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Miles enters the library to find Petya sitting back in a chair, shuffling through charts. He looks up as Miles comes over and hoists himself onto a chair.
"How are you feeling?" Petya asks softly.
Only Petya, Miles thinks with a groan, can make that sound like a reprimand. Of course, Petya had been the only one in the family to flat-out advise him against going for his officer's candidacy. Miles can still hear Petya's voice telling him that he would give Miles his opinion only if Miles asked for it. And then when Miles had asked for it, sure enough, he'd wished he hadn't. So little faith in me, Petya?
"That fall looked terrible," Petya says after a moment. "Bothari actually flinched."
Of course, Miles realizes, Captain Petya had been there. Of course he'd been there. "Wanted to watch me fail in person?"
Petya's lips thin. "It saved me from hearing it second-hand," he says. "From absolutely everyone."
Okay, point. Miles shrugs. He points with his chin towards Petya's mess. "What's that plan of attack for?" Maybe it's some diplomatic corps training program and Miles could score points by letting Ivan weasel details out of him. Miles isn't sure what kind of intensive training diplomatic corps officers get. How to navigate around a formal reception without bumping into anyone's drinks? Anything spyish would be ImpSec's domain, certainly.
"The assault on the Council of Counts," Petya says. He hands Miles one of the charts and Miles looks it over quickly, then over again. "Unfortunately, Gran'da died at a very politically inconvenient time. It's a shame. There were a couple times during the Regency when we could have shoved this through easily. But now it's going to be down to strategy and every vote."
"You have Vorhalas listed," Miles says, "and Gregor."
"If I can't get Gregor's vote on this, then I have no political capital to speak of and should retire in shame to become a hermit," Petya says. "And Vorhalas will vote to confirm you as my heir."
Miles would doubt that, but he's paid enough attention to close votes to know that Petya has some kind of bizarre hold on Vorhalas. There'd been a couple times when Petya had gone off to have a quiet conversation with Vorhalas and then Vorhalas had come around. But it was a strange pattern and not much of one. There aren't enough data points to analyze it, Miles thinks with a mild complaint. They were smaller votes, only on comparatively-obscure issues. It was never anything huge, anything Vorhalas would have lost face in his own party for supporting. But they were votes that his father had needed, and Petya had gotten them.
Miles had asked Petya once, back when he had been about twelve and absolutely fascinated that his older brother had enough political clout to get a Count to change his mind, and Petya had given him a very clear non-answer.
But he'll figure it out eventually, Miles tells himself. Once he has enough data points, it'll become clear.
"This isn't a majority," Miles says instead.
"I know." Petya lets out a frustrated sigh. "Six months ago, I could have had one. Even three, I could have pulled it without losing sleep. But now, I don't know." His wave encompasses the mess on his desk. "Hence the paperwork."
"Is there some kind of rush?" Miles asks, remembering the look on his father's face when Miles had asked him a similar question, if there was some kind of emergency going on behind the scenes. One such sign, he thinks, would be Petya needing to get Miles confirmed as his heir as soon as possible and with all due speed. "Maybe in six months, the balance will swing back in our favor."
"The longer it waits," Petya says, "the longer there is for the Counts to convince themselves to decide to wait against the day I produce a son instead of confirming my choice of heir now. We need to shove this through while they're still blinded by sentiment over the great general's death."
Right. Shove through the mutie brother. "You could get married," Miles says. "That would solve the problem of you not having a legal heir."
Petya stares at him. "You are my legal heir," he points out, "I know you've seen my will. When I die, you inherit."
"A legal heir," Miles says. "to your titles. Not your property."
Petya grimaces. "Yes, well, now that I have titles, I would like them to be inherited along with the property. Which means passing them off to you. Don't worry, Miles. We will get you confirmed in the Counts."
Petya has that glint in his eye that means Miles should probably be asking a lot more questions about the current political situation, but the voting chart catches his eye again.
"You don't think the Vorrutyers will go for me?" he asks. You don't think you can convince your own cousin to support this? No, of course not. The Vorrutyers may be crazy, but they're not mutants. We must have standards after all. We must draw the line somewhere, and it's right in front of Miles Vorkosigan. No mutants allowed.
"It's not a question of that," Petya says. "Pierre is... well, Pierre has declined to name a proxy and he hasn't attended a vote in nearly a year. I could probably carry him bodily into the chamber, but, in any case, it is unlikely that we will get a Vorrutyer vote on this. I'm not going to force the issue and require him to name a proxy for this, because he'll likely name Richars, and Richars and I aren't on speaking terms."
