The Two Ivans

Posted originally on the Archive of Our Own at http://archiveofourown.org/works/257610.

Rating: General Audiences

Archive Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Fandom: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold, BUJOLD Lois McMaster -
Works
Additional Tags: alternative universe
Language: English
Series: Part 4 of The Peaceful Vorkosiverse
Stats: Published: 2011-09-26 Words: 22,330 Chapters: 1/1

The Two Ivans

by Bracketyjack

Summary

In which Ivan finally pops the question, though not quite as he expects. Or to whom he
expects.

Notes

This story follows 'Forward Momentum' , 'The Christening Tour', and 'Not Place, but
People'. It is set on Eta Ceta IV in Spring 2808, where Ivan has been hatching a cunning
plan, and is dedicated to my early readers of 'Forward Momentum' on LiveJournal, who
felt, rightly, that I there slighted Ivan most unreasonably. Not this time! And a special
mention to LJ-user recordclip, who “would totally read anything, but especially one where
Ivan announces his engagement …” ‘Nuff said.

His Excellency Ivan Boulanger, Ambassador from His Imperial Majesty Gregor Vorbarra to the
Court of the Celestial Garden, looked carefully at the man standing at rigid attention in front of his
desk. He found after a while that both his hands were clutching what little remained of his hair,
unclenched them with an effort, and slowly lowered them to rest on gleaming wood. His
ambassadorial desk, a gift on presenting his credentials from no less a personage than the haut Pel
Navarr (and thereafter exhaustively scanned by ImpSec for bugs, without result), was both
beautiful and pleasingly large. He took a deep breath and counted to ten, contemplating the early
morning sunlight on the delicate grains and inlay of the wood, then two more while he counted to
fifteen.

“I think you had better sit down, Lord Ivan.”

“Thank you, sir, but I prefer to stand.”

“I imagine you do. Sit down anyway, please. Now.”

Colonel Lord Ivan Vorpatril, his Deputy Ambassador and Celestial Garden liaison, looked
momently mulish beneath his grimness, but complied. Even sitting, however, he remained visibly
rigid, and Boulanger sighed to himself. Lord Ivan had actually been remarkably helpful and
efficient over the last two years, relieving him of almost all the regular contact with the Celestial
Garden the Alliance required to allow him to get on with his real job of developing inter-imperial
trade and finance. And however notorious a Vor playboy, here as much as in Vorbarr Sultana, Lord
Ivan had once or twice come out with very timely and well-informed remarks about the haut, and
had also proven an invaluable guide to the sheer weirdness of ghem culture (a shock to encounter
as a daily reality rather than the background data Boulanger had drawn on as a trade negotiator for
Lord Vorsmythe). He had also saved his ambassador from an early gaffe with a perfectly stunning
young ghem-lordling who had made a private proposition Boulanger still couldn’t quite believe,
and would certainly have fallen for had Lord Ivan not hauled him bodily away to attend to an
urgent message that proved wholly fictitious. Explaining why he’d done so had left Boulanger’s
head reeling, in which unhappy state he had made promises in gratitude that were now very
obviously about to bite him. Sadly he remembered the warnings he had received before leaving
Barrayar, from (in rapid succession) Lord Auditor Vorkosigan, Lady Vorpatril, and His Majesty
Himself, that he had slowly come to believe exaggerated. Ivan, you idiot.

“Let me see if I have this correctly, Lord Ivan. You are informing me of your engagement?”

Lord Ivan shied slightly at the word, then grimly collected himself and nodded.

“Which is not to Lady Arvin, who has now proposed to you twice, nor to Lady Benello, who has
matched her friend, but to someone else altogether.”

Visibly gritting his teeth, Lord Ivan nodded again.

“A Lady Cahearn. Do you intend to work through the alphabet?”

He received a glare.

“No matter. Lady Cahearn. I suppose congratulations are in order. When is the happy day? Oh, but
you told me that too. You are getting married this evening.”

He observed a wince but Lord Ivan was sticking the course. “Yes, sir. I am.”

“And this ceremony is to be held, very privately, at the house of Lady Cahearn’s father, whom I
presume to be ghem-Lord Cahearn.”

Another nod.

“About whom you know … not a lot.”

“He is retired from the military, sir, despite his age, for reasons that are clearly a secret of some
kind. I haven’t pried because it isn’t wise.” Boulanger shook his head despairingly. What did Lord
Ivan think diplomats were for? “And because given the timing I infer, I believe he may have been
disgraced after the ghem defeat in the War of the Hegen Hub, so it might be insulting to ask.” That
actually made sense, in a Lord-Ivanish way, but added considerably to Boulanger’s worries ; such a
connection was potentially very hot water indeed, politically speaking. “And in any case we have
his delighted consent.”

“So you said. And so I imagine, if he was thus disgraced.” Boulanger paused, thinking. “You also
said Lord Cahearn was presently away from the city. Do I take it, therefore, that he does not expect
his consent to be quite so … swiftly exploited?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. Lady Cahearn has made the arrangements with her family.”

“Ah yes. And of course no celebrant is required here, any more than on Barrayar. Merely the
declarations. And prior registry of the intended match with a properly deputed official of the Star
Crèche, who must issue their license if any children are to result. Tell me, are children on your and
Lady Cahearn’s agendas?”

Ivan looked as if he wanted to spit but only nodded again, stiffly. “Eventually, sir. My mother has
no other heirs, and whatever you think I am sufficiently Vor to know my duty. Which is why Lady
Cahearn is also securing the attendance of such an official. A friend of her mother’s.”

“A friend. Of her mother’s.” There was a long pause. “A haut friend?”

“Obviously, sir. No ghem could be properly deputed in that role.”

“So Lady …dh’Cahearn’s mother is also haut?” Lord Ivan had somehow omiitted the proper prefix
in his initial account.

“She is, sir. The haut Eleta. But as you will be aware, the privileges of haut trophy-wives are often
very limited, from a haut point-of-view.”

“Limited. Haut.” There was another pause. “But you have the haut Eleta’s consent also?”

“We do, sir.”

“So besides your … unseemly haste, everything is in fact in order.”

“It is, sir.”

“Except that the reason you are doing this in such a … hugger-mugger fashion is that you are
unwilling to inform either Lady Arvin or Lady Benello of anything less than a fait accompli. Or
your mother. Or your cousin. Or your emperor. Or any of the several thousand ghem and
Barrayarans you have over the last three years encouraged to bet on your eventual choice in
matrimony.” Several million, quite possibly, if all he heard from Vorbarr Sultana was to be
believed.

For the first time the rigid face relaxed enough to smile at him, very tightly. His heart sank. “I rest
my case.”

Privately, Boulanger thought Lord Ivan actually had a point, though he also had only himself to
blame. Since his original appointment to Eta Ceta as His Majesty’s special liaison with the haut
Pel’s office before the jaw-dropping announcement of the Alliance—and Boulanger had thought
long and often about that before—Lord Ivan had by all accounts been more or less besieged by
ghem-women. It had, apparently, initially been merely an intense curiosity as to what a handsome
young outlander aristocrat might be doing swanning in and out of the Celestial Garden and the
offices of some very high ranking ghem, but after the announcement (and the days of profound
shock that had by all accounts followed it) that ghem-curiosity had become a convulsive assault on
a perceived source of power, much as those disgusting spined jellyfish in that strange Tau Cetan
sea were said to mob anything that might be food. And even before the invasion broadcast had so
stupendously shown the Alliance to be a genuine, working proposition and not merely a paper
peace, Lord Ivan had received his first proposals of marriage from Ladies Arvin and Benello,
whom he had apparently met during his still highly classified visit to Eta Ceta back in ’95 (about
which all manner of rumours still abounded among the ghem, though no haut ever said anything of
the sort). After being seen by the entire Nexus aboard Emperor Gregor’s battle-yacht (named,
Boulanger recalled with an inward shudder, for Lord Ivan’s utterly formidable mother) he had been
… swamped. So much was clear, and might win anyone’s sympathy—but his chosen tactic had
then been to use Ladies Arvin and Benello as (very effective) shields while declining any answer to
their proposals. While also from time to time manipulating the odds in the running embassy
sweepstake for unknown but undoubtedly nefarious purposes of his own. Boulanger’s sympathy
had declined quite sharply as he watched all this play out, but he could see that no polite or easy
way now remained for Lord Ivan to Do the Right Thing. And if the idiot really has fallen for this
Lady dh’Cahearn …

“Mmm. I do see that it would be a very awkward interview. Or two.”

“Exactly, sir.” The relief was palpable.

“Almost as awkward as this one.” Lord Ivan glared at him. There was a further silence. “In any
case, you have decided so to act. And yet you feel it necessary to inform me ahead of time.”

“I thought you might notice my absence, sir. Eventually.”

“No doubt. When Count and Countess Vorbretten arrive next week, perhaps, expecting you to
chaperone their meeting with their ghem-cousins.” That went home, but Lord Ivan’s wince could
not undo his mulishness. and his voice was as unyielding as it was stiff.

“I have left Count Vorbretten a letter, sir, and briefed Major Khourakis fully. Lord Thaliar has also
been briefed personally by General Coram, and will in any case be charmed silly by the Countess,
so it’ll all be alright, I expect.”

Boulanger glared in turn, noting that Lord Ivan had his fingers crossed. “How good to know, Lord
Ivan. And yet despite your expectations of universal wellbeing you also see fit to demand my
name’s Oath that I will tell no-one in the Nexus about your plans for happiness before you send a
general message and immediately depart on honeymoon, incommunicado, for … where was it?”

“Xi Ceta.”

“Ah yes. Where Lady dh’Cahearn’s family has ‘a place’ they have offered you.”

“Yes.”

“A ‘place’ which is not on the comnet.”

“I understand it is deliberately remote, sir. A hunting-lodge.”

Remote? Try ‘well-hidden’, Lord Ivan, you idiot. “And I should agree to this ludicrous insanity,
despite my oath to His Majesty, because … ?

“You owe me, sir. And I’m calling it in.”

Very unhappily Boulanger steepled his fingers and contemplated the result. “I do, yes. Because you
saved me from what would have been a severe private embarrassment. As opposed to a severe
public embarrassment, which is what will happen if I agree to be silent. Or perhaps worse. I
seriously doubt that His Majesty will understand such underhandedness and dereliction of duty.”

There was a mutter of some kind.

“I didn’t catch that, Lord Ivan.”

The look he received might have drawn blood.

“I said, sir, that Gregor is not the problem. And in any case you are far too valuable to him here for
any actions of mine to … endanger your position.”

“Ah. How flattering.” Boulanger pondered for a moment that bare Gregor, but whatever the
childhood intimacy and blood-relation between his deputy and his Emperor he knew that riding
herd on Lord Ivan was most certainly one part of his job. “And yet I am strangely unmoved by
your assurances.”

“You owe me.”

“So you said. And so I do. But this?”

It was Lord Ivan’s turn to be unmoved. “It’s not as if I’m asking you to tell Gregor.” He shuddered
in his chair, looking faintly sick. “Or my mother.”

“Indeed. You propose to do that yourself. By prerecorded vid.” Lady Vorpatril was going to be
beside herself when that little gem popped onto her comconsole. Not to mention those little ghem
Lord Ivan eventually proposed to get around to. Boulanger shuddered all over again himself, and a
possible escape-route suggested itself. “Tell me, do you really believe that the interviews with
Ladies Arvin and Benello you so dearly seek to avoid would be less difficult than the interview
with your mother that you and … your ghem-bride will eventually have to undertake?”

To his dismay Lord Ivan smiled again.

“Oh yes. Infinitely. My honoured mother may single-handedly define the geezer in geezer-class
Vor but she will already have what she wants. And she has never in her life, even as an infant-in-
arms, made the slightest scene in public.” Except giving birth to you in a warehouse during the
Pretender’s War, if that story is to be believed. “Whereas Jennea Arvin and Lactai Benello believe
in … more direct action. And can, believe me, screech the ceiling down.”

That also made sense, and not only Lord-Ivanishly. Damn. Boulanger could feel the box closing
around him and wondered if he really could lose his job over this. It would be a bitter
disappointment, and a waste, for he knew he was doing good work—but His Majesty might not
feel He had any choice, especially if the Vorkosigans as well as the Vorpatrils took real offence.
And who knew how far the ripples of ghem-offence might spread? Or haut. It was a disaster,
ridiculous but appalling, and like a man sliding on ice head-first towards a plascrete wall he could
do nothing to stop the inevitable smash. Because he had promised, dammit, though he would
certainly never do anything so ridiculously open-ended again. Which was also a thought.

“Hmmm. Well, that is, I suppose, your call. And you are correct that I owe you, however immoral
and idiotic as well as cowardly the use you propose to make of the fact.” Lord Ivan’s glare became
quite impressively stony. “But I simply cannot make an unbounded commitment to be silent,
whatever your reasons or demands.”

Fine white teeth were audibly unclenched. “Not unbounded, sir. One day. Twenty-six hours. Or
twenty-five, here.”
Boulanger gritted his own teeth. “Very well. But you must also specify exactly whom I cannot tell,
all others being permitted. And agree that if anyone with the proper authority to do so asks me
what is happening, or where you are, or even what time of day it is, all bets and oaths are off. I will
not lie for you. Nor even prevaricate.”

Lord Ivan’s eyes narrowed. “You want a list.”

“Yes.”

“Why? No-one on Eta Ceta IV and no Barrayarans covers it.”

“Because apart from anything else, Lord Ivan, this being Saturday, I intend as always to talk by
frame to my son at his boarding-school. I do not propose to tell Josef of your jaunts and jollities,
nor of my own impending disgrace, but it is bad enough that I cannot be there for him, and that he
was obliged by ImpSec to change schools when I left, so I cannot and will not promise you that I
am not going to be calling Barrayar today.”

Ivan smiled tightly again and reached into his inner pocket. “I thought you’d say that, sir, so I have
already made a list.”

