Lois Bujold: Barrayar

The next morning Cordelia awoke to find Vorkosigan already gone, and herself facing her first day on Barrayar without his supportive company. She decided to devote it to the shopping project that had occurred to her while watching Koudelka negotiate the spiral staircase last night. She suspected Droushnakovi would be the ideal native guide for what she had in mind.

She dressed and went hunting for her bodyguard. Finding her was not difficult; Droushnakovi was seated in the hall, just outside the bedroom door, and popped to attention at Cordelia’s appearance. The girl really ought to be wearing a uniform, Cordelia reflected. The dress she wore made her near-six-foot frame and excellent musculature look heavy. Cordelia wondered if, as Regent-consort, she might be permitted her own livery, and bemused herself through breakfast mentally designing one that would set off the girl’s Valkyrie good looks.

“Do you know, you’re the first female Barrayaran guard I’ve met,” Cordelia commented to her over her egg and coffee, and a kind of steamed native groats with butter, evidently a morning staple here. “How did you get into this line of work?”

“Well, I’m not a real guard, like the liveried men—”

Ah, the magic of uniforms again.

“—but my father and all three of my brothers are in the Service. It’s as close as I can come to being a real soldier, like you.”

Army-mad, like the rest of Barrayar. “Yes?”

“I used to study judo, for sport, when I was younger. But I was too big for the women’s classes. Nobody could give me any real practice, and besides, doing all katas was so dull. My brothers used to sneak me into the men’s classes with them. One thing led to another. I was all-Barrayar women’s champion two years running, when I was in school. Then three years ago a man from Captain Negri’s staff approached my father with a job offer for me. That’s when I had weapons training. It seemed the Princess had been asking for female guards for years, but they had a lot of trouble getting anyone who could pass all the tests. Although,” she smiled self-depreciatingly, “the lady who assassinated Admiral Vorrutyer could scarcely be supposed to need my poor services.”

Cordelia bit her tongue. “Um. I was lucky. Besides, I’d rather stay out of the physical end of things just now. Pregnant, you know.”

“Yes, Milady. It was in one of Captain—”

“Negri’s reports,” Cordelia finished in unison with her. “I’m sure it was. He probably knew before I did.”

“Yes, Milady.”

“Were you much encouraged in your interests, as a child?”

“Not … really. Everyone thought I was just odd.” She frowned deeply, and Cordelia had the sense of stirring up a painful memory.

She regarded the girl thoughtfully. “Older brothers?”

Droushnakovi returned a wide blue gaze. “Why, yes.”

“Figured.” And I feared Barrayar for what it did to its sons. No wonder they have trouble getting anyone to pass the tests. “So, you’ve had weapons training. Excellent. You can guide me on my shopping trip today.”

A slightly glazed look crept over Droushnakovi’s face.

“Yes, Milady. What sort of clothing do you wish to look at?” she asked politely, not quite concealing a glum disappointment with the interests of her “real” lady soldier.

“Where in this town would you go to buy a really good swordstick?”

The glazed look vanished. “Oh, I know just the place, where the Vor officers go, and the counts, to supply their liveried men. That is—I’ve never been inside. My family’s not Vor, so of course we’re not permitted to own personal weapons. Just Service issue. But it’s supposed to be the best.”

One of Count Vorkosigan’s liveried guards chauffeured them to the shop. Cordelia relaxed and enjoyed the view of the passing city. Droushnakovi, on duty, kept alert, eyes constantly checking the crowds all around. Cordelia had the feeling she didn’t miss much. From time to time her hand wandered to check the stunner worn concealed on the inside of her embroidered bolero.

They turned into a clean narrow street of older buildings with cut stone fronts. The weapons shop was marked only by its name, Siegling’s, in discreet gold letters. Evidently if you didn’t know where you were you shouldn’t be there. The liveried man waited outside when Cordelia and Droushnakovi entered the shop, a thick-carpeted, wood-grained place with a little of the aroma of the armory Cordelia remembered from her Survey ship, an odd whiff of home in an alien place. She stared covertly at the wood paneling, and mentally translated its value into Betan dollars. A great many Betan dollars. Yet wood seemed almost as common as plastic, here, and as little regarded. Those personal weapons which were legal for the upper classes to own were elegantly displayed in cases and on the walls. Besides stunners and hunting weapons, there was an impressive array of swords and knives; evidently the Emperor’s ferocious edicts against dueling only forbade their use, not their possession.

The clerk, a narrow-eyed, soft-treading older man, came up to them. “What may I do for you ladies?” He was cordial enough. Cordelia supposed Vor-class women must sometimes enter here, to buy presents for their masculine relations. But he might have said, What may I do for you children? in the same tone of voice. Diminutization by body language? Let it go.

“I’m looking for a swordstick, for a man about six-foot-four. Should be about, oh, yea long,” she estimated, calling up Koudelka’s arm and leg length in her mind’s eye, and gesturing to the height of her hip. “Spring-sheathed, probably.”

“Yes, madam.” The clerk disappeared, and returned with a sample, in an elaborately carved light wood.

“Looks a bit … I don’t know.” Flashy. “How does it work?”

The clerk demonstrated the spring mechanism. The wooden sheathing dropped off, revealing a long thin blade. Cordelia held out her hand, and the clerk, rather relucluntly, handed it over for inspection.

She wriggled it a little, sighted down the blade, and handed it to her bodyguard. “What do you think?”

Droushnakovi smiled first, then frowned doubtfully. “It’s not very well balanced.” She glanced uncertainly at the clerk.

“Remember, you’re working for me, not him,” said Cordelia, correctly identifying class—consciousness in action.

“I don’t think it’s a very good blade.”

“That’s excellent Darkoi workmanship, madam,” the clerk defended coolly.

Smiling, Cordelia took it back. “Let us test your hypothesis.”

She raised the blade suddenly to the salute, and lunged at the wall in a neat extension. The tip penetrated and caught in the wood, and Cordelia leaned on it. The blade snapped. Blandly, she handed the pieces back to the clerk. “How do you stay in business if your customers don’t survive long enough for repeat sales? Siegling’s certainly didn’t acquire its reputation selling toys like that. Bring me something a decent soldier can carry, not a pimp’s plaything.”

“Madam,” said the clerk stiffly, “I must insist the damaged merchandise be paid for.”

Cordelia, thoroughly irritated, said, “Very well. Send the bill to my husband. Admiral Aral Vorkosigan, Vorkosigan House. While you’re about it you can explain why you tried to pass off sleaze on his wife—Yeoman.” This last was a guess, based on his age and walk, but she could tell from his eyes she’d struck home.

The clerk bowed profoundly. “I beg pardon, Milady. I believe I have something more suitable, if Milady will be pleased to wait.”

He vanished again, and Cordelia sighed. “Buying from machines is so much easier. But at least the Appeal to the Irrelevant Authorities at Headquarters works just as well here as at home.”