The Countess added, "Take good care of yourself, kiddo, please? Communicate, dammit." Their forms twinkled into thin air.
Miles sighed. I can't put this off much longer, I really can't.
He did manage to put it off one more day, by having Martin fly him back to Vorbarr Sultana the following morning. Ma Kosti served Miles lunch in splendid isolation in the Yellow Parlor; she'd obviously worked hard to make it as proper as possible, perhaps studying up on her new job from etiquette manuals, or getting tips from other Vors' servants in the area. He ate dutifully, despite an urge to gather up his plates and go join Martin and his mother in the kitchen. Certain aspects of the Vor lord role seemed remarkably stupid, at times.
Afterwards, he went to his room to finally face the task of composing a message to his parents. He'd recorded and erased three different tries—one too glum, one too flippant, one way too full of ugly sarcasms—when an incoming call interrupted his endeavors. He welcomed it despite the fact that it was Ivan. Ivan was in uniform, calling on his lunch break, perhaps.
"Ah, you're back in town. Good," Ivan began. That Good seemed quite heartfelt, apparently on more than one level. "Feeling better for the little vacation in the hills, I trust?"
"Somewhat," Miles said cautiously. How had Ivan found out so soon that he was back?
"Good," Ivan repeated. "Now. I've been wondering. Have you done anything toward getting your head looked at yet? Seen a doctor?"
"Not yet."
"Made an appointment anywhere?"
"No."
"Hm. Mother asked me. Gregor'd asked her, it seems. Guess who's at the bottom of that chain of command, and gets delegated to actually do something about it. I said I didn't think you'd done anything yet, but I'd ask. Why haven't you?"
"I . . ." Miles shrugged. "There didn't seem to be any rush. I wasn't bounced out of ImpSec for having seizures, I was bounced out of ImpSec for falsifying a report. And not one on a minor matter, either. Even if the medicos could do something to get me back into guaranteed perfect working order tomorrow, which if they could my Dendarii surgeon would have already done it, it wouldn't . . . change anything." Illyan won't take me back. He can't. It's a matter of frigging principle, and Illyan is one of the most principled men I know.
"I'd wondered . . . if it was because you didn't want to go to ImpMil," said Ivan. "Didn't want to deal with the military docs. If that's the case, I understand, I suppose—I think you're being silly, mind you, but I can understand. So I've looked up three different civilian clinics that specialize in cryo-revival cases, that seem to have good reputations. One's here in Vorbarr Sultana, one's over in Weienovya in Vordarian's District, and one's on Komarr, if you think closer proximity to galactic medicine is an advantage that would offset any lingering animosity toward your name there. You want me to make you an appointment at one of them?"
Miles thought he could guess the names of all three, from his prior search. "No. Thanks."
Ivan sat back, his lips twisting in puzzlement. "You know . . . I'd figured that would be the first thing you'd do, once the little ice-water bath brought you up out of the fog. You'd get your legs under yourself and be off and running, just like always. I never saw you face a wall that, if you couldn't go over it, you'd not try to find some way around, through, or under, or blow it up with sapper's charges. Or just bang your head against it till it fell down. And then they'd stick me with chasing you. Again."
"Running where, Ivan?"
Ivan grimaced. "Back to the Dendarii, of course."
"You know I can't do that. Without my official position in ImpSec, under due Imperial authority, my command of the Dendarii becomes a Vor lord, a Count's heir for God's sake, running a private army. Treason, Ivan, lethal treason. We've been all through that before. If I went, I could never come back. I gave my word to Gregor I wouldn't do it."
"Yeah?" said Ivan. "If you're not coming back, what does your word as Vorkosigan have to do with anything ever again?"
Miles sat silent. So. That business with having Ivan underfoot in Vorkosigan House hadn't been only a deathwatch after all. It had been an escape-watch as well.
"I'd have bet money you'd bolt," Ivan went on, "if there'd been anybody who had a high enough security classification to bet with. Besides Galeni, of course, and he's not the wagering sort. 'S why I've been dragging my feet despite Gregor and Mother about harassing you to get your head fixed. Why borrow trouble? It's a bet I'm glad to lose, by the way. So when are you going to get an appointment?"
" . . . Soon."
"Too vague," Ivan rejected this. "I want a straight answer. Something like, Today. Or maybe, Tomorrow before noon."
Ivan wouldn't go away till he extracted a response that satisfied him. "By . . . the end of the week," Miles managed.
"Good." Ivan nodded shortly. "I'll check back at the end of the week and expect to hear all about it. 'Bye—for now." He cut the com.
Miles sat staring at the empty vid plate. Ivan was right. He hadn't done a thing more about pursuing a cure since he'd been fired. Once freed from his constraining need for secrecy from ImpSec, why hadn't he been all over this seizure disorder, attacking it, tearing it apart, or at least riding some hapless medico as hard as he'd ever ridden the Dendarii Mercenaries to successfully complete their missions?
To buy time.
He knew it for the right answer, but it only brought him to a new level of self-bafflement. Time for what?
