Vorkosigan’s District capital had been the act that had galvanized the war-torn and exhausted planet into its final push against the Occupation.
“My cousin Miles actually owns the site of Vorkosigan Vashnoi,” Ivan put in, affably. Pseudo-affably? Even he wasn’t sure. “It’s finally stopped glowing.”
“Has it?” said Lady ghem Estif, unruffled. “Well, salute the brave ghem-captain and his beloved for me, next time you fly over. I assume you do not land there.”
“No,” said Ivan. “Not even now.”
Lady Alys, with thirty years of diplomatic experience under her belt, looked as if she was discovering a whole new meaning for the term conversation pit. But she made a valiant effort to recover. “Is that why you and the ghem-general took up Komarran citizenship?”
“I believe Rae’s motivations for that were more practical—h
e had been given access to a large block of planetary voting shares.”
Bribed, did that translate as?
“I did not actually apply for Komarran citizenship myself, merely claiming umbrella residency as a spouse,” Lady ghem Estif went on. “Later, when I lived with Udine and Shiv, the question of governmental loyalties was, hm, locally moot. I have actually managed to remain a stateless person for the better part of a century, which, I can tell you, is not something the Nexus generally makes easy to do.”
“Indeed,” said Illyan from the other end of the table, staring at her in fascination, “not.”
The next course arrived and the conversation broke apart, the female-dominated end of the table going on to Cetagandan genetic techniques as applied to Jacksonian outcrosses, with a side-order of current Barrayaran techno-obstetrical fashions, the other end to military history and its financing. Ivan was maddened by not quite being able to hear the details when Simon and Shiv began to compare-and-contrast, or possibly one-up, anecdotes of brigandage and covert ops in the Jackson’s Whole system, presumably heavily edited on both sides.
Ivan decided to let someone else explain the provenance of the mouth-melting maple ambrosia served for dessert, but to his relief no one inquired; Lady Alys’s description of it as ‘a traditional Barrayaran confection’ seemed to cover it. The menu item was likely inevitable, given the cook; Ma Kosti was collecting royalties on the recipe, Ivan understood.
Dinner ended without disaster, despite Lady ghem Estif’s little wobble into ancient angst. With the seniors setting the pace, it was clear the evening was not going to run late or turn raucous. Ivan followed when Simon drew Shiv off to his study, an unusual postprandial honor; he normally only permitted the most select guests into this private space, such as Gregor or Miles, or Uncle Aral when he was on-world. The honor was underscored when Simon rummaged in his credenza and emerged with a bottle of the even more select brandy, the one from the Vorkosigan’s District so rare that it didn’t even have a label, being distributed solely as a gift from the Count’s own hand.
And two glasses. Simon studied Ivan with his most annoying blandness, and murmured, “I expect Lady Tej will be wanting your support out there, eh, Ivan?”
They eyed each other; Ivan tried not to let his gaze fix on the bottle gently dangling from Simon’s hand. “I’m very concerned for Tej’s future, sir.”
“I am aware, Ivan. It’s one of the things in the forefront of my mind.”
Ivan couldn’t say, out loud in front of his putative father-in-law watching this play with keen interest, Dammit, I need to be dealing with Shiv! Wait your turn! Nor, as Simon chivvied him firmly to the door and evicted him, Don’t forget! Just how many things could Simon keep in the forefront of his mind these days without losing track? The very soundproof, not to mention projectile-, plasma-, and poison gas-proof, door slid closed in front of Ivan’s nose, exiling him to the hallway.
Byerly wandered up, looking faintly frazzled. “Have you seen where Arqua and Illyan disappeared to?”
Ivan jerked his thumb at the study. “Private conclave, evidently. Discussing Vorkosigan brandy, and I’m not sure what else.”
Byerly stared at the blank door with curiosity second only to Ivan’s own. “Well . . . Illyan. Presumably he has things in hand.”
“I’m not so sure. You were closer to that end of the table than I was. Did you get the impression that Shiv was hustling Simon? I mean, subtly, of course.”
By shrugged. “Well, of course. Arqua has to be hustling every possibility he sees, right about now. Trying to get support for his House in exile, in the interest of making it not in exile. It was less clear”—By hesitated—“why Simon seemed to be hustling him back. Even more subtly, note. Unless it was just habit, I suppose.”
“That’s a disturbing thought. The two of them, hustling each other.”
“Yeah. It was . . . rather like watching two women trying to make each other pregnant.”
Ivan contemplated this arresting, not to mention distracting, metaphor for a moment. “That’s done. Technologically. Even on Barrayar, these days.”
Byerly waved a dissociating hand. “You see what I mean, though.”
“Yeah.” Ivan nibbled his lip. “Are you outed, by the way?”
“By Rish? I’m not yet sure. Do you know if Tej has told her family anything?”
“About your line of work? Not a clue. No one has given me any time to talk with my wife for the past day.” Ivan hesitated. “She has talked with them about something.”
“Well, try to find out, will you? Both,” By added in afterthought.
Ivan growled. “Spying is supposed to be your job.”