He passed over a folded flimsy and sat back. Damn. Gingerly and with renewed dismay at how
well Lord Ivan seemed to know him Boulanger spread it on his desk and examined it. At the top,
underlined, was the single name “Captain Miles Vorkosigan”, followed parenthetically by “(and
Ekaterin, Mark, Kareen, Uncle Aral, Aunt Cordelia)”. Captain? Then, similarly laid out, came
“Mother (and Simon, Falco, and all Vorpatrils whatever)”. Boulanger grimly considered the
missing ‘Chief’, ‘Illyan’, and ‘Count’. An equally bare “Gregor and Laisa” were in third place,
followed by “(and anyone who is or has ever been a member of ImpSec)”. Then the list became
rather more haphazard and crowded. “All Koudelkas. Anyone who has married a Koudelka, and all
their relations. Any serving officer in any uniformed service. Any sworn Armsman of any Count.
Any Count. Anyone married to or descended from a Count. Any Lord Auditor. Anyone married to
or descended from a Lord Auditor. Any Residence or District official. Anyone in Vorkosigan,
Vorbarra, Vorpatril, or Toscane employment. Jack Chandler. The Lord Guardian of the Speaker’s
Circle and his deputies. Anyone ever employed at Vorhartung Castle.” A double line scored the
flimsy, below which a second list began. “Haut Pel. H.I.M. t.h. Fletchir Giaja. H.I.M. t.h. Rian
Degtiar. Haut Palma. Governor t.h. Raniton Degtiar.” It was interesting—though not remotely
reassuring—that Cetagandans retained honorifics Barrayarans were denied. “Haut anyone
connected with any of them. Any Ba. General Benin. General Coram. Lady Arvin. Lady Arvin
senior. Lord Arvin. Admiral Arvin. Lady Benello. Lady Benello senior. Lord Benello. Any other
Benins, Corams, Arvins, and Benellos there are, or may be. General Kariam. Any other ghem-
general. Anyone working in the Celestial Garden. Anyone who has ever worked at the Celestial
Garden. Anyone called Naru, Kety, Yenaro, or Lhosh. Anyone related to anyone of those names.
Anyone I’ve forgotten.”

Boulanger’s fingers tapped on his desk while he thought. The Barrayaran listing, however
informal, seemed pretty comprehensive, the Cetagandan one less so but more than enough to rule
out any contact he could think of who might do the slightest good. And why Lord Ivan even
thought it was possible the Barrayaran ambassador might talk to the haut Emperor (let alone
Empress) or one of those intensely disturbing Ba servitors about something like this was a puzzle,
reminding him uncomfortably of the very discreet visits to the Celestial Garden Lord Ivan had been
making over the last eighteen months—about which, after receiving a highly confidential
ambassadorial despatch, His Majesty (suppressing a smile) had personally told Boulanger not to
worry. But that last entry on the list was unconscionable.
“Lord Ivan, I cannot agree not to talk to ‘anyone you have forgotten’.”

The list was plucked from his desk and carefully scrutinised for some minutes. Then Lord Ivan
produced a stylus, struck through his last entry, and returned the list to where Boulanger could see
it.

“Fair enough, sir. But everyone else stays. Now, your Word?”

*****

After the door had closed behind a triumphant (if still generally grim) Lord Ivan, Boulanger spent a
good hour sitting quite still at his gleaming desk, watching sunlight track slowly across its surface
and trying to think of anyone with whom he might try to communicate about this bombshell before
it went off. At least three times he almost rose to call His Majesty directly, foreswear himself, avert
disaster, and resign, but on each occasion remembered that, as he had once heard Lord Auditor
Vorkosigan strikingly remark, honour mattered rather more than reputation, and was besides a
great deal harder to repair. Eventually he decided he had little choice but to trust to Lord Ivan’s
notorious luck and console himself with the thought of the Vor lord having to deal in future with
both ghem and haut relatives as well as Captain Illyan and his mother. Who would be furious.

Eventually the thought also occurred to him that his son had risen early today, in anticipation of a
school-tournament that should by now be complete (and he had to hand it to the school—exclusive
Vorbarr Sultana institution or no, it was fiercely up with the times). Boo! was the latest fighting-
game to obsess Barrayaran youth (and many of their elders), featuring the sensational new bubble-
and wormhole-technologies rather accurately ; surprise was all, and you actually lost points,
heavily, for killing or physically injuring rather than bloodlessly capturing your opponents, while
you could earn true victory, and its very generous prizes, only if your actions (preferably in
unexpected co-operation with an erstwhile opponent) saved everyone and were sufficiently
aesthetic as well as successful. It seemed to be the massive menus of music, colour, dance-styles,
couture, coiffure, footwear, and accessories that had fascinated everyone, along with the highly
improbable range of combatants available, and the game was due to be launched quite soon on Eta
Ceta, where there was already a feverish buzz of anticipation. The game was manufactured by a
division of the explosively growing MPVK Enterprises—which extremely interesting
conglomerate had also become very heavily involved with ghem-genetic work on troublesome
Barrayaran flora and fauna ; especially since its owner’s utterly discombobulating admission a year
ago (with his wife, brother, and sister-in-law, at that extraordinary ballet) to the Grand Warrant of
the Inner Garden. Quite what that had been about neither Boulanger nor any of the ghem and haut
he had spoken to had the least idea, and asking about it tended—even now the quaddie company
had finally ended their sixteen-planet Cetagandan tour and headed for Sergyar—to induce either
baffled silence or baffled complaint. It was nevertheless very clear to him that the Vorkosigan
brothers operated far more closely in tandem than anyone had ever supposed possible when Lord
Mark so astoundingly materialised in Vorbarr Sultana back in ’01. The game (and its rather
brilliant vid advertisements by the Chance Brothers) had amused and impressed him as much as his
fifteen-year-old son’s enthusiasm for it warmed him, and he rose to cross to his frameconsole
determined to be a cheerful Da in conversation. Josef deserved no less, and Boulanger deeply
regretted that duty had now taken him from the lad almost as surely as the aircar crash all those
years ago had deprived them both of his mother. If it hadn’t been for frames he didn’t know what
he would have done when he received His Majesty’s utterly unexpected invitation to represent Him
on Eta Ceta.Thank you, Dr Chandler, from the bottom of my heart.
Josef was indeed back and freshly showered, wrapped in the shirr-silk haut dressing-gown
Boulanger had sent him last Winterfair and obviously playing what looked like a rather advanced
round of Boo! involving Vor cavalry, Marilacan guerrillas, face-painted ghem-warriors (clan
design chosen by the player), Athosian missionaries, improbably large quaddies with peculiar
instruments who could, he remembered, use percussive music to paralyse their opponents, a
peacenik sect of Betan hermaphrodites who favoured slightly leering seduction, and one of the
strange, powerfully interfering cats (most of them a strange grey-and-tabby mix) that could show
up at any time to tip events into new courses. The boy grinned as he saw his Da, finger still resting
on the ‘accept’ button of his frame.

“Hi, Da.”

“Hi, Jo. How did you do?”

Jo grimaced. “Equal fourth. A partial victory. But it was a good tournament—some great moves
and alliances.” He peered at his frame and Boulanger’s determined control must not have been
good enough for Jo looked his concern. “Are you OK, Da? You look … worried? Work stuff?”

Honesty with his son (so far as security allowed) had always been Boulanger’s firm policy, and he
made an instant decision that he hadn’t won this poor concession from Lord Ivan for nothing,
whatever his good intentions might have been.

“Yes and no, Jo. I might be home sooner than you expect. Lord Vorpatril has just informed me that
he is getting married.” Jo’s mouth made a big O. “This evening. And he used an IOU he held on
me to make me swear not to tell anyone who could stop him. It’s going to be a disaster.”

“Wow. Lady Arvin or Lady Benello?”

“Neither. A wholly unknown Lady Cahearn.”

“What? The bookies will be livid.”

“You’re telling me. And I should say dh’Cahearn : she’s a ghaut.”

Jo stared. “He’s got the license and everything?”

“So he says. Some haut friend of his bride’s haut Ma. He also thinks the ‘retired’ officer ghem-Da
was disgraced after the Hegen Hub.”

“Yib!” Jo’s face was sober beneath his surprise. “That is not good. Or … well. It might not be
good. If it could be spun properly …”

That was actually a very good point, and Boulanger’s pride in his son was sharp. But … “This
evening.”

“Why the heck is he doing it like that?”

“To avoid interviews with Ladies Arvin and Benello before being able to present them with a fait
accompli.”

“I thought he liked them. Everybody did.”

“Me too. And I don’t know that he doesn’t, Jo. In fact I rather suspect that whoever this Lady
dh’Cahearn is, she represents for Lord Ivan a way of not having to decide.”
“But that’s idiotic! Give up both women you love because you can’t pick one? And when you
could have both?”

“It’s Lord Ivan.”

“Yeah. I suppose.” Jo frowned. “Da, you said he made you swear not to tell anyone who could do
anything, but you can’t have sworn to that.”

“No. I told him I couldn’t do anything so daft. But he had made a list.”

“May I see it?”

“Sure.”

Boulanger went back to his desk where Lord Ivan’s list still lay in lonely, reproving splendour. He
considered reading it out but then just held it so Jo could see, peering through his frame.

“Captain Vorkosigan?”

“I believe it was the Lord Auditor’s retiring ImpSec rank, but otherwise don’t ask me. Some kind of
cousinly thing, I suppose.”

“Huh.” Jo’s eyes worked carefully down the list, then returned to the Barrayaran contingent. After
a moment his eyes brightened and he smiled. “You know, Da, I just might be able to help you on
this one. I haven’t sworn anything to anybody. And you’ve still got, what? seven or eight hours
daylight there. Can you hang on a minute while I make a parallel call?”

Boulanger was completely nonplussed. What Jo could be thinking of or whom he might be

intending to call he couldn’t imagine.

“Sure, Jo.”

It was one of the peculiarities of frame-calling that when multiple calls were held on a single frame
visuals were easily blanked but fragments of sound tended to come through, and over the next few
minutes Boulanger heard snatches of what was obviously a quick-fire summary of Lord Ivan’s
mad doings, Jo’s voice low and urgent. He didn’t hear any replies, though. How quickly his son
had grasped the possible ramifications of a clandestine Vorpatril–ghaut marriage was a source of
renewed pride, but his good feeling was overbalanced by contemplating the consequences in
question. Then his son’s face popped back into view.

“Da, I’m going to transfer you to someone. Don’t ask who, but I swear he’s not on your list. Tell
him everything. And I guess you’ll need to keep your frame open after, so I’ll sign off. Call me
later, if you can. Love you.”

Before a startled Boulanger could do or say anything Jo vanished to be replaced by another lad of
his age, dressed in unassuming but beautifully tailored slacks and shirt. Who he was Boulanger had
not the faintest idea. His voice was a pleasant light baritone with what sounded weirdly to
Boulanger’s well-tuned ear like haut rhetorical nuances. High haut at that.

“Good morning, your Excellency. I understand you have a problem with Lord Vorpatril, and a list.
May I please see the list?”

Silently Boulanger held it up as before.

“Thank you, sir.” The boy’s eyes scanned the page carefully, twice. Boulanger had the impression
that he suppressed a grin. “That’s … comprehensive. But as Jo said, I am not it. So do please tell
me what has happened.”

Boulanger did, leaving out only the hold Lord Ivan had on him. The boy listened in silence, then
drummed his fingers once on his thigh.

“Forgive me, sir, but how did Lord Vorpatril manage to make you swear this oath of silence?”

Boulanger flushed, and struggled to formulate a version that might leave him some dignity with
this formidable young man, whoever he was. Suddenly the boy grinned.

“I believe I see.” The grin faded. “Can you give me your Name’s Word, sir, that the … lever
involved was, ah, a private matter? One that had and has no bearing whatever on the security of
either Imperium?”

Boulanger stared, feeling a rising appreciation. Someone had taught this young man a great deal of
hard-headed sense. “I believe I can, and I do, on my name as Boulanger.” He paused, then forced
himself on. “But plainly, sir, I am no Vor, and in code-law have little honour to swear by.” The
honorific slid easily from his mouth and after a second’s mental doubletake he felt a wash of
returning self-respect ; calling this boy ‘lad’ or some such dismissive tag would be no way of
showing the admiration he was beginning to feel. And the boy smiled dazzlingly at him.

“My Da says possession of that syllable is much overrated, and your Word, sir, is good enough for
me.” Fingers drummed again. “But we do have a problem, if all this is true. Forgive me again, sir,
but are you certain that Lord Vorpatril was ... being entirely serious? He has been known to, um,
perpetrate jokes. And I would not care to make the calls I shall have to if it is true only to discover
that it isn’t.” He paused, thoughtfully. “Neither would Lord Vorpatril, I imagine.”

Boulanger still couldn’t imagine to whom those calls might go, but the boy plainly had access to
someone, and as he thought it through he found he agreed wholly with the reasoning. Lord Ivan did
have that reputation, though it had been notably in abeyance on Eta Ceta, saving his prolonged and
teasing matrimonial indecision. Which just went west. And anyone who might actually be in a
position to act on information received would certainly not care in the least to do so only to
discover an infantile Vorish jape. He thought back to Lord Ivan’s manner and shook his head
firmly.

“I do not believe it was any kind of a jest, sir. When Lord Ivan was speaking of engagement and
matrimony he was grimly determined yet juddering. Rather white, also.” He reflected for a second.
“And if it is a hoax, I shall be demanding his immediate recall to Vorbarr Sultana in the blackest
disgrace, or tendering my own resignation as ambassador. Continuing to serve with him after being
so gulled in a matter of my name’s Word would not be tenable.”

The boy nodded. “Fair enough, sir. Lord Vorpatril is never malicious.” He frowned in a shockingly
adult manner. “And Uncle Ivan is nothing like idiotic enough to get himself sent back to the
Residence in real disgrace, whatever Da says.”

Uncle—?

“Now, I shall be making two parallel calls. I am sorry, but you will see and hear nothing of the
recipients, nor of me, but they will be able both to see and to hear you, and when both are
connected I shall ask you to repeat your story once more, and to read out the list. They … are on it,
but you will not be talking to them. You will be talking to me.” He grimaced slightly, then
shrugged. “A touch of hairsplitting, I know, but better that than the other. And if it helps I can say
that knowing what I already know I am obliged to make the calls anyway, which will certainly
result in calls to you sooner rather than later. Which you will, believe me, be very obliged to take.”

Boulanger seemed to have spent the entire morning staring. His mind whirred, balked, and went on
whirring anyway. “I see. I think. Though I am also completely confused about almost everything.
Perhaps I should say that I made it a condition of my name’s Oath that if I were asked by anyone
with the proper authority what Lord Ivan was doing I should be free to reply as my duty demands.
And … forgive me, but you do realise that as you or the other callers speak there may be some
sound-spill?”

The boy grinned. “Not on my frame, sir. Uncle Jack made sure of that.”

Uncle—?

“As to the other, very right of you, as Gran’da would say, and it may come to that. But if this works
out you will already have done your duty. We’ll see. Excuse me.”

Boulanger’s frame blanked, showing that faint shimmer that indicated the very highest grades of
internal security. An interminable time passed while he thought very carefully about a number of
things, including uncles and gran’das, though the chrono-display on the frame suggested it was
only about fifteen minutes before light flared and the boy was back, his posture somehow stiffer
and more focused, though his voice was easy. Absurdly, there was now an oddly familiar-looking
grey-and-tabby cat perched in front of his frame, peering at Boulanger with evident interest.

“Your Excellency, please begin.”

