Miles raised his brows at Pym. Pym intoned, "The Count and Countess, having heavy social obligations tonight, are resting this afternoon, m'lord."
He'd seen his parents at lunch; they hadn't seemed a bit tired. But his father had told him last night that he meant to take Gregor's wedding as a vacation from his duties as Viceroy, not a renewal of his duties as Count, carry on boy, you're doing fine. His mother had endorsed this plan emphatically. "I am still my father's voting deputy, yes, Richars."
"I had thought, because he was back in town, he'd take over again. Ah, well." Richars studied Miles dubiously, shrugged, and advanced toward the bay window.
All mine, eh? "Um, do sit down." Miles gestured to the chair opposite him, across the low table. "Thank you, Pym, that will be all."
Pym nodded, and withdrew. Miles did not suggest refreshments, or any other impediment to speeding Richars through his pitch, whatever it was going to be. Richars certainly hadn't dropped in for the pleasure of his company, not that his company was worth much just now. Ekaterin, Ekaterin, Ekaterin . . .
Richars settled himself, and offered in what was evidently meant as sympathy, "I passed your fat clone in the hallway. He must be a great trial to you all. Can't you do anything about him?"
It was hard to tell from this if Richars found Mark's obesity or his existence more offensive; on the other hand, Richars too was presently struggling with a relative in an embarrassing choice of body. But Miles was also reminded why, if he did not exactly go out of his way to avoid his Vorrutyer cousin-not-removed-far-enough, he did not seek his company. "Yes, well, he's our trial. What do you want, Richars?"
Richars sat back, shaking the distraction of Mark from his head. "I came to speak to Count Vorkosigan about . . . although come to think of it—I understand you've actually met Lady Donna since she returned from Beta Colony?"
"Do you mean Lord Dono? Yes. Ivan . . . introduced us. Haven't you seen, ah, your cousin yet?"
"Not yet." Richars smiled thinly. "I don't know who she imagines she's fooling. Just not the real thing, our Donna."
Inspired to a touch of malice, Miles let his brows climb. "Well, now, that depends entirely on what you define as the real thing , doesn't it? They do good work on Beta Colony. She went to a reputable clinic. I'm not as familiar with the details as, perhaps, Ivan, but I don't doubt the transformation was complete and real, biologically speaking. And no one can deny Dono is true Vor, and a Count's legitimate eldest surviving child. Two out of three, and for the rest, well, times change."
"Good God, Vorkosigan, you're not serious ." Richars sat upright, and compressed his lips in disgust. "Nine generations of Vorrutyer service to the Imperium, to come to this ? This tasteless joke?"
Miles shrugged. "That's for the Council of Counts to decide, evidently."
"It's absurd. Donna cannot inherit. Look at the consequences. One of the first duties of a Count is to sire his heir. What woman in her right mind would ever marry her?"
"There's someone for everyone, they say." A hopeful thought. Yes, and if even Richars had managed matrimony, how hard could it be? "And heir-production isn't exactly the only job requirement. Many Counts have failed to spawn their own replacements, for one reason or another. Look at poor Pierre, for example."
Richars shot him an annoyed, wary look, which Miles elected not to notice. Miles went on, "Dono seemed to be making a pretty good impression on the ladies when I saw him."
"That's just the damned women sticking together, Vorkosigan." Richars hesitated, looking struck. "You say Ivan brought her?"
"Yes." Just exactly how Dono had strong-armed Ivan into this was still unclear to Miles, but he felt no impulse to share his speculations with Richars.
"He used to screw her, you know. So did half the men in Vorbarr Sultana."
"I'd heard . . . something." Go away, Richars. I don't want to deal with your smarmy notion of wit right now.
"I wonder if he still . . . well! I'd never have thought Ivan Vorpatril climbed into that side of the bunk, but live and learn!"
"Um, Richars . . . you have a consistency problem, here," Miles felt compelled to point out. "You cannot logically imply my cousin Ivan is a homosexual for screwing Dono, not that I think he is doing so, unless you simultaneously grant Dono is actually male. In which case, his suit for the Vorrutyer Countship holds."
"I think," said Richars primly after a moment, "your cousin Ivan may be a very confused young man."
"Not about that, he's not," Miles sighed.
"This is irrelevant." Richars impatiently brushed away the question of Ivan's sexuality, of whatever mode.
"I must agree."
"Look, Miles." Richars tented his hands in a gesture of reason. "I know you Vorkosigans have backed the Progressives since Piotr's days ended, just as we Vorrutyers have always been staunch Conservatives. But this prank of Donna's attacks the basis of Vor power itself. If we Vor do not stand together on certain core issues, the time will come when all Vor will find ourselves with nothing left to stand upon. I assume I can count on your vote."
"I hadn't really given the suit much thought yet."
"Well, think about it now. It's coming up very soon."
All right, all right, granted, the fact that Dono amused Miles considerably more than Richars did was not, in and of itself, qualification for a Countship. He was going to have to step back and evaluate this. Miles sighed, and tried to force himself to attend more seriously to Richars's presentation.
Richars probed, "Are there any matters you are pursuing in Council at the moment, especially?"
Richars was angling for a vote-trade, or more properly, a trade in vote-futures, since, unlike Miles's, his vote was vapor right now. Miles thought it over. "Not at present. I have a personal interest in the Komarran solar mirror repair, since I think it will be a good investment for the Imperium, but Gregor seems to have his majority well in hand on that one." In other words, you don't have anything I need, Richars. Not even in theory. But he added after a moment's further reflection, "By-the-by, what do you think of Ren? Vorbretten's dilemma?"
Richars shrugged. "Unfortunate. Not Ren?'s fault, I suppose, the poor sod, but what's to be done?"
"Reconfirm Ren? in his own right?" Miles suggested mildly.
"Impossible," said Richars with conviction. "He's Cetagandan ."
"I am trying to think by what possible criteria anyone could sanely describe Ren? Vorbretten as a Cetagandan," said Miles.
"Blood," said Richars without hesitation. "Fortunately, there is an untainted Vorbretten line of descent to draw on to take his place. I imagine Sigur will grow into Ren?'s Countship well enough in time."
"Have you promised Sigur your vote?"
Richars cleared his throat. "Since you mention it, yes."
Therefore, Richars now possessed the promise of Count Vormoncrief's support. Nothing to be done for Ren? with that tight little circle. Miles merely smiled.
"This delay in my confirmation has been maddening," Richars went on after a moment. "Three months wasted, while the Vorrutyer's District drifts without a hand on the controls, and Donna prances around having her sick little joke."
"Mm, that sort of surgery is neither trivial nor painless." If there was one techno-torture on which Miles was an expert, it was modern medicine. "In a strange sense, Dono killed Donna for this chance. I think he's deathly serious. And having sacrificed so much for it, I imagine he's likely to value the prize."