“I’m trying,” By bit out.
“Hey. You’re the one who outed yourself, back on Komarr. Surprised the hell out of me at the time. Were you trying to impress the pretty python with your daring dual identity, or what?”
“At the time, there were only the two of them, and I never imagined they’d ever get closer than five jumps to Vorbarr Sultana. It seemed a fair deal, and they seemed to agree. They weren’t going to blab to their enemies. Never pictured it lasting more than a couple of days before we went our separate ways. Or Rish having to choose me over her family, for God’s sake.”
Or Tej having to choose me over her family? Ivan had just time to think, before a door slid open down the hall, and By’s teeth snapped shut. Tall and cinnamon Pidge emerged from the guest lav, began to stride back toward the living room, spied the two of them lingering, and hove to with a smile. Snazzy heels on her shoes positioned her to look Ivan directly in the eye, and down on Byerly, very Baronette Sophia Arqua. Strange courtesy title, that. Ivan kept hearing it as bayonet, which . . . might not be so wrong.
“Oh, Ivan Xav.” A nod included Byerly in the greeting. “What a very pleasant evening this has been, after the tensions of our travels.”
“I’m glad,” said Ivan. “Do tell my mother. Entertaining is an art form, to her.”
“I could see that,” said Pidge, with near-Cetagandan approval. “Your mother’s partner is an interesting fellow, too,” she went on. Yes, she had been closer to Simon’s end of the table, through dinner. In the place next to Tej that should have been Ivan’s, eh. “Illyan is a, what do you call your grubbers, a prole name, though, isn’t it? Not one of you Vor.”
“No twice-twenty-years Imperial Service man need yield to any Vor for his place in our military caste,” said Ivan firmly.
Pidge looked to Byerly for confirmation of this cultural detail; he nodded cordially.
“Still, a captain. Even after, what, forty years—why do you call it twice-twenty, I wonder? But isn’t that the same rank as you?”
“No,” said Ivan. “Chief of Imperial Security, which was his job title, technically isn’t a military rank at all, but a direct Imperial appointment. He froze his military rank at captain because his predecessor, Emperor Ezar’s security chief Captain Negri—the man they called Ezar’s Familiar—never took a higher rank, either. A political statement, that. It was, after all, a very political job.”
Pidge tilted her head. “And what did they call your Illyan?”
“Aral Vorkosigan’s Dog,” By put in, lips quirking with amusement.
“But . . . Vorkosigan wasn’t an emperor. Was he . . . ?”
“Imperial Regent for sixteen years, you know, when Emperor Gregor was a minor,” Byerly charitably glossed for her outworlder benefit. “All of the work, none of the perks.” Ivan wondered if that was a direct quote from Uncle Aral. Or Aunt Cordelia, more likely.
“And what do they call the current Chief of ImpSec?”
“Allegre? They call him the Chief of ImpSec.” Byerly cast her the hint of an apologetic bow. “I fear we live in less colorful times.”
Thank God, Ivan thought. “Allegre was already a general at the time of his appointment. They didn’t make him give it back, so I suppose that’s the end of that tradition.”
Pidge’s generous mouth
pursed, as she puzzled through this. “It seems quite odd. Are Barrayaran captains very well paid, then?”
“No,” said Ivan, sadly. He added, lest she think less of his um-stepfather, “Illyan was given a vice-admiral’s salary, though, which makes more sense considering the workload.” Or perhaps it didn’t—26.7 hours a day for thirty years, all-consuming? Such a pyre wasn’t something a man entered into for pay. “Half-salary, now he’s retired.”
“How much would that be?”
Ivan, who dealt with military payrolls regularly and could have recited the wage ranges for every IS-number/rank ever invented, current or historical, said, “I imagine you could look it up somewhere.” Byerly smiled a little; the sweep of his lashes invited Ivan to carry on.
“Then . . . is he rich independently?” Pidge persisted.
“I have no idea.”
Pidge tossed her head in surprise; the amber curls gathered in a clasp at her nape, far more controlled than Tej’s cloud, failed to bounce much. “How can you not know?”
“I expect he has his savings,” Byerly put in, stirring what imagined pot Ivan barely wanted to contemplate, but was probably going to have to. “He couldn’t have started out with much, as a young prole officer, but that social class tends to be frugal. And he had no visible vices.”
“Nor secret ones, either,” Ivan put in. “He wouldn’t have had time.” Not that Illyan hadn’t been good at secrets . . . many years of unrequited and largely unsuspected prole pining for Lady Alys, for example. Which had escaped Ivan’s attention entirely, till the shoes had dropped—both pairs . . .
Well, all right, one secret vice. They had both been very drunk at the Emperor’s Birthday celebration a couple of years ago, Ivan by habit and tradition, the retired Illyan because he’d always been on ImpSec duty before and had never, he said, had a chance to. Through a progression of subjects that were soon a blur in Ivan’s mind, they had somehow got on to just what Illyan did and did not recall or miss from his memory chip, at which point Ivan had learned just where the largest and most arcane pornography collection on Barrayar had been secreted . . .