Lois Bujold: Barrayar

Aral was perfect. His eyes widened only briefly, then he rested his chin on his hands and gazed over his father’s shoulder with an expression of cool interest. “But of course,” he breathed. “Every Vor lady goes to the capital to shop.”

“I paid too much for it,” Cordelia confessed.

“That, too, is traditional.” A sardonic smile quirked his lips.

“Kareen is dead. Shot in the melee. I couldn’t save her.”

He Opened his hand, as if to let the nascent black humor fall through his fingers. “I see.” He raised his eyes again to hers, as if asking Are you all right?, and apparently finding the answer, No.

“Gentlemen. If you will be pleased to excuse yourselves for a few minutes. I wish to be alone with my wife.”

In the shuffle of the men rising to their feet, Cordelia caught a mutter, “Brave man …”

She nailed Vordarian’s men by eye, as they backed from the table. “Officers. I recommend that when this conference resumes, you surrender unconditionally upon Lord Vorkosigan’s mercy. He may still have some.” I certainly don’t, was the unspoken cap to that. “I’m tired of your stupid war. End it.”

Piotr edged past her. She smiled bitterly at him. He grimaced uneasily back. “It appears I underestimated you,” he murmured.

“Don’t you ever … cross me again. And stay away from my son.”

A look from Vorkosigan held back her outpouring of rage, quivering on the lip of her cup. She and Piotr exchanged wary nods, like the vestigial bows of two duelists.

“Kou,” said Vorkosigan, staring bemusedly at the grisly object lying by his elbow. “Will you please arrange for this thing to be removed to the base morgue. I don’t fancy it as a table decoration. It will have to be stored till it can be buried with the rest of him. Wherever that may be.”

“Sure you don’t want to leave it there to inspire Vordarian’s staffers to come to terms?” said Kou.

“No,” said Vorkosigan firmly. “It’s had a sufficiently salutary effect already.”

Gingerly, Kou took the bag from Cordelia, opened it, and used it to capture Vordarian’s head without actually touching it.

Aral’s eye took in her weary team, Droushnakovi’s grief, Bothari’s compulsive twitching. “Drou. Sergeant. You are dismissed to wash and eat. Report back to me in my quarters after we finish here.”

Droushnakovi nodded, and the sergeant saluted, and they followed Koudelka out.

Cordelia fell into Aral’s arms as the door sighed shut, into his lap, catching him as he rose for her. They both landed with enough force to threaten the balance of the chair. They embraced each other so tightly, they had to back off to manage a kiss.

“Don’t you ever,” he husked, “pull a stunt like that again.”

“Don’t you ever let it become necessary, again.”

“Deal.”

He held her face away from his, between his hands, his eyes devouring her. “I was so afraid for you, I forgot to be afraid for your enemies. I should have remembered. Dear Captain.”

“I couldn’t have done a thing, alone. Drou was my eyes, Bothari my right arm, Koudelka our feet. You must forgive Kou for going AWOL. We sort of kidnapped him.”

“So I heard.”

“Did he tell you about your cousin Padma?”

“Yes,” a grieved sigh. He stared back through time. “Padma and I were the only survivors of Mad Yuri’s massacre of Prince Xav’s descendants, that day. I was eleven. Padma was one, a baby … I always thought of him as the baby, ever after. Tried to watch out for him … Now I’m the only one left. Yuri’s work is almost done.”

“Bothari’s Elena. She must be rescued. She’s a lot more important than that barn full of counts at the Residence.”

“We’re working on that right now,” he promised. “Top priority, now that you’ve removed Emperor Vidal from consideration.” He paused, smiling slowly. “I fear you’ve shocked my Barrayarans, love.”

“Why? Did they think they had a monopoly on savagery? Those were Vordarian’s last words. ’You’re a Betan. You can’t do.’ “

“Do what?”

“This, I suppose he would have said. If he’d had the chance.”

“A lurid trophy, to carry on the monorail. Suppose someone had asked you to open your bag?”

“I would have.”

“Are you … quite all right, love?” His mouth was serious, under his smile.

“Meaning, have I lost my grip? Yes, a little. More than a little.” Her hands still shook, as they had for a day, a continuing tremula that did not pass off. “It seemed … necessary, to bring Vordarian’s head along. I hadn’t actually thought about mounting it on the wall of Vorkosigan House along with your father’s hunting trophies, though it’s an idea. I don’t think I consciously realized why I was hanging on to it till I walked into this room. If I’d staggered in here empty-handed and told all those men I’d killed Vordarian, and undeclared their little war, who’d have believed me? Besides you.”

“Illyan, perhaps. He’s seen you in action before. The others … you’re quite right.”

“I think I also had some idea stuck in my mind from ancient history. Didn’t they used to publicly display the bodies of slain rulers, to scotch pretenders? It seemed appropriate. Though Vordarian was almost a side-issue, from my point of view.”

“Your ImpSec escort reported to me you’d recovered the replicator. Was it still working?”

“Vaagen has it now, checking it. Miles is alive. Damage unknown. Oh. It seems Vordarian had some hand in setting up Evon Vorhalas. Not directly, through some agent.”

“Illyan suspected it.” His arms tightened around her.

“About Bothari,” she said. “He’s not in good shape. Way overstressed. He needs real treatment, medical, not political. That memory wipe was a horror show.”

“At the time, it saved his life. My compromise with Ezar. I had no power then. I can do better now.”

“You’d better. He’s fixated on me like a dog. His words. And I’ve used him like one. I owe him … everything. But he scares me. Why me?”

Vorkosigan looked very thoughtful. “Bothari … does not have a good sense of self. No strong center. When I first met him, at his most ill, his personality was close to separating into multiples. If he were better educated, not so damaged, he would have made an ideal spy, a deep-penetration mole. He’s a chameleon. A mirror. He becomes whatever is required of him. Not a conscious process, I don’t think. Piotr expects a loyal retainer, and Bothari plays the part, deadpan as you please. Vorruryer wanted a monster, and Bothari became his torturer. And victim. I demanded a good soldier, and he became one for me. You …” his voice softened, “you are the only person I know who looks at Bothari and sees a hero. So he becomes one for you. He clings to you because you create him a greater man than he ever dreamed of being.”

“Aral, that’s crazed.”

“Ah?” He nuzzled her hair. “But he’s not the only man you have that peculiar effect upon. Dear Captain.”

“I’m afraid I’m not in much better shape than Bothari. I botched it, and Kareen died. Who will tell Gregor? If it weren’t for Miles, I’d quit. You keep Piotr off me, or I swear, next time I’ll try and take him apart.” She was shaking again.

“Sh.” He rocked her, a little. “I think you can at least leave the mopping up to me, eh? Will you trust me again? We’ll make something of these sacrifices. Not vain.”

“I feel dirty. I feel sick.”

“Yes. Most sane people do, coming in off a combat mission. It’s a very familiar state of mind.” He paused. “But if a Betan can become so Barrayaran, maybe it’s not so impossible for Barrayarans to become a little more Betan. Change is possible.”