And Aral and Cordelia’s private tragedy of their soltoxin-crippled young son Miles had been running along in constant counterpoint with all of that, Jole realized anew. His own prospect of parenthood made this a less distanced and more disturbing thought.
“Ah, Admiral Jole, how good to see you here,” said the Cetagandan consul, a minor lord by the name of ghem Navitt. “May I take this opportunity to present to you our new cultural attaché, Mikos ghem Soren?”
Jole exchanged greetings with the young consulate officer, who eyed his casual civilian dress in faint doubt, delicately conveyed by some slant of posture. Jole introduced Lieutenant Vorinnis in turn, who regarded the tall ghem lord with the stiff dubiousness of a cat told off to make friends with a dog. Ghem Soren’s precisely gradated half-bow in return was almost as dubious. The Cetagandan military service also had a women’s auxiliary, with long-running traditions of its own, but they were almost all commoners, un-gene-modified Cetagandans.
The Vor were a warrior caste, historically. The ghem were that as well, but had a more complex social genesis, as half-commoner half-haut in-betweeners—better than the one but never good enough to be the other. This endogenous inferiority complex tended to make the ghem touchingly twitchy about status. The Vor as a class had their own traumas, in Jole’s opinion mostly self-inflicted, but covert fears of genetic mediocrity were not usually among them.
The face paint and Cetagandan gene-mods would have made ghem Soren’s age hard for a Barrayaran eye to judge, but Jole had the advantage of an ImpSec dossier forwarded last week, standard evaluation for all such postings. The attaché was thirty, young for his position among the long-lived Cetagandans. On the make? Silly question. If he was a ghem lord and breathing, he was ambitious.
“Welcome to Sergyar, Lord ghem Soren. I trust you will find it an enjoyable posting.”
“Thank you, sir. My only regret is that I was assigned too late to meet the legendary Admiral Vorkosigan.”
Jole nodded shortly. “It was a privilege to know him.”
“Your Emperor must sorely miss him, and his strategic expertise.”
And hadn’t Jole had this probing conversation a hundred times before, with assorted galactic observers in the wake of Aral’s death. “Missing him, truly, but not his expertise. He was a great teacher as well as a great man, and fostered many younger Barrayarans in his vision and skills. He was my professional mentor for over twenty years, so I can testify to this from personal experience.” Decode that, you Cetagandan puppy. There are damn few officers in the Service more steeped in Aral’s training than me, and I’m sitting guard on your wormhole outlet, right. Don’t even think of trying anything. Jole went on smoothly, “And, of course, I still enjoy the benefit of Vicereine Vorkosigan’s wide experience and wisdom. We work together very closely. You may find your tour here on Sergyar under her aegis to be edifying in many unexpected ways.”
“I shall hope so, sir.” Ghem Soren glanced around. “Her garden is nearly worthy of the work of our ghem ladies.”
It’s better, ghem-boy, and you know it. The Cetagandans made art as much an arena of genetic competition as sport—or war. “So kind of you to say so. It is certainly one of her delights. By all means, tell her just that. It will amuse her no end.” Jole extended a faux-helpful finger. “Ah—I’m afraid your face paint is running, my lord. The heat here is not kind to formal attire. You may wish to duck into the lav and adjust it before she sees it, though of course the Vicereine would never say a word…”
The young ghem, to Jole’s amusement, flinched and raised a hand to his gaudy face. Vorinnis’s eyes widened just slightly, though she suppressed any other expression. The consul, spying the Vicereine across the garden temporarily unsurrounded, more adroitly closed out the conversation with a few stock diplomatic phrases, and towed his newbie subordinate away.
Vorinnis remarked, “I’d never met a ghem-lord face-to-face before, not in full colors. Though I saw a few on the streets in Vorbarr Sultana, around the embassy quarter.”
Jole smiled. “Small, helpful criticisms delivered in a tone of sweet concern usually serve to counter the worst of their inbred obnoxiousness.”
“Saw that, sir.”
He added, after a moment’s reflection, “If no such happy opportunity presents itself, praising the superiority of the haut, which no ghem will ever be, can be made to serve almost as well.”
They both watched obliquely as ghem Soren sidled discreetly into the garden’s guest lav, a kiosk whose mundane function was camouflaged by a well-placed riot of plants and vines. Vorinnis’s lip curled slightly. “Would mentioning Barrayaran victories over the ghem also work?”
“If done subtly. Subtlety counts. In Admiral Vorkosigan’s train, of course, we never had to say it out loud.”
“Can’t get much more subtle than that, I guess.”
“It certainly worked, in its day.” Though we’ll have to find something else from now on.
Vor women were not historically warriors, despite a thousand songs and tales of young women disguising themselves as boys and following their brothers/lovers/husbands/vengeful hearts into battle. Some of the stories were even true, uncovered in the hospital or morgue tents of the day. The end of the Time of Isolation and the introduction of galactic-style induction physicals had put paid to that era. But Vor women were more usually praised as the mothers of warriors.
Not that this didn’t sometimes entail war as well, as left-at-home Vor ladies were compelled to heroically defend the keep, or tragically fail to. There had been a famous Countess Vorinnis from the heart of the Bloody Centuries who’d mocked her besiegers, who were holding her children hostage, by standing on the battlements, flipping up her skirts, and bending over to shout down through her spread knees for them to do their worst, as they could see she could get more children where those had come from! The siege had failed and the children had survived, but Jole couldn’t help reflecting that the family dynamics of that generation must have been boggling to witness, from a safe distance. One of these days, he would have to ask the present Vorinnis if she was a direct descendant.
The party herd was finally thinning out. Yes! Everyone leave, dammit! I want the Vicereine now! Jole sent Vorinnis back to Haines, sipped another fake cocktail, and tried not to jitter while waiting for his chance.
Chapter Three
The diplomatic reception seemed to drag on unduly, but at last Cordelia was able to hand over the task of gently expelling the more inebriated lesser guests to her personal assistants, and the cleanup to her very competent house staff, and motion Oliver after her. When he’d appeared so unexpectedly, hesitating on the walkway, he’d looked as tall and cool as ever, but a faint panicked light in his blue eyes had put her oddly in mind of a cat that had just had an inadvertent ride in a dryer. She led off into the garden to her favorite private nook, made a visual check for displaced diplomats, and flung herself down on the comfortable chaise, kicking off her shoes and letting out her breath with a whoosh. “Glad that’s over. Oh, my feet.”
Smiling, Oliver seated himself in the nearby wicker chair. “I remember how Aral used to rub them for you, after these ordeals.”