Boulanger did, and this time added a frank though decorously worded admission of how Lord Ivan
had come to hold his IOU, naming the ghem-lordling but (with fingers crossed) failing to specify
the precise offer he had made. As he spoke he saw the boy’s gaze was not on him at all but
flickering right and left, watching his unseen, silent listeners. It occurred to Boulanger that he
could not configure his own frame in quite this way. When he came to the end of the list he held it
up, quirking an eyebrow at the boy, who smiled slightly as he nodded. There was a long silence
until the boy nodded respectfully twice, neither time at him.

“Uncles?”

Uncles—?

But there was no time to puzzle it out, because the boy was nodding again, and suppressing a smile
that might have been purely gleeful if it had been allowed to be.

“You bet. May I come? … Thank you. Who’ll call His Excellency? … Oh, OK.”

Then suddenly the boy flushed a little. Boulanger’s pulse raced.

“Thank you, Uncle … and Uncle.” He smiled a little shyly, suddenly looking younger. “That
means a lot to me. Will you tell”—his eyes flicked to Boulanger and away again—“your son?
While I tell Da? … OK.” Drawing himself up he tipped a crisp salute and then made a perfect
Cetagandan bow in one of the new modes, and very stylishly. No, two of the new modes,
extraordinarily combined. With an odd floating sensation Boulanger recognised them as Vor lord
to Celestial authority, and adopted friend to parental guide. Coming out of the bow the boy fluently
punched at a complex keypad and looked up at Boulanger.

“Someone will call you shortly, your Excellency. Please relax. Quite what the outcome will be I
am uncertain, but I assure you no disaster will now be permitted to befall the … strong hopes of the
Alliance, at its highest levels, that the marriage of Lord Vorpatril to Lady Arvin, or to Lady
Benello, or”—he grinned, charmingly, with pure wickedness—“preferably both, will”—and his
voice deepened into the sonorous reassurance of good propaganda—“set a most positive trend
well-received on both home planets, and throughout the imperia.” There was another grin as his
voice reverted to its pleasant baritone. “Nor should you fear for Lady dh’Cahearn. But I’m afraid I
must go, as I have been assigned my own duties.” The cat jumped down, vanishing. “Stand by your
frame, your Excellency. And buckle up tight!”

His image vanished. In the ensuing silence, very carefully rising, crossing to his favourite thinking-
chair now touched with sunlight, sitting, extending his legs to cross them at the ankle, leaning
back, and letting out his breath with an explosive Oooof!, Boulanger let his thoughts tumble and
jump. The subjects included, in no particular order, the capacities of children, and of frames, and of
emperors ; Vorpatrils ; the nature of Vor training and education ; just how much nobody
understood about Lord Auditor Vorkosigan’s role in somehow creating the Alliance ; the
astonishing grasp of aesthetics exhibited on numerous occasions by his formidable wife ; the very
strange stories about both of them and their influence with the Celestial Garden ; Vorpatrils ; the
genetic thinking of the ghem, profoundly genetic thinking of the haut, especially the high haut, and
utterly genetic thinking of the Star Crèche, in so far as he had any real understanding of that remote
guardianship of all that was haut ; the most remarkable fact, very differently understood by the
high Vor, Vorgeoisie, and non-Vor, that His Imperial—oh yes, imperial to his finger-tips—Majesty
had married as utterly non-Vor a bride as he could find in His entire imperium ; Vorpatrils ; the
hair-raising essay by Madame Professora Vorthys called with misleading mildness The Vorkosigan
Report ; and among them all a certain trepidation about in exactly whose hearing he had just
implicitly confessed to certain desires that might well be thought unbecoming in an ambassador.
The identity of the boy no longer troubled him, for there could be only one answer—though he
remained profoundly astonished at more implications than he could begin to count.

After a while the incoming light on his frame began to blink, and he hauled himself upright, shook
out the creases, and went to accept the call. To his very mild surprise ghem-General Benin of the
Imperial Guard looked pleasantly out at him, face-paint gleaming. To his infinitely greater surprise
the haut Pel was visible behind the security chief, quite unembubbled and poorly stifling a laugh
he did not want to hear. Benin smiled gently.

“Your Excellency. I am given to understand there is something—indeed, several somethings—that

you cannot in all honour tell me. In consequence, a ’car will collect you during the late afternoon
or early evening. I’m sorry not to be able to be more precise, but you have in any case ample time
to dress in … appropriate finery. There will, I believe, be sufficient ceremony, of some kind, to
warrant the effort. And perhaps you will be kind enough now to excuse me? I seem to have a
busier day ahead than I had quite anticipated when I rose this morning. As I imagine you have
already found.”

Boulanger smiled beatifically at the single most powerful and well-connected ghem there was on
Eta Ceta IV. Or pretty much anywhere, come to that. Others ruled clans, guilds, conglomerates,
and in the satrapies even some frontier provinces, but for all he was no lord himself—yet—General
Benin alone among ghem could always speak in his Imperial Master’s Voice. He was also a friend
of Lord Auditor and Lady Vorkosigan and of Boulanger’s own Imperial Master, by all accounts—
peculiar and otherwise contradictory as they might be.

“You are a gentleman, sir, and a scholar of rare understanding. Be my guest, please, with my
humble gratitude.”

Benin suddenly grinned, charmingly, shifting the zebra-stripes and red highlights of his Imperial
Array. The haut Pel … hooted. Or perhaps the hoot Pel hauted. And Boulanger’s frame winked
into empty stillness. Alright! And let’s hear it for Jo. I owe him large—and ImpSec for insisting on
that school. Leaning back in his chair he found, for the first time in—he glanced at the chrono—
almost three hours, that he was once again looking forward to his Saturday evening, and to what he
rather thought was going to be a highest-level round of Boo! played out right here in the heart of
Cetaganda.

II

Colonel Lord Ivan Vorpatril crouched carefully in the corner of his own back-garden, making sure
his fine black cloak continued to shroud his best dress red-and-blues as he eased an optical relay
under the wall-door to check that the ghem-guard his embassy rank warranted was still elsewhere.
Quite how Samura had been able to arrange the diversionary call he wasn’t at all sure, and had no
wish to ask. Her father must (as much as her mother) still have some highly placed friends,
whatever his state of official disgrace, and it had been clear to Ivan from the first and only time he
had met Lord Cahearn and the haut Lady d’Cahearn that while neither thought much of
Barrayarans in any guise they saw very clearly indeed that this particular Vor lord represented a
better chance of a redignifying social coup than they had ever expected to get. Political
rehabilitation too, perhaps, but they knew that was a purely Celestial matter way beyond any
outlander’s sphere. In any case, whatever they thought they had been scrupulously polite and
unconditionally welcoming. Ha. No dismissive Ivan, you idiots from that source.

He felt bad about abandoning poor René and Tatya Vorbretten, but it had to be. And he felt
extremely bad about Jennea and Lactai, who had really been very kind and helpful. He was also
melancholically aware that he would fiercely miss their energetic and inventive bedroom-company,
not to mention the splendidly bland faces they could present to snide enquirers about that
ridiculous claim of Vor sexual honour he had made up the first, soul-destroying time he had kept
an assignation with them both, all those years ago. When the pair of them had ambushed him in an
outer precinct of the Celestial Garden, not long after his second arrival on Eta Ceta on secondment
to haut Pel, his heart had rocketed into his boots—but for once honesty had proven the best policy,
and he had been inspired by the momentary privacy of a bower scooped from the oddly pink hedge
that so amused Pel to make a formal apology for having once so misled them, and for his then
unconfessable state of poisoned haplessness. Hoping to undercut them at once with stiff dignity
(however belated) and manly frankness he had been in rapid turn startled, angry, and dismayed
when both had erupted into peals of laughter, but after they had apologised themselves for
becoming pawns in someone else’s trick, and showered him with praises for the strength of his Vor
hands and the quickness of his Barrayaran tongue—and thinking—he had begun to feel quite
mellow about it all. Jennea had also implied that in the aftermath of whatever it was that had been
going on—and she had looked an enquiry but accepted his fractional shake of the head without
demur—Dag Benin had Taken Steps, and both girls had been somehow carpeted, though their
essential innocence had been accepted.

After that one thing had led to another, rather often, and he knew that his friendship with the girls
had been much the best thing about his now quite extended stint here on Eta Ceta. They were
seriously all right, good pals as well as wonderful lovers, and infinitely less stuffy than the Vor
girls he’d run with in Vorbarr Sultana during his years at Ops Command. But both of them also had
geezer-class in waiting stamped all over them, a female wilfullness he recognised without thinking,
and a strong dislike of not getting what they wanted, irrespective of what he might think. Their
competitive proposals, flagrantly made in public and in the most dramatic fashions each could
devise—which was saying something—were just about the only desires he had been able to baffle.
Either would, he understood in his bones, be extremely managerial as a wife, and though haut Gars
—heh—had once (during their very extended and most private conversations about how Gregor’s
identity as Count Vorbarra was understood by Vor and common Barrayarans) somewhat
impatiently remarked to him that the managerial capacity of one wife was best offset by that of
another, he had never seriously considered accepting both girls’ proposals. It was a nice lifetime
bedroom-fantasy, but Ivan was very clear about the reality that would follow. One mother was
more than enough.

And then there was Samura, younger than either Jennea or Lactai, infinitely more timid, and so
sweetly inexperienced—though he had done a good deal to rectify that. His heart had gone out to
her the first time he saw her, almost a year ago now, looking nervous and lost in that same outer
precinct of the Garden, shying from his bare-faced unghem strangeness, and whispering a request
for directions to one of the minor bureaucratic offices. Gallantly escorting her there and exerting
himself to be charming and reassuring, a soldier-diplomat determined to win new friends for
Barrayar, he had been rewarded with shy smiles and wondering glances from cornflower-blue eyes
otherwise as demurely veiled as if the ground at her feet were a magnet. He had not had time to
linger—haur Gars didn’t care to be kept waiting—and had regretfully supposed he would never see
her again ; but ten days later there she had been, coming out of the same minor office, and this time
he had managed to extract a name and a comsonsole code. After which one thing had once again
led to another, more intensely than often, and in a blinding moment two months back he had
abruptly seen that she was an answer to his prayers.

The fallout, he knew, would not be good, but he had meant what he said to Boulanger about his
mother, who was in any case responsible for his whole ridiculous matrimonial mess, and
understood his needs and desires as little as she had Gregor’s when throwing endless debutante
Vor-girls at him as candidates for the Imperial Hand. Even Miles had been exasperated by how
slow she had been to realise that Gregor would never marry a Vor, and she still didn’t seem to
realise he felt much the same way, even though she knew the only proposals he’d ever made
himself were to Delia and Martya Koudelka. It was unfortunate they’d both been made on the same
day, and refused out of hand in rapid succession, but he’d been panicking as the non-Vor he’d
always had his eyes on began disappearing en masse towards wedding-circles. And all the
Koudelka girls were married now that Martya had finally tied the knot with Enrique Borgos—two
non-Vor marrying, just like Delia and Duv, which he thought a terrible waste.

Moreover, his mother really did know how to make the best of faits accomplis with which she was
presented, having had a fair amount of practice for which she had only herself to blame ; and while
he did not suppose either Gregor or haut Gars would be best pleased he did think both would on
similar grounds keep out of it. Besides, he was very nearly 35, and almost everyone he knew was
now married—not only Miles, the Nexus-rearranging rat, and all the Koudelkas, but weird Mark,
and weirder Enrique, and Gregor. Even his mother and Simon were apparently at last considering
whether they should wed. Gah. His sense of dismay as his old girlfriends also married in droves
had become more intense with each new Vorbarr Sultana bulletin from his mother, and he found
with only mild surprise that he no longer cared to be odd man out, bottom of his class, or poor
Ivan—the last even worse than his usual, casually insulting and assonant soubriquet. This Time it
was his Time, and high time too : Lord Vorpatril would for once crack the whip and seize the day.

The tiny scope he had liberated from the embassy’s ImpSec office showed the service-lane was
still clear, and he slipped out, keeping elegantly to shadows until he could turn into the street and
hasten south, cloak flaring around him. The auto-aircab was exactly where it had been ordered to
be, already programmed for the grounds of Lord Cahearn’s quite roomy though far from palatial
townhouse. As the ’cab whispered through the last of the evening light, overflying Satrapies Park
and the many ghem families taking constitutionals in the dusk, geneered pet-animals bounding
around them, his heart was beating crisply but he also felt, at long last, the growing calm of
commitment. He actually wanted to do this, and the Nexus had no bribe or threat that would make
him jilt Samura.

His first inkling that all might not be entirely as he supposed came after he had sent the ’cab on its
way and used the code Samura had given him to slip through the wall-door into her father’s
garden. Once, when both her parents were off-planet, they had played out a scene he vaguely
recalled from his Terran lit. class at school, and her delighted giggles and welcoming arms as he
climbed to the second-floor balcony of her bedroom had made him feel like a warrior receiving
admiring and very personal tribute. Hail! The great Vorpatril comes! He swirled his cloak
cheerfully. The overgrown holm-oak half-way to the house had dense enough foliage to provide
good shelter, and he was expecting Samura to be waiting for him there, as they had agreed. But to
his appalled shock the voice that greeted him from the darkness under the low boughs was not
Samura’s.

“Hello, Ivan.”

He stared, jaw dropping, though neither as fast nor as far as his heart.

“Hello, Ivan.”

His head whipped round. Disaster was complete. Shame surged. But dammit, he was a Vor, and a
Vorpatril, and he struggled to keep his voice calm and conversational.

“Good evening, Jennea, Lactai. I wasn’t expecting either of you to be here.”

“So we gather.” Jennea was maintaining her own cool, thank the gods, though he knew from the
look in her eyes that she was not an altogether happy woman. “A rather low plan, don’t you agree?
Did we not deserve your honesty?”

“Or your kindness, at least? You would make us laughing-stocks, you know, following this
course.”

Vorpatrilhood draining from him like blood—or milk—Ivan slumped onto the little bench that
circled the tree, not even bothering to arrange his cloak in the delightfully piratical manner it
encouraged.

“You did. I’m sorry. But I thought … I persuaded myself it would be better this way. For you
both.”

“For you, you mean.”

Their voices sounded in unison. He shuddered. “Yes. For me. I couldn’t face haut Pel, or my
mother, either.”

Glances were exchanged before Jennea replied. “That we can understand. But we really will have
to get the genome edited a bit, you know. This sort of funk is … simply not on.”

“What?” His voice sounded feeble even to his own ears, and Lactai waved a hand impatiently.

