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"Barrayarans!"
Lady Alys Vorpatril had heard this exclamation often enough to guess the context from how Cordelia pronounced the word. A high voice, for example, was usually inspired by some custom that (from the Betan point of view) ought to have become superannuated generations ago. When she growled the word, General Count Piotr Vorkosigan--Cordelia's father-in-law and one of the toughest, most terror-inspiring men of the previous generation of terrifying men--was usually not far from the cause.
Cordelia was growling now.
"Sit down," Alys soothed. "Have some tea. Tell me what the Count is up to."
Cordelia paused in the act of shaking back her windblown hair. Alys admired Cordelia's ruddy mane almost as much as she admired the woman it belonged to. Cordelia could run her fingers through her hair once or twice, brush impatiently at the rain splotches on her bolero, then sit down with the innate poise of someone who breathes presence. And it was all unconscious.
"You have become alarmingly clairvoyant." Cordelia's smile was wry. "How did you know it was the Count?" A quick contraction of her expressive brows. "Or have I been complaining far too much? If so, tell me to shut up any time."
Alys returned her smile as her servant brought in the tea. She made a business of pouring it until the door to her parlor was closed again, and then said, "You don't complain enough, I think. I know I couldn't live a day in the same house with that old dragon--no matter how large a house." She saluted Cordelia with her cup. "One reason I haven't remarried. The sort of man the family expects tends to come with an old dragon of a father or grandfather."
Cordelia laughed. Another of her attributes was her unqualified approval of Alys's discreet romances.
Alys said, "Speaking of not marrying, how long will you be in the city?"
"If that means you have plans, I can just as easily take Ivan back with me. Miles and Elena always welcome another playmate, especially as Gregor is getting too old for their games," Cordelia said. "As for how long I'm here . . . I don't know. I came for some shopping."
"Ouch. Did you tell Count Piotr that?"
"I did." A brief, edged smile. "It's his fault he let me overhear him calling me Lady Shoppicide."
Alys choked on her tea.
"It doesn't even makes sense!" Cordelia mourned. "You can't kill a shopping bag."
"Doesn't have to make sense." Alys lifted her teacup in an ironic gesture. "It's a reminder. I don't think the senior staff is ever going to forget that particular . . . er, coup d'eclat, as Pierre Le Sanguinnaire would have put it in the bad old days."
"Humph," Cordelia said. "I trust it also reminds him what I'm capable of if I think my son is in danger." She sighed, the smile fading. "It's the children business again. For the past seven years we've been shoving discussion into the future. But if Miles is to have a sibling, it would have to be soon. He's eight. Most psychologists insist a gap over ten makes them interact less like siblings and more like separate generations."
"Decreasing the chance of fraternal loyalty and increasing the chance of competition?" Alys asked.
"Exactly. So the time has come to make the decision. And Count Piotr still wants a strong, perfectly formed future Count Vorkosigan to be shot at by any madmen in the making. I will say this for Miles's grandfather: he has come to respect Miles for his brains and grit. And he isn't ashamed of Miles any more, but he thinks Miles's peers will savage him. He can't see Barrayar changing--doesn't want it to, really. It's the world he knows. Anyway, he . . . drops what he thinks are subtle hints. Not around me, of course. But to Aral. I could duel with the Count Piotr if he didn't disarm me by putting Aral in the middle."
"Good tactics," Alys observed.
"But bad strategy. Upsetting Aral any more than this hideous and thankless Regency does upsets me, and when I'm upset, Aral is more upset, and we both get stubborn." Cordelia's expression turned rueful. " And I thought my one job as a Barrayaran wife--after producing a male heir--was to run a house in harmony."
Alys said, "Having a girl won't assuage the Count." It wasn't even a question.
"He wants a replacement heir," Cordelia stated, her brow contracting.
Alys poured more tea as she considered that Betan glare. Cordelia's Betan relatives did not prize warlike qualities, and she was impatient of martial instances of glory. So Alys had never told her that most people found her more frightening than the old Count, far more frightening. The Count's "Lady Shoppicide" might be uttered in a scornful tone, but it--as well as her secret nickname in the highest Vor circles for a few years after her solution to Vordarian's Pretendership, "Lady Vorkosigan Detruncare"--was a compliment.
Fierce Cordelia was, but also fair. And a good friend. That Cordelia said anything at all gave oblique permission to broach the subject. So Alys said, "Does Aral want more children?"