"Really? What happened?" Miles hasn't heard that one yet. Pierre has been Count Pierre for almost a decade now, after the old Count had finally died, probably over the deep, unrelenting slow-poison of shame that a Vorkosigan had been the saving grace of Escobar instead of Admiral Vorrutyer. Pierre has been a Count for half of Miles's life and Miles isn't even sure he's met him. Well-known recluse, his Vorrutyer relatives said. Well-known Vorrutyer madman, everyone else said.
"A difference of politics," Petya says. "Or, rather, a difference of diplomacy. He's an ass and he was such publicly. I told him not to shame the Vorrutyer name with such behavior. He took offense."
"Challenged you to a duel?" Miles asks.
"Called me a bastard," Petya shrugs. "Old insult. It, ah, escalated. Unfortunately, this was at a state dinner, so there were rather many witnesses."
Miles's mouth drops open. "You insulted someone at a state dinner?" He pauses. "I wish I could have seen that," he says enviously. He wonders what Richars could have possibly said to make Petya lose his temper. Usually only family could do that. Answered your own question there. "What did he say to make you lose your temper?"
"It was an insult to a lady's honor," Petya says. After a pause, he admits, "my mother's." He clears his throat. "Richars, ah, made a comment to an unnamed gentleman that any Vor lady who spent her honor unwisely should...," Petya grimaces. "Well, I won't repeat it. But it was shockingly ill-mannered."
"Uh huh," Miles says, fascinated. He can always track how uncomfortable Petya is by how formal he gets. It's a major tell.
"Of course," Petya continues, "my behavior was atrocious and unbecoming and you should never conduct yourself that way in public."
"Yes, of course," Miles agrees easily. Petya's been using himself as an object lesson for what not to do for years. Which Miles finds frankly hilarious, considering what Petya's job is. If Captain Vorkosigan of the Diplomatic Corps loses his temper, then how can little Lord Miles be expected to keep his mouth shut?
Well, Miles reasons, that's probably Petya's nightmare, not being a good influence. Petya has strange views of being a big brother. It probably stems from spending the first twenty-some years of his life as an only child and him picking up how to be a good big brother from watching sentimental holovid dramas that he would never actually admit he'd watched, but would tell Miles their plots, with intricate and obsessive detail, when Miles would demand stories.
"As it is," Petya says, forcing them back to the subject at hand and not the question of what exactly Richars and Petya had said to each other, "we can rely on the party faithful to vote how the Prime Minister tells them to vote. And we can rely on most of the conservative party to refuse on principle. I'd advocate publishing your gene scan," Petya says, almost in apology, "but I don't think old Vormoncrief can read one, or would care what it said."
"A mutie's a mutie," Miles shrugs. "What I look like is more important than what I actually am."
Petya frowns. "Miles, I've been trying to get visible mutants to select diplomacy for years. What you are is much more important than what you seem. I wish I could shove you out there and put you into a state dinner on a planet like New Tertius, where they've called us murderers to our faces, and say you're a diplomat representing Barrayar and are testifying as living proof as to how we have changed and how we aren't killing mutants anymore, but you're not a mutant. I would hang a sign on you saying as much, if I could."
"I'm not much interested in diplomacy anyway," Miles says.
"I know," Petya says. "If you were, I'd've already handed you the application to the Imperial Diplomatic Service. Even though you're not a mutant, we could use you. Well, the civilian side could," Petya adds. "And the Diplomatic Service is a better choice if you have ambassadorial ambitions. Can't be an ambassador and a serving officer, after all."
The last time Miles had heard Petya's Barrayar Needs You speech, Petya had been asking for greekies. Miles wonders if Petya'd gotten enough of them yet.
Miles decides to steal Petya's next line. "What are your plans now?" he asks. When Gran'da had started showing signs of actually dying this time, Petya had been assigned to Academy duty. It's generally understood by all and sundry that Petya'll be shoved off-planet again once he finally became Lord Vorkosigan.
"Finish out the Academy term," Petya says, "then we'll see. There's been talk of a post in the Hegen Hub."
"You're coming up on your twenty, aren't you?"
"Hit it already," Petya says. "Why?"
"The-Count-our-father," Miles has been waiting years to say that. Years, "said something to me about doing things in the District. Things that needed to be done. Have a Vorkosigan on site."
