“We fall back on tradition. Two hundred liters of Dendarii mountain maple syrup, delivered annually to his household. Takes care of it. If you think Gregor’s bad, think about our father, though. It’s like trying to give a Winterfair gift to Father Frost himself.”
“Yes, I’ve been puzzling over that one.”
“Sometimes you can’t give back. You just have to give on. Did you, ah … sign those credit chits to the clones?”
“Sort of. Actually, I signed them ’Father Frost.’ ” Mark cleared his throat. “That’s the purpose of Winterfair, I think. To teach you how to … give on. Being Father Frost is the end-game, isn’t it?”
“I think so.”
“I’m getting it figured out,” Mark nodded in determination.
They walked on together into the upstairs reception hall, and snagged drinks. They were collecting a lot of attention, Miles noted with amusement, covert stares from the flower of the Vor assembled there. Oh, Barrayar. Do we have a surprise for you.
He sure surprised me.
It was going to be huge fun, having Mark for a brother. An ally at last! I think… . Miles wondered if he could ever draw Mark on to love Barrayar as he did. The thought made him strangely nervous. Best not to love too much. Barrayar could be lethal, to take for one’s lady. Still … a challenge. Enough challenges to go around, no artificial shortages of those here.
Miles would have to be careful about anything Mark might interpret as an attempt to dominate him, though. Mark’s violent allergy to the least hint of control was perfectly understandable, Miles thought, but it made mentoring him a task of some delicacy.
Better not do too good a job, big brother. You’re expendable now, y’know. He ran a hand down the bright uniform cloth of his jacket, coolly conscious of just what expendable meant. Yet being beaten by your student was the ultimate victory, for a teacher. An enchanting paradox. I can’t lose.
Miles grinned. Yeah, Mark. Catch me if you can. If you can.
“Ah,” Mark nodded to a man in a wine-red Vor House uniform, across the room. “Isn’t that Lord Vorsmythe, the industrialist?”
“Yes.”
“I’d love to talk with him. Do you know him? Can you introduce me?”
“Sure. Thinking of more investing, are you?”
“Yes, I’ve decided to diversify. Two-thirds Barrayaran investments, one-third galactic.”
“Galactic?”
“I’m putting some into Escobaran medical technology, if you must know.”
“Lilly?”
“Yep. She needs the set-up capital. I’m going to be a silent partner.” Mark hesitated. “The solution has to be medical, you know. And … do you want to bet she won’t return a profit?”
“Nope. In fact, I’d be very leery of laying any bet against you.”
Mark smiled his sharpest. “Good. You’re learning too.”
Miles led Mark over and performed the requested introduction. Vorsmythe was delighted to find someone who actually wanted to talk about his work here, the bored look pasted on his face evaporating with Mark’s first probing question; Miles turned Mark loose with a wave. Vorsmythe was gesturing expansively. Mark was listening as though he had a recorder whirring in his head. Miles left them to it.
He spied Delia Koudelka across the chamber, and made for her, to claim a dance later, and possibly cut out Ivan. If he was lucky, she might offer him a chance to use that line about the dueling scars, too.
Chapter Thirty-Three
After a most fascinating chat on the topic of Barrayaran high-growth economic sectors, Vorsmythe was reclaimed by his wife for some escort purpose, and dragged out of the window embrasure he and Mark had taken over; he parted with Mark reluctantly, promising to send him some prospectuses. Mark looked around for Miles again. The Count was not the only Vorkosigan in danger of over-doing it tonight while trying to prove his health to assorted observers, Mark had realized.
Mark had, by default, become Miles’s confidant for self-tests he didn’t want to share with his ImpSec superiors, checking knowledge bases, going over old material ranging from Service regs to five-space math. Mark had made a joke about it exactly once, before he realized the depth of terror that was driving Miles’s obsessive probing. Particularly when they actually found some hole or another in Miles’s memory. It bothered Mark deeply, this new hesitation, this desperate diffidence in his big brother. He hoped Miles’s obnoxious self-confidence would return soon. It was another strange reciprocity, that Miles should have things he wanted to remember, and couldn’t, while Mark had things he wanted to forget. And couldn’t.
He would have to encourage Miles to show him around some more. Miles enjoyed playing the expert, it put him automatically in the one-up position to which he was addicted. Yeah, let Miles expand his highly-inflatable ego a bit. Mark could afford it, now. He’d give Miles a run for it some other time, when Miles was up to speed again. When it was more sporting.
Finally, by hopping up on a chair and craning his neck, Mark spotted his brother just leaving the reception chamber, in the company of a blonde woman in blue velvet—Delia Koudelka, Kareen’s tallest sister. They’re here. Oh, God. He abandoned the chair and went on a fast search for the Countess. He finally ran her to ground in a third floor lounge, chatting with some older women, obviously cronies. She took one look at his anxious smile, and excused herself to join him in a nook in the carpeted corridor.
“Have you run into a problem, Mark?” she asked, arranging her skirts on the little settee. He perched gingerly on the opposite end.
“I don’t know. The Koudelkas are here. I promised back at the Emperor’s Birthday to dance with Kareen, if I made it home in time. And … I’d asked her to talk with you. About me. Did she?”
“Yes.”
“What did you tell her?”
“Well, it was a long conversation …”
Oh, shit.
“But the gist of it was that I judged you an intelligent young man who had had some very unpleasant experiences, but if you could be persuaded to use that intelligence to get your problems straightened out, I could support your suit.”
“Betan therapy?”
“Something like that.”
“I’ve been thinking about Betan therapy. A lot. But I dread the thought of my therapist’s notes all ending up in some ImpSec analyst’s report. I don’t want to be a damned show.” Again.
“I think I could do something about that.”
“Could you?” He looked up, shaken with hope. “Even though you wouldn’t get to see the reports either?”
“Yes.”
“I … would appreciate that, ma’am.”
“Consider it a promise. My word as a Vorkosigan.”
An adopted Vorkosigan, even more so than he. But he did not doubt her word. Mother, with you all things seem possible.
“I don’t know what details you told Kareen—”
“Very few. She’s only eighteen, after all. Barely assimilating her own new adulthood. More, hm, advanced matters could wait, I judged. She has to get through school, first, before undertaking any long-term commitment,” she added pointedly.