Archive of Our Own ^beta

Is it winter again, is it cold again,

didn’t Frank just slip on the ice,

didn’t he heal, weren’t the spring seeds planted

didn’t the night end,

didn’t the melting ice

flood the narrow gutters

wasn’t my body

rescued, wasn’t it safe

didn’t the scar form, invisible

above the injury

terror and cold,

didn’t they just end, wasn’t the back garden

harrowed and planted—

Louise Glück, October 

1.

Ivan couldn’t, and frankly didn’t particularly try to, suppress his grin as Miles jumped up onto the bench to kiss his future wife. 

It was good to see his cousin happy, after all that incessant brooding. The outcome wasn’t exactly what Ivan aimed for when he brought Dono to the den of the Conservative Party; he certainly didn’t do any of it for Miles’ sake, not after the little git all but declared he had no need for Ivan’s help, but he also hadn’t been looking forward to seeing his cousin’s career, let alone reputation, in shambles again. It also didn’t hurt to know Madame Vorsoisson cared about Miles after all — deeply enough, in fact, to ignore his being publicly accused of her late husband’s murder, no matter what scandal it might’ve caused. Knowing Miles, the experience was sure to come in handy for her in the future, Ivan uncharitably thought.

He glanced around, trying to assess the Counts’ reactions. Most were already filing out of the room. Some, like René Vorbretten and Henri Vorvolk, had only backed away to give some space to Count and Countess Vorkosigan. To Ivan’s profound relief, no one, except Ekaterin’s relatives, looked actively repulsed by the proceedings. Times have changed, huh. He briefly met Aunt Cordelia’s eyes, full of much the same feelings his own surely held, then glanced away again and froze. In the third row of the desks — far enough to look uninterested, but still there and seemingly in no particular rush to leave — old Count Vorhalas stood, looking intently at the happy couple, his back ramrod-straight, his House uniform mercilessly stiff. 

Neither of his sons lived long enough to get married or have children, Ivan remembered with a sick feeling in his stomach, and it’d been thirty years since. This could’ve been his grandson in Miles’ shoes right now, if things hadn’t gone so bloody wrong. 

Surely he wouldn’t— not now, for God’s sake! It’s not even Miles’ fault, not any of it! 

Ekaterin and Miles moved away, beckoned closer to Gregor’s dais. Ivan took a couple of steps to stand between that ominous statue of a man and the Vorkosigans’ party. Neither Uncle Aral nor Aunt Cordelia seemed to notice his maneuver — thank God for small mercies indeed — and Miles was too busy talking about Vormuir’s scheme to pay Ivan any attention. Not that he ever did, really. 

René of all people did take notice, quirking a puzzled eyebrow at Ivan across the crowd. When he followed Ivan’s gaze to where Vorhalas stood, though, René’s expression became alarmed right on cue. See, it’s not paranoid if Vorbretten’s worried too. 

There was a quick exchange between Tatya and her husband, too quiet for Ivan to hear, then René strode resolutely through the rows and greeted Count Vorhalas with a graceful half-bow. 

Ah, here goes another poor bugger who’d risk his hide to keep Miles happy. How the hell do you do it, coz? 

The old man, pulled out of his contemplation, had no choice but to listen to whatever René was saying. After a moment he even replied, if somewhat gruffly. That peculiar expression of his started to wear off, and only when it was gone did Ivan finally manage to put a name to it.

Of all the possibilities, longing was never even on the list.

2.

In the end, they got away fine while René gamely kept Vorhalas occupied.

Ivan firmly told himself to forget all about what he’d seen. He didn’t want or need to draw any more attention to himself, thank you very much; he’d already helped out two sitting Counts and a Count’s heir in one go. Gregor was becoming alarmingly interested in him, and Gregor’s interest never ever did anyone any good — except Laisa, of course. On the bright side, he could always trust Miles to ignore his each and every achievement, and Uncle Aral too. 

Aunt Cordelia, now, he wasn’t all that sure about. She kept, well, observing him, for lack of a better word, much as that lunatic Enrique Borgos observed his bugs. That was another good reason to avoid trouble as much as he could remaining Miles’ cousin and planetside, so avoid it he did, painstakingly, for a couple of months after the Imperial Wedding. Then, of course, he was roped in as Miles’ Second, since Mark couldn’t — or wouldn’t, in Ivan’s very, very private opinion — be bothered to do the job.

It wasn’t all bad, of course. He was getting a lot of Ma Kosti’s delicious cooking in compensation for putting up with Miles’ alternating fits of panic and euphoria. There was also an unexpected but welcome slack in his mother’s attempts to marry him off already.

Then again, he also got stabbed through the shoulder by a falling bronze chandelier of all things, because his tactical genius of a cousin apparently couldn’t mind his surroundings and lecture the decorators at the same time; who’d have thought, after all that experience with command headsets! The ridiculous thing was, by that point Ivan didn’t even mind, given the fact that it bought him an entire week of sick leave with snacks and holovids and no family emergencies at all— but that was another story altogether. 

“Cordelia, could you please pass me another ink bottle?” Drou said, reaching across the table to take in from the Countess. They were sitting in the library of Vorkosigan House preparing the invitations. High Vor wedding being a very big deal, it was, apparently, not at all comme il faut to just print them out like reasonable people would. Hence his being stuck here with not one but two aunts, lots of ink, a stack of actual, honest-to-god paper, some fountain pens and wax seals. His shoulder still throbbed, and Ivan really, really hated his life sometimes.

With a heavy sigh, he took another sheet, already signed by Miles and Ekaterin both, and put it into a thick, ornately patterned envelope; then his eye caught the address, and he stopped, bewildered. “Is that an invitation for Count Vorhalas? To a Vorkosigan’s wedding? Seriously?” 

Cordelia’s hand hesitated above the paper. Calmly, she put her pen away. “Miles insisted. He said he owes the man his reputation — if not life — twice over by now. He’s not wrong, exactly.”

Ivan’s head did a vicious spin. “Twice over?” The idea of Miles being this grateful to the old man when the little git couldn’t be bothered to say thank you to Ivan after he’d salvaged the entire affair with Dono — not to mention after he’d chased him across the galaxy, then turned around and followed him back to Barrayar with its goddamn treason laws—

“I think he meant—” 

Ivan cut her off, almost sharply, “I know what he meant, Aunt. I’m not likely to forget, am I?”

Unbothered by his irritation, she hummed thoughtfully. “I suppose not, though it had been almost— what, fifteen years? Gosh, we are getting old, aren’t we, Drou?”

Madame Koudelka gave her a smirk, “I certainly am. You, with that Betan lifespan of yours—”

Cordelia waved it off with a faux-carefree smile, “Oh, I’ve definitely halved it, dealing with this godforsaken planet and its men for so long!”

“He knows it’s hopeless, right?” Ivan cut in before the conversation turned into that verbal dismemberment of everything Barrayaran or male Aunt Cordelia tended to relish from time to time. “Miles, I mean.”

She looked like she wanted to roll her eyes, but chose not to. “Yes, Ivan, I’m sure he knows. He’s just— not ready to admit defeat.”

“When is he ever?” Ivan immediately quipped, mostly out of habit. 

Drou let out a quiet chuckle but came to Miles’ defense, “It has been known to happen once in a while, Ivan.” Then, prompted by the Countess’ raised eyebrow, “Quite a long while, admittedly, but still. Miles isn’t that pig-headed, Cordelia!”

But he is, isn’t he? Ivan thought, strangely chagrined all of a sudden. Stubborn, obstinate, pig-headed — hell, downright obsessed when he deems the cause worth it. 

This entire thing with Vorhalas was— old, and rotten, and exactly up his cousin’s alley, him being an Imperial problem-fixer these days. It was also disturbingly similar to that pleasing the old Count Piotr agenda Miles lived and breathed for so many years. 

There was just no half-measures with Miles, was there? If he cared enough to insist on the invitation, then he cared enough to be upset when the man wouldn’t show up. Miles was already frantic about the wedding; trust the idiot to set himself up for that disappointment on top of everything else.

When it was time to head off, Ivan eyed five huge stacks of sealed envelopes — a fine result of their day’s work — with some concern. “Are you sending all of it by mail or—”

Drou shook her head. “Only to the districts. The armsmen are delivering the local ones.”

That sounded like lots of work. “I can take some of these off their hands, if that’s okay. The Vorbrettens’, for one — Tatya wanted me to talk to René about something, anyway. Maybe a couple of others as well.”

Aunt Cordelia, who he’d have sworn hadn’t been paying attention to his conversation with Drou, raised her head and observed him some more. Then smiled, though more at her own mysterious thoughts than at anything they’d said. “So kind of you to volunteer, Ivan!” Was she laughing at him? “Give my best to Count and Countess Vorbretten, would you? They could use some encouragement these days, or so Miles tells me.”

“Sure. They’re still reeling, I suppose, though their social calendar must be looking better now, what with Dono’s wedding and Delia’s new Immigration Committee.” He rummaged through the stacks, pulling out four letters in total. “I’ll grab these then, and ask Pym to come take the rest.” 

Without waiting for her nod, he dashed out of the room, swearing internally at himself. What did Aunt Cordelia guess? Would she check the list to know which letters he’d taken? No, not if Pym gets there first.

3.

“Does Gregor know about it? And Count Vorkosigan?” René said anxiously as soon as Ivan handed him the invitation. 

Ivan gave him an incredulous look. “Shouldn’t you open it first, at least? It’s only polite!”

“I already know what it is,” René objected, without much heat. Then glanced at Ivan’s implacable expression and, with a rather dejected sigh, reached for his penknife. “It just won’t do to blindside either of them, will it?” He pried off the seal, but still wouldn’t open the envelope. 

God, that’s just pathetic. “It won’t bite, you know.”

That got him an almost convincing glare. Much better. Vorbretten was just too mild sometimes. Maybe Miles’ influence would do him some good, Ivan caught himself thinking. That was a strange thought indeed. 

“Oh,” René exhaled. He was staring, quite wide-eyed, not at the formal invitation, but at the small hand-written note attached to it. Ivan craned his neck to read it too, almost hissing in pain when the motion tugged at his barely healed wound.

“I’ve got just under a hundred chairs, and not even half as many friends here on Barrayar. Don’t you dare refuse.”

Amused, Ivan smirked, “Maybe it does bite, just a bit.”

René didn’t return his smile, “That’s— He might regret it, you know, if people make a fuss at the banquet. It’s a much more important wedding than Dono’s, and the guests can’t all be as— lenient as Lord Vorkosigan is.”

Lenient? Really? What are you, a misbehaving child?

“Well, even if Miles did have friends like that, no one’d dare to stir up trouble in Gregor’s presence. And yes, he’s aware. Uncle Aral, too.” 

“It still might cost him some stance with the High Vor—”

Out of the blue, Ivan felt his temper running away from him, “Oh, for crying out loud! You think anything can hurt that little bugger’s stance, do you? Well, he’s never had one. He’s a half-Betan ImpSec courier who didn’t even manage to serve his twenty but somehow landed an Imperial sinecure; not to mention a mutie on top of that!”

René bristled, pulling himself upright in indignation, and opened his mouth to retort. Then, for some reason, thought better of it. Relaxing back into his chair, he shot Ivan a curious glance. “You don’t believe any of that, do you? It’s literally the first time I’ve ever heard you say that word, too.”

Ivan rubbed his forehead, suddenly very tired. “That’s what most people think, here. He didn’t entirely jest about those hundred chairs, René.”

“I can see that,” René said quietly after a long pause. Then, suddenly businesslike, “How many Counts are coming?”

Ivan blinked, thrown by the non-sequitur. “We don’t know yet. Gregor, obviously. Uncle Aral. Dono. Henri Vorvolk, most likely. Old Falco might turn up as well, if only for m’mother’s sake.” He left out the bit about Count Vorhalas. “That’s about it, I think.”

“Hmm. Five or six, then. Not much for a Count’s heir, especially a Vorkosigan.” René considered it for a moment. “What about Bil? Count William Vortashpula, I mean. He’s technically still in mourning, but there hasn't been much love lost between him and his old man.”

“Are you kidding? Count “Haven’t had a mutant in the family since before Dorca’s reign” Vortashpula?”

René shook his head, “Bil isn’t his father, Ivan. I haven’t heard him say anything like this since he was an angry teen parroting his elders. And he did propose to Cassie Vorgorov, after all.”

“What does she have to do with any of it?”

“She’s—” René looked uneasy. “Sorry, I thought you knew. Her little brother died young. Some sort of a heart condition — a hereditary one.”

In not-so-pretty words, a mutation. “Oh, shit. No, I didn’t. It makes sense though — she’s related to Vorrutyers on her mother’s side, isn’t she? They’ve always been prone to heart failures.” Ones who did have a heart, that is. “Anyway. He’s definitely getting an invitation — every Count who’s under forty is on the list. Think he’d come?”

For the first time today, René actually smiled. “He’ll come if I promise him Miles won’t take his head off.” He caught Ivan’s confused look. “I believe they once crossed paths when Bil was still in his parroting phase. It didn’t go well. I think it made a lasting impression.”

Ivan chuckled. “The Vorkosigans tend to have that effect on people. It’ll be fine, though, if the man doesn’t put his foot in it again. Miles isn’t actually vindictive.” 

Mark was the one with all the taste for vendettas, in the Vorkosigan family. Not that Count Vortashpula needed this little bit of information.

René’s cheerful expression wavered. “Don’t I know that.” He shut his eyes for a moment, then continued, smiling yet again, “Tell Miles to save seats for Tatya and myself. I’ll see what I can do about Bil, too. Maybe a couple of others.” 

Ivan stood up, satisfied. “Thanks. That’s— Miles will be grateful.”

René winced, “He doesn’t need to be. Or to know anything about it, really, if you can manage it.”

Wishful thinking, that. Ivan shrugged. “I won’t say anything. I can’t promise he won’t catch wind of it anyway. He usually does.”

“Good enough for me.” A pause. “You’re doing a fine job, you know, as his Second.”

Ivan blinked. “Oh. Thanks?” That’s not the script, damn it, Vorbretten! Feeling suddenly wrong-footed, he hastily shook René's hand and fled.

4.

Vorrutyer was the easiest one of the lot, or so Ivan had thought. It turned out By had been making himself scarce ever since Richars — whether on Imperial orders or just out of some personal fancy was anyone’s guess. Eventually, Ivan got hold of him almost in passing, in the little family cafeteria across the street from the Imperial Museum of Natural History. That fact itself would’ve been funny as hell, if the man wasn’t just— sitting there in a corner, alone, with a teapot and a tiny, miserably crooked croissant in front of him. He seemed skinnier, too, or was it just Ivan’s imagination?

He’d have thought By’s prospects were looking better now, what with being invited to the Imperial Wedding. He and Dono also seemed to be on the best of terms last time Ivan saw them together, not that he’d been paying By much attention. Then again, he vaguely remembered Dono had asked René to be his Second, not his shifty cousin, so maybe there was something not right on that front after all.

Ivan shook himself out of his dismay. He wasn’t here to worry about Byerly Vorrutyer of all people; whatever was wrong was none of his business in any case. Besides, the Vorkosigans’ invitation might well cheer the man up a bit.

He weaved through the excited crowd consisting mainly of district tourists and schoolchildren in their neat uniforms and swiftly plopped onto a plastic chair across the table from Vorrutyer. Then slid the envelope in the general direction of the lonely croissant and waited for a reaction.

“Hello to you too, Ivan,” Byerly said, eyeing the new object on the table with some apprehension. Is it Miles’ reputation that makes everyone so suspicious? He’s never as much as fired a real gun here on Barrayar! “Is it going to blow up in my face when I open it? That would be gauche. Though I recall you’ve never had much taste in practical jokes.” 

Ivan almost spluttered in indignation. He didn't have much taste — this was just pure slander! He had an excellent— Oh, this was useless. He could sit here all day bickering with By, and it would be nothing but a huge waste of time. 

“No, that’s real. Signed and sealed, see? It’d be madness to try and forge the Vorkosigan sigil as a joke. That’s actually a punishable offense, you know.”

Byerly inspected the envelope yet again, then gingerly pried it open. There was no added note this time. 

“That’s ominous,” By remarked, almost to himself. “Would you care to explain where this sudden interest in my humble self comes from? We didn’t quite part ways on a good note, last time I saw the Lord Auditor your Cousin.”

Ivan smirked briefly. “Miles has nothing to do with it, By, except for the fact he’s had to sign it. You’re actually Ekaterin’s guest. She seems to like you, for some unfathomable reason.”

All of a sudden, every trace of fake languidity faded from Vorrutyer’s manners. He sat upright, looking genuinely alarmed. “I haven’t even spoken to Madame Vorsoisson since her little — hm, shall we say performance — at Vorhartung Castle. I’ve no idea why she’d take any interest—” 

Oh, Ivan thought. By did play his part as Ekaterin’s suitor, didn’t he? Was he worried someone would suspect them of having an affair if he didn’t cut all connection? That was patently ridiculous; Vorrutyer was by no means virtuous, but no one had ever accused him of being a homebreaker either. Also, Ekaterin was obviously head over heels for Miles, and she was the last woman anyone would call flighty.