“That’s a given, Jennea.” What? “But you’re not going to stand on pride any more than I am
although he’s been a cozening, spineless jellyfish. He’s 70% hero, 10% poltroon, 5% idiot, and the
rest amazing good luck which is probably the shared Vorkosigan genes. We knew all that, as well
as all his connections, and that he’s pretty good in bed. But Samura dh’Cahearn is a very different
proposition and she’s played a damn skilled hand. Are we really willing to make three into four?”
What?What?What?Wh—

“Yes. And we’ll all make it work. Or else.”

There was a long pause full of fierce female eye-contact broken by the slight rustle of a dress.

“Samura?”

Whether Jennea or Lactai had spoken he wasn’t sure and it didn’t matter worth a damn because
Samura was gliding forward out of the shadows, apologetic and doe-eyed, with an adorably urchin
smile on her lovely face. But disaster was not to be averted now.

“I am so sorry, Ivan. Things … happened. And people I simply couldn’t say ‘no’ to.” His heart and
mind sank anew as her manner became unprecedentedly brisk and confident. “Ladies, I know full
well I am junior, and have no quarrel with it. The alphabet provides a convenient hierarchy. But
you are aware of my connections, and you know I will not accept less than my due.” She blushed
prettily. “Practically speaking, I would suggest we split Ivan’s old lie. Three times, three women ;
or one apiece. As an ideal, of course, flexible to circumstance. And I object neither to syn- nor
diachronicity. Full protocol in public, of course, but in private and when it counts everything else
works the same way : all for one and one for all. We will be a new model for both ghem and Vor,
and we will have to make up our own rules wherever we can. Agreed?”

Ivan’s brain had given up its iterations of what? and he listened in appalled silence.

“Yes.”

“Yes.”

He was cooked ; to a turn. But still, apparently, not cooked enough, for as Jennea’s and Lactai’s
ringing affirmatives sounded under the tree a dapper figure wearing the Imperial Array came out of
the garden-verandah whose roof had been such a useful route to Samura’s window that night, and
strolled towards them. Oh … fuck. Fuckfuckfuck, in fact. But suddenly he felt more cheerful. This
man did not countenance scenes any more than his mother. It might all turn out alright on the
night, after all. Who knew?

“Lord Ivan.” He received the faintest nod. “Ladies.” All three ghem-witches received a slight,
collective bow, and curtsied back deeply. “That was swiftly efficient of you all.” Benin turned back
to Ivan. “As you have now received your domestic marching orders, Lord Ivan, it falls to me to fill
in some political background that would appear to have escaped your notice. Please, Ladies, would
you sit?”

The girls complied with alacrity, Jennea and Lactai to his left and Samura to his right. Some very
distant part of Ivan’s brain noted this as interesting.

“The rehabilitation of ghem-officers disgraced after their defeat at the Hegen Hub, Lord Ivan, is an
even more sensitive matter than you realise. At the time my Imperial Master was not pleased. At
all. So His displeasure was wide, and in places perhaps too heavy, as He knows. Every ghem
present here has more than one clansman, and so clanfamily, who suffers from His disregard. But
how should we then proceed? It was a tricky issue before the Alliance, and since then it has been
explosive, as you and I alone here may appreciate, Lord Ivan, considering the role there of, ah, let
me see, your cousin’s most distinctive alter ego. And father.”

Miles. The name throbbed dully in Ivan’s brain, like a headache you couldn’t locate. But Benin
meant Naismith, the doubly insane, full-bore, pseudo-Betan freak of nature, and Ivan knew he
hadn’t considered what the little Admiral’s and Uncle Aral’s roles in the crushing ghem defeat at
the Hegen Hub (not to mention some of Miles’s other contrivances and outright scams), might in
conjunction with their present first-name terms with Emperor the haut Fletchir Giaja mean to the
ghem who had survived the slaughter only to reap impoverishing disgrace. Damn. Benin was
observing him closely.

“Just so. And before you come to think too harshly of these clever and sensible ladies, Lord Ivan, I
should tell you that I am, as it happens, Samura’s most junior great-uncle, which your unfortunate
guard knew—and I shall have some words for you about that later, Samura—while you know
already that Admiral Arvin, who has become such a confrère of your Uncle Aral in writing the
Joint Fleet’s Code of Conduct, including the articles concerning the rights of married personnel, is
Jennea’s most senior uncle-direct. Lactai is here mostly on her own recognisance, but represents
more hopes than her own, by an order of magnitude.” He paused, interrogatively. “Do you grasp
now into what snares you are fallen?”

Ivan did, dimly but fully. Such fragments of his pride as he had left nevertheless rose up. “And
should I not, General Benin?” He could feel the tension in all three girls. Serves them right.

Benin pursed his lips. “Then a surprisingly wide variety of people will be significantly unhappy. I
have been authorised to mention a lifetime posting as second-in-command of Kyril Island. Or was
it second-in-command of the laundry there, under a Lieutenant Vormoncrief, following a
spectacular court-martial and multiple demotion?” Gregor! Miles! Boulanger! The unspeakable,
honourless rat! “And before you jump to yet more conclusions, Lord Ivan, though I fear from your
look I may already be too late, Mr Boulanger was meticulously careful to observe the terms of the
peculiar oath you imposed on him, much to the admiration of our Imperial Masters. The real author
of your present woes, other than yourself, is the Vorkosigan you did forget to add to your
interesting list, though I am not sure I blame you. His file is growing faster than almost anyone’s,
just now.”

What? Wha— Oh, never mind. It’s happened. And rather to his surprise Ivan felt that odd calm
return to him. A poise, even, and somewhere his most secret heart began to rejoice. “I see, General.
Or probably not. But in any case I shall rise to the occasion.” He slid arms around Samura and
Jennea, who leaned in slightly against him. “As I shall doubtless have to in future, often enough.”

Benin gazed at him with mild surprise. Yes! It might be Cetagandans 23, Ivan 1, but the opposition
were no longer keeping a clean sheet. As he quirked an eyebrow the ghem-General’s eyes lost
focus for a second, then brightened as he subvocalised what looked like ‘Yes, my Lady’. He
gestured to the four of them.

“Standing would be wise.”

Ivan found himself pulled upright, cloak swirling, as Jennea and Samura snapped to their feet,
Lactai rising in equally taut unison. Over Benin’s shoulder he saw with fresh horror a pink lady-
bubble bang through the garden-doors and accelerate up the lawn towards them. Oh … never mind.
Cetagandans 10,023, Ivan 1. And likely to stay that way. The bubble came to a halt that should
have scored the grass, and winked out. Haut Pel looked up at them all, her face showing a
combination of indignation and (he gave fervent thanks) amusement. At his side the girls had all
gone rigid.

“Jennea, dear, and Lactai. Congratulations to you both. And to you, Lady dh’Cahearn—you’ve
been doing some rather clever things, in which I detect Dag’s gentle hand, though I shall have some
words later for you and Eleta about presuming on Crèche Licensors in quite that fashion. I trust
none of you have any objection to my serving as Licensor myself?”
A very tight-faced Samura shook her head quickly and all three women curtsied deeply, two of
them elbowing Ivan to no avail. Pel’s gaze moved to him and he shivered.

“Ivan. I really ought to get up and slap you, if only on your mother’s behalf, but you’re going to
need both cheeks for the cermonial sigils. Shame on you! A scurvy trick.” He flushed, and knew it
for the truth. “And I do not care to have one of my protégés so attempt to embarrass another. Have
you apologised to Jennea yet?”

“Yes.”

“And Lactai?”

“Yes.”

“Well, do it some more.”

“Now?”

To his considerable relief Pel laughed. “Satisfying as that would be, no. Time is short. But do not
forget, Ivan. You owe them.” The stress was unmistakeable, and Ivan winced as the jab went home.
Was that damn desk bugged after all? “Now, General Benin having brought you up to speed, I
trust, on the ghem-politics you’ve stirred up, it falls to me to do as much for the genetics. So sit
down again, all of you, and listen.”

Ivan found himself back on the bench as swiftly as he had left it, and propelled in the same way.
His cloak swirled sadly.

“One of the many things that Gregor and Miles grasp, Ivan, and you don’t seem to, despite your
personal knowledge of the consequences, is that Barrayaran and especially Vor genomes are still
stuffed with more compromised chromosomes than is even remotely acceptable. Crèche knows it’s
obvious, despite your remarkable strength and coherence as a people, and the Vor’s compelling
survival as a class. Or caste.” She frowned. “The biological insults to your Firsters from all that
absurd red vegetation and some of the biting insects were bad enough, but then you had your Time
of Isolation and lost all geneering capacity for centuries. In the Vorkosigan’s District there was
also, of course, the more recent radiological insult from ghem atomics. And setting aside mutagen
and radiation damage, imperfections like birthmarks, cleft palates, and clubbed feet, which even
among baseline human populations haven’t been seen anywhere but frontier worlds since
replicators became available, are still endemic on Barrayar. Gregor and Laisa of course want our
help to clean the whole mess up, and we’re willing, but even with our genetic resources and
personnel it’s going to take a long time. Thanks to Cordelia, mainly, replicator technology has been
making inroads for thirty years, and a lot of the necessary work can be done by anyone with proper
genetic training. But not all, particularly where the complex behavioural mutations are involved,
which usually means in the more inbred high Vor. And the politics is becoming a real bore,
because of what’s happened with the more conservative Counts and their higher feudatories.”

At Ivan’s blank look Pel snorted.

“Don’t you even read your own embassy bulletins? I do. So does Fletchir.” Ivan felt the girls
beside him stiffen as they heard their emperor’s bare name. “Oh alright. In a nutshell, the high Vor
who have always most strongly resisted galactic modernity and resented anything proposed by
your Progressives have somehow decided en masse that while they still distrust the Nexus at large,
as reprehensible outlanders, they trust us, and only us, to ‘mess with their genes’ in the way even
they realise they need, the poor, dim dears. It’s quite lunatic, of course, but Nikki explained it very
clearly by saying that they trust us because we were enemies. So—mad, but well and good. That’s
more than half the battle, and leaves only logistics ; but they are fearsome logistics, and the
problem has become worse since Count Vorhalas, who is actually quite sensible so far as I can tell,
became too ill to keep any discipline in their ranks. Count Vormoncrief has neither the mind nor
character to help. So how do we sort out who gets proper treatment now and who has to wait,
without giving Gregor a running problem in the Council of Counts that’ll stall everything else?”

Ivan stared at Pel, appalled at and riveted by such crisp knowledge and analysis—she’s the Consort
of Eta Ceta, not Barrayar!—but still puzzled. He knew he should have been paying closer attention
to the bulletins. And to those vague hints Mother is always dropping. But what on Eta Ceta had it
all to do with him?

Pel sighed. “General Benin?”

Ivan switched his stare, tuning out distractions.

“Lord Ivan, what has been the biggest matrimonial problem of your Vor generation?”

That was a no-brainer. “Too many men. Not enough women.”

“Just so. And remembering our polygamous habits, as you really must from now on, what gender
ratios have you observed among the ghem? Half the mark drops, I see” Benin sighed in turn. “It is,
seemingly, a great stroke of mutual good fortune for the Alliance that our surplusses and lacks are
so very complementary. How splendid for us all. But how many ghem-Vor marriages have there
actually been, to date?”

Ivan thought hard. Lots of Vor men had been speculating about whether they might, he knew, and
had wanted very predictable details that he had never had the slightest problem flatly refusing to
divulge, but he couldn’t bring to mind any formal announcement. “I’m not sure.”

“None. And why do you suppose that might be? Or, come to that, why an estimated 30 million
Imperial marks have been wagered in Vorbarr Sultana alone on whom and when you will wed? Do
any of those marks now drop? You might ask yourself what you think we ghem, who do know our
own most carefully cultivated genetics, make of what we can see of the Barrayaran genomes.”
Benin paused, suddenly smiling faintly. “But I think any further instruction you need must come
from another source, and probably at another time, though we may be about to enjoy a prelude.”
What? “You might also care to speculate for a second, Lord Ivan, on your Imperial Master’s
probable response to the list you unwisely left with Mr Boulanger. My Imperial Master,
fortunately, did not wholly share it, and in any case ghem-General Naru is extremely dead long ago
; nor do any of his line-direct still dwell on Eta Ceta. Hello, Miles, everyone. Did you have a good
trip?”

Ivan froze and let his tunnel-vision of Benin widen again, then really wished he hadn’t. Gregor and
the Cetagandans, 1,000,023, Ivan 1. Oh … hell. On wheels. With knobs on. Squared. I’m toast and
beans. Standing in a semi-circle behind Pel’s chair were not only Miles (in house uniform) and
Ekaterin, wearing a pair of those plain-glasses that had inexplicably become the season’s rage in
Vorbarr Sultana and a stunning blue dress by Estelle, but also a ridiculously grown-up looking
Nikki (house uniform). And his mother (Estelle). And Simon (dress red-and-blues with full
medals). Amid Ivan’s resigned terror pieces at last came together in his head. Nikki! How did I
forget him? And how did he do it? His legs were molten jelly but Jennea and Samura still had him
up on them fast enough to give him whiplash, and managed to hold him up even as they and Lactai
all dropped deep curtseys. Ekaterin smiled warmly at them all, eyes gleaming, and even his mother
and Simon seemed more interested in examining the girls than glaring at him, though in his
mother’s case it was a close run thing. Nikki alone looked at him gravely before offering a tiny
apologetic nod. Ivan stared, but Miles was taking charge as if this were his own Barrayaran
backyard. And you’re surprised? Ivan, you idiot.

“We did, thank you, Dag. The direct wormholes are a great convenience.” Miles’s gaze swung to
Ivan like a graser-beam, and he smiled, evenly, terrifyingly, at his feckless cousin. “So there you
are, Ivan.” He paused. “Nice cloak.” Ivan winced. “Lady Arvin and Lady Benello I know, but not
this other lady. And all are new to most of us. Are you perhaps going to make introductions before
some of us become related? I realise it wasn’t in your original plan, but I believe some tactical
flexibility might be called for.”

Tactical flexibility? Some of us? A glimmer of hope sparked in Ivan’s breast, then flared with
resolution. He had, after all, inherited in full measure, and under Miles’s long and devoted tuition
honed to perfection, the Vorpatril capacity to make the best of faits accomplis. And despite
translocating effortlessly between planets and imperia Miles was apparently not quite up to speed.

“Of course, Miles. Forgive my surprise.” Order was critical here. “Jennea, Lactai, Samura, my
mother, Lady Alys Vorpatril ; and my stepfather, Simon Illyan.” He made another improbable
decision. “Ma, Da, my fiancées, Lady Jennea Arvin, Lady Lactai Benello, and Lady Samura
dh’Cahearn.”