Cordelia set down her cup, then looked out the window to the busy street below. Alys lived in the best district--the towers of Vorthartung Castle were visible through the window on the opposite wall. The houses were newly furbished after the rubble of Vordarian's civil war had been cleared away. Vorbarr Sultana was, for the first time in years, about as peaceful and prosperous as it had ever been, but Alys knew Cordelia did not see any of it.
"Yes," she said.
*
Spring had come reluctantly to Vorkosigan Surleau. Even after a decade here, Cordelia still welcomed rain with greedy delight as often as she could from the pavilion that overlooked the rough green hillocks stretching away toward the lake. The children loved playing there, and as the doctors had said that the more Miles engaged in physical activity the better for his growing frame, the gardeners had been ordered to leave this area alone. Consequently it was covered with gnarled vines and wildflowers, full of animal burrows and holes all the way to the shore.
The three young voices sounded like gulls on the misting air, occasionally punctuated by Sergeant Bothari's deep burr as he issued a directive, or answered a question ("Can I, can I?" from Miles, and "No," from his bodyguard); the view from the pavilion was excellent, but from below, it was difficult to see anyone unless they stood and waved through the trailing vines growing over the support poles and rail.
Aral had accompanied Cordelia home "for his health," as he sometimes did when crucial votes were about to be cast in the Council of Counts. Votes that even the arch-conservatives such as Vorhalas supported because they were for the good of Barrayar. Aral had remarked wryly that if he wasn't there, Vorhalas wouldn't be forced to vote against him; if the vote passed they could both pretend it had never happened.
These too-brief visits home were good for his health. Cordelia saw to that. The two sat side by side on ancient chaises, weather-beaten but comfortable. It was the type of rainy day she liked best--overcast but not cold, smelling of growing things. A luxury she'd never dreamed possible on dry, parched Beta Colony, and one her husband took for granted. The way he scowled at the sky, reminding her of his attitude toward an ensign slacking at his duty, caused a small bubble of humor. Aral liked sunshine.
"No! Why do I always have to be the Cetagandan ghem-lord?" Ivan's voice rose on a plaintive note.
Mile's squeak, just a shade higher, followed: "You want me to chase you?" Miles could so easily have been surly, or resentful. But he never complained, never whined. He sounded reasonable--the hard-won self-awareness of years of surgeries, painful physical therapy, and always, always coming in last in any childhood game. Except those of the mind.
Sure enough, Ivan and Elena looked at the leg and spine braces that they had forgotten, and laughed along with Miles. Cordelia leaned forward, peering down through the vines at where the children were gathered on top of one of the hillocks. Ivan and Elena were roughly the same size, sturdy youngsters of eight and nine, sublimely unaware of how beautiful they would one day be. Now they were muddy up to the eyebrows, their dungarees grass-stained, Elena's winged brows drawn down protectively.
Ivan said, "Yeah, but you always get to command."
There was Miles, almost hidden by a shrub full of lacy pink ostrich-feather blossoms, his head far too large for his small, scar-crossed body. Today at least his forearms were free as the children had just come outside for a midday break from lessons at their comconsoles.
"Miles has all the ideas," Elena pointed out.
"I have good ideas," Ivan retorted. "It's my turn to be leader."
Miles said, "Go ahead. Be leader."
None of the three children seemed to question Miles's authority to choose.
Aral's profile had sobered. He reached, gripped Cordelia's fingers loosely in his. "Miles was born to command," he murmured reflectively.
Like his fathers before him. Cordelia knew that Aral's words were not a statement but a preface. She said deliberately, "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"
Aral looked up, his lips parting, then he gave that wry half-nod, acknowledging a hit. For a time he said nothing, only ran his thumb over her palm, round and round again, his head bowed, the L-shaped scar on his jaw white against clenched muscles.
The issue is not Miles, she reminded herself. It is the universal genetic imperative. Against which you hardly have the moral high ground. And she waited until all vestige of anger had drained away before she said, "I would love nothing better than to see you replicated, my dearest dear. In many and fascinating variety, your gender and mine."
"Dear Captain," he began, his voice husky, and his fingers tightening on hers. "Don't you think between the two of us we'd be able to raise a boy who would back his brother up, not scheme to oust him?"
"But Ivan, you can't!" Miles's voice rose, shrill with impatience. "You can't do it that way! What's the use of only one exit?"
Elena joined him: "Yeah, all the Cetagandans have to do is sit and wait till he comes out."
"Even I can do that," Miles added.
Cordelia welcomed the distraction as she sought for the words to frame her answer. When she could, she entertained herself listening to their games. It was amazing, how many planets and times in history this small patch of ground had become in the fertile imaginations of three children. Four, when the young emperor had been teased and wheedled by Miles into relaxing enough to play.