Vorrutyer was still trying to talk, most of his sentences awkwardly grinding to a halt halfway through. Ivan raised his hands to stop him. “Whoa, By, wait. It’s not a problem. No one would think twice about it, not even Miles. Ekaterin’s just new to the capital and hasn’t spent much time socializing. You might be her only acquaintance outside Miles’ circle of friends.”

“I suppose so.” Byerly still looked unconvinced. “Just how many guests are coming to that little wedding of your cousin’s, Ivan?”

“Enough for you to blend in and even do some weaseling if you’d like. Though I bet the place will be swimming in ImpSec surveillance anyway.”

“As it should. There’s no such thing as being too careful, when it comes to the Vorkosigans,” By agreed ambiguously. Then glanced down at his plate and sighed, “Ivan, would you care for some tea? It wouldn’t be quite courteous of me to eat anything if you don’t.” 

With a shrug, Ivan beckoned over the waitress, asking for a refill and a second cup. The damned croissant fell in his line of sight again, so he added a basket of assorted sweets to the order and slipped her his credit chit. The girl had a nice smile; Ivan hadn’t even glanced at the menu until she was gone. The owner seemed to theme it around local-grown plants — as a tribute to the Museum, no doubt; Ivan mentally resigned himself to finding at least three types of brillberry scones in his set. 

By fiddled with the envelope, his expression vaguely unsettled still. Ivan patiently waited for him to speak until the waitress returned with his sweets, his cup and, for some reason, another teapot. “I’m sorry, Captain Vorpatril, but my boss says it won’t do much good to refill that other one. You just don’t steep low-quality teas twice. You may have this one on the house, though. It’s a South Coast blend, exceptionally distinguished.”

She was genuine, Ivan could see — just not very tactful. Byerly was studying the potted plants on the nearby windowsill with a laser-focused intensity. The girl’s smile suddenly lost all its appeal. “Thank you. I’ll pay in full, though. I’m not the Emperor, just his cousin.” 

She had enough decency to blush, at least. “Of course, Captain. I’ll be back with your bill shortly.” 

The waitress dashed away finally, leaving them in awkward silence. Ivan moved to fill their cups, mostly just to give himself something to do.

“Hey!” Unceremoniously, Byerly pushed his hand away. “You are supposed to wait for it to steep for a couple of minutes yet, at least. Honestly, Ivan! What use is that distinguished blend if you’re going to ruin it?” He sounded almost normal, except his usual bitter edge seemed brittle rather than sharp. 

“I haven’t exactly asked for it, you know. I doubt I’d notice the difference anyway.”

By shook his head, disagreeing. “You’d be surprised how much difference there is. Not all of it in the taste, though.” 

Ivan shrugged but conceded. “Out with it, then, while it's steeping. What were all these silent musings about?”

There was a very uncharacteristic hesitance on Vorrutyer’s face. “You know her better than I do, by now. Madame Vorsoisson, I mean. What do you reckon she’d like for a gift?”

Ivan’s eyebrows jumped up against his will. “Aren’t gifts supposed to be for both of them?”

That frail edge slid back into By’s voice. “I doubt I’ve got enough change in my steggie-bank to impress Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, Ivan. The lady-to-be, though, looks like that late husband of hers used to keep her v chyornom tiele [1], if you know what I mean.”

He knew. The Russian population was prominent both in Vorpatril and Vorkosigan districts, which made his mother pitiless. 

“Obscure Russian idioms, By? Wouldn’t have pegged you for the type.”

Vorrutyer waved it off. “Used to have a nyan’ka [2] back in the days. Ma Laskoff, she was called. It comes in handy, sometimes. No one expects a Vorrutyer to understand Russian, or Greek.” True enough. “Back to the main question, I think I might just be able to scrape together enough to impress her — or please, at the very least.” 

That was also true, probably. A civilian agent was bound to have a lesser income than an average ImpSec officer, and Miles, for one, had never seemed to have any personal money to speak of, before he earned his chain. With no immediate family but Lady Donna and no visible assets — what did By live off, anyway? Surely he was joking when he said he only ever ate anything at the receptions? Ivan eyed the lonely croissant with a newfound suspicion and subtly pushed the bowl of sweets closer to the center of the table. By finally moved to fill Ivan’s cup. Then put the pot down again. Oh, for God’s sake! Ivan glowered at him until he relented, “Fine, fine, I’ll join. You’re still paying, though. I’d have taken them up on their offer.”

“Fine by me,” Ivan agreeably nodded, ignoring Byerly’s suspicious glare. “As for Ekaterin— Well, she certainly doesn’t ask for much.” But he knew enough by now, didn’t he? She’d found her way into his heart, his family during these last few months, so of course he did. “She likes— Plants. Оld books. Vast spaces. Anything beautiful but unassuming, really. She adores Nikki, and the kid’s just obsessed with spaceships, so that works too.”

He went on. Byerly listened carefully until his face brightened with some kind of epiphany. “I think I might have an idea, now.” He reached out absentmindedly and took a biscuit out of the basket. “Thanks, Ivan. You’ve been surprisingly helpful lately, you know? Have you, by any chance, been taking something to speed up your brain?”

Ivan choked on his tea, then promptly kicked the weaseling bastard under the table. It seemed things were back to normal with Byerly, too — a very Vorrutyer normal, mind, but normal all the same.

5.

Ivan had nearly forgotten Miles and Commodore Hank Kostolitz were almost friends once. Kostolitz sliced through the ranks like a well-ground blade, the lacking prefix to his name totally notwithstanding. Miles dived into ImpSec’s muddy waters never to be seen again. To Ivan’s knowledge, there had been no contact between the two — so why would Miles put their old classmate on the list now? 

Curiosity was the main reason for his delivering the invitation for Commodore and Madame Kostolitz in person. The second was the fact that he actually liked the man. They’d crossed paths, both personally and professionally, in the past ten years, and Ivan had never found anything substantial to complain about. 

Stationed in Vorbarr Sultana, Kostolitz dropped by the Headquarters often enough for Ivan to be unconcerned about whether he’d see him in time to deliver his little bombshell. It only took a couple of days for him to spot the man leaving the Accounting Department’s floor. It wasn’t the best of opportunities, since no one ever escaped that institution in any but murderous mood, but Ivan was hard pressed for time, the Winterfair, and thus Miles’ wedding, closing in on all of them like a giant storm front. 

Kostolitz looked oddly unruffled, for a victim of their resident number-freaks. Perhaps it was true that there was nothing to be afraid of, if you were being honest.

“I come bearing gifts,” Ivan joked, pulling him into one of the empty conference rooms. “Have you heard of my cousin Miles’ upcoming wedding already? You’re invited — both you and Katya, of course.”

Intrigued, Kostolitz snatched the envelope right out of his hands. “Hand-written, huh? Very Vorkosigan, except I’d have expected him to sign it in blood.”

“I doubt he’s got enough blood for two hundred invitations, Hank. Maybe the one for Gregor and Laisa, though—”

“The Emperor is coming?” The man narrowed his eyes. “Ivan, just how high-profile is this reception going to be?”

“Not the Emperor, just Count Vorbarra. But still, high enough to suffer oxygen deprivation. Miles doesn’t do things by halves.”

That got him a smirk, at the very least. “He never did. I wasn’t expecting an invitation, though. I’d barely seen him for the last ten years — until two weeks ago, to be exact.” Ah, so they had somehow reestablished contact. “Ran into him by sheer chance at that exhibition about the history of military tactics. He’s never lost his knack for solving tactical riddles. I was pleasantly surprised.”

He’d commanded an entire fleet for years, you condescending— But he had no idea, had he? Ivan reined in his fit of irrational anger. Commodore or not, Kostolitz was nowhere near this particular need-to-know. Come to think of it, Ivan himself might’ve been the only non-ImpSec officer on Barrayar to know anything about Miles’ real career. 

What was it Miles said, back then they were coming home from Cetaganda? They’ll all think I spent the last decade riding in jumpships and eating candy. Except at the time there was still a chance that Miles would slide back into the normal chain of command eventually, and Ivan’d get his ship duty alongside him— Well, things were as they were now, and it was too late to be crying over spilt milk. 

“He was a galactic courier, not a nanny. Bound to collect some real experience here and there.”

Kostolitz’s expression went glum. “Right, about that. There are so many rumors about that medical discharge of his—” Ivan’s blood turned cold. Who the hell— He’d never said a word to anyone. Simon? Allegre? Impossible. Duv? No, he couldn’t believe that either. “He isn’t actually dying or something? He looked off, somehow, at that— Ivan, you alright?”

“Yeah,” he managed, knees weak with relief. The last thing Miles needed right before his wedding was the story about his goddamn fake report leaking out. “Sorry, I’m a bit under the weather. It’s too bloody cold for the season.” He shuddered exaggeratedly. “To answer your question, no, he isn’t dying.” Yet, something whispered in his mind. He isn’t dying yet. Who’s to say about the next year, or the next? “He took a wrong turn on his last mission, landed himself in sickbay. Nothing life-threatening, but it got a bit too much for active duty, considering the rest of his— health issues. And he’d have gone stir crazy sitting behind the desk.”

“Hence the Auditorial chain?” Kostolitz inquired, a bit too casually. 

Was he expecting Ivan to gossip about Gregor’s supposed nepotism? Hell no! “That’s a story for Miles to tell, if you’re going to the wedding, of course.”

To Kostolitz’s credit, he took the hint. “Sure. Who in their right mind would pass up a chance to see the Emperor and the Viceroy of Sergyar in the same room?”

Ivan shrugged, “I’d have loved to pass, on some occasions, but no one would let me. Well— not this time, though. This I have to see with my own eyes, or I’ll never quite believe it.”

6.

“Captain Lord Vorpatril, welcome to Vorhalas House. How may we be of service?” The armsman’s manners and tone of voice were all perfectly polite. Incredulity was written somewhere between the sounds, God knows how he’d managed that.

“Is Count Vorhalas home? I’d like to speak with him, if I may.” 

It was one bald-faced lie, of course. What he’d have liked to do, really, was to get far away from the lion’s den and never come close to it again. It didn’t help that the hall was lit up with the same Mad Yuri’s reign style chandeliers as the one that made a hole in Ivan’s shoulder not so long ago.

“M’lord is in his study, but asked not to be disturbed for an hour yet. He’s had an important vidcall from the district, and I’m afraid it can’t be interrupted. If I may convey a message for you or set an appointment for the future?”

Ivan hesitated. He had no real need to speak with the Count face to face. Nothing would be easier than to pass the invitation to his armsman and slip away quietly; at least he’d have spared Pym the conundrum of how to send any of the Vorkosigans' men to Vorhalas House without causing mayhem — and at next to no cost for himself, too. 

In short, there was no reason for him to insist on the audience, except—

Except he’d been watching his cousin closely these last few months, both in society and on more formal occasions. Every time the old Count as much as glanced in Miles’ direction, the poor bugger desperately drew himself upright, as if it was possible to force that crooked spine of his into a more dignified shape. This kind of self-conscious deference from Miles irked Ivan even when he was fourteen years old and suitably heartless. After all this time, it was sickening.  

“An hour, you said? Would he be available after this call of his, do you think?”

The armsman’s blank expression faltered. Ah-ha! 

“I couldn’t say, m’lord. I’m not aware of any immediate plans, but that doesn’t mean there are none.”

“Of course, of course,” Ivan said placatingly. Huh. It seemed the man wasn’t quite prepared to throw him out at all costs. 

I’m just an honorary Vorkosigan, not an actual one; he doesn’t have standing orders for the occasion. 

“I don’t mean to impose, Armsman, but I’m under obligation to speak to the Count in person.” An obligation to himself, mostly, but let them think he’s here on his boss’ behalf, or better yet, his mother’s. “Would it be possible for me to wait until he is able to fit me in? I won’t take up more than twenty minutes.” If he comes up with anything to say at all.

“Very well, m’lord, but as I said, I can’t promise—”

Ivan flashed the man his well-practiced sheepish smile and shrugged. “If the Count’s busy afterwards, I’ll just have to wait some more, or come back in the evening. You know how it is.” 

What a way to spend his day’s leave. At least they should offer him some good wine here, right?

Turned out, they didn’t. He got some blissfully hot tea though, remembering just in time to let it steep, thank you, By. Tea was good, in a weather like this. Ivan hated it when the snow fell so early in the year. It made his own birthday an even bleaker affair, and Miles, too, got irritable as the frost settled in, unpleasant memories brought closer to the surface.

It was a rainy fall, Aunt Cordelia said, the one when his father died. It must have been what, the spring or the late winter before that, for Carl Vorhalas’ execution? Those events were hard to keep track of, with Miles being both early and late in his birth. Besides, Ivan could never get the Pretendership’s timeline straight, ever since, in their last school year, he made it a point to miss as many modern history classes as he could. Miles, sent by Lady Alys to call him back to order, took one look at Ivan’s face and, in an uncharacteristic display of empathy, proceeded to cover for him for what was left of the term. 

So, the spring for Carl, most likely, and the same damned fall for Evon Vorhalas. He stared into his teacup. What could he say, to change the old man’s mind? 

He didn’t have kids himself yet, but — faced with the man who’d wreaked Miles’ chest with that needle-grenade, could he forgive him? No way in all seven hells, I wouldn’t. Not after he’d seen the footage from Quinn’s helmet recorder. He wasn’t supposed to, being legally outside the immediate family circle, but after that cryo-chamber was found empty, he couldn’t— he just had to know. He called Simon Illyan on his personal line, and for the first time in his life managed to stare the man down. It was a pure nightmare trying to eat and flirt and laugh at Gregor’s birthday celebration the next day, but he managed that too, barely. 

Then again, Miles wasn’t guilty of anything that time around — not even foolishness, like poor Carl Vorhalas. And what of those times when he was? The Vordrozda disaster, or Kyril Island — not that he knew much about that clusterfuck, apart from his mother’s telling him in no uncertain terms to stay away from Miles until it was resolved, and, later on, her one terse conversation with Simon he’d accidentally overheard. Back to the point, he wasn’t sure he would’ve forgiven Gregor either, for Miles’ death warrant— Now that was a dangerous thought. You weren’t supposed to hold grudges against your Emperor, whatever the reason — but what if your Emperor was the same person you fought imaginary Cetagandans with? God, it was all so complicated! 

For most of the Vor, duty was a straight line. Do as your Count says, or your superior officer, and you’re all set. For himself, and a handful of others unfortunate enough to stand this close to the actual power, it was at times as crooked as Miles’ spine, if not more so. Was that how Vorhalas felt back then, trapped between revenge and loyalty?

He shook his head, trying to drag himself back to reality. His tea got cold, and the snowfall slowed down outside the windows of the Count’s library. Perhaps they’d have a couple of weeks before the winter yet.

7.

“Ivan Vorpatril. Is there another attempted murder I haven’t heard about?”

Startled, Ivan sprang to his feet, almost knocking the coffee table over in the process. Damn it, Szabo was right! He got nowhere near that poise his Uncle Aral — or Miles on a good day — projected so easily. And Vorhalas too, he thought, taking in the man’s appearance. Even the heavy cane worked for his image, not against it — something even Miles didn’t quite achieve during the short time he had to use one.

“Hello, sir!” Balance restored, Ivan managed a quick smile. “No, nothing like that, thankfully. I’m just a delivery guy this time around.” He extracted a letter from his pocket and handed it to Vorhalas with a neat half-bow a-là René Vorbretten. “Here, sir, that’s what I’ve come for.”

The man took it without hesitation. At least he doesn’t expect any of us to poison him. Come to think of it, Vorhalas hadn’t brought an armsman in here either. 

“Ah.” The Count went over to one of the writing desks, picked up a knife and removed the seal, overly careful not to touch the Vorkosigan emblem. Nevertheless, he read the invitation with keen interest. Ivan wondered, distantly, if this one was signed in blood. He wouldn’t put it past Miles at all.

After a minute or two, Vorhalas stopped scanning the letter and sat down, motioning Ivan back into his abandoned chair. “The boy can do Old Vor all right, I’ll give him that. Aral taught him well— or rather the old General did, I suppose. There’s no point to it, though. He knows I won’t come.”

Ivan swallowed his anxiety and nodded. “He does know. But he respects you, sir, and I think—” That was too naked a thing he was going to say, but perhaps with Vorhalas, it was the only way to go. “I think your disapproval weighs heavily on him, much as his grandfather’s did.”

The Count made an impatient gesture. “I don’t disapprove of Lord Vorkosigan. That is not my place, as he is an Imperial Auditor now.” He sighed inaudibly. “I won’t deny I did, for some time. But the Emperor was right about that little side-job of his. After what he did in the Hegen Hub, or on Dagoola IV—” Ivan’s eyebrows climbed up in surprise. Since when is Vorhalas so interested in galactic affairs? “Oh, don’t give me that look, boy. The Emperor insisted on keeping me in the know about Naismith’s career, God knows why.” Ah, so Gregor’s on my side in this! Ivan had a hard time keeping his glee at bay under Vorhalas’ piercing eyes. “Besides, old Piotr doted on his grandson as much as the rest of you do.”

