Lois Bujold - Mirror Dance

Someone was following him, a tall man in red-and-blues. His face was in shadow. “Ivan?” said Mark uncertainly. He didn’t think it was Ivan.

“So you’re Vorkosigan’s clowne.” Not Ivan’s voice. But his skewed pronunciation made the intended insult very clear.

Mark stood square. “You’ve got that straight, all right,” he growled. “So who in this circus are you, the dancing bear?”

“A Vor.”

“I can tell that by the low, sloping forehead. Which Vor?” The hairs were rising on the back of his neck. The last time he’d felt such exhilaration combined with intense sickness to his stomach had been in the alley in the caravanserai. His heart began to pound. But he’s made no threat yet, and he’s alone. Wait.

“Offworlder. You have no concept of the honor of the Vor,” the man grated.

“None whatsoever,” Mark agreed cheerfully. “I think you’re all insane.”

“You are no soldier.”

“Right again. My, we are quick tonight. I was trained strictly as a lone assassin. Death in the shadows is a sort of specialty of mine.” He began counting seconds in his head.

The man, who had started to move forward, sagged back again. “So it seems,” he hissed. “You’ve wasted no time, promoting yourself to a Countship. Not very subtle, for a trained assassin.”

“I’m not a subtle man.” He centered his balance, but did not move. No sudden moves. Keep bluffing.

“I can tell you this, little clowne.” He gave it the same insulting slur as before. “If Aral Vorkosigan dies, it won’t be you who steps into his place.”

“Well, that’s just exactly right,” purred Mark. “So what are you all hot about, Vor bore?” Shit. This one knows that Miles is dead. How the hell does he know? Is he an Imp Sec insider? But no Horus-eye stared from his collar; he bore a ship insignia of some kind, which Mark could not quite make out. Active-duty type. “What, to you, is one more little spare Vor drone living off a family pension in Vorbarr Sultana? I saw a herd of them up there tonight, swilling away.”

“You’re very cocky.”

“Consider the venue,” said Mark in exasperation. “You’re not going to carry out any death threats here. It would embarrass ImpSec. And I don’t think you want to annoy Simon Illyan, whoever the hell you are.” He kept on counting.

“I don’t know what hold you think you have on ImpSec,” the man began furiously.

But he was interrupted. A smiling servant in the Residence’s livery walked down the path carrying a tray of glasses. He was a very physically-fit young man.

“Drinks, gentlemen?” he offered.

The anonymous Vor glowered at him. “No, thank you.” He turned on his heel and strode off. Shrubbery whipped in his wake, scattering droplets of dew.

“I’ll take one, thanks,” said Mark brightly. The servant proffered the tray with a slight bow. For his abused stomach’s sake Mark stuck with the same light wine he’d been drinking most of the evening. “Eighty-five seconds. Your timing is lousy. He could have killed me three times over, but you interrupted just as the talk was getting interesting. How do you fellows pick this stuff out, real-time? You can’t possibly have enough people upstairs to be following every conversation in the building. Automated key-word searches?”

“Canape, sir?” Blandly, the servant turned the tray and offered the other side.

“Thank you again. Who was that proud Vor?”

The servant glanced down the now-empty pathway. “Captain Edwin Vorventa. He’s on personal leave while his ship is in orbital dock.”

“He’s not in ImpSec?”

“No, my lord.”

“Oh? Well, tell your boss I’d like to talk to him, at his earliest convenience.”

“That would be Lord Voraronberg, the castellan’s food and beverage manager.”

Mark grinned. “Oh, sure. Go away, I’m drunk enough.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“Not come morning. Ah! One more thing. You wouldn’t know where I could find Ivan Vorpatril right now, would you?”

The young man stared absently over the balcony a moment, as though listening, though no earbug showed. “There is a sort of gazebo at the bottom of the next left-hand turn, my lord, near a fountain. You might try there.”

“Thank you.”

Mark followed his directions, through the cool night mist. In a stray ray of light, fog droplets on his uniform sleeve shone like a cloud across the little silver rivers of the embroidery. He soon heard the plash of the fountain. A petite stone building, no walls, just deeply shadowed arches, overlooked it.

It was so quiet in this pocket of the garden, he could hear the breathing of the person inside. Only one person; good, he wasn’t about to diminish his already low popularity still further by interrupting a tryst. But it was strangely hoarse. “Ivan?”

There was a long pause. He was trying to decide whether to call again or tiptoe off when Ivan’s voice returned an uninviting growl of, “What?”

“I just … wondered what you were doing.”

“Nothing.”

“Hiding from your mother?”

“… Yeah.”

“I, ah, won’t tell her where you are.”

“Good for you,” was the sour reply.

“Well … see you later.” He turned to go.

“Wait.”

He waited, puzzled.

“Want a drink?” Ivan offered after a long pause.

“Uh … sure.”

“So, come get it.”

Mark ducked inside, and waited for his eyes to adjust. The usual stone bench, and Ivan a seated shadow. Ivan proffered the gleaming bottle, and Mark topped up his glass, only to find too late that Ivan wasn’t drinking wine, but rather some sort of brandy. The accidental cocktail tasted vile. He sat down by the steps with his back to a stone post, and set his glass aside. Ivan had dispensed with the formality of a glass.

“Are you going to be able to make it back to your ground car?” asked Mark doubtfully.

“Don’t plan to. The Residence’s staff will cart me out in the morning, when they pick up the rest of the trash.”

“Oh.” His night vision continued to improve. He could pick out the glittery bits on Ivan’s uniform, and the polished glow of his boots. The reflections of his eyes. The gleam of wet tracks down his cheeks. “Ivan, are you—” Mark bit his tongue on crying, and changed it in mid-sentence to, “all right?”

“I,” Ivan stated firmly, “have decided to get very drunk.”

“I can see that. Why?”

“Never have, at the Emperor’s Birthday. It’s a traditional challenge, like getting laid here.”

“Do people do that?”

“Sometimes. On a dare.”

“How entertaining for ImpSec.”

Ivan snorted a laugh. “Yeah, there is that.”

“So who dared you?”

“Nobody.”

Mark felt he was running out of probing questions faster than Ivan was running out of monosyllabic replies.

But, “Miles and I,” Ivan said in the dark, “used to work this party together, most every year. I was surprised … how much I missed the little bugger’s slanderous political commentary, this time around. Used to make me laugh.” Ivan laughed. It was a hollow and unfunny noise. He stopped abruptly.

“They told you about finding the empty cryo-chamber, didn’t they,” said Mark.

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“Couple of days ago. I’ve been thinking about it, since. Not good.”

“No.” Mark hesitated. Ivan was shivering, in the dark. “Do you … want to go home and go to bed?” I sure do.

“Never make it up the hill, now,” shrugged Ivan.

“I’ll give you a hand. Or a shoulder.”

“… All right.”

It took some doing, but he hoisted Ivan to his unsteady feet, and they navigated back up the steep garden. Mark didn’t know what charitable ImpSec guardian angel passed the word, but they were met at the top not by Ivan’s mother, but by his aunt.