Though the children were not aware of their presence, Bothari was. He glanced at his chrono, and Cordelia realized it was noon just as he looked up in her direction. She put up a hand in acknowledgment and Bothari marched off.
"What was that about?" Aral asked, obviously equally glad for distraction. Though she sensed it would not be for long. He, too, had read the psychology data.
"Bothari believes that eating should be done by the clock, of course," she said. "What's good for the military being good for everyone else. If I'm here, I can watch while he gets the lunch. Otherwise he has to break up the game and march them off to the house while they protest loudly all the way."
"Heh." Aral's profile turned as he watched Bothari make his habitual scan for lurking enemies among the ornamental shrubs before he disappeared.
The shrill voices below intensified.
"All right, then you're Lord Vorthalia the Bold." That was Miles, breathy with effort. "But you got to build it this way."
Agreement must have been met, for there was no more arguing. Three dark heads bobbed above the mist-dappled grasses.
"Maybe we should try a girl first," Aral said tentatively, with a quick, anxious look. "Get everyone used to the idea."
Cordelia drew in a deep breath. She loved Miles all the more for his being so small, so fragile. So determined to survive. Yet the idea of a daughter! . . .
But. "It wouldn't work," she said. "You know it as well as I. As soon as he decently could, your father would be casting around among the Old Vor for a suitable betrothal. And the sort of fellow he'd think suitable would be just the sort to campaign for his child to inherit--if he didn't campaign for himself. I'm not putting Miles through that."
Aral pressed his fingers to his eyes. "And a girl only postpones the real issue, doesn't address it. But you know it's not Miles' fitness that I question. What haunts me is my own past. If there is no Miles to inherit."
Her fingers tugged against his grip, a fast, instinctive impulse to pull her arms in defensively. But he did not let go of her hand.
"Think, Cordelia. Look past the soltoxin damage. My brother and I were certainly not damaged. My brother was like young Ivan--he would have been tall, strong, and far better-looking than me. I was the short, stumpy spare heir." Truth, all: she could only nod. "We've bought a little time--thanks to you, Bothari, and that swordstick. I never forget that." He lowered his head and kissed her hand. "But there are still plenty who would rather not wait for Gregor to grow up. Or who would as soon he never grow up, who would like to see Vorbarra replaced with 'fresh blood'--"
"Genetic, not sacrificial," she cut in dryly. "He being the sacrifice. Yes, I know."
"And you also know who stands between them and Gregor."
"You," she said. "And our son. Which would in any other context be an argument against bringing a child into such a world--"
A shrill scream rocketed them both to their feet, followed by Miles's voice at the edge of panic, "Run, Elena! Get help!"
Three things happened at once. Elena took off for the house, skimming over the grass lightly as a bird. Aral vaulted over the rail and pelted downhill. And Miles, all alone, began to dig frantically at the earth that had collapsed over Ivan.
Cordelia had just gotten over the wall--her skirts tangling exasperatingly in the vines--when Bothari arrived at a flat run, having flung the lunch tray aside. He and Aral reached Miles at the same time. Bothari acted a second before the Lord Regent, plucking up Miles and slinging him into his father's arms. Panic hit Miles, and he began to cry in a thin, wheezy wail as Bothari plunged his big hand straight down into the soft earth, then pulled it out again, Ivan dangling from his iron grip.
Miles shut up and struggled against his father, who freed him. Miles as well as Aral had to see that Ivan was alive.
Ivan coughed, gagged, then loosed a scream of anger and fear as dirt rained off him. By then Cordelia had reached them, and threw her arms around the boy, who clung, shivering and crying.
Elena had arrived just behind her father. Now everyone formed a circle around Ivan on Cordelia's lap. Elena stood a little apart, sober and quiet.
Miles sat next to her with his hands behind his back, his thin cheeks flushed, pale gray eyes watching everything as his thin bird-cage of a chest rose and fell jerkily within the constraints of the back brace.
Bothari growled, "You're all right, boy. It was just a few seconds." Bothari-style reassurance, with military practicality.
Aral patted his nephew, saying, "I'm sorry, Ivan. Found one of the old tunnels, did you?" He did not say You've been warned times out of mind to report them and stay away. Obviously the lesson had finally been learned.
Cordelia held the sobbing, shivering Ivan but watched her son. Instead of breathing, counted. Each constricted heartbeat a throb of pain.
Finally Elena said doubtfully, "Wasn't that just like the secret lab in Vorbarra Fortress? You know, when the False Count blew it up on Lord Vorthalia the Bold, and he got trapped? What was it like?"