Miles, doted on? It was more like allowed to exist, on strict probation from where Ivan stood. 

“Perhaps by the end of his life, sir. But it was earned, never given. That might be one of the reasons Miles isn’t willing to give up when it comes to you. He’s got that insane idealistic idea that decent people, honorable people are supposed to see eye to eye, not— not antagonize each other. He lives and breathes by the principle, truly; I’ve seen him bring about alliances I’d never have imagined were possible.” Mark and Elena, for one. Or Duv and— any of the Vorkosigans, really. “It’s got a downside, though.” He looked at Vorhalas directly, hoping against hope this would get through to him. “When someone he deems worthy of his respect doesn’t respond in kind, Miles can’t help thinking he is the one who doesn’t quite qualify, and that hits him hard.”

Silence fell. The old Count studied him, gaze unsettlingly shrewd. Ivan tried to keep his perspiration down and his expression as naively earnest as he could.

“And what do you think about it, Ivan?” Vorhalas asked suddenly. “That insane idea of your cousin’s— do you believe in it, too?” 

Yes. No. Not when it got him killed once before. 

“I try to.” He said honestly. “It’s not always easy.”

Vorhalas nodded gravely. “I should think so.” Then, with that amused interest again, “Does he know you’re here?”

“God, no! He’d skin me alive if he knew,” Ivan said, horrified. “So would the Count himself.”

“Just as I thought. Find a Vorpatril, huh? And you aren’t even oath-sworn to any of them.”

For some reason, Ivan felt tears clogging his throat. “No, sir. It’s—” He couldn’t explain it, so he went silent.

“I see,” Count Vorhalas said, an old pain clear in his voice. “I can’t promise you anything but this: I will think about what you said. Pass on my best wishes to your Lady Mother, please.” 

“Of course, sir.” Ivan nodded his goodbyes and left, feeling strangely reassured. Surely two months were time enough to think?

8.

On the day of the wedding, Ivan felt even more grateful for being no-one’s first call than usual, since it kept him out of the murderous loop till he got back to Vorkosigan House in the morning. The news about Ekaterin, even related to him in Aunt Cordelia’s dry words, were nerve-shattering enough to make him sit and breathe through a minute of shock. Ekaterin, poisoned? What would Miles have done— No, he knew that, didn’t he? Miles would’ve had his revenge — no, justice — first, and Ivan wouldn’t have moved a finger, except maybe to help him, but after that—

He stopped himself just short of spiraling down into actual panic. Ekaterin was fine, Miles was still sleeping, Roic and Taura spared them all the agony of seeing Miles Vorkosigan in genuinely unfixable despair — Ivan would have to make sure nothing stained Taura’s promised fairy tale tonight, as a thank you. 

He wandered back down the stairs, trying to run through the possible changes in the proceedings. Should he send someone to switch Martya and Taura’s cards on the table? No, that would have to wait until Ekaterin talked to her new bridesmaid in person, later in the day. He made a mental note to himself, then turned towards the library to check how many gifts ImpSec had managed to process and send back already.

There was enough for the things to look all right, at first glance. The presents from assorted Counts and Heirs and Ministers came back blessedly unscathed. An impending political disaster averted by ImpSec, not that they’d managed to avert anything more serious lately. 

There was no Vorhalas’ sigil to be seen anywhere, of course, but ImpSec had nothing to do with that. The man hadn’t even sent a formal reply to the invitation, either agreement or refusal; gifts were obviously out of the question. Ivan tried hard not to be disappointed; whatever Miles thought was for Miles alone to know. 

Byerly’s peculiarly elaborate handwriting caught his eye from the far end of the table. Ivan walked over, picked up the box and opened it, curious. It was a holo-puzzle of some sort. The pieces changed pattern depending on the setting and therefore offered seven different pictures instead of just one. It looked imported and inexplicably expensive, as well as, unlike most such things, rather tasteful. The pictures were all semi-close range holos of the most beautiful planets across the Nexus; Ivan instantly recognised Barrayar, then Old Earth with its pale, unhappy moon, then Eta Ceta IV, awash in deceptively inviting lights just like he remembered. The rest were, according to the captions, New Brasil, Vervain, mysterious Athos, haven of monks, and a rather picturesque backwater planet named Ylla. Nikki was going to fall in love for certain, and Miles, with his passion for riddles, would be a close second — if he managed to forget it was from By in the first place. Ekaterin, judging by that favorite pendant of hers, would at least enjoy the aesthetics, and some relatively quiet time with her family. It was a well-chosen present, all in all. No Jackson’s Whole, either. Interesting. 

Ivan glanced at the attached card, but it only held usual platitudes, most unlike Byerly’s signature snark. Still being all careful, By? Then again, last time there was a love affair with both Vorkosigans and Vorrutyers involved, it ended up in blood. 

René Vorbretten’s special delivery had also been returned in full and stacked on the floor near the entrance. Ivan all but groaned in frustration. How the hell could he have forgotten about that little conspiracy? He dashed out of the room, caught one of the ImpSec minions and asked him to move the boxes into the kitchen pantry. Then went down to talk to the cook herself.

The place was in a full flurry, but a cheerful one, at least. It took him a couple of minutes to find Ma Kosti in the eye of the storm. She sat behind the counter with an enormous to-do list in front of her, crossing the items one by one as she was getting the all done, ma’am from assorted underlings. He felt a spark of guilt for bringing her more work, but it was too late to change his mind. Besides, it would upset René if he chickened out now.

As expected, Ma Kosti wasn’t all too happy about putting simple honey-based sweets on the table alongside her own upper-class desserts. Street food, she grumbled, not even from m’lord’s home district, and refused to do anything without her employer’s approval until Ivan was forced to sit down and explain the significance of the gesture properly. By the end of the story she promised, misty-eyed, to take care of everything, and Ivan got a cup of coffee and a biscuit as a reward. About time, too; his head was already pounding. 

Ivan tried to remember the last time he slept through the night — five days ago? a week? Organizing Gregor’s wedding had been a busy job, but at least that was his only job back then. This time around no one made him any allowances, and between all the preparations, his usual shifts at Imperial Service HQ, a few inevitable social events and some residual discomfort from his injured shoulder Ivan had been running on either stims or coffee for longer than he cared to admit. I’m going to sleep for a week once it’s all over. 

9.

The house was full of staff, yet of course Ivan ended up hauling chairs around. He made sure everyone, including Miles and Taura, was sitting comfortably and went back to the entrance to properly shut the door. Allegre’s man stood just outside, presumably on guard duty. Paranoid, are we, Guy? He stuck his head out, nodded his greetings, more out of solidarity with a fellow dogsbody than any other reason, and was already back in the room when he caught a glimpse of an armsman waving at him frantically from the far end of the corridor. Quickly, he stepped across the threshold, turned, locked eyes with Aunt Cordelia, trying to convey his apologies through a series of rather confused expressions, and closed the door. 

Jankowski, quite out of breath, started talking as soon as he came close enough not to yell. “M’lord, I’m sorry, I know you’re supposed to be in that meeting, but we’ve got an emergency, and your Lady Mother hasn’t arrived yet.” Catching Ivan’s expression, he hastily explained, “It’s not about security, sir, at least we don’t think so, it’s just—” He glanced at the ImpSec officer and wisely lowered his voice. “It’s just that Count Vorhalas is here.” 

What? Ivan allowed himself two seconds of stunned silence, then cursed out loud and broke into a run, or something as close to it as his best House uniform permitted. 

Jankowski jogged alongside him, rattling off the details, “His groundcar pulled up in front of the gates five minutes ago. He showed his invitation to the guard, all properly signed, but— no one knew he was coming, m’lord!” 

“He must’ve changed his mind at the last minute,” Ivan said, more to himself than to the armsman. “It’s fine, I’ll deal with it.” Or die trying.

When they reached the main entrance, the Count was, mercifully, only just coming in through the doors, his own armsman behind his shoulder. Ivan stepped next to Pym and said, under his breath, “Whatever happens, please, just— play along. And don’t send for anyone else, especially my mother.” 

There was no saying whether the man would comply or not, but in any case the time for negotiation had just run out. Ivan cleared his throat and took a stiff step forward.

“My Lord Count. It’s an honor and a pleasure to have you as a guest, here in Vorkosigan House. Sorry there’s no one to greet you properly; we’ve had a bit of mishap earlier, but someone from the family should get down soon enough.” 

Vorhalas looked at him with a peculiar expression, “Aren’t you family enough, Vorpatril? I should hope so, or I might be tempted to have a word with your cousin about the way he treats you.” He shrugged his heavy coat off gracefully; Pym took it without a hitch. 

Wait, what? “Oh no, sir, I just meant—” Ivan wavered. 

The Count huffed out a genuine laughter, “At ease, Captain, that was mostly a joke. Besides, if no one else sees me, so much the better. I’m not here to disrupt the wedding with unnecessary dramatics; and surely the groom doesn’t need any more excitement before the ceremony. Perhaps you could find a quiet corner for an old man to doze in until it’s time to witness the vows?”

Old man my ass! Ivan couldn’t hide his smirk. “Certainly, sir. Pym, is the old study behind the library still unoccupied? It should be comfortable enough.”

Pym nodded in response, his eyes faintly amused. The room served as Simon Illyan’s office back when he often had to work from Vorkosigan House, and as such still held the flair of a sacred ground. No one in the household would come in willingly if they could avoid it. “Of course, m’lord. My Lord Count, Armsman Jankowski will show you the way. I’ll send in some refreshments in a moment.”

Ivan accompanied the old Count to the room. It was bright enough, with good furniture and some books still stashed on the shelves. It was also very quiet. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to stay with you for long. Miles should be almost done with his emergency by now, and he’ll need me afterwards.” A sudden idea crossed his mind. “Maybe I could arrange some company for you? René Vorbretten is here already, he’d be happy to oblige. I know he’s not quite your usual crowd, sir, but he’s a good man. Intelligent, too.”

Vorhalas snorted. “Unlike most of the Council, you mean? Quite so.” He paused, considering. “Vorbretten, huh? What was it you said back then? Decent people should see eye to eye?” Ivan blinked, caught by surprise. He remembers that? “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to try it once in a while. Vorbretten it is then, if he isn’t afraid I’d bore him to death.” 

10.

Koudelka team’s favorite East Lounge with its cozy fireplace, heavy curtains and big, comfortable sofas was already quite full. Drou, the girls, Tatya Vorbretten and, not quite unexpectedly, Dono were enthusiastically discussing Kareen’s latest letter from the Beta Colony, which sounded to Ivan more like a treatise on the topic of gender equality than anything else, while Commodore Koudelka sat solemnly in a big chair, expertly ignoring the chatter. Duv and René took over the window seat, deep in their own obscure conversation about the history of Barrayaran lutherie, whatever that meant. 

“Gentlemen, sorry to interrupt, but— there's a bit of a problem.” Duv’s entire frame went rigid in a matter of seconds, and Ivan hurried to reassure him, “Not your kind of problem, Duv, relax. Just a social one. René, if you could— No, scratch that. If you could both come with me, please? I’m sure Commodore Koudelka and Dono will look after the ladies for you.” 

René frowned slightly, but complied. Duv followed them out of the room, still visibly on edge. “What is it, Ivan? Is Madame Vorsoisson all right?” Ah, so Duv knows about that already. 

“Everyone’s alright. We have a—” he cleared his throat, “an unexpected guest, that’s all. Old Count Vorhalas, if that means anything to you, Duv.”

René gasped, but said nothing for now. Galeni’s expression grew even darker. “I know the basics, yes. Are you sure he’s not a security threat?” 

Ivan nodded impatiently. “He told me he wasn’t here to disrupt the wedding. That’s good enough for me. The man just doesn’t do underhanded. Besides, he passed the security check, just like everyone else.”

Duv shrugged his shoulders and relaxed a fraction. “If you say so. You know the Vor better than I do, that’s for sure. And what do you want us for, then?” 

“To keep him company. We’ve decided not to disturb any of the Vorkosigans for the time being, so I’ve put him into a quiet room. Too quiet, if you ask me. I don’t want the man to get bored and lose his momentum — not before he talks to Miles.”

René glanced at him. “Are you sure about this, Ivan? He hasn't been all that keen on speaking with me, lately.”

“Actually, he said he didn’t mind. Seems to me he’s in a good mood, so it might be a chance for you to build some bridges, if you’d like. And Duv, the man’s a walking, talking history, but don’t ask him about the Pretendership. He won’t appreciate it.”

“No problem,” Galeni said, utterly deadpan. “I’ll just talk about something warm and fuzzy then. The Yuri’s dismemberment, perhaps, or the Second Cetagandan War. So many options, in Barrayaran history.”

René chortled, either amused or scandalized. Ivan managed to keep his face straight. “Exactly. Let’s go then?”

Pym, with his usual efficiency, had already supplied the Count with a bottle of wine and a mind-blowing assortment of Ma Kosti’s best snacks by the time the three of them entered the study. 

“Back as promised, sir. You know Count Vorbretten, of course, and this,” Ivan made a polite gesture in Duv’s direction, “is Commodore Duv Galeni, ImpSec. Not sure if you’ve ever met before, but he’s—”

“A decent person, I presume?” Vorhalas supplied, eyes sparkling with mirth. Duv drew himself up, stung. “My apologies, Commodore, this is just something Ivan said to me before, about Lord Vorkosigan’s friends. It’s been ages since I last acquired a new in-joke with anyone; forgive me for overdoing it a bit. I meant no offense.”

Appeased, Duv nodded politely. “None taken, sir. It’s an honor to meet you.”

“Actually, I was going to say he’s head of Komarran Affairs, but that works too,” Ivan added, belatedly. 

“Ah, yes. The Emperor seems to have nothing but good to say about your work, Commodore. That goes for you too, Vorbretten. This latest motion of yours caused some uproar, but Gregor is pleased with it, as far as I can say. Are you planning to—”

Ivan saluted briefly, turned on his heels and walked out of the room. One problem solved, one to go.

11.

As soon as he entered the Great Hall again, Pym migrated towards him, leaving Jankowski and a pair of ImpSec-provided valets to greet the guests. “Your Lady Mother and her partner have just arrived, m’lord.”

Ivan looked up at him sharply. “Did you tell them—”

“No, not yet. They’re worried enough as it is, m’lord, and the matter seems to be— well under control. Though I’d recommend we inform both Count and Lord Vorkosigan immediately after the ceremony is completed. It won’t do for them to be caught by surprise.”

“I’ll be standing right next to Miles, I can tell him. Could you send someone to pass the word to Uncle Aral and Aunt Cordelia?”

“Certainly, m’lord.” Pym paused. “If I may ask, does Count Vorhalas intend to stay for the reception?”

Ivan had been thinking about that for the last ten minutes. “I didn’t quite dare ask, but if everything goes smoothly, I’d think yes. I know I have to come up with where to seat him; I’ll let you know, Pym. Print a card out just in case, would you?”

Retreating to one of the ottomans near the windows, he pulled out a copy of his mother’s impeccable seating chart. Switching up Martya and Taura, at least, posed no problem. Placed between Gregor and himself, Miles’ galactic girlfriend would be well-guarded against any unwelcome attention; and Martya Koudelka was easy-going enough to get along with anyone. Not to forget the fact that she'll take any excuse to get as far away from me as she can.

Count Vorhalas, now— He couldn’t just add another chair, could he? That would upset his mother’s precious even numbers, not to mention Ma Kosti’s precisely calibrated table setting. Could he ask someone to feign an excuse and miss the reception? Ironically, in any other circumstances he’d be the go-to person for this kind of thing in the Vorkosigan household. Not this time around, though. 

He scanned the list, looking for inspiration. The Dendarii were out of the question — Miles would’ve had his hide if he tried anything with them — and so were any of Ekaterin’s family members. He also couldn’t break up the couples, which reduced his options by three-quarters at the very least. There were two single Ministers and an unaccompanied Betan Ambassador, but that would be asking for a political catastrophе. Gregor’s three maternal relatives, though all widowed or unmarried, were also tied up as a group. All things considered, it only left one possible candidate. 

Ivan remembered the beautiful puzzle he’d been admiring not so long ago and winced. He’d have to grovel, wouldn't he? And Byerly’d probably end up weaseling an entire week of free dinners from him. That would be fair, though. It was a shitty thing to do to anyone, even a Vorrutyer. Especially a Vorrutyer.

To be on the safe side, he checked Byerly’s tablemates. Mademoiselle Livia Vorvayne must be that débutante cousin of Ekaterin’s who’d just entered the Imperial University. Why the hell did his mother put her next to By in the first place? This was just insane! Then again, knowing Lady Alys, it might’ve been a subtle attempt to deter the poor girl from diving into Vorbarr Sultana’s colorful nightlife. Ivan shook his head. Not my problem. The old Count could hardly mind looking after a young lady, however free-spirited she might be. 

Arde Mayhew was a little trickier, but Vorhalas didn’t come across as particularly prejudiced against the galactics, and he knew enough about Miles’ classified past to steer away from any dangerous topics. Did his mother mean to put Byerly on that job, too?  

