Chapter Twelve
They were met in the entry hall by a pair of liveried servants wearing Vorkosigan brown and silver. In a high Vor household even the staff played soldier. One of them directed Bothari-Jesek away to the right. Mark could have wept. She despised him, but at least she was familiar. Stripped of all support and feeling more utterly alone than when locked in the darkness of his cabin, he turned to follow the other manservant through a short arched hallway and a set of doors on the left.
He had memorized the layout of Vorkosigan House under Galen’s tutelage, long ago, so he knew they were entering a room dubbed the First Parlor, an antechamber to the great library that ran from the front of the house to the back. By the standards of Vorkosigan House’s public rooms he supposed it was relatively intimate, though its high ceiling seemed to lend it a cool, disapproving austerity. His consciousness of the architectural detail was instantly obliterated when he saw the woman sitting on a padded sofa, quietly awaiting him.
She was tall, neither thin nor stout, a sort of middle-aged solid in build. Red hair streaked with natural gray wound in a complex knot on the back of her head, leaving her face free to make its own statement of cheekbone, line of jaw, and clear grey eye. Her posture was contained, poised rather than resting. She wore a soft silky beige blouse, a hand-embroidered sash that he suddenly realized matched the pattern on his own stolen one, and a calf-length tan skirt and buskins. No jewelry. He had expected something more ostentatious, elaborate, intimidating, the formal icon of Countess Vorkosigan from the vids of reviewing stands and receptions. Or was her sense of power so fully encompassed that she didn’t need to wear it, she was it? He could see no physical similarity whatsoever between her and himself. Well, maybe eye color. And the paleness of their skins. And the bridge of the nose, perhaps. The line of the jaw had a certain congruence not apparent from vids—
“Lord Mark Vorkosigan, milady,” the manservant announced portentously, making Mark flinch.
“Thank you, Pym,” she nodded to the middle-aged retainer, dismissing him. The Armsman’s disappointed curiosity was well-concealed, except for one quick glance back before closing the doors after himself.
“Hello, Mark.” Countess Vorkosigan’s voice was a soft alto. “Please sit.” She waved at an armchair set at a slight angle opposite her sofa. It did not appear to be hinged and sprung to snap closed upon him, and it was not too close to her; he lowered himself into it, gingerly, as instructed. Unusually, it was not too high for his feet to touch the floor. Had it been cut down for Miles?
“I am glad to meet you at last,” she stated, “though I’m sorry the circumstances are so awkward.”
“So am I,” he mumbled. Glad, or sorry? And who were these I’s sitting here, lying politely to each other about their gladness and sorrow? Who are we, lady? He looked around fearfully for the Butcher of Komarr. “Where is … your husband?”
“Ostensibly, greeting Elena. Actually, he funked out and sent me into the front line first. Most unlike him.”
“I … don’t understand. Ma’am.” He didn’t know what to call her.
“He’s been drinking stomach medicine in beverage quantities for the past two days … you have to understand how the information has been trickling in, from our point of view. Our first hint that there was anything amiss came four days ago in the form of a courier officer from ImpSec HQ, with a brief standard message from Illyan that Miles was missing in action, details to follow. We were not at first inclined to panic. Miles has been missing before, sometimes for quite extended periods. It was not until Illyan’s full transmission was relayed and decoded, several hours later, together with the news that you were on your way, that it all came clear. We’ve had three days to think it through.”
He sat silent, struggling with the concept of the great Admiral Count Vorkosigan, the feared Butcher of Komarr, that massive, shadowy monster, even having a point of view, let alone one that low mortals such as himself were casually expected to understand.
“Illyan never uses weasel-words,” the Countess continued, “but he made it through that whole report without once using the term ’dead,’ ’killed,’ or any of their synonyms. The medical records suggest otherwise. Correct?”
“Um … the cryo-treatment appeared successful.” What did she want from him?
“And so we are mired in an emotional and legal limbo,” she sighed. “It would be almost easier if he …” She frowned fiercely down into her lap. Her hands clenched, for the first time. “You understand, we’re going to be talking about a lot of possible contingencies. Much revolves around you. But I won’t count Miles as dead till he’s dead and rotted.”
He remembered that tide of blood on the concrete. “Um,” he said helplessly.
“The fact that you could potentially play Miles has been a great distraction to some people.” She looked him over bemusedly. “You say the Dendarii accepted you …?”
He cringed into the chair, body-conscious under her sharp grey gaze, feeling the flesh of his torso roll and bunch under Miles’s shirt and sash, the tightness of the trousers. “I’ve … put on some weight since then.”
“All that? In just three weeks?”
“Yes,” he muttered, flushing.
One brow rose. “On purpose?”
“Sort of.”
“Huh.” She sat back, looking surprised. “That was extremely clever of you.”
He gaped, realized it emphasized his doubling chin, and closed his mouth quickly.
“Your status has been the subject of much debate. I voted against any security ploy to conceal Miles’s situation by having you pose as him. In the first place, it’s redundant. Lieutenant Lord Vorkosigan is often gone for months at a time; his absence is more normal than not, these days. It’s strategically more important to establish you as yourself, Lord Mark, if Lord Mark is indeed who you are to be.”
He swallowed in a dry throat. “Do I have a choice?”
“You will, but a reasoned one, after you’ve had time to assimilate it all.”
“You can’t be serious. I’m a clone.”
“I’m from Beta Colony, kiddo,” she said tartly. “Betan law is very sensible and clear on the topic of clones. It’s only Barrayaran custom that finds itself at a loss. Barrayarans!” She pronounced it like a swear word. “Barrayar lacks a long experience of dealing with all the technological variants on human reproduction. No legal precedents. And if it’s not a tradition” she put the same sour spin on the word as had Bothari-Jesek, “they don’t know how to cope.”
“What am I, to you as a Betan?” he asked, nervously fascinated.
“Either my son or my son once removed,” she answered promptly. “Unlicensed, but claimed by me as an heir.”
“Those are actual legal categories, on your homeworld?”
“You bet. Now, if I had ordered you cloned from Miles, after getting an approved child-license first of course, you would be my son pure and simple. If Miles as a legal adult had done the same, he would be your legal parent and I would be your mother-once-removed, and bear claims upon you and obligations to you approximately the equivalent of a grandparent. Miles was not, of course, a legal adult at the time you were cloned, nor was your birth licensed. If you were still a minor, he and I could go before an Adjudicator, and your guardianship would be assigned according to the Adjudicator’s best judgment of your welfare. You are no longer, of course, a minor in either Betan or Barrayaran law.” She sighed. “The time for legal guardianship is past. Lost. The inheritance of property will mostly be tangled in the Barrayaran legal confusions. Aral will discuss Barrayaran customary law, or the lack of it, with you when the time comes. That leaves our emotional relationship.”