Lois Bujold: Barrayar

“Ha. He’s lucky to get it. He’s picked up some damned peculiar radical notions in the last few years. If he wasn’t my son, he could whistle for it.” But Piotr’s seamed face looked proud.

Cordelia blinked at this description of Aral Vorkosigan’s political views. “I confess, I’ve never thought of him as a revolutionary. Radical must be a more elastic term than I thought.”

“Oh, he doesn’t see himself that way. He thinks he can go halfway, and then stop. I think he’ll find himself riding a tiger, a few years down the road.” The count shook his head grimly. “But come, my girl, and sit down and tell me that you’re well. You look well—is everything all right?”

The old count was passionately interested in the development of his grandson-to-be. Cordelia sensed her pregnancy had raised her status with him enormously, from a tolerated caprice of Aral’s to something bordering perilously on the semi-divine. He fairly blasted her with approval. It was nearly irresistible, and she never laughed at him, although she had no illusions about it. Cordelia had found Aral’s earlier sketch of his father’s reaction to her pregnancy, the day she’d brought home the confirming news, to be right on target. She’d returned to the estate at Vorkosigan Surleau that summer day to search Aral out down by the boat dock. He was puttering around with his sailboat, and had the sails laid out, drying in the sun, as he squished around them in wet shoes.

He looked up to meet her smile, unsuccessful at concealing the eagerness in his eyes. “Well?” He bounced a little, on his heels.

“Well.” She attempted a sad and disappointed look, to tease him, but the grin escaped and took over her whole face. “Your doctor says it’s a boy.”

“Ah.” A long and eloquent sigh escaped him, and he scooped her up and twirled her around.

“Aral! Awk! Don’t drop me.” He was no taller than herself, if, um, thicker.

“Never.” He let her slide down against him, and they shared a long kiss, ending in laughter.

“My father will be ecstatic.”

“You look pretty ecstatic yourself.”

“Yes, but you haven’t seen anything until you’ve seen an old-fashioned Barrayaran paterfamilias in a trance over the growth of his family tree. I’ve had the poor old man convinced for years that his line was ending with me.”

“Will he forgive me for being an offworlder plebe?”

“No insult intended, but by this time I don’t think he’d have cared what species of wife I dragged home, as long as she was fertile. You think I’m exaggerating?” he added at her trill of laughter. “You’ll see.”

“Is it too early to think of names?” she asked, slightly wistful.

“No thinking to it. Firstborn son. It’s a strict custom here. He gets named after his two grandfathers. Paternal for the first, maternal for the second.”

“Ah, that’s why your history is so confusing to read. I was always having to put dates next to those duplicate names, to try and keep track. Piotr Miles. Hm. Well, I guess I can get used to it. I’d been thinking of… something else.”

“Another time, perhaps.”

“Ooh, ambitious.”

A short wrestling match ensued, Cordelia having previously made the useful discovery that in certain moods he was more ticklish than she. She extracted a reasonable amount of revenge, and they ended laughing on the grass in the sun.

“This is very undignified,” Aral complained as she let him up.

“Afraid I’ll shock Negri’s fisher of men out there?”

“They’re beyond shock, I guarantee.”

Cordelia waved at the distant hoverboat, whose occupant steadfastly ignored the gesture. She had been at first angered, then resigned to learn that Aral was being kept under continuous observation by Imperial Security. The price, she’d supposed, of his involvement in the secret and lethal politics of the Escobar War, and the penalty for some of his less welcome outspoken opinions.

“I can see why you took up baiting them for a hobby. Maybe we ought to unbend and invite them to lunch or something. I feel they must know me so well by now, I’d like to know them.” Had Negri’s man recorded the domestic conversation she’d just had? Were there bugs in their bedroom? Their bathroom?

Aral grinned, but replied, “They wouldn’t be permitted to accept. They don’t eat or drink anything but what they bring themselves.”

“Heavens, how paranoid. Is that really necessary?”

“Sometimes. Theirs is a dangerous trade. I don’t envy them.”

“I’d think sitting around down here watching you would constitute a nice little vacation. He’s got to have a great suntan.”

“The sitting around is the hardest part. They may sit for a year, and then be called to five minutes of all-out action of deadly importance. But they have to be instantly ready for that five minutes the whole year. Quite a strain. I much prefer attack to defense.”

“I still don’t understand why anybody would want to bother you. I mean, you’re just a retired officer, living in obscurity. There must be hundreds like you, even of high Vor blood.”

“Hm.” He’d rested his gaze on the distant boat, avoiding answer, then jumped to his feet. “Come on. Let’s go spring the good news on Father.”

Well, she understood it now. Count Piotr drew her hand through his arm, and carried her off to the dining room, where he ate a late supper between demands for the latest obstetrical report, and pressed fresh garden dainties upon her that he’d brought with him from the country. She ate grapes obediently.

After the Count’s supper, walking arm in arm with him into the foyer, Cordelia’s ear was caught by the sound of raised voices coming from the library. The words were muffled but the tones were sharp, chop-cadenced. Cordelia paused, disturbed.

After a moment the—argument?—stopped, the library door swung open, and a man stalked out. Cordelia could see Aral and Count Vortala through the aperture. Aral’s face was set, his eyes burning. Vortala, an age-shrunken man with a balding liver-spotted head fringed with white, was brick-pink to the top of his naked scalp. With a curt gesture the man collected his waiting liveried retainer, who followed smartly, blank-faced.

The curt man was about forty years old, Cordelia guessed, dressed expensively in the upper-class style, dark-haired. He was rendered a bit dish-faced by a prominent forehead and jaw that his nose and moustache had trouble overpowering. Neither handsome nor ugly, in another mood one might call him strong-featured. Now he just looked sour. He paused, coming upon Count Piotr in the foyer, and managed—just barely—a polite nod of greeting. “Vorkosigan,” he said thickly. A reluctant good evening was encoded in his jerky half-bow.

The old count tilted his head in return, eyebrows up. “Vordarian.” His tone made the name an inquiry.

Vordarian’s lips were tight, his hands clenching in unconscious rhythm with his jaw. “Mark my words,” he ground out, “you, and I, and every other man of worth on Barrayar will live to regret tomorrow.”

Piotr pursed his lips, wariness in the crow’s-feet corners of his eyes. “My son will not betray his class, Vordarian.”

“You blind yourself.” His stare cut across Cordelia, not lingering long enough to be construed as insult, but cold, very cold, repelling introduction. With effort, he made the minimum courtesy of a farewell nod, turned, and exited the front door with his retainer-shadow.

Aral and Vortala emerged from the library. Aral drifted to the foyer to stare moodily into the darkness through the etched glass panels flanking the door. Vortala placed a placating hand on his sleeve.

“Let him go,” said Vortala. “We can live without his vote tomorrow.”