Directly opposite, Gregor’s maternal aunt Adele, Lady Vorwyn by marriage. No feuds there, as far as he could remember. Katya Kostolitz on her right side — could be a bit over-awed in the Count’s presence, but she’d manage. On the left, Lord Auditor Vorgustafson — both the only sane Barrayaran who wouldn’t mind By’s sense of fashion and a perfect conversational partner to Lady Vorwyn with her keen interest in charities. Then again, he was also old enough to be Vorhalas’ peer, as well as by no means boring.  

Well, this will have to do.

Satisfied, Ivan stuck the flimsy back into his pocket, raised his head and saw Byerly Vorrutyer slipping through the doors in his intricately embroidered demi-saison blue coat. 

The rest of him must also be turning blue, in a weather like this, Ivan thought nonsensically and braced himself for another tricky conversation.

12.

Pulled away from his polite weather-talk with an ImpSec valet and ushered hastily into the nearest receiving room, By scanned Ivan with a mildly intrigued look on his face. 

“Not that I don’t appreciate a chance to have a little tête-à-tête with you, Ivan, but aren’t these things traditionally scheduled for after the newlyweds’ departure?” Ivan opened his mouth, but there was no diverting Vorrutyer from his little performance. “Though I must admit, you look so resplendent in these Vorpatril colors that there might be no free spot in the line for me by tha—”

Ivan had already had enough of this. “For pity’s sake, Vorrutyer! I’m not hitting on you. There’s about as much chance of that happening as it is of a Winterfair Ball being held in Vorkosigan Vashnoi. Would you shut up and listen to me for a change?” 

He felt like an ass the moment he said it, but at least it had been partially effective. Byerly’s expression turned more serious, though he didn’t quite stop talking. “I take it there is an actual problem, then.” He made a thoughtful humming noise. “Let me guess. Has his Lordship the Imperial Auditor decided he signed the wrong invitation after all?” Ivan jerked his head up, astonished. That was way too close— “Ah. I see.” 

There was no emotion to be seen on Vorrutyer’s face, but he tightened his grip on that familiar envelope, embossed oak-leaves shriveling under his fingers. Did By actually care about being invited? Ivan swallowed uneasily.

“It’s not Miles. Or Ekaterin. It’s— There was an invitation for Count Vorhalas, which the man didn’t respond to, predictably. But now he’s here, and I don’t have a seat for him, not unless someone has an emergency.” He sneaked a glance up at By’s face. It still betrayed nothing. “I’m sorry to ask, By, I really am, but the rest of the guests are either too noticeable, paired up or would take my asking as some kind of— a heinous attack on their honor.”

“Whereas I, as we both know,” By said, in a voice so dry it could cause dehydration, “have no honor to speak of.” 

It was curious, Ivan thought, how people would normally describe brown as velvet and warm and soft. Right there and then, Vorrutyer’s eyes could rival Miles’ steely gray in their ability to shred you to pieces. “By—”

“You could’ve just asked one of those burly armsmen of your cousin’s to kick me out, you know. I’m sure they would’ve gladly complied.”

“First, I didn’t say that! Second, Pym’s much more likely to kick me out instead.” He took a deep breath, calming himself. You’re the one who needs a favor here, Ivan, you idiot! “Look, I’m not throwing you out. Even if I had any authority to do that — which I do not — I wouldn’t. You have every right to be here. I’m just asking; if you say no, then no it is. I’ll just have to come up with something. Put him on a camp stool, maybe — that’d make Gregor smile, if nothing else. It’s just— You know how it’s been for the last decades, with Vorhalas and Aral Vorkosigan, and they’re both getting really old now. It might be their last chance to mend fences. It’d be a crime to let it go to waste.” 

He sounded desperate, he knew. Almost begging. It didn’t really matter, not against something as big and real and ancient as this.

There was no answer for a while. Byerly turned away from him and fiddled with a window latch, prying it open. As the stream of winter air rushed into the room, Ivan realized he’d been trying, and failing, to catch his breath.

“Did you know I have a sister, Ivan?” Byerly said, after a pause, sounding oddly subdued. Then shook his head with a small, rueful laugh. “No, of course not. Foolish of me to ask. You know, Ivan, I keep forgetting we’re not actually friends. Not a mistake I’m used to making.” Wait, a sister? And what was that about— “Give me a sign at the end of the ceremony, then, if no one else has to dash off. It shouldn’t be too difficult to come up with an excuse. Oh, and please congratulate the happy couple for me if I don’t get to. No need to be ill-mannered, is there?”

With that little dig, he saluted and marched towards the entrance — as much as any movement of his could ever be categorized as marching. Gathering what was left of his wits, Ivan whirled around to call after him, “Thanks, By, I’ll owe—”

Halted at the doorstep, Byerly sharply cut him off, “No. I owe you one, for Dono’s affair. This would be me paying interest, barely. Good day, Vorpatril.” Then he was gone, leaving Ivan to contemplate the depths of his bewilderment.

Which must have been showing on his face, because Pym greeted him with palpable concern when he returned to the Great Hall. “Is everything in order, m’lord?”

“Yes. Well, no, I think I’ve just made a huge ass of myself, but that’s nothing new. Anyway, would you please arrange for someone to replace Byerly Vorrutyer’s card with Vorhalas’ after everyone’s off to the garden? Switch Martya and Taura’s too, unless Ekaterin tells you not to.”

“Certainly, m’lord. Would that be all?”

He started nodding, then stopped. “Could you give him a bottle of wine before he leaves? Vorrutyer, I mean. I’ll replace it in a few days, when all the circus is over.”

Pym took it in stride, as he did anything. “What sort of wine, m’lord?”

Ivan sighed. “Something decent enough that wouldn’t leave me destitute. If at all possible.”

The armsman visibly deliberated. “If you’d like, m’lord, I could put it on the family account. Just this once, of course.” A pause. “Count Vorhalas isn’t wrong, you know.”

Ivan gaped at him, speechless. Was that— Did he just— 

With a hint of a smile on his face, Pym gave him a respectful nod and retreated, impeccable as ever. 

13.

The door closed behind his back and left Ivan, for the second time today, trapped in the room with a very keyed-up Lord Miles Naismith Vorkosigan. Just how many tranqs would he need to actually calm down, huh? 

“So, who was it, then?” Ivan asked lightly, dropping into one of the chairs.

“You’d know if you’d stayed and listened,” Miles snapped at him, then narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Where were you, anyway?”

Ivan expertly feigned innocence. “Dealing with a seating chart emergency. It’s all fine now.”

Losing any interest altogether, Miles acknowledged the explanation with an absent nod. What, no thanks again, coz? “Not Quinn, obviously. It was Vorbataille and his Jacksonian, um, let’s say associate. Allegre got them both.” So, Miles’ old job as well as his new one. Not good, that. “It’s almost like we’re taking turns trying to die, Ekaterin and I.” Ivan didn’t quite manage to suppress his flinch. Miles' eyes focused on him with sudden sharpness. “How’s your shoulder, by the way?”

Ivan blinked. “As good as new, almost.” Then he connected the dots. “You think—”

Miles shook his head. “ImpSec’s convinced that was just bad luck. I’m inclined to agree with them, really; you’d need a hell of a good aim to kill anyone with that thing. Still—” 

He stopped pacing and plopped himself into a chair next to Ivan, visibly trying to relax. Not even a second later, he was already messing with one of his silver cufflinks, twirling the thing nervously in its hole. Ivan eyed him with growing concern.

“All right, what is it, coz? You look—” What did he look like? Worried, obviously. Seething. Diffident? 

Miles kept staring down at his own hands. “I meant to ask something of you.” His lips curved in a self-deprecating smirk. “Again. As if I haven’t done enough of that.”

He seemed so— fragile, sitting there with his head bowed, his uneven shoulders hunched. Ivan swallowed past the lump in his throat. 

Miles, of course, chose this exact moment to look up at him, those quicksilver eyes of his both earnest and guarded. “Ivan, if I— If anything happens to me— Would you look after Ekaterin and Nikki?” He went on, faster, gathering momentum, “I don’t expect you to do much. Ekaterin is an exceptionally capable person; my parents might well still be around, and I’m sure Mark will take care of anything financial, if needs must. But they’re living off-planet now, all of them, and I’d feel better if—”

Oh, for the love of— “Shut up, Vorkosigan. Just—” Ivan cut himself off. Unclenched his fists. Then, without allowing himself to think, sank down to one knee — to be on the eye level with Miles, not because it felt all that important — and took a breath deep enough to get him through what he was going to say.

“I swear on my word as Vorpatril — if anything fatal happens to you, at any point in the future, Ekaterin and any children of yours, including Nikki, will have my care, support and protection until my dying day.” He paused. In for a penny— “Same goes for your brother Mark, if he ever finds himself in need of my help.” There was no sound left in the room, except for his own scattered thoughts rattling inside his head. Ivan looked up and fixed Miles with his best glare. “Is it enough to satisfy that endless pit of darkness and despair you call your brain, or should I sign it in blood?”

“I—” For a change, Miles seemed to be lost for words. Ivan dragged himself up to his feet, then fell back into his chair, bonelessly. God, the day had barely started, and he was already so done. His head still hurt, and now his hands were honest-to-god shaking. Damn Miles for doing this to him again. Come to think of it, damn himself for being so, so—

“Ivan, that’s— So much more than what I asked for. You didn’t have to—” Miles actually sounded choked with emotion, all his defenses thrown to the winds.

Ivan shook his head tiredly. “What’d you think I’d say? Fine, I’ll send them gifts for Winterfair, now sod off? You know me better than that, coz.”

Chastened, Miles looked away and swallowed hard, as if something was stuck in his throat, too. Then, quite unexpectedly, buried his face in his hands for a long moment. When he emerged, his eyes were still bright with unshed tears but finally, finally hopeful. “Not as well as I should, apparently. Ask about loyalty, indeed. Thank you, Ivan.”

God, did he actually want Miles to be grateful to him, not fifteen minutes ago? Careful what you wish for. Deeply uncomfortable, Ivan latched onto the excuse to change the topic. “What was that phrase about loyalty? Sounded like something out of a book.”

Miles blinked, caught off guard. “It’s just an old saying. To ask about loyalty, find a Vorpatril. My Grandfather the General was fond of it, for some reason. You’ve really never heard it?” Ivan tried to remember, but drew a blank. Except— Didn’t Count Vorhalas say something alike to him? “Well, it used to be quite common, as far as I know. It’s got double meaning, of course, these things always do. Figuratively, it means — if you’ve got a problem or need information, don’t beat around the bush, go straight to the expert. Literally—”

“I can understand literal, Vorkosigan!” Ivan snapped, the familiar knee-jerk irritation flaring up. “I’m not actually that stupid, you know.” 

“Right, sorry.” Miles’ shoulders slumped; he glanced down and picked at that long-suffering cufflink of his again. In his brown and silver House uniform he now looked so much like a ruffled-up winter sparrow that Ivan barely repressed a smile, his annoyance gone as quickly as it arose. “It’s just— I meant it, you know? Literally.”

Ivan couldn’t help rolling his eyes. “I figured that out too, thanks.” 

Not knowing what else to say, they sat in unsure silence for a few seconds until Miles, with a frighteningly determined look on his face, reached across both their chairs’ arms and pulled him down into an awkwardly tilted hug.

It took Ivan a second to remember he was at no risk of breaking Miles’ frail ribs anymore. After this, he had no excuse whatsoever not to hug the little sap back, and so he did. 

14.

It was for the better, Ivan decided, that he was standing here as Miles’ Second, not either of his brothers, the evil clone or the Emperor — that is, Lord Mark Pierre Vorkosigan or Count Vorbarra. First, none of those two would’ve had enough cheek to pull off his joke with the ice rabbits. Second, he doubted Miles could’ve ever forgotten himself so far as to cling to Gregor’s sleeve this way, and Mark’s relationship with touch remained a very dangerous minefield. 

If he was honest with himself, the gesture made him feel— something. Miles wasn’t exactly reticent as a rule, but he guarded his vulnerabilities well; if he hadn’t wanted Ivan to know he was terrified, then, cousin or not, Ivan would’ve likely been none the wiser. Besides— After all those years Miles spent off-planet rearranging the Nexus to his liking, it still startled Ivan occasionally to look around and find Miles right there, real and present and involved, not several wormhole jumps away — either physically or mentally. 

Though present might’ve been a bit too generous an assessment at the moment, Ivan realized when Ekaterin stepped into the garden in all her incandescent glory. Granted, she looked not just beautiful, but breathtaking now that his mother finally got her to wear something that wasn’t practical or plain or downright shabby, but Miles was taking the word entranced a little bit too literally. Or was it spellbound? Mesmerized? Why did all these adjectives imply some kind of foul play, anyway? 

Exasperated, Ivan shook Miles by the shoulder, breaking the spell. Luckily, the ceremony had been well-rehearsed; as long as the bride and the groom were coherent enough to walk and repeat what was recited to them, it was all going to go smoothly. Taura, though new to the proceedings, did a fine job. Ivan’s mother teared up halfway through the vows, but hid it gracefully; Uncle Aral didn’t bother hiding. Aunt Cordelia didn’t cry, but then again, she was the least sentimental woman Ivan had ever met, and that list included the Cetagandan haut Consorts — the whole bloody lot of them. 

To cover up his own urgent blinking, Ivan broke the circle with as much panache as he could muster, then got his customary kiss and pulled Taura to the side, so as to let Miles and Ekaterin enjoy the armsmen’s deafening tribute alone. His head was spinning — from happiness or sheer exhaustion, he couldn’t tell. Taura bent down to ask him something; he answered mechanically. She laughed, so his auto-pilot must have been working fine. Everything was fine. He caught Gregor’s eyes across the alley; they were as dazed with relief as—

Oh.

It suddenly hit him with the force of a heavy stunner blast. They were alive. They’ve made it well into their thirties, all three of them; Gregor was married and having an heir, and Miles was sure to follow right on his heels. They were here — alive, victorious, happy despite everything that had tried to kill them — despite Cetagandans, Jacksonian barons, Komarran rebels, despite Vordarian and Vordrozda, despite Miles’ persistent death wish and Gregor’s recurring depression, despite the whole insane procession of plots and revenges and petty quarrels, despite old Piotr and Haroche and Richars and Evon Vorhalas—

The world tilted before Ivan’s eyes. Shit, shit, shit, how could he forget! There was no time to do anything now; Miles and Ekaterin were already rounding the corner. He caught a glimpse of a maid whispering something into Cordelia’s ear. Pym, at least, was as good as his word. 

Trying to appear his usual nonchalant self, Ivan smiled randomly at the guests and swiftly led Taura through the crowd and into the gates. Vorhalas’ colors were nowhere to be seen. He spotted the Vorbrettens instead and managed to catch up with them right on the doorstep. René didn’t even notice him, staring intently at something that was happening inside the Entry Hall.

15.

It seemed he was late, after all.

Ivan stopped short beside René, taking in the scene before them. Taura, who had no clue as to what went wrong but realized something did, wordlessly followed his lead.

Miles stood still a few steps farther into the hall, Ekaterin firmly at his side, her hand clutching at his elbow. His posture, though not exactly aggressive, screamed battle-ready to anyone who had eyes. To Taura it was probably even more obvious than to Ivan himself, judging by the way she subtly changed her own stance. Ivan, with some difficulty, caught her eyes and slowly shook his head. Not your kind of battle, Sergeant. She blinked and slightly relaxed.

Finally noticing the two of them, René glanced at him guiltily, whispering, “Sorry I let Vorhalas out of my sight.”

Ivan waved him off. “Not your fault. I’m the one who forgot to tell Miles, anyway.” He paused, watching Vorhalas’ heavy cane descending onto those ominous black-and-white tiles. “It’s going to be fine,” he added with somewhat forced optimism. René didn’t look convinced, and neither, ironically, did Taura, who wasn’t even in the know to start with. It was all right; he’d mostly been trying to convince himself.

Miles would kill him if it went wrong. Figuratively and, quite possibly, literally.

Vorhalas stopped at a respectable distance from the newlyweds; Miles gave a stiff bow, then drew himself upwards again. “Count Vorhalas, sir. You’re most welcome. Though I’m afraid you wouldn’t believe it after I’ve been so remiss in my duties as a host. Had I known you were here—”

The words were barely audible beneath all the bustle around. Though most of the guests were still outside discussing the ceremony and admiring the ice sculptures, the excited, chattering crowd had already begun streaming into the House. The big players were all conspicuously absent. Had Aunt Cordelia done something to hold Uncle Aral and Gregor back for a while? 

Vorhalas shook his head, dismissing Miles’ apologies. Ivan stepped closer in order to hear the conversation clearly.

“I’ve been informed you’d had an emergency of some kind earlier in the day; it would’ve been discourteous of me to add to your concerns.” The Count’s gaze fell upon Ivan for a split second. “Besides, your cousin kindly provided me with a quiet corner and some enjoyable company — and a bottle of a good red, as a matter of course. I must congratulate you on your choice of a Second, my Lord Auditor — he seems to me quite a resourceful young man.” 

