Lois Bujold - Captain Vorpatril's alliance

“Yes, Dada,” said Tej. “But I’m staying right here.” She gripped Ivan Xav’s arm firmly; he covered her hand with his own.

“You know me—there’s no such thing as a last chance this side of death,” said Dada. “If ever you want to come home…”

“Thank you, Dada,” said Tej, wondering how many karma points she was totting up for not pointing out that actually, he hadn’t secured a home for her to come to, yet. It had better be a lot . On impulse, she pulled him aside, placed her hands on his shoulders, and looked him in the eye. It was a shock to her to discover they were the same height.

“Look at it this way, Dada. You’re coming away from Barrayar with everyone’s freedom, a ride, and a war chest. Not to mention the covert alliance with The Gregor. I can’t imagine any House heir alive who could match that bride-price, right now. It’s princely , more literally than anyone here quite lets on.” Barrayarans! “And do you think that you’d have had any of it if I hadn’t married Ivan Xav?”

“Mm…”

“You’ve got a great deal here. Don’t screw it up!”

“But I didn’t deal, not for him,” he returned, in some very Dada-ish frustration. “And I always meant to, for you!”

“I understand.” The corners of her mouth tugged up. “But Ivan Xav is a gift .”

She leaned, not up, but over, and kissed him on the cheek. It worked to divert him, too, from his argument—he patted her in distraction. She led him back, and linked arms with her Barrayaran husband once more.

“So…take good care of her, then, Captain Vorpatril.” Formally, Dada shook Ivan Xav’s free hand. His eyes narrowed right down, suddenly cold and hard; his grip did not loosen. “And you’d better believe that I can find some way to touch you, if you don’t.”

“No doubt at all, sir!” Ivan Xav assured him. He flinched under the pressure of that stare, and paw, but, she was proud to see, didn’t step back.

“That’s not necessary , Dada,” said Tej through her teeth.

“Yes, yes, Tej, love…”

And it was all swallowed up in last embraces, waves, cries, the clicking of silvered canopies, the hiss of groundcar engines, and…silence. More golden than Cetagandan coins.

Rubbing his hand on his trouser seam, Ivan Xav said plaintively. “Is asking Who can I kill for you? usually how people say I love you in Jacksonian?”

“No, just Dada,” Tej sighed. “Though the Baronne is more dangerous—she might not ask .”

“Ee,” said Ivan Xav.

“I’ve been reading your histories,” said Tej, giving him a hug. “Don’t try to tell me some of your ancestors didn’t think the same way. Starting with your Aunt Cordelia’s famous Winterfair gift to your Uncle Aral, and she wasn’t even Barrayaran! Severed heads, really ?”

“Only the one,” he protested. “And I,” he added, drawing himself up with dignity, “am a much more modern Barrayaran.”

Tej pressed a smile out straight. “I’m sure you are, Lord Vorpatril.”

Their meeting the next morning with The Gregor was very short.

“Ylla?” said Ivan Xav in a confounded voice. “Where the hell is Ylla?”

Senior military attaché at the Barrayaran consulate on the planet Ylla might have been a more exciting assignment had there been any junior military attachés. Or, indeed, any other employees aside from one dispirited, homesick, and slightly alcoholic consul eking out the dregs of his diplomatic career. Ivan and Tej had arrived at what passed for the planetary industrial capital—the city was about half the size of New Evias—in what was midwinter for its hemisphere: rainy, cold, smoggy, and dull. Since Tej was still in a quivering heap from far too many wormhole jumps in too-close succession, she had greeted it, and their dingy provided apartment, with no more protest than a moan.

Well, that wouldn’t do. Hitting the consulate with what he would have considered average effort for a slow day at Imperial Headquarters, Ivan began ruthlessly applying Ops-style efficiencies to his duties, and when he ran out of those, to the consul’s. It didn’t take long to figure out that ninety-five percent of the consulate’s business came in over the perfectly adequate planetary comconsole net, and that the consulate, therefore, could be sited anywhere with a shuttleport. Shopping for a more salubrious climate didn’t take much longer. He had the whole place—lock, stock, comconsoles and consul—moved to a large, delightful island near the equator by the end of his third week, with money left over in the new budget to hire a clerk. Tej responded to the tropical light like a flower. By the end of his first month, Ivan had his duties pared down to a neat three mornings a week with the occasional odd hour, or pop-up trip to the orbital stations, and after that, it was all clear sailing.

Not that people did much sailing on Ylla’s extensive oceans, nor swimming either—Yllan seawater tended to give humans strange rashes, and while humans were highly toxic morsels in the diet of the native sea monsters, the monsters were extremely stupid and kept not figuring this out. But the view, out over the swimming pool from their house’s verandah, was luminous and beautiful—he waved at Tej, over there in the big hammock—and the sea wasn’t bad to look at, either. A person of simple tastes could live really well, really cheaply on Ylla, with the application of a little application. And with a more generous budget, even better.

“Mail call!” he told Tej. She looked up with a wide smile and set aside her earbug. Tightbeam messages from home were erratic at best, what with all the jumps through which they had to be carried; they could arrive out of order, spread out, or all in a wodge. Today’s delivery had been a wodge. He handed her a data disc to plug into her own reader, set on the table along with a promising pitcher and a couple of glasses, one half-full, the other upside down and waiting just for him. “Is that iced tea, or fruity girly drinks?”

“Fruity girly drinks. Want some?”

“Actually, yes.” He kicked off his sandals, climbed into the other end of the hammock, arranged the big cushions behind his back, took up his own reader, and laced his bare legs with hers. She was acquiring an almost Shiv-colored tan, which looked worlds better on her than on her Dada, making her sherry-colored eyes shine out like the gold coins on her favorite ankle bracelet—which, along with a skimpy swimsuit, she was currently wearing. The Ninth-Satrapy-coin anklet, and a few more stunning baubles, had been a birthday present sent by her fond Dada a few months back. Ivan had plans for that suit, later in the afternoon; the chiming anklet could stay.

“Busy morning?” she inquired, as the hammock settled.

“Eh, not really. I spent most of it editing my first annual performance review.”

Her brows rose in surprise. “I shouldn’t think you’d need to—the consul loves your work.”

“Oh, sure. I was just toning down the ecstasy a bit, before letting it loose in the tightbeam to home. Wouldn’t want to give people ideas. Like, for transfers. To anywhere but back home, that is.”

“When do you suppose they’ll let us come back to Barrayar?”

“Gregor guessed two years, a year ago; haven’t heard anything to change that, yet.” What Gregor had actually said was, Dammit, Ivan, you do realize it’s likely going to take two bloody years for this mess to blow over! At least! What were you thinking ? Which Ivan had thought a trifle unfair, but that hadn’t seemed the moment to say so. And then Ivan, too, had gotten to discover how much packing for galactic exile on 26.7 hours’ notice was like grabbing your life from a burning building.