Keeping himself on self-inflicted medical leave allowed him to avoid facing certain unpleasant realities square-on. Such as the news that the seizures couldn't be cured, and that the death of hope was permanent and real; no cryo-revival for that corpse, just a warm and rotting burial.
Yeah? Really?
Or . . . was he just as afraid his head could be fixed—and then he'd be logically compelled to grab the Dendarii and take off? Back to his real life, the one that soared out far, far away into the glittering galactic night, escaping all the dirtsuckers' petty little concerns. Back to heroing for a living.
More afraid.
Had he lost his nerve, after that hideous episode with the needle grenade? He had a clear flash-vision in his memory of his odd angled view of his own chest blowing outward in a lumpy red spray, and pain beyond measure, and despair beyond words. Waking up afterward hadn't been a picnic, either. That pain had dragged on for weeks, without escape. Suiting up again to go out with the squad after Vorberg had been hard, no question, but he'd been doing all right until the seizure.
So . . . was the whole thing, from end to end, from seizure to falsification to discharge, a tricky dance to save himself from ever having to look down the wrong end of a needle-grenade launcher again, without having to say I quit out loud?
Hell, of course he was afraid. He'd have to be a frigging idiot not to be. Anyone would, but he'd done death. He knew how bad it was. Dying hurt, death was just nothing, both were to be avoided by any sane man. Yet he'd gone back. He'd gone back all the other times, too, after the little deaths, his legs smashed, his arms smashed, all the injuries that had left a map of fine white scars over his body from head to toe. Again and again and again. How many times did you have to die to prove you weren't a coward, how much pain were you required to consume to pass the course?
Ivan was right. He'd always found a way over the wall. He imagined it through, the whole scenario. Suppose he got his head fixed, here or on Komarr or on Escobar, it didn't matter where. And suppose he took off, and ImpSec declined to assassinate their renegade Vor, and they achieved some unspoken agreement to ignore each other forevermore. And he was all and only Naismith.
And then what?
I face fire. Climb that wall.
And then what?
I do it again.
And then what?
Again.
And then what?
It's logically impossible to prove a negative.
I'm tired of playing wall.
No. He needed neither to face nor avoid fire. If fire cam
e his way, he'd deal with it. It wasn't cowardice, dammit, whatever it was.
So why haven't I tried to get my head fixed yet?
He rubbed his face and eyes, and sat up, and attempted once more to compose a coherent account of his new civilian status and how he'd come by it for the Admiral Count and his Lady, the woman whom his father routinely addressed as Dear Captain. It came out very stiff and flat, he was afraid, worse even than Mark's birthday message, but he refused to put it off until yet another tomorrow. He recorded and sent it.
Albeit not by tight-beam. He let it go the long way, by ordinary mail, though marked Personal. At least it was gone, and he would not be able to call it back again.
Quinn had sent a birthday greeting too, demurely worded so as not to provide too much entertainment for the ImpSec censors. A strong tinge of anxiety leaked through her casual facade nonetheless. A second inquiry was more openly worried.
With enormous reluctance, he repeated a truncated version of his message for Quinn, minus the backfill and cutting straight to the results she had predicted. She deserved better, but it was the best he could do right now. She did not deserve silence and neglect. I'm sorry, Elli.
Ivan invited himself to dinner the next night. Miles feared he would have to endure more of the campaign to get him to address his medical problems, about which, admittedly, he had still done nothing, but instead Ivan brought flowers to Ma Kosti, and hung around the kitchen during dinner preparations, making her laugh, until she ran him out. At that point Miles began to fear it was the opening of a campaign to hire away his cook, though whether in Ivan's own right or on behalf of Lady Alys he was not yet sure.
They were halfway through dessert—by Ivan's request, a reprise of the spiced peach tart—when they were interrupted by a comconsole call, or rather, by Martin lurching in to announce, "There's some ImpSec stiff-rod on the com for you, Lord Vorkosigan."
Illyan? Why would Illyan call me? But when, Ivan following in curiosity, he'd trooped to the nearest com on that floor, the one sited in his grandfather's old sitting room overlooking the back garden, the face that formed over the vid plate at his touch was that of Duv Galeni.
"You smarmy goddamn little pimp," said Galeni, in a dead-level voice.
Miles's own bright, innocent, panicked, "Hi, Duv, what's up?" tripped over this and fell very flat, and just lay there, withering under Galeni's glare. Galeni's face was neither red nor pale, but livid, gray with rage. I should have stayed at Vorkosigan Surleau one more week, I think.
"You knew. You set this up. You set me up."
"Um . . . just checking." Miles swallowed. "What are we talking about?"
Galeni didn't even bother to dignify this with an answer, but glared on, his lips curling back on his long teeth in an expression that had nothing to do with a smile.
"Gregor and Laisa, by chance?" Miles hazarded. More thick silence, broken only by Galeni's breathing. "Duv . . . I didn't know it would come out like this. Who would have guessed it, after all these years? I was trying to do you a favor, dammit!"
"The one good thing that's ever come my way. Taken. Stolen. Vor does mean thief. And you goddamn Barrayaran thieves stick together, all right. You and your fucking precious Emperor and the whole damned pack of you."