Ivan groaned inwardly. Did the man have to throw him under the proverbial monorail? And how, for pity’s sake, was he now supposed to explain any of this to his goddamned cousin? 

Miles tilted his head in a perfectly polite gesture of surprise. Ivan shuddered in anticipation. “I’m happy to hear it, Count, though resourcefulness is admittedly not what he is widely known for. As you well know.” 

Ivan started breathing again. He’d expected worse; then again, Miles must’ve still been feeling grateful to him; it wouldn’t last. 

Vorhalas shrugged Miles’ little jibe off philosophically. “That’s the Vorpatrils for you; there’s no saying what they are capable of until something they care about is at stake. Your aunt Lady Alys, though not a born Vorpatril, is one vivid example.”

It was an unbeatable argument; even Miles had to concede the point, which didn’t happen often, to say the least. Reluctantly, he nodded. “Very true, sir.”

“Ivan’s friendship has been invaluable to us both throughout these last few months,” Ekaterin said quietly — her first remark since the conversation began. “I can’t imagine— there’s no telling if there would be a wedding without his help.” 

Ivan felt himself blushing. This was way too much recognition for his tastes. Was she doing it on purpose? He wasn’t even sure if Miles or Ekaterin realized he was standing right here within the hearing distance; none of the two acknowledged his presence.

“Then it is as it should be, between family. But— this is not what I came here to say, my Lord Auditor, my lady.” 

Now, that sounded like a threat. Miles squared his shoulders yet again, bracing for some kind of attack. Ekaterin stood next to him, unflinchingly. 

Ivan looked around. Some of the guests seemed to finally realize that, whatever was happening, it wasn’t a standard exchange of courtesies. It took them too long, in Ivan’s opinion, but— Miles’ galactics, in all likelihood, didn’t even know Vorhalas District existed, let alone its Count. As for Barrayarans, many were too young to have heard the full story, and there was nothing unusual, per say, about Count Vorhalas and Lord Vorkosigan talking to each other. In the years since Vordrozda’s case, Miles had rarely passed up a chance to say a few words to the old man in public, no matter how idle. It was, Ivan supposed, his way of— desensitizing Vorhalas to speaking amicably to a Vorkosigan in the hope he’d speak that way to the Vorkosigan eventually. It didn’t really work, but Miles wasn’t about to give up.

There was a hush, still, coming from those few who still remembered, old Falco Vorpatril and Simon Illyan amongst them. Simon Illyan? Ivan did a double-take. When did his mother’s— whatever come in? 

The chatter had all but died down. Vorhalas’ deep, resonant voice suddenly seemed to reach the far corners of the Great Hall with the ease that came from a lifelong practice of speaking up in the Council Chamber. 

“In the days of my youth, which I doubt many people here could remember, a wedding tradition of sorts existed. One of the eldest guests would at some point stand up and recite an old proverb, meant both as a wish and a warning. It went like this: 

If honor is there, 

the wedlock is light as a lock of hair; 

if there is none, 

it’s the heaviest yoke indeed.” 

A yet uncertain ripple went through the crowd. Somewhere behind Taura’s back, René Vorbretten sucked in a sharp breath; Miles didn’t even flinch. 

Alarmed, Ivan took another step forward. If the man dared imply— 

“Although in this case I believe there’s no need for warnings. My lady,” the Count sketched a bow into Ekaterin’s direction, “from what I’ve seen and heard of you, honor runs deep in your blood. And as rare as it is today — even amongst the Vor, I must admit — you’ve certainly managed to find yourself an equal.” 

Ivan let out a breath of relief. Ekaterin inclined her head gracefully, accepting the compliment as her due; Miles was still conspicuously motionless next to her. From where he stood, Ivan couldn’t see his cousin’s face; what was the man thinking? Come on, Miles, say some—

“Sir— My lady wife is worthy of any praise. I, on the other hand, can only hope to live up to it someday.”

This was— not bad, for a man with an ego the size of a galactic cruiser, Ivan supposed.

Vorhalas actually snorted. “Nonsense, and you know it. Humility doesn’t suit you Vorkosigans; it never had.” 

At last, Miles’ impermeable facade cracked. Some of the tension drained out of his posture and he let out a small chuckle. “Guilty as charged, my lord. Though you have to admit I’ve never had a shortage of people eager to remind me of its importance.”

Translated as, no Barrayaran has ever let me forget just how inferior they thought I was. 

Ivan’s anxiety came back with a vengeance. This was no time for bloody irony, damn it, coz! But it seemed Miles, too, had realized his mistake. “I’m sorry, Count. I didn’t mean—”

Vorhalas looked old, all of a sudden, old and weary. 

“No need to apologize. If anyone’s at fault here, it’s not you. I can only— I wish you both a long and happy life. But beyond that,” his voice shook minutely, “I hope, more than I can express, that fate treats your children kinder than it did ours.” 

Though still addressing Miles and Ekaterin, Vorhalas now fixed his eyes on something — someone? — else behind their backs. With a sinking heart, Ivan turned around, following the man’s gaze.

Aral and Cordelia Vorkosigan stood in the doorway, his face filled with acute sorrow, hers serene despite the tears glistening in her eyes. 

How long had they been listening, unnoticed? Ivan thought back hastily to what was said in the last few minutes — nothing offensive, really, setting aside Miles’ cutting jokes. 

They’re just— touched. Must be a good sign, right?

“Sir, I—” Miles’ ragged voice broke into Ivan’s thoughts, making him look back. “This is—” The little man shook his head, almost incoherent. “You—”

Ekaterin made a move to interfere, but before she could say anything Vorhalas took a step towards Miles, laying a heavy hand onto his shoulder, this time utterly unconcerned about the Vorkosigan leaf stamped into his épaulette. “No words are needed, my boy. It’s all fine. Or will be, in time.” He let out a sigh and drew back, quickly composing himself. “It seems I have taken too much of your time already, my lord, my lady. I shall be heading off.”

“Won’t you stay for the reception, my Lord Count?” Ekaterin said, sounding genuinely hopeful.

“I’m afraid I’ve never formally let anyone know I was coming, and I wouldn’t want to impose.” He gave Ekaterin a tiny, almost conspiratorial smile. “Besides, it’s a universally known fact that Lady Alys’ seating arrangements are not to be trifled with.”

From the second line of the gawking guests, Byerly Vorrutyer gave Ivan an ironic bow and disappeared, presumably to make his excuses to Dono and Olivia. Reassured, Ivan took his cue. “Actually, sir, I’ve got a seat for you.”

Surprised, Vorhalas raised his eyebrows. Miles whirled around to gape at Ivan in astonishment, then noticed his parents and promptly went white as a sheet. Ivan almost snickered at his reaction. Where’s that precious situational awareness of yours, coz?

“One of the guests has to leave early; you wouldn’t be disturbing anyone.” Anyone he hadn’t disturbed already, that is. “Not even my mother’s seating chart.” The joke didn’t sit right with him — none of this situation with By really did, but what else was he supposed to do?

“Ah.” The man visibly hesitated. “If that is so, then— I would be honored to stay, Lady Vorkosigan, unless—” his gaze wandered back to where Aral and Cordelia stood, “unless the Count and the Countess object.”

A huge smile broke out on Aral Vorkosigan’s face, but it was Cordelia who answered, her voice trembling but undeniably warm, “There was never a day when you wouldn’t have been welcomed here as a friend, my Lord Count. Surely you know that.”

Miles, yet again wound tight enough to snap, issued a barely audible gasp. Ekaterin was still gripping his elbow tightly, but she was also smiling. For a long moment, Vorhalas studied Cordelia’s face. Then he gave her a reverent bow. “I do now, my lady. In this case— I’ll be happy to stay. Vorpatril, how do I find that seat of yours?” 

Giddy with relief, Ivan laughed. “Same as everyone else, sir. There is a card.” Or should be, if Pym was true to himself. “Ask any of the armsmen if you don’t find it.” 

16.

Vorhalas bowed out, and the crowd half-dissipated to gossip to their hearts’ desire. Aral and Cordelia finally proceeded into the Hall, followed closely by Gregor and Laisa, who looked a bit shell-shocked themselves, and Lady Alys Vorpatril, whose facial expression seemed stuck right in the middle between flattered, indignant and relieved. 

Simon Illyan drifted to her side immediately and said something that made her entire demeanor soften in a matter of two seconds, leaving Ivan wondering, not without a touch of resentment, what in the world could ever have that kind of effect on Lady Alys’ temper — and why he had never discovered it, whatever it was.

He had more pressing matters to worry about, however. Avoiding any conversation with his mother was high on the list from the start; judging by Gregor’s raised eyebrow, Imperial attention should’ve been even higher. Aunt Cordelia observed him again, while her husband was luckily too busy explaining to Ekaterin what had just happened before her eyes. In comparison, Miles seemed almost harmless, abashed as he was by the idea of his parents witnessing the entire spectacle. 

Choosing the lesser of, hmm, three or four evils at least, Ivan walked up to his cousin, who gave him a thoroughly unimpressed look. 

“Shall we all go on to the dining room, then? Interesting as the drama has been, the time’s ticking. Aren’t you supposed to be off to Vorkosigan Surleau sometime before midnight?” 

Miles’ glare promised an inquisition in Ivan’s close future, but for now, he nodded. “I think everything’s ready by now. Mesdames, messieurs— this way, please!”

Ivan lingered behind the main party for a while, answering the guests’ questions and giving directions. His copy of the chart came in handy again; quadrilingual cards or not, some people were just too vorish to read. Count Vortashpula, for one — though, unlike Geff Vorvayne, he managed not to offend any of the armsmen before Ivan rushed to his aid. At times like this, he almost understood Duv; for someone who wasn’t one of them, dealing with the Vor en masse was bound to be beyond exhausting. Not that they weren’t exhausting individually, Miles being a stellar example of that. 

When most of the chaos finally subsided and Ivan was almost prepared to head for his own place, where Taura was already chatting with Gregor, someone else stepped next to him. 

“All that Shakespearean stuff, in the Hall — were they actually being serious?” 

Amused, Ivan turned to face his old classmate. “I’d say deadly if it didn’t hit too close to home. They’ve got— history. Which also happens to be public history in this case, museums and all.”

Hank Kostolitz shook his head disapprovingly. Then shook Ivan’s hand with much the same expression. “Is it always like this, with the High Vor?”

Ivan winced. It was, wasn’t it? Just look at today! “Pretty much, yeah.” 

“Hard to believe I used to be jealous of that.” Kostolitz feigned a shudder. Then glanced at Ivan curiously. “You’ve never seemed the type, though.”

Two days ago, Ivan would’ve taken it as a well-deserved compliment. After all, he spent years polishing his easy-going persona and avoiding anything High Vor related as diligently as one could without causing an actual scandal. Except— 

“I got down on my knee and took an oath today, just because my cousin was— nervous. Do normal people do that?”

Hank stared at him for a few seconds, then smirked. “Not really, no. God, you are all crazy, aren’t you?”

Strangely comforted by his honesty, Ivan shrugged. “Possibly. To be fair, we did try to explain it to you back then, Miles and I. You just wouldn’t listen. Then again, who would’ve, at seventeen.” He remembered something. “Where’s Katya, by the way? Your places should be right over there—”

Kostolitz winced apologetically, “Sorry, I’ve just got a comcall. They need me back at work; something’s fishy with our last shipment.” Wait, a real emergency? Ivan couldn’t believe his luck. “Katya’s staying, though. She’ll handle the congratulations. In case Miles asks, tell him I’m sorry about it, all right? Don’t want him to think I’m— snubbing him or something. He gets enough of that.” 

Trying to keep up with the conversation, Ivan nodded at Hank. “Sure. Should I get someone to take Katya back home afterwards?” He sneaked a glance down at his flimsy. Kostolitz’s seat was on Livia Vorvayne’s right hand. Delia on his other side, which was fine, and then there were Cassie Vorgorov and Vassily Vorsoisson across the table. Ivan frowned. Cassie, if not very bright, was pretty easy to ignore, but the man was annoyingly old-fashioned from what he’d heard from Ekaterin. Then again, By generally enjoyed riling up the conservatives, didn’t he? 

“Thanks for the offer, but no, the Koudelkas’ll give her a ride. We live next door, basically, and Martya’s been a good friend ever since we moved in.” 

That was just as well; absently, Ivan shook hands with Kostolitz, who went back into the dining room to speak to Katya, then turned around and rushed to the Entry Hall again.

17.

Bereft of the cheerful crowd, the Hall felt bleaker and colder when Ivan reached its entrance. The chandeliers were still lit, but darkness had already started flooding in through the glass panes; the winter wasn’t much of a friendly season in Vorbarr Sultana, and not even Miles’ steely will could change the climate. 

The place also seemed empty before Ivan noticed, with a start, Byerly Vorrutyer leaning against a window frame to the left of the main doors. 

On purpose or not, he chose the dimmest corner of the room — the one, in fact, that should’ve been lighted by that damned chandelier Miles had irrationally refused to ever use again and then never gotten around to replacing.

On purpose or not, the man was also awfully quiet, at least until Jankowski emerged from the adjacent cloakroom, carrying Byerly’s coat and a package, which, if Ivan guessed right, must have contained a promised bottle. 

“Here, sir. Anything else I could help you with?” the armsman said, holding out the coat. There was something off about his voice, Ivan couldn’t help noticing, — it was almost insistent. 

Byerly shook his head. “No, thank you.” He paused. “Don’t let me distract you from the more important duties, Armsman. I’m perfectly capable of handling the doors by myself. Not every Vor is a lord, you know.” 

Being a lord who could damn well handle the doors, Ivan bristled and took a step forward, preparing a retort. Jankowski, quite unexpectedly, beat him to it. “Not every lord is like that, either. Sir.” 

Taken aback, Byerly studied the man for a moment, then relented. “No, I suppose you’re right. The problem is, you might not realize which ones are like that, until— Well. You probably know that better than I do, considering.”

Jankowski frowned. He wasn’t really supposed to engage in conversations like this, but Vorrutyer’s bitter dismissal of the High Vor clearly rattled him. Then again, if any of them were worth sticking up for, the Vorkosigans would top the list hands down.

Taking pity on the poor man, Ivan finally chose to interfere. “Does Dono know that’s what you think of his new career?”

By whirled around, then clutched dramatically at his chest. “Good God, Ivan! I’ve got a weak heart, you know! You could’ve killed me, sneaking up like that.”

Ivan grinned unrepentantly. “I somewhat doubt you’ve got a heart, By. Besides, I’ve been standing here for ages. It’s not my fault you weren’t paying attention.” 

Jankowski looked like he was about to smirk. Byerly, uncharacteristically, didn’t.

“I wasn’t expecting— Anyway, Dono’s wife says things like this all the time. If he’s fine with her—” By waved his hand expressively.

“I bet Olivia says those things about Vor in general, not just High Vor. That makes her a little bit less hypocritical, don’t you think?”

“Not since she married a Vor.” 

Huh, fair enough. Cornered, Ivan changed tracks. “Anyway, political issues aside, I’m glad I found you. Kostolitz just told me he has to leave. Something’s up with his work. You can have his place if you don’t mind sitting across from Vassily Vorsoisson.” 

A newfound triumphant smile slid off By’s face, leaving behind nothing but blankness. 

Unnerved by this sudden shift, Ivan snapped at him, “What?”

Byerly looked away, escaping the eye-contact. “You’ve got a spare seat. And you want me to stay?” He crossed his arms. Szabo was right about this, too — the gesture, natural in, say, Uncle Aral’s version, didn’t suit him at all. He just seemed— uncomfortable this way. Wary. 

Ivan was starting to get the impression he lacked some crucial information, here. “Well, yes? I mean, wasn’t that the deal?” 

“I— suppose so.” With some effort, By tucked that strange expression of his away. His voice switched back to his usual disdainful drawl. “Frankly, Ivan, I’ve been half-convinced that you’d scraped wits enough to use the Vorhalas situation to get me off your hands. Or Miles’ hands, I guess. Would be a fairly clever scheme, if I may say so.”

It was a dark and chilly world Byerly Vorrutyer lived in. Suppressing a shiver, Ivan wondered, not for the first time, just how Miles avoided growing up this way too; paranoid as his cousin was about— well, pretty much anything else, he never seemed to expect people in general to be needlessly and pettily cruel. With how much of that Miles had actually faced in his lifetime, it seemed rather counter-intuitive already. Trying to consider the idea that Byerly’s situation must have been worse for him to end up like this gave Ivan creeps, so he tried to lighten the mood instead. 

“You think I’d cross Ekaterin for something like that? That woman is terrifying.” He wasn’t even lying, not after seeing those damned pearls around her throat during the ceremony. “Besides, I’m not my cousin, By. I don’t scheme.”

There was another stunned silence. Then, a short peal of laughter shattered it into pieces. Nonplussed, Ivan watched as Byerly Vorrutyer, eyes suddenly bright and warm, tried — and for the most part, failed — to contain his merriment. “I hate to break it to you, Ivan, but from what I’ve heard — you’ve been doing little else for the last couple of months or so.”