Ivan stirred, and Cordelia loosened her arms. Ivan coughed, then got to his feet, talking incoherently about how dark it was--just like the story--how many hours was he down there?
Cordelia breathed at last. Then caught Bothari's eye and canted her chin toward Miles.
Bothari jerked his head in acknowledgement. He nipped the silent Miles up and strode away toward the house.
As Elena and Ivan moved cautiously toward the remains of the tunnel, which was quite collapsed and therefore perfectly safe, Cordelia remained where she was, her skirt covered with mossy soil.
Aral said, "The kids didn't know we were there."
Ivan and Elena had shifted from arguing about how many hours Ivan had been buried to what kind of tunnel they could build that wouldn't fall on them, and how exactly did Lord Vorthalia get out of the collapsed lab with his hands tied behind his back?
"No," Cordelia said.
"Miles thought fast. Not just for himself, but for all three."
"Yes."
"Cordelia, don't you see it? Any brother--any son of yours--would never try to take anything away from him."
Anyone can be a survivor. But to survive with grace? "Did you see his hands?" Cordelia whispered.
Aral's brows flicked up in question, then contracted. "No," he admitted. "He crashed into me brace first. I thought I was hurting him--let him go--there was Ivan, not breathing for what was probably two seconds but seemed like two hours." Then he grimaced. "Digging in the dirt, like a boy of eight who has real bones. How many fingers did he break?"
"Three at a guess, maybe four. And maybe his wrist."
A short sigh. "Why didn't I see that?" A pained glance. "He was hiding them from me?"
"He was hiding them from Ivan."
"Ivan," Aral breathed.
He picked up a clod of dirt, crumbled it in his fingers, then looked skyward. "There are a lot of motivations for that," he said slowly. "I know he plays us--charms us."
She nodded, saying the obvious to help Aral track his way through this mental labyrinth she could only sense. "Charm has always been his ticket to survival in a world where weakness is despised."
Aral gave his half nod. "He's seen that right from the beginning. And never poses as victim. I think he learned that, being around Kou." He threw away the dirt. "But Ivan's like a brother to him. He's never tried to compete with Ivan physically."
"He does, actually. Sometimes," Cordelia said matter-of-factly, though her belly trembled, and she hid her own gripped hands behind her. "He's a small boy, not a saint."
Another nod. "He didn't want to take away Ivan's . . . it's ridiculous to use the h-word of eight year olds after a play yard accident, isn't it?" He canted his head.
"It's ridiculous," she rejoined without heat, "that grown men use the h-word and then pick up two swords to hack one another to bits."
Palm up in the fencer's acknowledgement of a hit. Then he returned to the issue. "Miles sat there hiding broken fingers to preserve Ivan's . . .face." Aral extended his hand and pulled her to her feet as effortlessly as if she were a sylph. "It was instinct. Wasn't it?"
"He's only eight," Cordelia said. "Almost everything he does is instinct."
"Except when he's plotting." Aral flashed his scimitar grin, then ran his fingers through his gray-shot hair. "But here he didn't have time. All instinct." He turned Cordelia's way, gray eyes full of question.
Bothari reappeared, having surrendered Miles to the armsman who served as the House medic. He shepherded Ivan and Elena inside for lunch. That left Aral and Cordelia alone.
He gripped both her hands. "You're not afraid of what a putative son would do, you're afraid of Miles."
She trembled all over now, but there was only Aral to see. "Don't you get the same terrible vision?" she asked. "Miles at, say, thirteen or fourteen, which are hellish years even when you've got all your working parts. He sees a smart, caring, perfect younger brother, and uses that efficient mind of his to figure the best way to suit everyone--"
"--and arranges an accident, because everyone knows Miles and his accidents. Oh, God." He looked up sharply. "You're right. We can't do that to him. Nor can we ever tell him why."
"No," she said, striving for the steadying effect of humor, and making it half-way. "Luckily your history is full of evil, conniving brothers, which should convince him why we never had any other children. As for your concern--and I share it--between you and me, we can guard our own. No. We shall."
Aral squinted ahead. Cordelia watched, knowing and loving all the minute changes in his face. The future he'd wanted would not come to pass. But the future he dreaded might be avoided, with care and vigilance.
"Vorthalia the Bold," Aral mused. "I don't suppose I should tell the kids the real stories about him. I heard 'em at the academy. There was one about his, ah, fondness for barnyard animals--"
"The academy?" she cut in as they started toward the house, clasped hands swinging between them. "Those could be myths, too. Teen-age boy style."
"Heh." Aral glanced skyward into the misting rain. "Especially the barnyard animals."