Using one eye to watch with infinite satisfaction the blank crogglement that momently flashed on
both Miles’s and Ekaterin’s faces (though not, he noted clinically, mooting vengeance, Nikki’s), he
had the even greater satisfaction of seeing with the other his mother and Simon brough up short by
his ‘Ma’ and unqualified ‘Da’. Yes! The Nexus 1,000,023, Ivan 2. His Ma looked as if she might
for once say something untoward, but Simon—bless him!—subtly propelled her forward and hands
were shaken amid polite murmurs. It was critical not to let her get another word in edgeways or it
would be full-on in a flash.

“I’m so glad you could both make it.” He swung, positively Milesishly, letting the cloak do its
good work. “And my cousins, Lord Auditor Miles Vorkosigan, his wife Lady Ekaterin Vorkosigan,
and her son Nikolai.” He smiled a little promise at the boy, who shrugged with fractional
unconcern. “Almost universally known as Nikki. Cousins, my fiancées.”

Miles looked daggers but it was Nikki who murmured “Briefly”, and he saw Miles and Ekaterin
both struggle to contain laughter. His heart eased, but there was something about Miles’s look, as
there so often was, that left him very wary, and more than usually willing to admit to himself just
how much his short cousin intimidated him.

“Ladies.” Curtsies were acknowledged with grave nods and hands were shaken, in Ekaterin’s and
Nikki’s cases with some real warmth beneath their evident mirth, and his heart eased again. This
will be alright. If harrowing. And I deserve that. His calm grew, and he saw Miles’s gaze on him
become calculating.

“Mmmm. Dag, I believe I owe you a kitten of your choice from Shuang-Mei’s and ImpSec’s litter,
if Pel ever lets go of them.” He smiled at Pel, who grinned back at him, then looked directly at
Ivan with eyes gone that flat, gunmetal grey, not, Ivan realised after a moment, with the threat he
had once or twice seen them convey but with more neutral assessment. “Ivan, I’m sorry we drove
you to a cunning plan, but you were being an idiot. Or rather playing one as well as you have ever
done. And time was running out with Vorhalas’s life. He died last night, by the way, so as it
happens your timing is inspired.”

Ivan felt a strange twist of sorrow for the infinitely upright old man, at last laid low, and knew
Miles shared it.

“I’m very sorry to learn that. He was true Vor.”

Miles smiled and nodded sharply. “Yes, he was. He will be missed.”

“Is Gregor going to allow his granddaughter to inherit?” Ivan did read some of the bulletins, and
his mother had kept him up to date anyway.

“That’s with the gods. And the Council. So tonight may matter for more reasons that you are
supposing even now. Which brings me to a little business. Gregor, you know, is actually Not
Amused at all, nor Da, about the way you handled Boulanger. I most strongly advise you both to
offer very fulsome apologies to him, and to them, and to accompany his with a serious gift. Nikki
has a notion which will also explain much to you, if you think about it. It involves a Boo!
tournament.” His voice went a shade cooler. “Gregor was also distressed, as am I, by your absence
for René’s and Tatya’s visit next week, but there’s no helping that now.” Ivan winced. “And given
the ill-veiled threats I saw floating in your eyes I think I had better add that Nikki has stood
between Uncle Ivan and harm’s way a dozen times today. As have Ekaterin, Ma, and Simon. You
owe them all, Ivan.”

Two elbows poked him simultaneously, and he broke his shock to nod crisply. “So noted, Miles.
And my preliminary thanks, Ekaterin, Nikki. Da. But you said business, Miles?” Nikki winked at
him and Ekaterin looked as if she’d like to but instead rested a hand on her husband’s shoulder.
Miles blinked. Ivan 3. So did his mother and Simon. Ivan 5. Margins were narrowing.

“Thirty years in a day. What was I doing wrong?” Ivan gave this the silent treatment it deserved,
but Ekaterin didn’t.

“Nothing, love. It just all worked at once. And remember vertigo at apogee.”

Miles grinned. “Alright, love. And alright, Ivan. You get your cadet badge, at last.” What? Miles
fished in one of his uniform pockets, then looked up at Ivan dubiously. “You’re going to hate this
but it has to be now, so it has to be me, and I don’t see much choice except standing on that bench.”
He paused briefly, inspecting it. “And I can’t be bothered. Please kneel, Colonel Lord Vorpatril.”

What? But Jennea’s and Samura’s hands were pressing down, and rather than risk his uniform
trousers on the turf he went to one knee with as much grace as he could manage. The cloak helped.
As he found his balance Miles stepped forward, reached out, and deftly flipped the cloak back on
each side, simultaneously popping and removing his best dress Colonel’s tabs from each shoulder.
What? Had Gregor really cashiered him already? But Miles then equally deftly fastened new tabs
in place, leaving the cloak to hang down his back.

“In my Imperial Master’s Voice”—his finger rose, then pointed—“you’re now a general.”
Yeehawhat? Dazed, Ivan saw Miles smile, really quite warmly, for him, and before he could move
felt a hand return to his left shoulder, keeping him in place ; though whose it was exactly he wasn’t
altogether sure, as his vision was a trifle blurred. “I’ve always wanted to do that. Congratulations,
Ivan, and also in my Imperial Master’s Voice, welcome to the world of grown-ups.” Then to his
frozen yet still heaving crogglement Miles leant forward and kissed him softly on the forehead.
“We’ve been waiting. Up you get.”

Miles stood back, there was a little chorus of well-harmonised hums of surprised satisfaction from
the girls, and an array of ironic but nevertheless relieved and delighted smiles from Ekaterin, Nikki,
his Ma, and Simon. He let Jennea and this time Lactai haul him upright. The straight weight of the
cloak felt wrong but he knew this was not its moment, and Miles’s voice was brisk.

“One more slight indignity and we’re done, Ivan. Boulanger said when I quizzed him properly late
this afternoon that you admitted children might eventually be on your agenda with Lady
dh’Cahearn. Have you revisited that thought yet? I somehow imagined you might not have done.
Pel?”

“Yes, indeed. Ivan, tempus fugit, as both Fletchir and I have told you several times. You should
expect to be a father of … hmm, triplets certainly isn’t right … trins, maybe, quite early next year,
soon after your Winterfair. Plainly one son and one daughter are required ; we can argue about the
third, and the assignment of genders to genome-crosses, ladies, if you make your cases fast.
Otherwise it’ll be FMF in alphabetical order, which is what Fletchir wants for reasons of his own.”
What? Why? When??? But all the girls were curtsying again, and Jennea was speaking in a flash.

“It is our honour, my Lady, to gift the Celestial Lord his desire.”

Pel nodded with an amused glint in her eyes. “So it is. I have trained you well. Good. Incidentally,
we shan’t be waiting on the second and third sets of crosses either, so start thinking about them
too.” Whaaaa— “Now, Miles, is that everything?”

“I believe so, Pel. Dag? Then shall we go in?”

“Momently, Miles.” The blonde head with those ageless blue eyes swung around. “Alys, do you
want the curule chair for a moment?”

Even Miles froze, though Ekaterin had to suppress a smile, not entirely successfully. Nikki’s mouth
also looked suspiciously rigid. Simon’s eyes were dancing. His own soul shrivelled, then flamed
up again. Generals could do pretty much everything, and he was besides going to be a trend-setter
by joint imperial decree. But after a second his Ma shook her head.

“Not the curule chair, Pel dear, but a moment.” She turned decisively to him. “Ivan dear, I am so
sorry, and so angry, and so proud that I don’t really know what I want to say, or do. Cordelia has
taught me a great deal about iatrogenics and wish-fulfillment and I recognise the truths she tells,
but it has not stopped me feeling how very exasperating you have been.” Her hand sought Simon’s.
“But I also know that if he were here tonight Padma would be just as proud and happy, and far
more amused than I am.” Her intent gaze shifted. “Jennea, Lactai, Samura, I am Alys, and where
your desires do not cross mine, or our Imperial Masters, I will help you all in every way I can. As
will Pel and Cordelia.”

The girls curtsied, looking almost as gratefully shocked as he felt warmed himself—Ma is a brick,
after all—but for once his lazy intuition-demon was on the job and shouting advice.

“Jennea, please greet my mother and stepfather in the ghem low-mode to ranking clan.”

Jennea looked startled but complied, stepping forward to take his Ma’s unresisting hands, stoop to
kiss both, and then lightly embrace her mother-in-law-to-be. Then she stepped to Simon. At his
eye-prompts Lactai and Samura followed suit. Both Ekaterin and, more pointedly, Dag Benin
pursed their lips in approval. Ivan 7.

“Thank you, Ma, Da. I’m sorry, and angry, and proud too, Ma. It hasn’t been easy for either of us.
But it will be easier. And I know Simon will not mind that I am thinking tonight of my bio-Da as
well as of him.” He saw Dag Benin’s eyes flicker out of focus for a second. “General Benin,
should we be moving?”

Benin’s eyebrows elevated fractionally, Miles’s eyebrows rather more. Ivan 9. This was beginning
to be fun.

“We should, General Lord Vorpatril.” There was more irony in that bland voice than he had ever
heard anyone except emperors manage.
“May I ask who is arriving?”

Benin paused, eyebrows again flickering. Ivan 10. “That is actually a rather sensible question. The
answer, my Lord, is haut Gars. And his family.”

He felt the girls’ startlement, and saw all Barrayaran eyes as well as Pel’s register interest, so this
was a new development even on them. Better and better. Ivan 11. In an inspired moment he
switched back to Cetagandan, in the ghem-mode of warrior-hero to haut authority. “Indeed? I am
humbled and appreciative. Shall we go, then?” And swirling his cloak back about him, with his
brides-to-be in flanking array, he led the way toward the house and let the rest of them fall in
behind. Ivan 1011. Yes!

*****

His lead-position did not last for very long, and even the cloak could not save him from feeling
both Miles’s and his Ma’s gazes boring into his spine like Sergyaran worms on maple mead. But
as soon as he had passed through the verandah into the morning-room behind, taking in his stride
the gaggles of waiting servants and red-uniformed Imperial Guards, the girls peeled off at
something close to a run, vanishing in one direction into a cloud of maids, while Dag Benin steered
him firmly in the other, gesturing to a captain to escort the Barrayaran party in his stead. In a room
beyond there was a solitary chair waiting before a small silver mirror, and a thin ghem in the
Imperial Array with a case of face-paints and brushes. Ivan’s cloak was removed—damn—and he
found himself seated while a small towel was laid around his neck, presumably to protect his
uniform. Closing the door behind them Benin nodded to the ghem, who braced.

“Charint.”

“Sir. What do you require?”

“The three clan sigils, maximal stylised form, in the first to third positions.” Beneath his zebra-
stripes Charint acquired a startled look. “Order by age. In the fourth”—he made a ritual gesture,
touching his lips—“I command in my Celestial Master’s own Breath and Voice the screaming
bird.”

What? There was open shock on Charint’s face but after one incredulous glance at Benin the man
uttered a crisp acknowledgement and set promptly to work. Studying what he could see of his own
face in the mirror Ivan thought he was bearing up remarkably well, and general’s tabs looked very
good on him, he had to admit. Their glinting, bullioned edges distracted him pleasantly from the
odd sensations caused by the brushes ; at least he’d remembered to depilate a second time just
before setting out. How long ago was that? It seemed like days ; but now Charint was working
remarkably fast, though the upper-right design seemed to exercise him intently, and after no more
than ten minutes Ivan was inspecting the four sigils that decorated (and more or less covered) both
cheeks. Privately he thought all the girls’ clan-designs were pretty hideous, if not quite as bad as
General Kariam’s green-and-orange horror, but in these stylised, shield-shaped miniatures they
weren’t too awful, though nothing could prevent them clashing rather violently with one another
and both elements of his red-and-blues. And he doubted any ghem would be objecting, for the
fourth design was indeed the scarlet screaming-bird sigil of the Star Crèche, which though
sometimes discreetly borne in jewellery by ghem-lords with haut trophy-wives was not often
displayed, and most certainly not worn facially. One of the parts of his brain that Ivan usually tried
hard not to listen to reminded him of Benin’s exasperated question about what the ghem made of
the Barrayaran genomes, then of Jennea’s and Lactai’s casual certainty about the need to ‘edit’ his
own, whatever that really meant. Oh. I’m guaranteed toast. Watching him, Benin suddenly nodded.

“At last, Lord Ivan. How you suppress your brain is a mystery to me. As is why, though seeing
your esteemed mother at work in Vorbarr Sultana provides one sort of answer, I suppose.
Doubtless we will have time in future to discuss others.” Once Ivan would have shuddered at the
thought ; now he felt quite interested and appreciative. “But come, time is short and haut Gars, as
you know, does not care to be kept waiting.” Suddenly Benin—Dag—smiled more warmly.
“Though even he can hardly think you have done so today, despite your last two years of avoiding
marital tag.”

Ivan’s brain went on working despite himself while Charint took away the towel, bracing again,
and as he stood he also remembered what Miles had so pointedly said in Gregor’s Voice about
grown-ups. So …

“Before we go, General Benin … Dag, would I be right to think this is haut Gars’s first public
outing?” Benin nodded, warily. “And did he go to the private ghem-ceremony last month?”

An Imperial Array rippled. “He did, Ivan. Do you understand what ceremony it was?”

“Unless Samura was misinformed, yes.”

“She would not be. Nor Jennea. Lactai might—she had no clan involved.”

“The recovered dead.” Including some very wizened bodies from caves high in the Dendarii
snowfields where they had been stuffed, and a small bag of ghem-scalps contributed by Miles.

“Yes. All of them, at last.”

“And the effect of his presence?”

“Electric. But most are holding their breaths to see what comes next.”

“And therefore not talking.”

Benin smiled. “Just so. But after tonight …”

And Ivan saw much, very suddenly. “And the … Hubbers?”

“Will be given hopes.”

“That will … juduciously materialise?”

“Very judiciously, in sufficient cases.”

“Thank you. I will … try to be wise.”

Benin stared. Don’t strain yourself, Ivan hung unspoken, but then the dapper ghem glanced at his
chrono and promptly began steering Ivan back the way thay had come, then right, into the large,
open hall of the house where visitors were first received. It was jammed with face-painted ghem-
men and tight-eyed women, the girls’ many siblings among them, including the incorrigible Veda
Benello, and Ivan saw everyone, pretty much in unison, turn with opening mouths at the sound of
his and Benin’s heels on the patterned wood of the flooring and then, seeing him, go white in ways
even face-paint and festive rouge could not hide. With a renewed sinking feeling he also
recognised among the crowd Generals Coram and Kariam, and a bewildered-looking Lord Yenaro.
In a clear central area five more ghem and a haut were also staring with open shock : Lord and
Lady Arvin, Lord and Lady Benello, Lord Cahearn and Lady d’Cahearn. Full house. I should have
guessed. Damn that list. Even the Imperial Guards flanking the outer door seemed to be staring at
him. To one side stood Miles, Ekaterin, Nikki, Alys, and Simon. Butterflies returned in force to
Ivan’s stomach but the inner calm was still in his heart, and his brain kept working ; just. He
stepped forward and swept a bow, Vor Lord to family heads. No shame attends me now. Frozen-
faced his six parents-in-law-to-be returned correct bows and curtsies, still staring (even haut Eleta)
at his right cheek. With an internal gulp he chose the highest mode of Cetagandan he was confident
of inflecting properly, haut Gars having so frequently winced and corrected him during their
conversations that he had abruptly provided a sleep-learn tape, now residing in Boulanger’s safe
for the use of future ambassadors.