Ivan all but sputtered in indignation. “I— what? No, that wasn’t— It’s not! For your information, Vorrutyer, it’s called networking.”

Byerly rolled his eyes dismissively. “You say potato, I say kartoshka [3], it’s all the same thing. We can also ask your cousin what they call it in ImpSec.” He pretended to think about it. “I’d bet on business as usual. You?”

Despite himself, Ivan smiled. “He’d say it’s classified way above any of our security levels.”

“Vorkosigans.” Byerly groaned theatrically. Paused, a smile fading on his face. “Are you quite sure—” 

Ivan sighed and snatched the coat out of his grip before the man worried the poor garment to pieces. “Free seat next to Delia Koudelka— that is, Galeni. Do not bait Vorsoisson,” he paused, then added, causing By to smirk again, “much, anyway.” 

Cutting off any further objections, Ivan moved to hand the coat to Jankowski. Hesitated. Turned back and called after Vorrutyer. “You know, By— I think we might actually be friends.” Then, promptly terrified by all the implications of his own statement, “Not, like, bosom ones. Not even the second circle, I think. Maybe the third.” Definitely the third. “Still, friends.”

By stared at him as if he’d gone insane. “You weren’t kidding when you said you loved those spreadsheets of yours, right?” He shook his head, incredulously. Stuck his hands into his pockets. Then finally said, in a strangely distant tone, “A third-rate friend to Captain Lord Ivan Vorpatril, cousin to the Emperor, one of the Barrayar’s best and brightest. I suppose I can live with that.” 

Now it was Ivan’s turn to gape at him. Utterly unperturbed by his reaction, Byerly swiftly stepped out of the Hall and was gone.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” Ivan said to the empty doorway. Then remembered that Jankowski was still standing somewhere behind his back. God, the man must’ve thought him an idiot, not to mention a High Vor jerk.  

“M’lord?” 

He didn’t really want to look the armsman in the eyes, but— he couldn’t just ignore him, either. Reluctantly, Ivan turned around. “Yes?”

Jankowski’s face was unreadable. “What about the wine, m’lord?”

Wine? What— ah. “Still his, of course.” Ivan hesitated. “Only— If he asks, let him assume I’d just forgotten to revoke the order. I bet he’ll love the chance to get back at me.” His gaze fell on the blue coat still hanging off the man’s arm. “And— when he leaves, make sure he doesn’t intend to walk all the way back home. Shove him into an autocar by force, if need be. I’ll take the bill.” The armsman’s silence was full of questions Ivan found oddly hard to ignore. “It’s still Winterfair, for pity’s sake! It’s freezing out there, especially at night. The fool will catch his death wandering around in velvet.”

Jankowsky relaxed, satisfied. “I’ll be flying Lord and Lady Vorkosigan to the district, myself, but I’ll pass it on.” Then added, his voice suddenly very quiet. “Thank you, m’lord.”

Ivan blinked. “I— what for?” Did fate decide to drown him in gratitude today? 

“I’m from the backcountry, m’lord. Grew up poor, m’sisters and me — never had much of anything, not even clothes.” He shrugged self-consciously, then nodded at the window. “Wouldn’t throw a dog out in this weather, myself, but— not everyone’d care enough to notice.” 

Not every Vor would care enough to notice, Ivan clearly heard. Fair enough, he admitted to himself. He had an advantage, after all — he remembered Simon Illyan’s face, white with pain on the screen of his mother’s comconsole. He managed to almost freeze to death, twice in three months — my lady, how am I supposed to protect the boy? How could anyone? 

For a moment, Ivan felt a hot surge of shame rushing through his body. Here Jankowski was, sharing his own story, and all Ivan could think about were his cousin’s misadventures— 

Then again, what kind of a man he would’ve become if not for Miles, whom he loved and who accumulated, almost indiscriminately, every kind of suffering known to humankind, providing Ivan with the points of reference for all of it in the process? Would he have turned out like Richars? God, he really hoped not.

“I’m sorry,” he said as earnestly as he could. “About your childhood, I mean.” 

It didn’t seem adequate, but Jankowski smiled warmly in response. “That was a long time ago. My family’s all set nowadays, and things have gotten better back in the district, too, since old Count Piotr’s days.” He paused. “Some Vor are a good sort, m’lord.”

18.

So far, the evening had been unfolding splendidly. 

Having said a handful of introductory words, Ivan decisively yielded the honor of the first speech to Illyan, who was considered, by Barrayaran shitty standards, neither family nor high-ranking enough to be expected to speak at all.

Simon being Simon, he turned it into a chef-d’oeuvre of omissions and double-entendres that allowed him to acknowledge Miles’ numerous achievements while leaving the guests exactly as privy to any classified information as they had been before the reception.

Duv Galeni looked like he was itching to pull out a pen and take notes. Miles’ Dendarii, scattered amongst the Barrayarans, gave both of their former bosses a loud cheer. Byerly Vorrutyer, to Ivan’s amusement, looked less like a man who knew something and more like someone who suspected there was something he didn’t know and tried desperately to understand what.

Unexpectedly, Illyan then rounded his speech by recounting, with a great flair, a few stories from Miles’ childhood — some funny, others distinctly bittersweet. No more than a dozen people in the room fully realized what it meant, for Simon, to remember something as inconsequential as a child’s antics in such scrupulous detail; being one of them, Miles was moved to tears for the third time today.

There were no big events after that, just a scattering of tiny happy moments, so fleeting Ivan almost regretted not having a recording chip inside his brain. Laisa, fixing Ekaterin’s stray lock with an unmistakable old-sisterly look on her face. Duv Galeni, shaking hands unflinchingly with both Miles and Aral Vorkosigan in congratulation. Taura and Roic, sneaking glances at each other above people’s heads. Delia and Olivia, snapping an untold number of holos for Kareen and Mark on Beta Colony. 

Around the time for desserts, Ivan watched, a bit smug, as Miles’ expression turned briefly startled and then profoundly touched the moment he was presented with a box of those Vorbretten District honey-sweets. When they first came up with the idea, René didn’t think Miles would recognize the significance; but René didn’t know him as well as Ivan did. Miles never forgot people showing kindness to him — not even decades later, not even something as mundane as a simple get-well gift; he took after Aunt Cordelia it that aspect.

He kept an eye on Vorrutyer as well, still unable to shake off the feeling there was another missing piece to the story. Mademoiselle Vorvayne and Byerly seemed to get on like a house on fire; his hands danced enthusiastically in the air every time Ivan looked at him, and she was laughing genuinely, no trace of apprehension to be seen on either side. Vassily Vorsoisson looked as if he’d been force-fed an entire crate of the original bug butter, but Cassie kept him reasonably distracted with her usual silly remarks; Delia just enjoyed the show. That was all expected; Katya Kostolitz acting visibly friendly towards By was another matter. Unlike Livia, she couldn’t have been unaware of all the rumors surrounding this particular Vorrutyer, not to mention the entire family; she was a born Vor, after all, if not—

Oh. 

It wasn’t just one missing piece; Ivan felt the whole puzzle rearranging itself in his head with irritatingly pointed clicks. When it was done, Ivan gathered his courage, turned on his heels and went to find his mother.

19.

She was sitting alone in one of the small reception rooms, away from the main festivities, holding Elena’s baby daughter on her lap. It was a mesmerizing sight; Ivan couldn’t quite remember seeing his mother with a child this small. It suited her better than he’d have thought. Just for a moment, he almost regretted she and Illyan — no. With that combination of genes, those kids would possibly turn out worse than Miles, even, and Ivan definitely didn’t need any more geniuses in the family; he felt dim enough as it was, thanks.

“Ma mère.” With a weary sigh, he dropped into the chair next to hers. 

She gave him an absent smile without taking her eyes off the girl, who was happily babbling something to herself in her own private language. Ivan shuddered. Babies were bizarre.  

“Elena asked me to look after little Delia, while she and Baz talk to Gregor.”

Ivan nodded. Baz Jesek’s situation was a tricky one, but he knew Gregor would handle it with care. He trusted Gregor to be kind; why did the idea of his mother’s trying to look out for By instead of exploiting him feel so foreign then? Ashamed, he swallowed nervously and forced the words out. “Sorry I ruined your plans about Byerly Vorrutyer.”

This made her raise her head, at the very least, but her eyes were calculatingly cold. “First, I had no plans regarding any of the Vorrutyers, especially that one. Second, you should know better than—” Abruptly, she stopped and studied Ivan’s expression closely. Then a wondering little smile touched her lips. “Ah. Those plans.” She paused, pensively. “I admit I’m surprised you’ve noticed. What tipped you off?”

Ivan sighed inwardly. For all his reasonably un-brilliant Vorpatril genes, it was annoying being always mistaken for a half-wit. “Katya Kostolitz. Or rather Katya Vorhaagen, I suppose. I was on Earth when they got married, or I would’ve figured it out right away.”

He heard the story much later, and in a very succinct retelling. Apparently, Katya had been forced, by her very traditional family, into an engagement with some Vor lieutenant whose name Ivan had long forgotten. When she rebelled, moved out of her parents’ house and started seeing Kostolitz instead, the would-be-husband accused him of corruption, assault and God knows what else. Eventually, the scandal was swept under the rugs, but Katya Kostolitz remained the last person in Vorbarr Sultana to ever listen to any rumors. 

“The rest were just— obvious, you know. Livia’s new to the city, Mayhew’s Betan, Lord Auditor Vorgustafson’d be a huge hypocrite if he let himself judge books by their covers, and Lady Vorwyn’s basically a saint. So many unprejudiced people don’t gather naturally in one place — not on Barrayar, anyway.” His voice sounded almost— bitter, Ivan noticed with some surprise. Since when had he started caring about such things?

“Ah. Well, it’s probably for the best you’ve interfered, then. I’d hate for Byerly to figure it out too.” She frowned and pried the fringes of her bolero out of little Cordelia’s tiny fingers. “That boy would rather do without— well, pretty much anything — than reach for it and risk having it snatched away again.” Her tone was suddenly thick with exasperation. “Trying to be kind to him, at times, is almost as exhausting as trying to protect Miles. But— also just as rewarding, in a way.”

Ivan remembered By Vorrutyer being all scrupulous about the tea blend, then absentmindedly nicking biscuits out of Ivan’s basket; saying I keep forgetting we’re not actually friends, then suspecting Ivan of scheming to get rid of him. It all made much more sense now, fitting perfectly in that chilly miserable world of his. Also, it meant that Ivan was right about the bottle.

Lady Alys fell silent for a moment, stroking the baby’s hair tenderly. Then looked up at him, eyes soft. “Speaking of Miles, he should be grateful for how well you’ve dealt with Count Vorhalas’ impromptu visit. Though I’m at a loss as to why you hadn’t thought of informing Cordelia or myself, at the very least.” 

Ivan hid an instinctive wince. Can’t you ever stay proud of me for more than a second, mother? 

“Then again,” she added thoughtfully, “it was your responsibility in a way. Miles did choose you as his Second, after a fashion.”

It wasn’t like that, Ivan thought stubbornly. It was just— Miles running around all the time auditing for the Emperor, and everyone thinking the choice was obvious, only about different choices, and himself being too much of a coward to—

“It wasn’t after a fashion, mother. You heard what Miles said.”

She stilled, then gave him a concerned look. “Oh, of course! I only meant— It took him much too long to realize what had been happening. It’s nothing against you, Ivan, I’m sure you know that!” 

I could have asked Miles if Uncle Aral was right about him settling for whoever was most readily available. He shifted in his seat uncomfortably and tried to smile. “Well, you know Miles. He means well, he’s just— too distractible sometimes. And it got a nice little speech out of him, didn’t it? I don’t think he’d ever complimented me in public before. Not that much, anyway.”

His mother smoothed her skirt as thoroughly as she could with the baby still sitting in her lap and raised a haughty eyebrow. “Then I expect Miles has got yet another thing to apologize for. You’re entirely too indulgent with him sometimes.”

20.

He went back to discover that most everyone relocated to the ballroom and Martya Koudelka challenged the Vorbrettens to the mazurka gasconne. 

Since on Escobar, apparently, they only did the Latin dances, she picked him as her partner, and not Enrique. It felt both flattering and terrifying; René’d been unrivaled in every traditional ball dance for almost two decades, and Tatya perfected her mazurkas religiously. Then again, perfection wasn’t all, and this wasn’t just any mazurka — this was improvisation. For all the Vorbrettens’ talents, they weren’t the ones who’d been dancing together since they got old enough to walk.

It was still fun to dance with Martya, Ivan had to admit. He’d almost forgotten he used to actually love dancing before it turned into that dreaded game of catch-a-spouse — or avoid getting caught, in Ivan’s case. She was flexible and artistic, and followed his lead as easily as if they were reading each other’s minds. By the end of it they were both smiling, almost giddy with that old feeling of camaraderie. 

Miles and Ekaterin cheered loudly for them from the audience. René and Tatya, also quite elated, graciously admitted their defeat, and Martya, their feud temporarily forgotten, happily pecked Ivan on the cheek before dashing off into Enrique’s waiting arms. 

Ivan looked around for Katya Kostolitz, asked her for a waltz, then spent some time teaching Taura how to do a mirror dance, gaining a new respect for his cousin along the way; it really took a lot of effort not to feel, or look, like a clumsy idiot when dancing with someone who was that much taller than yourself.

After a while Ivan retreated, a glass of wine in his hand, to one of the window sills and stayed there, just— watching. His mother coaxed Simon into another dance; By and Livia were perched on the sofa in a distant corner with Olivia and Dono, laughing themselves silly. Aunt Cordelia was waltzing slowly with — he did a double-take — Count Vorhalas, his limp apparently notwithstanding. Then he spotted Aral Vorkosigan ruffling Nikki’s hair with undeniable affection and had to hastily look away before tears sprang to his eyes. 

It was a happy day, he thought wistfully, listening to Ekaterin’s silver laughter ringing across the room. Why in the world was he feeling this, this—

“How’s your shoulder?” Gregor asked, appearing soundlessly at his side. 

Ivan flinched, almost spilling his yet-untouched wine, then carefully put his glass on the ledge, silently lamenting the fact that he didn’t have an excuse of having a bad heart.

“Better. Done with the painkillers, finally—” Right on time, he remembered to omit the obligatory Sire at the end of the phrase. Just Count Vorbarra, for a change. 

Gregor hummed softly, acknowledging his answer. Then leaned against the window frame, settling in for an actual conversation — one that Ivan wasn’t so sure he wanted to have, in the first place. “Ivan, about this— I’ve meant to tell you I’m—”

“Gregor, if you thank me too, so help me God, I’ll emigrate!” 

He blurted it out before his brain caught up with his mouth, and then went hot all over, realizing what he’d just said and to whom.  

Taken aback, Gregor twitched to the proper stance, a tiny gap forming anew between his shoulder and the supporting wall. Then glanced cautiously at Ivan’s slowly reddening face.

“All— right.” A pause. “May I talk about anything except my alleged gratitude?”

Startled, Ivan coughed out a sharp laughter. Hell, but he’d missed Gregor. 

The absurd thought threw him for a loop. Why would he even think that? It’s not like they hadn’t been keeping in touch; he spent half a year organizing the man’s wedding, for crying out loud. 

He also couldn’t remember the last time he talked to Gregor in private like this, just the two of them — not even Gregor’s kind of private, omnipresent armsmen and such. Every time they’d seen each other for the last— decade, at least, it was always in someone else’s presence; and he’d only used his personal comm card once since entering the Academy. If not for Donna’s escapade, it would’ve been zero.

He’d missed Gregor for years, but never moved an inch closer to him. Not after he realized just how dangerous it was, standing this close to someone who could— who had the power to— Oh.

All of a sudden, Ivan felt dizzy. He asked himself the wrong question back in Vorhalas House, didn’t he? The right one wasn’t about whether he could have forgiven Gregor for threatening Miles’ life. It was about whether he had.  

“Ivan?” Gregor was still waiting for his answer, because of course he was. The Emperor of three planets, and no hubris to speak of. 

Ivan’s heart was beating somewhere in his throat. He made an effort to squeeze the words around it. 

“Sorry. Sorry, I— You can talk about anything, obviously, I’m just being—” Resentful, apparently. Unforgiving. “An idiot,” he finished lamely.

Gregor, now staring at Ivan with some concern, frowned slightly, but relaxed, ostensibly deciding to play along. 

“I just— there is an opening. Or will be, more accurately. Admiral Desplains of the Home Fleet is going to need a new aide-de-camp in a couple of months. I’ve been thinking of recommending you for the job.”

Ivan blinked, the idea being as far from his mind as anything could be right now. “What— Why? I mean, I’m perfectly fine where I am, you know it!”

“You can’t stay where you are for your entire career, Ivan,” Gregor patiently replied. “This won’t even be a promotion, technically; you’ll keep the same rank, but at least you’ll get some real responsibility, which I know you can handle. Besides, Desplains has excellent prospects, but he needs— someone who’d understand the political side of things. Namely the Vor side.”

Perplexed, Ivan looked at him closely. There was something odd about the way Gregor was holding himself — almost warily, as if there was more at stake here than he wanted Ivan to realize. Which meant he needed to know what it was exactly. “I’ll think about it, on one condition. I want to hear whatever it is you’re not saying, first.”