"Uh," put in Ivan from the side, "is this comconsole secured, Miles? Sorry, Duv, but if you're going to express yourself so, um, frankly, wouldn't it be better to do it in person? I mean, I hope this isn't over your ImpSec channel. They have ears in the damnedest places."
"ImpSec can take its ears and the flat head between them and shove them up its collective ass." Galeni's accent, normally elusively urbane, was going not only distinctly Komarran but street-Komarran.
Miles signaled Ivan to shut up. Remembering what had happened to two unlucky Cetagandans the last time Miles had seen Galeni this upset, a personal visit seemed like a singularly bad idea just now. There was Corporal Kosti to protect him, of course, but could Kosti handle one of his own superiors? In a homicidal trance? It seemed rather a lot to ask of the poor fellow.
"Duv, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it to come out this way. It was nothing I'd planned. It took everyone by surprise, even Lady Alys. Ask Ivan."
Ivan shrugged, hands out. " 'S true."
Miles cleared his throat, cautiously. "How, um . . . did you find out about this?"
"She called me."
"When?"
"About five minutes ago."
She's just dumped him. Oh great.
"They both called me," Galeni groaned. "She said I was her best friend here, and she wanted me to be the first Komarran to hear the news."
Gregor's really gone and done it, then. "And, uh . . . what did you say?"
"Congratulations, of course. What else could I say? With the pair of 'em sitting there grinning at me?"
Miles breathed relief. Good. Galeni hadn't lost all control. He'd just called Miles to have a shoulder to gnash his teeth on. Looked at in a certain light, it was a measure of immense trust. Terrific. Thanks, Duv.
Ivan rubbed his neck. "You've been chasing this woman for five months, and all you got was that she thinks you're her friend? Duv, what the hell were you doing all that time?"
"She's a Toscane," said Galeni. "I'm just an impoverished collaborator, by her family's standards. I had to persuade her that I had a future worthy of her, nothing to look at now, no, but later . . . then he came along, and just, just swept her up with no trouble at all."
Miles, having watched Gregor practically turning handsprings in an effort to be pleasing to Laisa, said only, "Um."
"Five months is way too slow," said Ivan, continuing his tone of earnest critique. "God, Duv, I wish you'd asked me for some advice earlier."
"She's Komarran. What can one of you damned Barrayaran sugar-plum-fairy-soldier-bloody-buffoons know about a Komarran woman? Intelligent, educated, sophisticated—"
"Almost thirty . . ." Miles mused.
"I had a timetable," said Galeni. "When she'd known me six months exactly, I was going to ask her."
Ivan winced.
Galeni seemed to be calming down, or at least beginning a downward slide from his immediate reaction of rage and pain into a less energy-intensive despair. Perhaps his violent words were going to be safety-vent enough for his boiling emotions, without violent actions this time. "Miles . . ."—at least he didn't preface the name with a string of pejoratives now—"you're nearly Gregor's foster brother."
No nearly about it. "Um?"
"Do you think . . . could you possibly persuade him to relinquish . . . no." Galeni ran down altogether.
No. "I owe Gregor . . . from too far back. On a personal as well as a political level. This heir business is essential to my future health and safety, and Gregor's been dragging his feet on it forever. Till now. I can't do anything but support him. And anyway"—he remembered his Aunt Alys's words—"it's Laisa's decision, not yours or mine or Gregor's. I can't help it if you forgot to tell her about your timetable. I'm sorry."
"Shit." Galeni cut the com.
"Well," said Ivan thinly into the silence that followed. "At least that's over with."
"Have you been avoiding him too?"
"Yes."
"Coward."
"Who was it spent the last two weeks hiding out in the mountains?"
"It was a strategic withdrawal."
"Well. I believe our dessert is drying out back in the dining room."
"I'm not hungry. Besides . . . if this is Gregor and Laisa's night to start informing selected personal friends, prior to the official announcement . . . I may as well stay here for a few more minutes."
"Ah." Ivan nodded, and pulled up a chair, and seated himself.
Three minutes later, the comconsole chimed. Miles keyed it on.
Gregor was trimly dressed in dark and distinctly civilian gear; Laisa was lovely as usual in bluntly Komarran style. Both were smiling, eyes alight with the glow of their mutual infatuation.
"Hello, Miles," Gregor began, to
which Laisa added a, "Hello again, Lord Vorkosigan."
Miles cleared his throat. "Hi, folks. What can I do for you?"
"I wanted you to be among the first to know," said Gregor. "I've asked Laisa to marry me. And she said yes." Gregor was looking quite blitzed, as if this prompt assent had come as a surprise to him. Laisa's smile, to her credit, was at least equally blitzed.
"Congratulations," Miles managed.
Ivan leaned over his shoulder into the vid pickup to add a second to the motion, and Gregor said, "Oh, good, you're here. You were next." Going down his list of profoundly relieved heirs in official order of rank? Well . . . it was the Barrayaran thing to do. Laisa murmured greetings to Ivan too.