“My Lords, Ladies. Esteemed clan-parents as you will soon be. It is my honour to see you
assembled. I trust my cousin Miles has presented you to my mother and stepfather?”

“He has.”

Miles’s voice was deadly dry, his Cetagandan in a very high haut mode Ivan thought was called
Celestial Friend to ranking ghem. His brain whirred as best it might. If Miles had been using that
for his introductions no wonder everyone was still so stiff. He dropped into the equal mode
between senior kin.

“Then all is well. Thank you, Miles.” He turned slightly. “I’m sorry I wasn’t free to make the
introductions myself, Ma, but as you see I was having to be still.” He paused, delicately.
“Unaccountably, I find myself uncertain of the exact protocol we are now to follow. Dag?”

Benin’s mouth twitched slightly. “Your brides are still preparing, Ivan, and will be for some
moments yet. And we await your final physical and frame guests.”

Lords Arvin, Benello, and Cahearn had been exchanging pointed glances, and Cahearn spoke,
taking a deep breath and using senior to junior kin.

“So you said before, Dag. But I still don’t understand whom we await. Nor why.”

Benin smiled austerely. “My apologies for being reticent, Lerato, but I assure you all there will be
no disappointment. And in fact …” He swung round, drawing himself to attention, a motion copied
as if on strings by every ghem in the room. Only the Barrayarans remained at apparent ease and
they too stood taller—even Miles—as the Guards swung open the doors and went to still more
rigid formal attention, the black frogging on their blood-red jackets quivering. Benin’s voice
carved the silence.

“The haut Gars, and family. The haut Pel Navarr, Planetary Consort of Eta Ceta. His Excellency
Ivan Boulanger.”

Oh … right.

Haut Gars was dressed as finely as always, his overrobes bright with the colours of festival, as were
those of haut Riahir at his side. Haut Rian’s bubble, on her son’s other side, swirled with them also
; Pel’s bubble, behind Gars, was in her dreadful signature pink. Beside it, Boulanger, who had
never done more than basic miltary service, wore a beautifully cut pale suit in the style of the
industrial ghem-lords. From one corner of his eye Ivan saw the faces of his imminent in-laws
slacken in shock even as their eyes began to spark with sudden hope. Gars and his flankers came to
a halt in front of him, Pel’s bubble pulling up to one side with Boulanger waiting behind. With a
hammering heart Ivan met Emperor the haut Fletchir Giaja’s gaze, which was neither warm nor
appreciative of his unexpected day.

“General Lord Vorpatril. Congratulations of many kinds seem oddly to be in order.” The layered
ironies of that beautiful baritone were pure flint—but Ivan had not spent 35 years being Alys’s son
without learning something. He reverted to his highest mode, still a very low one, he knew, for this
address in public, but the informality of haut Gars was the whole point, dammit.

“Indeed, haut Gars. Thank you.” He tried to convey his sincerity, and saw a flicker in those
piercing eyes. “I have found it all very unexpected myself. But I am delighted and most honoured
you and your family have been able to attend tonight as the guests, if I may anticipate events a
little, of my esteemed clan-father, Lord Cahearn. And it is my special honour to offer you
personally my most relieved and humble thanks, for the first but not, I am sure, the last time”—he
let his voice ring out a little more—“in my own right as a lord of the Vor and on behalf of all
ghem, as they gather me among their clans, for your recent grace to our dead.”

Ghem-breaths hissed. Ivan fervently hoped he had got all that thrice-damned grammar right and
they were appreciating the content without distraction. He met Giaja’s arrested gaze. I tried, your
Nibs.

Imperial eyebrows twitched. “Unexpectedness all round, I see.” The address broadened, though
Gars’s voice didn’t change. “And you with all are very welcome, ghem-Lord Vorpatril. It was my
privilege to attend the unusual ceremony last month, as it is my pleasure to attend this unusual one
now.” Breaths hissed again and the gaze swung. “Lerato. How good to see you once more. We had
begun to miss you, in the Garden.” After a blank second of shock the explosive relief of the massed
ghem was enough to set imperial overrobes fluttering colourfully in the subtle ambient light. The
gaze shifted. “Jadangir. Horesto. Ladies.” Lords and Ladies Arvin, Benello, Cahearn and
d’Cahearn dropped full bows and curtsies and Gars nodded. “I imagine We shall meet you again
soon, Lerato, but all must wait on these happy nuptials.” Flint glinted still in his voice with the
strange pronouns until his gaze swung again and his face warmed with what Ivan would swear was
genuine pleasure as he dropped from the oddly informal sub-Imperial mode haut Gars was creating
as a hobby to a purely personal mode of some kind. “Miles, Ekaterin my dear, Alys, Simon. It is
good to see you all again. And Nikolai, who has done a most excellent day’s work today.”

Miles was grinning like a loon, and Ekaterin’s eyes were shining. “Hasn’t he just, Fletchir?” Ivan
wasn’t sure if Miles was even aware of the ghem catatonia that set in despite their all being statues
already. “I’m tickled as pink as even Pel could ever hope.” Whaaa— As Fletchir laughed Miles
turned slightly and bowed to the festive, swirling bubble. “My lady. Are you well?”

The bubble did not disappear but the haut Rian’s unmistakable alto flowed from it and the massed
ghem shivered where they still stood as tense and stiff as badly oiled hair-triggers.

“I am, Miles, thank you. And I do commend in all ways your pedagogy. It has been most
instructive to observe.”

Miles nodded, smiling. Beside the bubble haut Riahir’s eyes glinted and Miles turned to him, his
voice and in some strange way his modal inflections becoming teasing—a thing that Ivan clearly
remembered being told by the diplomatic instructor it was simply not possible to do in the high
modes.

“You enjoyed that little strategy course, then, Riahir, as well as today?”

“Oh yes. Both very much.” Riahir glanced at … Nikki? … with a dazzling smile, then at his father
briefly, before adding “Thank you, Uncle Miles.”
Uncle—? The collected ghem, goggle-eyes accentuated in the men by their face-paint and in most
women by cheekbones, looked as if an earthquake was happening while they all somehow stood
still. Which it is. That was adopted friend to parental guide. What the hell has Miles been doing
with the haut Crown Prince? But the new Ivan, reflecting in gestalt on what he knew his insane
cousin had managed in the last four years—well, 34 years, really—suddenly had a thought about
what it must be like to grow up as Fletchir Giaja’s heir and understood exactly why, if not what,
had been happening while he had been … distracted by ghem-women. And too busy sulking.
Honesty with himself seemed a good idea tonight. He stepped fractionally forward and bowed to
the bubble, murmuring a ‘My Lady’, before inclining a head confidentially to Riahir.

“Did he leave you wondering what you’d missed?”

Riahir smiled again, more adult than child already but with a child’s enthusiasm. “Oh yes … Uncle
Ivan.” Yes! Promotions are flying thick tonight. He could have sworn Gars winced. “You sound as
if you’re familiar with the effect.”

“Often.” Ivan smiled in genuine sympathy. “And thank you for coming here tonight, haut Riahir. It
is our special honour.” He offered the boy a friendly bow, senior respecting junior, and as he
straightened steeled himself and turned toward Boulanger, who was managing to observe these
exchanges with popeyed irony. Miles’s advice floated into his mind and he walked forward
extending a hand and shaking the hand a surprised Boulanger automatically extended in return.

“Your Excellency. How very good of you to come.”

Then inspiration struck and he used the same greeting he had earlier asked of the girls, stooping to
kiss the backs of Boulanger’s rather hairy hands and straightening again to draw the blinking
ambassador into a light embrace, which enabled him to whisper in one ear with some hope of
actual confidentiality.

“Ivan, I am so sorry. I’m an idiot, and I’ve been beaten for it. I owe you. And I’ll pay.”

He made to step back again, but Boulanger kept a light hold on one of his hands. The ambassador’s
dark eyes were unfathomable, but there was a faint flush on his cheeks.

“Not at all, General Lord Vorpatril. And for my part, if a … fiction can do you grace, I’ll gild it
with the happiest terms I have.”

Wha— Oh never mind. I can ask later. Turning, he saw Miles suppressing what looked as if it
might have been a very odd smile but had no time (and far less than his usual inclination) to glare.
He went easily back towards his waiting ghem in-laws in a way that just happened to put him
beside Giaja as he spoke in equal mode.

“So solemn, elders? And rightly yet wrongly so, for I assure you the haut Gars does not stand upon
ceremony, and the veiled sun will not burn you. Perhaps you find that a Barrayaran idea, but it is I
assure you a useful one.”

The flicker of surprised appreciation in both Miles’s and Gars’s eyes as he looked around was a
boon, and the ghem had collectively passed through catatonia and earthquake to some form of
hawk-eyed petrification, but half his good work with the metaphors he and Gars had discussed at
such length was wasted when Pel’s bubble suddenly winked out and she stood, one of her usual
gorgeous pink dresses swirling about her. As Planetary Consort of Eta Ceta she was seen more
often here, embubbled and sometimes not, than any other high haut woman, and in the last few
years had begun to acquire an additional reputation for wildly surprising outbreaks of idiosyncratic
informality—which counted for exactly nothing right now as hawk-eyes distended dangerously and
started glazing over afresh.

“True enough, Ivan, and commendably said. But I believe your brides are now ready, and there is
one ceremony we all stand upon.” As she spoke a disturbance at the far end of the hall resolved
into the girls coming towards him, each fabulous in a swirling dress marked with clan-colours. He
missed his cloak but there was no time to mourn for at a snap of Pel’s fingers Ba servitors appeared
from somewhere bearing trays with small, sterile-looking boxes. He knew what had to happen and
started unbuttoning his jacket, smiling gratefully at Miles who stepped forward to take it as he
shrugged it off and rolled up his sleeve. The girls’ dresses, though all fully sleeved in ghem
fashion, had forearm openings for exactly this purpose, and the four of them stood in line before
Pel as the servitors opened the boxes and handed her the empty hypophials one at a time. His own
blood was drawn first, Pel’s hands gentle on his arm and the needle anaesthetically sharp, then
briefly held aloft as dazed assent was growled by all ghem present, and the hypophial returned to
its case. Each of the girls gave their tithe as the ritual was thrice repeated and he quietly redressed.
As silence returned for the fourth time he could hear ragged ghem breathing but the sight of others’
blood seemed to be restoring their own to their cheeks. When Pel was done she turned to face them
all, eyes wholly lacking their usual irony, mode ultra-formal.

“Lord Ivan Boris Feodor Vorpatril, son of the late Lord Padma and Lady Alys Vorpatril, here
present, of Vorbarr Sultana ; Lady Jennea Melianda Arvin, daughter of Lord and Lady Arvin, here
present ; Lady Lactai Ervistu Benello, daughter of Lord and Lady Benello, here present ; Lady
Samura Allessandra dehaut-Cahearn, daughter of Lord Cahearn and the haut Eleta, Lady
d’Cahearn, here present : in the presence of the Handmaiden, and on my authority as Planetary
Consort of Eta Ceta, the Star Crèche sees you all, blesses all your gene-crosses, and holds you and
your children in its hands. May you and they all serve the haut and the Vor, your clans, and the
future of the Allied Imperia rightly and well, honouring your genome as the Star Crèche does, and
will.”

She held out a slim hand bearing a ring with the same sigil he bore on his cheek and he stooped to
kiss it. Ivan had been to enough ghem-weddings with one or other of the girls that the basic verbal
formula was familiar (if usually spoken on autopilot by one of the scores of junior haut-women
deputed to serve the Ghem Marriage Bureau), and he filed away for later thought the calculated
variations adding the Vor and substituting the elevated plural of the Alliance for the usual mention
of empire. The avid ghem he could see as Lactai and Samura stooped in their turns were certainly
doing so with inward looks, as were the Barrayarans. He risked a glance at Gars, also watching the
ghem thoughtfully, and receiving one in return held his peace as the Ba servitors left with the cases
and Pel returned to her chair, renewing her bubble in all its blaring pinkness. Gars nodded benignly
at everyone in a very Gregorish way.

“Congratulations, ghem-Lord Vorpatril, Ladies. And congratulations to you all also, clan-lords and
mothers, children of the ghem, so to stand forth in Our great Alliance. It is well done.” There were
many fierce looks between his in-laws. “Now, my Cousins will be waiting.” Ghem breaths hissed
yet again and Gars waited out the sound. “Is Jadangir or Lerato to lead the way?” He seemed
genuinely curious, and Ivan rather thought his senior and junior-but-hosting clan-fathers had not
quite worked this out themselves, but Lord Arvin was quick to reply, using a notably deferential
mode with (so far as Ivan could tell) some innovative and probably very daring informalities.

“Oh, Lerato must carry host’s privilege, we feel, Sire, though we had not anticipated setting any
precedent for other clans.”

“And yet it will be well if you do. Lead on, then, Lerato.”

Clan-father three might be croggled sideways and really wanting a stiff drink but he was no fool,
and with his stately wife and triumphant eyes headed for the largest visible doorway, numbers one
and two falling in behind with their wives, followed by Ivan himself and the girls, then Gars and
family with the Barrayarans trailing them. Perhaps he should have made sure his Ma and Da also
preceded him and the girls, but it was too late now. Everyone else could sort themselves out
however they saw fit, and serve them all right, not that he supposed they’d had any more choice
than he had with Miles, Pel, his mother, and two emperors setting the hounds of Benin on them. He
grinned to himself—an awful lot of ghem Saturdays must have been fairly ruthlessly disrupted, and
at Barrayaran behest. No bad thing either. But let’s stay careful. The doors led, Ivan knew, to the
main reception-room, which he and Samura had planned to use anyway, though not with quite so
many guests. And there was still Gregor’s response to his list to come, he remembered with an
internal wince at the time it must now be in Vorbarr Sultana. As he passed through the doorway he
saw one side of the room now featured an enormous oblong frame, rising to the ceiling along the
entire length of the room from perhaps two metres off the floor, with a knot of uniformed techs
huddled at one end around the most complex console-controle Ivan had ever seen. Oh … good. At
least it’ll all be over with in one go.