Gaze fixed on the busy ballroom’s reflection in the window, Gregor sighed with weary frustration. “Couldn't you live up to your reputation just once, Ivan?” 

Ivan didn’t respond, the question being glaringly rhetorical. There was a moment of silence, strangely profound given all the noise that surrounded them. Then Gregor took a deep breath and looked at him directly, eyes dark and desperate.

“Ivan, I— I’ve never cared much for my own life — that is, not outside its political value to Barrayar; I trust you must’ve been aware of that. But now — there is Laisa, and,” his voice trembled minutely, “my child is about to be born. I’m— terrified doesn’t do it justice. I can’t have my Fleet quarreling with ImpSec, or have my prole Admirals offending the Council of Counts in passing, or vise versa. Not now, not if it might cost my son his life one day, or Miles’ children. I need to have people up there — people I can trust to build bridges, not burn them. For all your smoke screens, you’ve obviously got the talent for it; and Desplains has every chance to make a brilliant Chief of Operations in a couple of years if he knows what quicksands not to step into.” He dropped his gaze. “So, please—”

They were impossible to say no to, these cousins of his, Ivan thought. A sudden, helpless fondness swelled inside of him. “In short, you’re asking me to be— what, a glorified political nyan’ka for the commander of your Home Fleet?” He joked, making Gregor look up at him again. “Just how bad is the man at the Vor politics?”

“Last year he tried to recruit both Henri Vorvolk and Boriz Vormonkrief to back up his new budget in the Council. Sat them both at the same conference table, in fact.”

Well, shit. Gregor was right, the man really needed to be saved from himself. Ivan loudly snorted. “Did it come to blows?”

Gregor shook his head ruefully. “It would have, if not for René Vorbretten. He’d basically spared us all another civil war.”

One more person keen on building the bridges, René Vorbretten. And Miles, of course. Ivan sighed heavily, foreseeing a lot of tedious work in his future. “All right, I’ll take the job, but only if the man actually likes me. Please don’t try to, uh, request and require him into it.”

Gregor looked at him sharply, gauging his sincerity. Then sagged slightly in relief. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Thank you, Ivan. That’s— a great help.” Ivan rolled his eyes, expressively. His Imperial cousin had the decency to sketch an apologetic grimace. “Damn, I forgot. But— you can’t emigrate now, can you? You’ve just accepted a job!” 

They both smiled at the same time, almost carefree for all of three seconds. Then Gregor nodded at him, pulled himself upright and started to move away. 

I’ve missed this, Ivan thought again. He needed to come up with something to make it right.

“What does my shoulder have to do with any of it?” He asked, surprising even himself.

Gregor hesitated mid-step, but turned back anyway. “Nothing.” He kept his expression neutral, his eyes firmly downcast. “The day you got hurt, I— I walked into the room where the Residence ImpSec liaison was giving a— a routine report to my secretary. They didn’t notice. He said, and I quote, a chandelier fell on Captain Vorpatril in Vorkosigan House, my boss asks to break the news to the Emperor gently. Just for a moment, before I realized the tone was all wrong, I thought— Those are heavy chandeliers, Ivan.”

Ivan stilled, unsure how to react. There was an honest-to-god rasp in Gregor’s voice, almost like he was holding back tears. Because of him? After all these years of polite distances and cold shoulders and formal conversations—

“You aren’t here as the Emperor today, right?” He asked it more for Armsman Oliva’s sake. As soon as the man gave him a tiny nod, Ivan took a step forward and, without waiting for his cousin’s answer, pulled him into a tentative embrace.

He hadn’t expected Gregor to return it this swiftly, or with such fervor; now that he had, Ivan just— didn’t have a heart to break away first. They stood there for several moments, Gregor’s ragged breath oddly loud next to Ivan’s ear, the man’s angular frame comfortingly solid in his arms. I’ve missed this too, Ivan thought, fighting tears of his own.

At last, reluctantly, Gregor took a small step back. Dipped his head, pressing his lips together in unnervingly open discomfort. His hands hovered for a second, but then settled gingerly on Ivan’s arms. 

“Sorry,” they both said at the same time. 

Ivan huffed out a laugh. Gregor stayed serious, but his gaze grew almost as hopeful as it had been after Miles and Ekaterin’s vows.

“I’ve missed this,” he said softly, echoing Ivan’s thoughts. Then closed his eyes, as if bracing himself for whatever came next. “Ivan, I’d say sorry a hundred times if I thought it would change—” He broke off, shaking his head. “You’re still my family, you and Miles. I hope you know this, at least.”

Ivan stared at him in utter dismay. So Gregor knew and just— let him have his petty revenge, for years. Resigned himself to effectively losing another family member, and thought it fair, even, if his refrainment from actual apologies was any indication. God, it was nauseating. 

There was a horrible minute where Ivan couldn’t find a single word to express — any of it, really. Then, he thought about what he’d have said to Miles in a situation like this. He took one shuddering breath and spoke. 

“First, there’s nothing to say sorry for anymore; it’s all forgiven. Second, of course we’re family. Don’t be an idiot, coz.” He finally met Gregor’s eyes, wide-open and alight with rapt intensity. “That’s always been my job, you know.”

It wasn’t nearly enough, of course, but it was— something. A start, maybe. It took Gregor a moment to proceed his meaning and rearrange that dejected expression of his into the right shape, but then he was — brilliantly, blissfully — smiling.

21.

Fruitful though it had been, the conversation with Gregor left Ivan adrift, unsure what he was supposed to do next. He had no more desire to step closer to the Imperium than he did in the morning, or fifteen years ago for that matter. He’d have to figure out how to be Gregor’s cousin again, preferably without making himself even more of a target than he already was. Miles had managed it, somehow; he could too. It was a bad time for changes though; with Gregor’s heir yet unborn and Miles’ not even conceived, anyone who’d ever dreamed about hijacking the Imperial campstool must have been hastily completing their half-baked plots. 

Maybe digging up that black comm card he’d willfully misplaced after Dono’s case could be enough of a start, for now.

Lost in thoughts, Ivan laughed absently at Delia’s joke, nodded to Duv in passing, then glanced at his chrono — no, at his new watch, an Earth antique if you believed Miles’ nervous babbling. The newlyweds were scheduled to depart in an hour. 

Ivan escaped the crowd and wandered out of the house. The snow crunched under his boots, crisp and fresh, but skies were clear yet again, promising a safe flight. Safe from mother nature, that is, never from people like, say, Vorbataille and his crowd. Without quite realizing what he was doing, Ivan turned around and walked all the way to the take-off platform where a sleek aircar had been parked in advance, waiting patiently for its passengers. 

Simon Illyan, all but invisible in the shadow provided by the overhang, was scrupulously checking the vehicle with a top-notch professional scanner. Equally annoyed and relieved, Ivan nodded at him and pressed his lips together in anticipation, waiting to be sarcastically dismissed. Instead, Simon regarded him with something akin to— sympathy, possibly, if not outright approval. 

Oddly buoyed by this unexpected welcome, Ivan climbed into the cabin, took a few deep, calming breaths and then painstakingly ran every diagnostic he could think of. They all came back clean. Judging by Simon’s vaguely satisfied expression, he’d found nothing as well. Add to that an ImpSec standard preliminary search and Jankowski’s normal set of pre-flight tests—

“Guy says he’s made his technicians run a triple check, yet here I am,” Simon said, faintly self-ironic, when Ivan got down from the pilot’s seat. “Then again, I’ve got an excuse of being a paranoid ex-ImpSec control-freak. You?”

Ivan shrugged, aiming for light-hearted but likely missing by a wormhole jump. “Isn’t cousin to Miles Vorkosigan diagnosis enough? Or cousin to the Emperor, for that matter.” He rubbed his forehead, trying to stave away another bout of headache. “Nothing from the diagnostics — not even from that crazy sequence Jole used to run for Uncle Aral’s piloting.” 

Simon’s eyes sparkled with amusement. “Ah, so you know that one, too. Good.” 

Ivan’s eyebrows climbed up in surprise. That’s it? Shouldn’t you at least make sure I haven’t screwed it up? What was the point of playing an idiot if no one believed it anyway?  

Then again, personal friend or not, Duv must’ve dutifully supplied Simon with a full report on the way Ivan had tinkered with the Embassy’s security net for Miles’ sake; more fool him, once again, for thinking the condescending little bugger would ever actually rely on his help.

“Nothing from the scanner, as well.” In the incertain light of the gadget’s glowing screen, Simon’s lips thinned minutely. “I can only hope they’ve decently secured the perimeter in Vorkosigan Surleau.”

Ivan’s watch showed thirty minutes to the appointed hour. Shivering slightly in his House uniform, he leaned against the aircar’s semi-open door, hiding from the whistling wind. Simon, at least, had had enough sense to throw on a warm jacket before venturing into the shimmering midwinter fairy tale.

“No offense, sir, but I’m starting to wonder what the hell has been happening with good old ImpSec lately. Gregor’s just told me the Residence ImpSec liaison nearly gave him a heart-attack over that story with the chandelier.”

“Oh?” Simon glanced up at him with mild interest. Ivan repeated Gregor’s story almost verbatim, trying to keep anger out of his voice. What right did he have to feel angry anyway? It hadn’t even occurred to him that Gregor must’ve been desperate for news— that Gregor still cared enough for that. 

There was a thoughtful pause after he’d stopped talking. Simon’s expression was, unexpectedly, his political one.

“This might be a good sign, in a way,” he said eventually, slowly. “If ImpSec’s started to act so blasé about your connection to Gregor, the rest of the Imperium must be convinced it doesn’t matter at all. Wasn’t that your endgame, in the first place?”

Ivan blinked. He hadn’t thought about it like this. He’d never meant— “I— not if it hurt Gregor in the process.”

“Ah. I’ve wondered about that.” There was no censure in Illyan’s words, just— sadness. A touch of relief, maybe. Just how many people— God, did Gregor have no one in his corner? Where the hell was Miles when you needed him?

“No. I was cross with Gregor, for maybe a couple of months after Vordrozda, and then— I’ve never stopped caring about him, Simon. I just didn’t know if I could trust him anymore.” Especially not when Miles so recklessly did.  

A shadow passed over Simon’s features. “I can understand that, yes.” 

Oh. Of course. His idiot cousin broke Illyan’s trust, didn’t he, by lying about his seizures? And yet here the man was, celebrating Miles’ happiness. Acting as if nothing had ever happened. 

“It didn’t take you fifteen years to forgive Miles,” Ivan argued, bitterly.

Simon, unexpectedly, snorted. “Well, I wouldn’t recommend it as a cure-all, but seeing one’s memories in no particular order puts things in perspective, however little one might like it.” Just as suddenly, he wasn’t smiling anymore. “Thirty years of candor against one desperate lie; only a fool could ask for a better balance. What’s more, I had a— horrible advantage of knowing I’d let Miles down before, and with much more irreparable consequences.”

They fell silent, each absorbed in his own thoughts. After a couple of minutes, something shifted in Simon’s demeanor, nostalgic turning into sharp. Cunning. “Speaking of forgiveness, I’d give good money to know what possessed Vorhalas to come here today. Any insights?”

Ivan withstood his scrutiny with practiced ease. “No idea, sir.” It was true, anyway; he wasn’t arrogant enough to think he’d been responsible for it. The longing was already there in the old man’s eyes the day of Dono’s hearing; all Ivan’d done was to prod at it, as he sometimes would at Miles’ random bouts of insecurity — or at Gregor’s bleak moods, back when they were younger. “Maybe he’s really done it for Miles, Simon. The little git’s got us all wrapped around his finger; why not Vorhalas, too?”

22.

After a while, he left Simon to stand guard, went back to the house and asked Jankowski, feeling a bit like a paranoid control-freak himself, to remind Miles about his stimulator — just in case. 

Right on schedule, the bridal couple paraded happily out of the gates. Ekaterin hugged Ivan tightly before climbing into her seat; Miles, very pointedly, didn’t. Resolutely unaffected by his cousin’s childish grudge, Ivan gave him a slightly too enthusiastic pat on the back — just enough to make the little bugger stumble but not fall — and waved the aircar off, holding over-excited Nikki at a safe distance from the vehicle. 

Half an hour later, Count and Countess Vorbarra were heading out as well. Gregor had by then reverted to his usual reserved demeanor; Laisa, on the contrary, seemed to be enjoying the relaxed atmosphere to the fullest.

Leaving her husband to exchange goodbyes with his step-parents in peace, Laisa asked Ivan politely to help her into her coat and towed him cheerfully across the Entry Hall to the nearest mirror. 

When they were well outside Gregor’s hearing range, she turned to Ivan, fixing him with an imploring gaze. “Please don’t pick any more fights with chandeliers. You’ve frightened us to death, you know.” The joke about Miles being the one with a life-long feud against furniture — or at least its normal-sized kind — was right on Ivan’s tongue, only Laisa’s voice suddenly dropped, losing any trace of humor. “Ivan— I’ve honestly never seen Gregor so distraught before. He’s— taught himself, I think, to keep calm when Miles rushes headlong into trouble, but you’re supposed to be the reasonable one. And— for all his ability to put up a brave face, Gregor isn’t prepared to lose any more family.”

But I am reasonable, Ivan whined silently. What was he supposed to do, let Miles take the hit? The mere idea was— ridiculous, and revolting. 

Then again, he definitely could’ve handled the aftermath better than he did. 

“I know.” He did now, at any rate. Ivan forced himself to smile reassuringly at his— what was their connection even, fourth cousin-in-law? second cousin-in-law, once removed? High Vor, honestly! Kostolitz was right, they were all mad. Two proles wouldn’t even know they were related, at this distance. “I’m not normally, uh, the most accident-prone member of the family — not even close. I hadn’t quite realized how much he’d worry. I’m really sorry, Laisa.” 

She nodded seriously, then, apparently satisfied with his apology, gave him a quick hug and drifted towards the Vorkosigans to thank them again for their hospitality. Ivan looked around for Gregor. Adjusting his gloves, he stood alone by the same window By Vorrutyer had chosen some hours ago. 

As soon as Gregor stepped out of Vorkosigan House, Ivan realized with aching clarity, the Cinderella's night would be over; who knows when the poor man would get another chance to be anything but the Emperor again. No wonder he looked so— despondent, under all this studied blankness.

Decisively, Ivan crossed the Hall to lean against the frame beside him. Gregor side-eyed him warily. God, did everyone have to be so dramatic, in this family? 

“You do know it won’t— turn into a pumpkin tomorrow, right?” 

“I— what?” Gregor tilted his head in glaringly fake confusion. “Just how many drinks have you had, Ivan?”

Ivan rolled his eyes. Come on, coz, that doesn’t even count as a good deflection. “Two glasses, barely. Alcohol doesn’t mix well with stims. And you know exactly what I mean.” He paused, for effect. “It doesn’t really matter which uniform you’re wearing.” Gregor’s mouth twitched bitterly, but he wisely swallowed whatever objection he had in mind. “Miles’ll still be— alive and kicking and happily married, tomorrow. Laisa loves you and clearly isn’t going anywhere. I— We’ll talk later. On my word as Vorpatril, Gregor, I won’t shut you out again. I should’ve never done it in the first place.”

Slowly, so very slowly, Gregor’s features started to shed their forced calmness. “I— You’ve still got my card, right? I promise not to bark at you if you ever call again.”

It didn’t sound all that confident yet, landing closer to Gregor’s usual let’s see what happens instead, but it was fine, Ivan decided. 

They were both alive; he’d find that damned card; they’d figure it out eventually.

23.

When the doors were wide open, you could just glimpse the main entrance from a well-chosen seat in the library. That’d saved Ivan many uncomfortable conversations with his aunt and uncle when he was young; they came in, he came out while they were changing upstairs — a perfect gambit.

From this particular spot he now had a good enough view of the mind-blowing event of Counts Vorhalas and Vorkosigan actually talking to each other by the doors. No handshakes yet, but their manners were remarkably friendly, and none of them seemed in any hurry to escape. Vorhalas said something inaudible, making Uncle Aral laugh without restraint; then smiled as well, his expression almost indulgent. He was older, Ivan suddenly remembered, an elder brother to Rulf Vorhalas, who must have been Aral’s peer. Same age as Uncle Aral’s own long-dead brother, maybe?

So many deaths, and here they were, Gregor and Miles and himself, miraculously spared. And Mark, too — arguably the biggest miracle of all. Except—

“I’ve never thought I would see them talking like this again.”

Startled, Ivan all but fell off his sofa. Damn it, what was wrong with him today? How could you not notice someone as— as noticeable as Cordelia Vorkosigan being in the room? He jumped to his feet, more to conceal his idiotic slip-up than because he actually thought she needed help settling down. To his immense relief, she had the grace to accept it — or maybe was exhausted enough to need it after all. It was really hard to say, with Aunt Cordelia.

“Seems a bit like an odd dream to me. I’ve never seen them staying within thirty feet from each other — not willingly, anyway. Hell, René Vorbretten couldn’t help gawking at them after dinner, and he normally wouldn’t be caught dead doing anything that vulgar.”