Petya's smile fades. "Yes, I know. It's been a concern of mine and had factored in. I hadn't been thinking seriously about resigning my commission, but it was something... it's still politically expedient for me to be nowhere near Vorbarr Sultana," he says abruptly, having clearly given up on talking around the subject. "Such as on the same planet. Perhaps in two years, if Gran'da could have held out that long... long enough to get Gregor to calm down," Petya grumbles under his breath.
It's the second time in two days someone in his family has said Gregor's name in that tone of voice and Miles asks, carefully, "Petya, what's going on?"
Petya shakes his head. He's clearly going to be the second Vorkosigan in two days to tell Miles absolutely, deliberately, nothing. "When I was Gregor's age, I was fighting a war. Something he informed me of two weeks ago, as if that was anything I was about to forget. Gregor is under the impression that the last decade of mostly peace and quiet is a slight perpetuated upon him by his regent, rather than a great gift."
"Gregor has growing pains?" Miles suggests.
"Rather," Petya concedes, "he is realizing that, having been Emperor since he was four years old, there was no great switch that flicked when he turned twenty and made him actually the Emperor. He's always, since before he can remember, mostly likely, been the Emperor. So he's trying to find out what being the Emperor means. Unfortunately for his advisors," Petya adds lowly. "Gregor thinks that if there is some great war or difficulty, he can prove to everyone that he is the Emperor. He has yet to realize that we already know who he is, thank you."
"Maybe he's just trying to prove it to himself," Miles says. "I know all about that feeling."
"Mm," Petya says. "I don't understand that at all. How do you not know who you are?"
Miles gapes at him. "Petya, I've been trying to prove myself all my life. To everyone. To you."
"Well, stop," Petya says irritably. "I know exactly who you are. You're my brother Miles."
"You didn't even think I could pass the entrance exams!"
"You didn't," Petya points out. "And I hope you didn't put yourself through that to try to prove something to me or anyone or even yourself, Lord Miles. It's madness."
"To do what, try to push yourself, to achieve things you didn't know if you could?" Miles glares at his brother. "How do you grow if you don't stretch?"
"You can be very Betan," Petya says. "I often forget. Perhaps that explains Gregor. He can be very Betan, too."
"And sometimes you shock me how much you're just like Gran'da," Miles grumbles.
Petya actually flinches. Then he says coolly, "I have never tried to kill you, Miles. You're doing just fine with that all by yourself. What were you thinking, trying the physical? Are you looking for someone to snap your neck for you so you don't have to condescend to do it yourself?"
"I was trying to be a soldier," Miles says. "And I don't see why you should be upset about it. You know as well as I do what my life expectancy is. It's not very long."
"That may be, but it does not give you a right to throw it away needlessly," Petya says. "And I remember when your life expectancy was three months, then less than a year, then two years, then four years, then six. I have watched it climb up slowly over the years and I refuse to believe you have as little time to live as you seem to. I can stand to the side and watch you try dangerous feats you know you cannot achieve, but I refuse to be happy about it, or believe you to be right to do it."
"Just because you have spent your life never taking a risk, Petya," Miles says, "doesn't give you the right to tell me not to make them. It's my life and I can spend it as I want, risk it as I please, or throw it away as I please."
Petya's expression freezes. "My mother was dead at nineteen," Petya says, voice cold, and Miles sits up straighter. "Don't you dare speak of these things. Not to me."
Miles opens his mouth to object. And then, thinking hopefully of living to see tomorrow, shuts it.
"Now," Petya says, voice forcibly pleasant but still with steel behind it, "why don't you tell me what your plans for the future are, Lord Miles? If you don't make any, I assure you, your family is capable of doing it for you."
"I hadn't made any yet," Miles admits. "I didn't take failure into account when planning my future."
"Start," Petya advises. "Or you'll turn around and discover yourself somewhere you never meant to be, making mistakes you never meant to make. I know that feeling."
"Ah?" Miles asks, trying to sound like he isn't about to shake his brother until some answers fall out.
But Petya doesn't deign to answer him, just turns back to his vote calculations. Miles wonders if Petya is making alternate plans for failure there. Oh, god. Miles hopes so. He can't imagine a scenario in which the Counts will confirm Miles as heir to Lord Vorkosigan. Even Petya can't reasonably be assuming it'll happen. Even Petya doesn't believe in him.
But he'll show them. He'll show them all.