Abruptly it struck him that he and the girls had not agreed how they would stand in relation to one
another. Though the Vor and ghem rituals were not dissimilar in themselves, vows directly
exchanged between spouses standing amid ranked witnesses, the ghem had no equivalent of the
Vor wedding-circle, nor its star-points, and in the only double marriage he had seen the groom had
stood between his brides. But that wouldn’t work with three women. Ahead of them his massed
parents-in-law swivelled to form a line, 321 FMFMFM, which would mark one primary rank of
witness, and he walked directly to a position before them that let him face the frame.

“In a square, please, my Ladies. Equal corners, as we mean to go on, and so we can all turn to that
frame when we must.”

They complied instantly, and he was rewarded with the first genuinely warm looks Jennea or
Lactai had bothered to dispense. Coming to stand beside Lord Arvin, and marking the right-angled
witness-rank where his family, Pel, and the Barrayarans (including Boulanger) joined him, Gars
also looked approving. He seemed to like the way the Barrayarans fitted in beyond Pel’s bubble as
well, with Miles, Nikki, and Ekaterin next to it, his Ma and Da turning the corner with Boulanger,
and Dag Benin and Pel beyond them, followed by Generals Coram and Kariam. The girls’ siblings
filled the last rank and spilled into a second behind the line of his clan-parents ; and so on around
as the massed ghem flowed in. Nikki, to Ivan’s renewed surprise and churning thought, responded
to a glance from Gars with a glance of his own at Miles before leaving his spot (into which
Ekaterin somehow expanded) and walking round to slide in next to Riahir, between Gars and the
empress’s bubble. Despite the difference in their ages the boys shook hands, then embraced with
surprising intensity, before turning properly outwards again looking far more pleased with one
another than solemn, while the ghem who saw this by-play went straight back to doing their dazed-
hawk thing. The layers of Miles’s strategy—and Fletchir Giaja’s participation in it—began
ineluctably to unfold in Ivan’s mind, and after a second he knew that whatever he actually felt
about being quite so comprehensively dragooned into triple ghem-matrimony his cousin was
serving Barrayar and everyone’s children in a way no sane Vor would ever do anything to impede.
And while he might be a bit of an idiot sometimes, as he seemed to be able to admit to himself
without embarrassment tonight, he was one of those himself, by the gods ; not some thirteen-toed
Vorrutyer or ego-mad Vordarian to do whatever lunacy he fancied and damn everyone else.
Something else tugged at his brain, but the noise of the entering ghem was too much, even though
Veda Benello was being kept silent by concerted glares from her parents and eldest brother.

As the room at last filled and the din of boot- and shoe-heels on wood eased away Ivan saw Dag
glance around, then mutter something under his breath and glance at Gars before muttering again.
He urgently signalled to the girls, and as they turned in heady unison toward the frame, triggering a
massed rotation from ghem with their backs to it, Ivan braced himself, wondering with genuine
curiosity how many from his list Gregor—and Miles and Nikki!—had been able to round up at
such short notice. And how many haut Gars might have cared to add. The answer was not long to
wait, and as the frame abruptly blazed light the size of the comsonsole controlling it was easily
understood. Fuuull house. Again. Oh well.

At one end, in thin individual stripes, were seven embubbled Planetary Consorts and haut-goverors
with assorted haut and ghem dignitaries narrowly crammed around them. At the other, similarly
banded, a bewildered-looking Jack Chandler ; Admirals Heras Arvin and Vlad Vorlightly, co-
commanders of the Joint Fleet, with portions of their staffs ; and Uncle Aral and Aunt Cordelia,
surrounded by more Vorkosigan Armsmen than he ever remembered seeing together in one place.
Gregor—in house uniform, yesyesyes!—and Laisa were in the centre of the great middle image,
which showed the mosaic room at the Residence. Between them stood a lad whom Ivan recognised
after a second as Jo Boulanger, and wished he could turn to see his boss’s eyes ; by Jo’s feet sat
ImpSec, tail neatly curled, and an expression of alert feline interest on his face. Gah! The room
was, Ivan recalled, where Kou and Drou had married—and they were also there, to one side of
Gregor and Laisa, with all their children. Delia and Duv were accompanied by nursemaids holding
their babies, as were Olivia and Dono, grinning fit to burst beneath his handsome spade-beard and
with an absurd number of his own Armsmen, including a blank-faced Szabo and the other stunner-
victims from that memorable night. Martya and Enrique (hopping from foot to foot as if he might
give birth at any moment to an epithalamion in some unimaginable stanza-form or other) had no
children yet, though Ivan didn’t suppose it would be long before they made an announcement ;
while a very saturnine-looking Mark and Kareen, presently accompanied by all other extant
Vorkosigan Armsmen, were still waiting to crack the lids of the two replicators they had recently
filled with progeny. Ivan almost winced when he saw in the ranks around and beside this mass
Falco, white hair even wilder than usual, with at least half the living Vorpatrils and quite possibly
some of the dead, as well as yet more Armsmen. He did pause to give René and Tatya Vorbretten a
bow and a look of rueful apology, which he saw Gregor note unsmilingly, but there was no time
and his gaze swept on, over knots of House and ImpSec uniforms, then army and navy ones
including what looked like at least half the General Staff, including Admiral Vorlynkin, and a solid
block of Lords Auditor with their families, including the Vorthyses. Helen had on what he instantly
recognised from Miles’s heartfelt descriptions as her horrible historical look, and he was distantly
stunned to realise it made him proud. Completing the circle he saw the Lord Guardian of the
Speaker’s Circle, his deputies, and a group of men it took him a second to recognise as the Lord
Keeper of Vorhartung Castle with his deputies, including that ass Vorbalakleets. Oh well. It was
my list.

Saying something to Uncle Aral was a priority, but there was only one place he could start, and he
had realised from Gregor’s and Laisa’s bemused looks as they took in the three girls arrayed
diamondwise before him that a blend of shock-tactics and humility might again work. And if it
didn’t he would at least have tried his best to give everyone on Barrayar what they all wanted of
him and could go down with guns firing. He began by sweeping a deep bow to Gregor and Laisa,
mourning his cloak anew but seeing the girls drop with him, and the Barrayarans, and the ghem.
Yes! Only Gars stood unmoving, eyeing him speculatively.

“Sire. Countess. What a wonderful surprise. May I present to you, and to all who honour us with
their attendance, my fiancées and their parents?”

Gregor nodded rather stiffly, and Ivan knew Miles had been right that he was really Not Amused At
All. But policy and need as well as simple courtesy dictated that as Ivan rattled off all nine names
with their proper titles both Gregor and Laisa extend a genuine warmth of greeting, and as he
completed the list, not inappropriately with Lady d’Cahearn, he seized the tail of that warmth and
spoke to Gregor directly in the same Cetagandan mode he’d used to Gars.
“Sire. Cousin. Count and Countess Vorbarra. On behalf of myself, my brides, my esteemed clan-
fathers and clan-mothers, and all ghem here tonight, it is my true pleasure to be the first to be able
to thank you, as both Vor and ghem lord, for the grace you do us all through your presence.”

He thought both Gregor and Laisa blinked, but Count and Countess Vorbarra didn’t waste a second
in making elegant and altogether imperial gestures of gracious acceptance and pleasure. Gregor’s
eyes glinted.

“It is Our pleasure, Ivan. And mine. I could do no less for my second cousin. Or is it third?”

“It will be both soon enough, Gregor, though at least once removed in either case, as Ma is always
telling me. And may I also say how very sorry I am for the trouble to which all our sudden festivity
has put you and Uncle Aral and Aunt Cordelia?” He turned to bow to them, seeing the girls turn
and dip with him in unison, and as he straightened looked his uncle straight in the eye, desperately
trying to communicate what he felt ; what Uncle Aral saw he didn’t know but Aunt Cordelia’s face
softened a little and an approving look began to mix with her obvious exasperation. Vorpatrils!
Then Uncle Aral suddenly let one eyelid flicker a fraction.

“It is our privilege, Ivan, to join this happy throng and to toast your futures.”

In Aral’s strip of frame liveried servants appeared, bearing trays with tiny stone cups that Ivan
hadn’t seen since the last time he’d been idiotic enough to drink maple mead with Miles. And the
same thing was happening not only throughout the mosaic of frame images, even the Cetagandan
ones, but in the hall around him, where numerous Ba and liveried house-servants bore the trays.
The unmistakable aroma of the most disgusting, gut-destroying, guerrilla attack-beverage ever
brewed by man entered his nose like light cavalry on the rampage—oh hell, they must have mulled
it—and he had to endure the smell for some while as the ludicrous number of people present in one
or another way were all served (saving only the Planetary Consorts, and he’d bet Pel had a stone
pitcher stashed somewhere in her bubble) and stood holding a very strange mixture of tiny cups and
glasses with varying degrees of glee or apprehension. Finally three Ba servitors dressed in an
exquisite brown-and-silver finery that reminded him of something ceremonially walked in through
the ghem-spiral, their leader bearing a tray, probably diamond from its sparkle, with three thimble-
sized and one larger glass. Distressingly larger. And gods only knew what the glasses were made
of. From the corner of his eye he saw a similarly magnificent service offered to the Barrayarans,
even his Ma taking a glass with a resigned look at the mead but an appreciative nod for the
presentation, and then to Gars, who took his own singularly magnificent glass looking meditative.
Even Nikki and Riahir received tiny glasses, and took them solemnly. Miles’s eyes were purely
gleeful and Ivan shuddered inwardly, knowing this was Miles’s Auditorial sentence for his
treatment of Boulanger ; Uncle Aral didn’t even like maple mead. And he really should have
followed up on his considerable puzzlement as to how haut Gars had come to know quite so much,
and quite so accurately, about the damnable stuff, but there was no help for it now. He took his
glass boldly, beginning in the back of his mind an old army mantra for calm, and turned to face
Uncle Aral again.

“Uncle? Sir?”

That granite face that he had always known, now looking so oddly younger and easier, considered
him for a moment, then grinned warmly, transforming heaviness into pleasure. It was an effect the
Nexus had seen during the invasion broadcast, but the ghem present today still shivered where they
stood. So did Ivan, though for different reasons.

“Congratulations, Ivan. Ladies, I look forward to meeting you all in person, here at Sergyar House,
perhaps sooner than you expect. And as the newly appointed Admiral Lord Auditor of the Joint
Fleet, speaking in both my Masters’ Voices”—

He paused to touch his lips in the same way Benin did, and Ivan realised the ghem had shivered
their collective way right back into their glazed-hawk thing, while next to Aral Admirals Arvin and
Vorlightly were essaying minatory glares at all and sundry, daring exclamation.

—“I am delighted to offer you the congratulations of all Vor, common, and honourable ghem
officers and ratings, male and female, serving in the Fleet. And in Their Own Breaths and Voices,
those of our Imperial Masters, so strangely elsewhere.” Aral raised his own glass, looking more
reminiscent than anything else. “General Lord Vorpatril—Ivan, you inspiration—and you most
intrepid and valorous ladies, your surprisingly but most interestingly collective health.”

Aral solenly raised his glass and drained it. So did everyone, and though he wanted only to sit
down and think for a long and joyful moment about that inspiration Ivan really had no choice.

Garrk. Eeeuuuw. Ouchouchouch.

With watering eyes and a convulsing stomach he lifted his glass high, thought of how many had
been distributed in time to resist smashing it at his feet, tossed it neatly to the waiting Ba servitor
(who caught it automatically with a delightful if regrettably blurred look of astonishment), and
somehow managed a creditable reply to Uncle Aral ; in the middle of which Ivan abruptly realised
the effect maple mead had had on the ghem. And even the haut Eleta, looking green. Talk about
breaking the ice. Miles! You are … magnificent, actually. That’s brilliant. I always said it was an
attack-beverage! He could have danced but the moment beckoned and he ignored his burning gut
and wildly pumping heart to seize it fast, using a version of Gars’s sub-imperial mode that he was
sure he was mangling horribly, but what could you expect from an outlander, after all? And after
that draught of maple mead to boot.

“And now, my Masters, my Lords and Ladies, my clan, my friends, you have vows to hear, and
we, my beloved, most distinguished and loyal brides, have vows to exchange.” He blinked to let his
tears run openly and looked straight at Gregor. “So let’s see what happens.”

The vows went perfectly, and though he hadn’t planned it so, followed their square around in four
Cetagandan modes, high to low, and the four Barrayaran languages. How did that happen? No
matter, it was right. He managed in the immediate aftermath to lock eyes with Gregor again, and to
his infinite relief received a smile and a fractional shake of the head, letting him know he was, if
not wholly forgiven, safe from Kyril Island at least. After that the party was memorable, as well as
setting a new record for simultaneous ghem–Vor, haut–Vor, and ghem–haut frame conversation.
And he got his cloak back. Eventually.

Epilogue

Some hours into the noisy merriment all three girls—my wives—ha!—disappeared to change, and
Ivan found himself watching haut Gars while wondering why his head had started to hurt so badly.
To his and everyone’s surprise the non-emperor had stayed (with Pel and Riahir) after the non-
empress left, and was holding remarkably casual court in one corner. Dag and other guards stood
by, but Gars had offered any ghem who dared to approach easy greetings, and seemed to welcome
introductions. One of Ivan’s more cynical bits (in as much as the maple mead had left him capable
of it) was muttering about the rumours and intense personal loyalties this night would spawn, but
he was also feeling a considerable admiration for Gars the man, or haut, whom he knew was not
used to doing this kind of thing, at least in this way, and yet was managing it as easily as Gregor
would. They have been talking. Miles and Ekaterin were with Nikki and Riahir (and more guards),
amiably chatting amid a throng of extremely attentive younger ghem. So far as Ivan could tell from
snatches he could overhear the topic was Lord Vortalon! and the drawbacks of mixing propaganda
with history and sentiment. Managing not to shake his head in sheer disbelief he filed this away for
consideration when his head stopped hurting quite so much. His Ma and Simon (who had palpably
impressed every ghem they met) were now engrossed with Generals Coram and Kariam and Pel,
once more out of her bubble, adding to her wild reputation but keeping all riotousness at bay
merely through her presence, perhaps even more surely than haut Gars.

Looking up as a ghem-colonel Ivan didn’t recognise at all left him, beaming beside his fluttering
ghem-wife, Gars caught Ivan’s eye with a beady look and spoke to Benin, then turned to look at
Miles. What now? Dag’s eyes flickered towards a side-door that led back towards the garden
verandah and with mixed resignation and curiosity Ivan let himself drift that way, making pleasant
rejoinders to the congratulations that flowed at him. Only once was he seriously impeded, when
Lord Cahearn suddenly appeared in front of him, kissed his hands, wrapped him in a bearlike hug,
and muttered into his ear as he had earlier muttered into Boulanger’s.