Cordelia laughed light-heartedly. “That man needs to loosen up a bit. He acts like he’s— carrying an invisible porcelain set with him, day and night. I’m strongly tempted to sneak up on him and yell, just to see if he drops it.”

It was dead-on; Ivan couldn’t help smirking. “Miles’ll break him in, eventually. René can’t be more of a challenge than Duv had been.” 

Her expression turned contemplative, almost wistful. “We’ve all been so thrilled about Commodore Galeni’s ImpSec career. It seemed such a gamble in the beginning; no one could’ve imagined what a fruit it would bear. But in Aral’s eyes, I suspect, Rebecca Galen’s nephew being friends with a Vorkosigan might be an even bigger triumph. Aral’s always been much more— people-orientated than Barrayarans gave him credit for.” She smiled at something — a memory? — then, seemingly out of the blue, switched her full attention to Ivan. “Pym told me a strangest thing during the reception, you know. He swears none of the armsmen have ever seen Count Vorhalas’ wedding invitation.” 

Please, not now! He was too tired, too— whatever emotion he was feeling throughout the day, to play this game with her. He gulped uneasily and bet it all on a joke. “There were over a hundred of those, Aunt. Would take a savant to remember them all, and Pym’s but a humble genius.” Please, please, please— 

Cordelia Vorkosigan didn’t laugh. In fact, there was a slight crease forming between her eyebrows, and she shifted sideways to look at Ivan properly. 

“Ivan—” She dropped her teasing cadence as well; there was genuine warmth in her tone now, and something akin to compassion. “You must realize they’ll both figure it out in the end. Honestly, I’d be surprised if Miles hasn’t already. I don’t see why—”

Ivan was frantic enough to interrupt her. “Doesn’t matter. Miles isn’t going to be back from the District any time soon, and I’ll only have to avoid Uncle Aral for a couple of weeks before you head back to Sergyar. They’ll forget they’re supposed to be angry at me by the time we meet again.” 

He’d done this before, he knew the drill. There was no need to—

“I never said anything about anger,” Cordelia replied slowly, that crease turning into a full frown. “I meant— Ivan, they’re going to be grateful to you. Or they should be, at least, not that I’ve ever understood how Barrayaran males’ emotions work—” She stopped abruptly, her expression going wide-eyed and worried for some reason. “Ivan, what—”

He couldn’t speak. Something was trying to claw its way out of his chest, something— terrifyingly desperate. “I don’t want them to be grateful,” he pushed out through gritted teeth, “I want—” He grasped for anything to finish that phrase, anything that wasn’t I want them never to die, not ever — he wasn’t a child, for God’s sake, he shouldn’t— “Miles asked me, earlier today, to look after Ekaterin, in case he— in case he dies, and— I said yes, of course I did, it’s Miles, how could I not, but—” There wasn’t enough air in the room, suddenly, not enough light, he was going to stay here until the water came and swallowed him whole, because Miles wasn’t there to save him, won’t be there ever again— “I—”

Firm hands gripping his shoulders brought him back to the surface, with a start. He gasped, and the lights came back, somehow. Aunt Cordelia, pale as a sheet, stared at him with shocked eyes. Uncle Aral would kill him for scaring her like this. Trying to center himself, Ivan took a painful, ragged breath. He had to explain, now— “I— I couldn’t take four months of that— that goddamned void. How am I supposed to do it for the rest of my life?” 

The last word came out horrifyingly close to a sob. Cordelia was still keeping him— alive, it almost felt like; out of darkness, at the very least. He was grateful for it. If only she just—

“My God, Ivan, I had no idea you were so— And such a foolish thing for Miles to say, today of—”

And just like that, he was crying, in desperate, ugly fits rattling his entire body — he’d barely ever cried sober before, not since he was a child and stupidly thought, that one time, that Miles would never speak to him again. Cordelia let out a soft, pained sound and pulled him fully into her arms, soothing fingers running through his hair. 

For the life of him, he couldn’t stop crying. There was no escape from this— grief, this was grief, and he hadn’t even known it was still there — what a silly thing to carry around when Miles was alive and well and probably kissing his wife right now — almost sillier than René’s porcelain set, but just as ever-present.

He was supposed to be better at this, was the problem. He’d thought he was better at it, after all his cousin’s close calls and inexplicable absences. That was one of those things you just had to accept in order to stay in Miles’ orbit. 

No is never the correct answer; fine and healthy are relative terms; Miles is going to die first.  

This was the reason they’d stayed friends for so long. Miles trusted Ivan to never lose himself over anyone else’s problems; Miles trusted him to be ironic and flippant and selfish, and never to take anything too seriously, not even broken bones or treason charges— 

But here Ivan was, weeping in Aunt Cordelia’s arms like a spoiled child denied a candy, just because the little bugger had to get hit by a needle-grenade and die, leaving Ivan to live and dance and flirt and stare into the void at night, wondering why none of it made any sense anymore, without Miles’ painfully dry commentary.

It felt like betrayal, somehow, to be grieving that much. Miles wouldn’t have expected him to, and so he shouldn’t— and so he didn’t really allow himself until he’d pried that video feed from Simon and just— couldn’t take it anymore, that insane idea of Miles being dead, when he was the most— most alive person Ivan had ever known.

Then, Miles was back home and nothing much had changed, except that he became even more — frail, in a way, with those seizures of his. Except that he was still going to die first, and Ivan couldn’t imagine dealing with it for the second time.

It took him a while to run out of tears. Aunt Cordelia was a much better minder than Mark could ever be; she was also going to outlive them all, possibly, with her Betan lifespan, and Ivan couldn’t start to conceive how that should feel. He breathed through the last bout of sobs and pulled back, escaping her warm embrace. 

Cordelia looked better now — not as pale, at the very least, more in control, but still heartbreakingly worried. There was another edge to her expression now, one that Ivan didn’t instantly recognize as remorse.

She observed him silently for a moment, as if making sure her speaking wouldn’t send him back into panic. “Ivan, I— I’m so sorry. I had so many worries back then — Simon couldn’t find anything about Miles, and Mark was borderline mad with guilt, and then Aral worked himself up to a heart failure— You seemed so steady compared to all this, I’ve never stopped to think what it must’ve cost you.” She touched his cheek gently, wiping tears away. He resisted the urge to close his eyes and lean into her touch again. He was a grown man, for pity’s sake! “Had any of us asked you how you were coping, back then? Alys? Gregor?”

He shook his head. “Not really.” He thought, for a while, that Miles would ask — dreaded it, actually, trying to come up with an answer that wouldn’t boil down to promise me not to die ever again. No one could promise such a thing, Miles least of all. 

In the end, Miles didn’t ask, too busy playing with his new shining brother, and Ivan had never brought it up either; why would he? “Mark knew, though,” he suddenly remembered. “Caught me trying to drink it all away on Gregor's birthday.”

Cordelia nodded, thoughtfully. “I remember it, though I admit I didn’t quite realize what I was seeing at the time. It must’ve been important for Mark, though.” She looked at him with a quizzical expression. “He asks about you in his letters, by the way. Not every time, but frequently enough. You seem to have earned his— loyalty, or at the very least respect, in an oddly tangential way. I couldn’t figure out when it happened, but— I suppose caring about Miles this much would be the highest recommendation, in Mark’s book.” 

Ivan glanced away, embarrassed. He didn’t particularly want Mark to like him, especially not just for Miles’ sake, but they were cousins anyway, whether they wanted it or not, and— Mark did bring Miles back, which was a miracle all by itself. 

“By the way, Mark told me you’d shown him your father’s memorial. He seems to be under the impression you were trying to scare him away from Barrayar.”

Ivan shrugged, tiredly. “Maybe a bit. But mostly I thought, if he wants to stay, he needs to know what he’s getting himself into. It’s a fair warning, in a way. You’ve always said that Barrayar eats her children,” he swallowed, “or— or spits them out to be eaten by something else, like it did Miles.”

Cordelia’s smile waned. She leaned closer to him, again, determination flashing in her stormy gray eyes like a lightning. “Yes, but not now, Ivan. No one’s dying right now. Miles is home again, and he’s got more reasons to stay alive than he ever had before. I can say that about Aral, too, and Gregor. It can be years down the line— decades, if we are careful enough. Speaking of which—” She laid a hand on his shoulder, lightly. “You look ready to drop, Ivan. Ekaterin told me you’d been working too much, but I thought— well, to be honest I thought I knew you better.” She smiled apologetically. “What you need is a good night’s sleep. It all will look brighter in the morning.”

Sleep sounded impossibly enticing, at this point. Ivan glanced down at his watch. “It’s about twenty minutes till Miles and Ekaterin reach Vorkosigan Surleau. I’d rather wait for the check-in, just in case. I won’t put it past Miles to run into trouble on his wedding night.” 

Cordelia let out a snort, then shook her head with some exasperation. “I should’ve known. All right, just— don’t try to get back to the guests, please, you’ll scare them shitless. I’ll send someone to tell you as soon as we hear from Jankowski.” She rose to her feet and looked down at him for a long thoughtful moment. “Sometimes I wonder if Miles realizes just how lucky he has been to have your friendship, and Gregor’s. I dread to think what it would’ve been like for him to grow up alone.” 

Long before Ivan scraped together an answer to this, she was gone.

24.

He was jerked back to wakefulness by someone’s hand ruffling his hair, of all things. 

“Whoa, boy, it’s just me!” Ivan blinked, confused, then registered his own involuntary movement and groaned inwardly. His first instinct was, apparently, to reach for his stunner, which wasn’t even there, because— oh, right, Miles’ wedding. He blinked again, waiting for his vision to come back to normal. Aral Vorkosigan was standing right in front of his sofa, hands in the air in mock surrender. Great! Just— brilliant. Exactly what he needed to polish up the day.

“Sorry,” Ivan mumbled. It felt like his brain was swimming in fog. “What time is it?”

“About half past midnight,” the man supplied smoothly without looking at his chrono. “Cordelia asked me to tell you — Jankowski’s just called in from Vorkosigan Surleau. Everything’s fine.”

“Oh. That’s— good?” Scattered pieces of his latest memory started to gather back together. Shit, had he really cried on Aunt Cordelia’s shoulder? Because of Miles? Ivan rubbed his face with both palms, hiding his burning cheeks, then took a deep breath; if anything, Lord Ivan Xav Vorpatril, killed by embarrassment at the sorry age of 31 would make a fitting obituary. 

When he dropped his hands, Uncle Aral was still there. Desperately, Ivan tried to come up with something polite to say to him. “I’d— better go home, then? If you don’t need my help with the guests, that is.”

The man eyed him with a disturbing mix of amusement and concern. “Cordelia’s right, isn’t she? We have been working you into the ground, these past few weeks.”

Ivan’s face flushed, again. He didn’t need coddling from Aral Vorkosigan; making a fool out of himself in Aunt Cordelia’s presence had been quite enough for one night. “No, sir, nothing like that. It’s just— It’s been a hell of a long day, and not nearly enough coffee. I’ll be fine.” There was something else he was supposed to worry about. With some effort, he caught the memory by its wiggling tail. “By the way, sir, is Vorrutyer still here? Byerly, I mean, not the Count.”

Uncle Aral jerked his eyebrow up. “Hm, yes. He was dancing with Livia, last time I saw them. I take it he intends to leave with her as well.” Ivan grinned. After the newlyweds’ departure, was it, By? Aral Vorkosigan, however, wasn’t in the least amused. “Your mother has been — uncharacteristically indulgent about it throughout the evening, I must say.” He sent Ivan an inquisitive look. “You seem— well acquainted with that particular Vorrutyer. What do you think? Should I interfere? The girl’s under our protection, after all.”

Ivan’s instinctive reaction was, oddly enough, a rather firm no, though he wasn’t even sure if it was it has taken my mother way too much effort to get him to relax or rather he’s a friend and I don’t want to see what’ll happen if Aral Vorkosigan tells him he’s not trustworthy enough kind of no.

“No, she’ll be fine. By’s got his quirks, but he isn’t—” Ges, or even Richars. “He’s a good sort, when it comes down to it.” Besides, Miles’ expression will be priceless when he realizes By Vorrutyer had wooed his wife’s cousin. Ivan started smiling; without his permission, it turned into yawning. He needed to go home while his brain was still functioning. “I’ll get out of your hair then.”

Aral Vorkosigan snorted. “Don’t be an idiot, boy. I doubt you could make it to the garage in this state, let alone actually drive. Pym says he’s been keeping a bedroom prepared for you, just in case.” Oh. The thought was strangely hard to digest. “Come on, now, I’ll take you.”

This was downright humiliating. “I can—” Ivan struggled to his feet, unsteadily.

“—manage it all by yourself, because you’re not five anymore, yes. I’ve heard it from Miles about two thousand times since he turned six, you know. Well, if you wanted to act all grown-up, you should’ve stuck with either wine or stims, not take both at the same time. As it is, I’d rather supervise.”

Stims? He’d never uttered a word about stims to anyone but— Wait, did Gregor rat him out? He should’ve never trusted that double-faced traitor again!  Stuck between annoyed and touched, Ivan huffed quietly to himself and finally submitted to Aral Vorkosigan’s hand that was forcibly steering him out of the library and into the direction of Pym’s promised room. 

It turned out to be the one Ivan stayed in after Miles’ disastrous discharge. So much the better; he recalled, with some relief, the tiny sconce hidden somewhere amongst the bookshelves. He didn’t like darkness in the best of times; to endure it now would be— hellishly unpleasant, if not impossible. 

The bed was, mercifully, already made and calling for him like a mythical siren. Ivan threw off his uniform, too tired to feel self-conscious even in Uncle Aral’s presence, folded it mechanically onto the chair and slid under the covers. He felt way too comfortable; it’ll be a feat to stand up again and go search for that sconce.

Uncle Aral was still moving quietly around the room; Ivan thought hard about saying something, but eventually decided to give up. He’d never known how to talk to the man anyway; what was another uncomfortable silence? 

“Ivan?” Aral brought one of the chairs closer to the bed, sitting down with a sigh. “Before I leave, there’s something I ought to tell you.”

Ought to? Coming from Aral Vorkosigan, this level of formality required some attention, at least. Heroically, Ivan pried his eyes open; he could’ve sworn it had taken an actual, physical effort. 

Aral Vorkosigan settled into one of those signature postures of his that Dono had been so hard-pressed to imitate — legs wide-apart, elbows resting solidly on his thighs, hands clasped in front of his face, thumbs pressing into the nose bridge as if holding his thoughts in place. To most people, he would’ve seemed dangerous and steadfast at the same time, an immovable object in the ever-changing world.

He looked distinctly ill at ease, to Ivan’s accustomed eye. “Oh?”

“I— It was brought to my attention that I owe you an apology.” He caught Ivan’s befuddled gaze and reluctantly elaborated, “I shouldn’t have assumed you weren’t Miles’ first choice — for his Second, I mean.” He paused. “No pun intended.”

Ivan laughed stiltedly. “It’s fine, sir. I didn’t think I was, either. I’m just grateful I haven’t blown the entire thing — not irreparably, at any rate.”

Aral shook his head. “Not at all, I would say.” He smiled fondly. “Ekaterin knew, though. Months ago, she said to me you’d go above and beyond to ensure Miles’ happiness. I didn’t quite see it, until recently, but she was right, of course. Just now, when we spoke, Count Vorhalas reminded me in passing of an old phrase—” He trailed off, voice stolen by an ancient, unhealed grief.

For the first time in Ivan’s life, he thought he could actually sympathize with Aral Vorkosigan. His throat tightened; resolutely, he forced himself to speak. “The one about loyalty?” The man blinked at him in surprise, and so he explained, “Miles mentioned it, earlier today.”

Loaded silence swept over the room; then, “I didn’t realize he knew it,” Aral said. “My father must’ve used it at times; God knows I could never bring myself to say it again, since your father’s death.” Pain and pride warred in Aral Vorkosigan’s expression, until the latter prevailed. “I’m glad to know it’s still as true as it has ever been.”

A warm glow spreaded in Ivan’s chest, not quite replacing that stupid, twisting-and-clawing grief of his, but pushing it further away. Miles was alive, Gregor still remembered how to do a cousin thing. Even Mark was becoming more and more human by the day. 

Uncle Aral, on his way to the doors, switched off every light but that tiny hidden one, faint enough to let Ivan drift off, bright enough to keep the darkness at bay.

Death of embarrassment it is, Ivan firmly decided, first thing in the morning.

For now though, he yawned, pulled the blanket up to his chin and instantly fell asleep.

Notes

[1] Literally translated as (to keep someone) in a black body, figuratively meaning to be excessively strict with someone, sometimes to the point of neglect. Funnily, the expression can be traced back to the Turkic horse breeding practices. Not that Byerly knows anything about Miles' horse metaphors, of course:)

[2] Means nanny in Russian, tinted with condescension. Seemed fitting for a Vor to use this one, somehow.

[3] Potato in Russian, obviously. Well, officially it’s kartoffel, but sane people don’t use this one, unless they’re in a Very Formal Situation.