“Ivan, we have no idea how you did it, and I confess we thought you the idiot of your reputation.
But that was brilliant, politically and culturally. You have Eleta’s and my warmest thanks. And
those of all ghem” He stood back, eyeing his fellow in-laws. “ Our new son will be a great man
among the ghem, eh? As he is among our Vor brothers.”

Part of Ivan wanted to crow, rather more to howl with laughter, but the sober, admiring nods he
was receiving from all, with their intent weights of curiosity and enormously heightened
expectation were enough to cow anyone. Abruptly he understood what Miles and now Ekaterin
meant by all that stuff about vertigo at apogee, but also remembered something else and thought it
might be time to meet at least one of those expectations.

“I try, Lerato. And there is one thing you might all do for me next week, as I shall necessarily be
away. The visit of Count and Countess Vorbretten and their young son.”

There was a little silence. “What of it, Ivan?” Jadangir Arvin’s voice was cautious.

“They are perforce visiting Lord Thaliar, it being his forebear they share. And Jeronteth Thaliar
makes it very easy to understand what happened all those years ago because he is vulgar old ghaut,
however he believes himself charming.”

He let the hoary ghem-pun hang. Thaliar was the son but not the husband of a haut, and had Ivan
said that to his face he’d have been hard pressed not to demand satisfaction, for the ghem still
duelled. All three ghem-lords snorted laughter, as did many among the listeners.

“Too true, Ivan. But what would you have us do?”

“Only this, Jadangir. That you collectively, or through a chosen speaker as you will, let Jeronteth
know that if he so much as passes a single off-colour remark to René or Tatya I will publicly
replace the piss he utters in his mouth.” It was a traditional ghem-boast. “Literally. Or kill him, as
he chooses. It would be my choice of weapons, of course, and Jeronteth has not, I believe, quite
kept himself in salon shape.” There were more snorts, as he expected. Jeronteth Thaliar was
notoriously lazy, which Ivan was not in matters that interested or amused him, and he had kept up
his swordplay, improving dramatically on a very solid base while making many friends and useful
acquaintances among the hordes of ghem who were deadly serious about their use of long blades.
His throbbing headache made issuing a credible threat an easy and welcome relief, and his desire to
get through all this to rest as soon as possible lent his voice, he hoped, a convincing flatness. He
looked around the intent ghem-faces, seeing Dag watching him with surprised approval, and held
the eyes of each of his clan-fathers in turn until he received three formal nods. Then he shrugged
fractionally. “We all have much to learn, and all must be flexible, as they are thoughtful. But I will
not permit my close friends and peers among the high Vor, whoever their forebears, to be the butts
of such as Jeronteth’s leaden merriment and ill manners. And the clearest possible deterrent is a
swift example. Besides, are not even distant cousins as warmly as officially welcome, just now?”

Jadangir’s second nod was decisive and accompanied by a genuine bow the others echoed, as did
some (though not all) around. A part of Ivan’s brain coldly marked the holdouts for future
attention.

“I will speak with him frankly, and ask Heras to do so as uniformedly as possible just afterwards.”
Jadangir raised his voice. “For my own clan I hereby command that the greatest friendly respect be
paid to the Count and Countess Vorbretten by any who encounter them, and further, that their visit
be spoken of only well. On your peril, heed me.”

Horesto and Lerato added their own clan-commands to further murmurs of acknowledgement, and
Ivan nodded friendly thanks before easing out of the group as fast and discreetly as he could once
conversation resumed. Which was not very discreetly at all, but at least no-one was going to
impede him. As he reached the side-door Dag materialised at his elbow and with a visible pat on
the back and an audibly murmured That was well done whisked him through it, taking him directly
and at speed to the back-verandah where Gars already stood, looking out towards the holm-oak.
Ivan could see no guards but didn’t doubt they were somewhere close.

“Sit down, please, Ivan.” Ivan complied, gratefully. “Dag, is Miles on his way?”

“Almost, sire. He is extricating himself and Ekaterin, Nikolai, and the Prince as fast as may be
from a near-mob of new Lord Vortalon! fans. I believe we shall have to authorise at least a limited
commercial distribution of the vids. Nikolai and the Prince pitched the analysis superbly and Miles
stirred as usual.”

Gars laughed. “Well enough. And don’t worry about Lord Vortalon!, Dag. You of all people know
the ghem could do with having to analyse that defeat properly. Meantime …” He dropped into one
of the lounging-chairs, stretching out his legs, and contemplated Ivan thoughtfully. “Tell me, Ivan,
how do you feel, right now?”

The question was very unexpected and not at all easy to answer, but Ivan knew utter honesty was
called for.

“Deeply muddled, sire, in a quite new way. Happy, ashamed, proud, delighted, croggled, grateful,
and drunk are all in there. Maybe like very well-buttered toast would cover it.”

Gars smiled but didn’t laugh. “It might. And is your headache frontal? In the lobes?”

What? Oh … “Um, not really. Sort of in the middle. Very throbby.”

“Ah. So Pel was right. Fascinating. She can give you something for it.” He nodded at Dag, who
began to murmur.

Ivan’s confusion was again complete, but the door opened to admit Miles, Ekaterin, Nikki, and
haut Riahir. Gars smiled at them all without rising, and gestured towards the other chairs. When all
were seated he looked at Benin. “You too, Dag, and you can take the Array off. They’re all so
shocked already out there we might as well throw in a glimpse of you leaving bare-faced.”
Benin stiffened, and spoke with sudden formality.

“Celestial Lord, before I obey you I believe it my duty to ask if you truly wish that to be so. You
have had a … difficult day, and”—he glanced around—“despite present company I will be so
impertinent as to add that having undone today so much done in … irritation—”

Gars looked at him admiringly, as did Miles, before cutting him off. “Note that, please, Riahir. And
Nikolai. You really are superb, Dag. My feudatory that Gregor most envies, as well he might. But
all is well, and I promise you I am over my irritation. This is a Cetagandan back-porch, you
realise? So please, the Array.”

Still somewhat stiffly Benin bowed, fully, then sat to produce from his pocket a towel-sachet and
deftly wipe his face clean. Gars nodded.

“Thank you, Dag. Now. You’re all here because there is something I wish to say to Ivan and Miles,
that Riahir and Dag also need to hear, and that will interest Ekaterin, I fancy, who can talk to Alys
and Simon. And Gregor and Laisa, please, as soon as may be. I also consider it a reward of sorts
for Nikolai.” He smiled at the boy, who grinned back. “First, however, Ivan managed with the
inspiration of maple mead to forestall one practical matter that Gregor was going to address.” He
turned to Ivan and let his eyebrows climb. “A Cahearn hunting-lodge on Xi that’s off-net? You
would not have left so easily as you arrived, Ivan, and when you’re back from honeymoon after
Midsummer Dag is going to have to do some pointed explaining. It’s also plain, Miles, that we
need to exchange some basic security and biodata files, so ghem and Vor alike can at least check
up on whom they’re dealing with. I haven’t had a chance to talk to Gregor but I doubt he’ll hesitate.
Will you talk to Guy Allegre and your Da, please.”

“Of course. First thing tomorrow.”

“Good. In any case, Ivan, if it’s hunting-lodges you want, I happen to have eight. You can skip the
one here, but I’m afraid the Cetagandan leg of your honeymoon-tour involves a week at each of the
others. There will also be some guards, and not because I think you’ll be trying anything. For the
Barrayaran leg Gregor has, somewhat to his surprise, discovered that he also has some hunting-
lodges. Three, to be precise—one attached to Sergyar House, one to the Imperial Counsellor’s
office in Solstice, and one in the Residence garden. Or possibly the garden of Vorpatril House.
You and your brides will be staying a week at each of those too, where you may combine
necessary publicity with necessary apologies.”

A small part of Ivan was indignant, a larger part horrified, but his poor, throbbing head was still
sufficiently together to tell him firmly that argument was both fruitless and mistaken. And in
retrospect, that he had in fact been very lucky, so he merely nodded, carefully.

“I see. Of course. Thank you.”

Gars nodded back, but Miles let an eyebrow climb. He can put ‘em in orbit for all I care just now.
There was a knock at the door, which opened slightly to let a Ba slip in. Bowing to Gars he crossed
to Ivan and offered him a tray bearing a small hypophial.

“My mistress recommends the carotid artery, my Lord. Shall I assist you?”

Ivan’s head hurt enough that he merely nodded again, carefully. “Thank you. Please do.” He tilted
his head, felt the hypo pressed to his neck, and the brief tingle of the injection. And praise be, even
before the door had closed behind the Ba he felt the throbbing rapidly begin to lessen into what
became merely a dull background ache. He sighed relief, and saw Gars watching with interest.
“Hmmm. Another confirmation. So, enough business, but there are two other things. Miles, you are
going to have to license nanoforged maple mead here until we can get franchised maple plantations
going. Every inter-imperial marriage will demand a dozen pitchers at least, and there are going to
be hundreds.”

Miles blinked, then smiled. “Of course. I’ll talk to Mark.”

“And Pel says to tell you that considering today as well as the cats she believes she may concede
your and Ekaterin’s argument about love and history.” Both Miles and Ekaterin grinned widely at
this. “But I have an observation, that I am going to enjoy communicating although it rather alarms
me, and you may be marginally less keen on your interesting if tentative victory than you expect.”

Miles looked quizzical. “Uh-oh. That sounds like a dangerous warning. Should we get Helen in to
record?”

Ivan held his teeth together firmly, but Gars only smiled.

“I think not, Miles, though you are free to tell her, confidentially. I imagine it might come up next
time you are glowering at her about The Vorkosigan Report.”

Miles winced. “Alright, Fletchir, I surrender. What is it?”

“This. Do you know, Ivan, what Pel’s diagnosis of you was, almost as soon as she saw your gene-
scan and Miles’s side-by-side, almost thirteen years ago?”

Ivan stared. So did Miles. Ekaterin hid a smile.

“Not a clue, sire. The last thing she said to me along those lines, about a month ago, was that I was
the most feckless thing she knew of on eight planets, and reminded her of a Sigman gardiach or
something. I didn’t ask.”

No smile. “That was exasperation, I would imagine because you had yet again given Shuang-Mei
too much catnip ; while she is nursing, moreover. Pel’s original and now plainly confirmed
diagnosis was that the name Vorpatril was irrelevant, because you are genetically a Vorkosigan.
Which for these purposes means a descendant of Prince Xav’s marriage to his Betan, as you are
through your father, and as Aral, Miles, and Mark are through Princess-and-Countess Olivia. Piotr
wasn’t and Gregor isn’t, having the dubious gift of Vorrutyer genes instead—though of course all
three living Vorkosigans are also in the direct line of Pierre le Sanguinaire through his grandson
Piotr ; as Gregor is also, through his great-grandmother, Dorca’s first wife. Which you are not.”

He studied Ivan’s blinking puzzlement, and sighed.

“Never mind. The point is, Ivan, that you are genetically a Vorkosigan. And those very dominant
genes neither lie nor idle. So our question was where by the Crèche their behavioural expression
was going.” He steepled long fingers. “There is, you know, a condition that can arise in any higher
life-form and especially the highest, to which we refer in shorthand as a psychogenetic block. It
results from very complex gene-conflict on the behavioural side. So we looked for the conflict in
your genome, and could not find it. Because it is not there, any more than it is in Aral or his sons.”
He glanced at Miles, lips suddenly twitching. “Much as you managed to invent a new form of
epilepsy, Miles, Ivan seems to have invented a new and deeply original form of psychogenetic
block. At first we were looking at Alys, and I must say I am glad that Cordelia has taught her as
much psychology as she has ; the behavioural iatrogenics were fierce, and having had a somewhat
strong-minded mother myself that consideration has led me to forgive Ivan much. But most of that
came after adolescence, and he had at least started doing whatever it is he did long before. And
that, Ivan, astonishingly, was to prevent the full expression of your Vorkosigan behavioural genes.
The Crèche has been intent on you ever since, you realise, in some ways even more so than on
Aral, Cordelia, Mark, and Miles.”

Ivan was trying to digest this, and his surprise at not feeling surprised by it. I knew that. I think.
Though not about the Crèche. Damn. Ekaterin’s, Nikki’s, and Riahir’s brows were furrowed with
thought, but Miles was nodding.

“Yes, though I don’t have that language. What Ivan was doing, Fletchir, and the gods know I can’t
blame him for it, was staying as far away from the Imperial Throne as he could possibly get, which
was never far enough for safety until the Prince and Princess were born. Being Vorkosigan was
very dangerous.”

“Yes, I came to that conclusion also. But his strategy was instinctive, carried out in mostly sublime
ignorance without regard to almost anything that mattered, and based on what is in our experience
a flat-out physical impossibility. Will can control flesh utterly, but it cannot forestall genetic
expression. Which Ivan has somehow managed, though at considerable cost to himself. Until
now.”

Miles suddenly looked very thoughtful. Ivan had no idea how he looked himself.

“You’re saying, Fletchir, that today has persuaded you this … jerry-built psychogenetic block has
now failed. Permanently?”

“Almost certainly. And the diagnosis is not really in doubt. If it were the maple mead and general
excitement it would be Ivan’s lobes that were hurting. Sort of in the middle and very throbby,
however, which was his description of his headache just now, points elsewhere. And Pel’s cocktail
would not have worked for any other condition. But you are, for once, quite missing the point.”

“Oh?” Miles looked mildly put out.

“Yes. In the … evolving course of this interesting evening, you see, Ivan has managed for the very
first time—uniquely, in fact—to remind me of you. Not in your current high competence, I hasten
to add, but in sheer, ridiculous, and extremely fortunate, generally beneficial luck, not least in
landing despite himself firmly and rather brilliantly on his feet. Though thankfully on a far lesser
scale, he has, you realise, rather replicated some of the actions you both undertook here thirteen
years ago, but this time playing your part, rather than his own. It’s entirely remarkable, and
uncomfortably like watching lightning strike twice in the same place. I’m almost tempted to give
him the Order of Merit now just for the symmetry, but neither Pel nor his new clanfathers would
ever forgive him. Or me. And Dag and Riahir—and Nikolai, really—are here now because what
has begun to worry me is just what the Crèche I’m actually letting loose in the empire.” He shook
his head, slowly and rather magnificently while everyone stared. “Riahir had it right, you know,
when he named you both as uncles inside a minute. Peas in a pod, really.”

Abruptly he stood, pulling them all up with him in that imperial way. “And it’s time for Riahir to
sleep on it. Your poor pilot also awaits. As does mine, and one for Ivan and his brides, who will by
now also be waiting impatiently. Shall we go?”

The long look Ivan and Miles shared before they did as they had been commanded was purely Vor,
altogether Barrayaran, sublimely brotherly, and utterly, mutually aghast.

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