“Galen was only trying to screw up my relation with my father,” he sighed, “but he managed to screw up my relation with everything. He knew he wouldn’t be able to control me directly once he turned me loose on Barrayar, so he had to build in motivations that would last.” He added lowly, “It ricocheted back on him. Because in a sense, Galen was my father too. My foster-father. First one I ever had.” The Count had been alive to that one. “I was so hungry for identity, when the Komarrans picked me up on Jackson’s Whole. I think I must have been like one of those baby birds that imprints on a watering pot or something, because it’s the first parent-bird-sized thing it sees.”
“You have a surprising talent for information analysis,” she remarked. “I noticed it even back at Jackson’s Whole.”
“Me?” he blinked. “Certainly not!” Not a talent, surely, or he’d be getting better results. But despite all his frustrations, he had felt a kind of contentment, in his little cubicle at ImpSec this past week, the serenity of a monk’s cell, combined with the absorbing challenge of that universe of data … in an odd way it reminded him of the peaceful times with the virtual learning programs, in his childhood back at the clone-creche. The times when no one had been hurting him.
“The Countess thinks so too. She wants to see you.”
“What, now?”
“She sent me to get you. But I had to get my word in first. Before it got any later, and I lost my chance. Or my nerve.”
“All right. Let me pull myself together.” He was intensely grateful wine had not been served tonight. He retreated to his bathroom, washed his face in the coldest water, forced down a couple of painkiller tabs, and combed his hair. He slipped one of the back-country-style vests over his dark shirt, and followed Bothari-Jesek into the hall.
She took him to the Countess’s own study, which was a serene and austere chamber overlooking the back garden, just off her bedroom. Her and her husband’s bedroom. Mark glimpsed the dark interior, down a step and through an archway. The Count’s absence seemed an almost palpable thing.
The Countess was at her comconsole, not a secured government model, just a very expensive commercial one. Shell flowers inlaid on black wood framed the vid plate, which was generating the image of a harried-looking man. The Countess was saying sharply, “Well, find out the arrangements, then! Yes, tonight, now. And then get back to me. Thank you.” She batted the off-key, and swung around to face Mark and Bothari-Jesek.
“Are you checking on a ticket to Jackson’s Whole?” he asked tremulously, hoping against hope.
“No.”
“Oh.” Of course not. How could she let him go? He was a fool. It was useless to suppose—
“I was checking on getting you a ship. If you’re going, you’ll need a lot more independent mobility than scheduled commercial transport will allow.”
“Buy a ship?” he said, stunned. And he’d thought that line about the clock factory had been a joke. “Isn’t that pretty expensive?”
“Lease, if I can. Buy if I have to. There seem to be three or four possibilities, in Barrayar or Komarr orbit.”
“Still—how?” He didn’t think even the Vorkosigans could buy a jump-ship out of pocket change.
“I can mortgage something,” the Countess said rather vaguely, looking around.
“Since synthetics came in, you can’t hock the family jewels any more.” He followed her gaze. “Not Vorkosigan House!”
“No, it’s entailed. Same problem with the District Residence at Hassadar. I can pledge Vorkosigan Surleau on my bare word, though.”
The heart of the realm, oh shit …
“All these houses and history are all very well,” she complained, raising her eyebrows at his dismayed expression, “but a bloody museum doesn’t make a very liquid asset. In any case, the finances are my problem. You’ll have your own worries.”
“A crew?” was the first thought that popped into his head, and out of his mouth.
“A jump-pilot and engineer will come with the ship, at a minimum. As for supercargo, well, there are all those idle Dendarii, hanging in Komarr orbit. I imagine you could find a volunteer or two among them. It’s obvious they can’t take the Ariel back into Jacksonian local space.”
“Quinnie has bleeding fingers by now, from scratching at the doors,” Bothari-Jesek said. “Even Illyan won’t be able to hold her much longer, if ImpSec doesn’t get a break soon.”
“Will Illyan try to hold me?” asked Mark anxiously.
“If it weren’t for Aral, I’d be going myself,” said the Countess. “And I sure as hell wouldn’t let Illyan stop me. You are my proxy. I’ll deal with ImpSec.”
Mark bet she would. “The Dendarii I’m thinking of are highly motivated, but—I foresee problems, getting them to follow my orders. Who will be in command of this little private excursion?”
“It’s the golden rule, boy. He who has the gold, makes the rules. The ship will be yours. The choice of companions will be yours. If they want a ride, they have to cooperate.”
“That would last past the first wormhole jump. Then Quinn would lock me in a closet.”
The Countess puffed a laugh despite herself. “Hm. That is a point.” She leaned back in her station chair, and steepled her fingers together, her eyes half-closed for a minute or two. They opened wide again. “Elena,” she said. “Will you take oath to Lord Vorkosigan?” The fingers of her right hand fanned at Mark.
“I’m already sworn to Lord Vorkosigan,” Elena said stiffly. Meaning, to Miles.
The grey eyes went flinty. “Death releases all vows.” And then glinted. “The Vor system never has been very good at catching the curve balls thrown at it by galactic technologies. Do you know, I don’t think there has ever been a ruling as to the status of a voice-oath when one of the respondents is in cryo-stasis? Your word can’t be your breath when you don’t have any breath, after all. We shall just have to set our own precedent.”
Elena paced to the window, and stared out into nothing. The reflecting lights of the room obscured any view of the night. At last, she turned decisively on her heel, went down on both knees in front of Mark, and raised her hands pressed palm to palm. Automatically, Mark enclosed her hands with his own.
“My lord,” she said, “I pledge you the obedience of a liegewoman.”
“Um …” said Mark. “Urn … I think I may need more than that. Try this one. ’I, Elena Bothari-Jesek, do testify I am a freewoman of the District Vorkosigan. I hereby take service under Lord Mark Pierre Vorkosigan, as an Armsman—Armswoman?—simple, and will hold him as my liege commander until my death or he releases me.’ “
Shocked, Bothari-Jesek stared up at him. Not very far up, true. “You can’t do that! Can you?”
“Well,” said the Countess, watching this playlet with her eyes alight, “there isn’t actually a law saying a Count’s heir can’t take a female Armsman. It’s just never been done. You know— tradition.”
Elena and the Countess exchanged a long look. Hesitantly, as if half-hypnotized, Bothari-Jesek repeated the oath.
Mark said, “I, Lord Mark Pierre Vorkosigan, vassal secundus to Emperor Gregor Vorbarra, do accept your oath, and pledge you the protection of a liege commander; this by my word as Vorkosigan.” He paused. “Actually,” he said aside to the Countess, “I haven’t made my oath to Gregor yet, either. Would that invalidate this?”
“Details,” said the Countess, waving her fingers. “You can work out the details later.”
Bothari-Jesek stood up again. She looked at him like a woman waking up in bed with a hangover and a strange partner she didn’t remember meeting the night before. She rubbed the backs of her hands where his skin had touched hers.
Power. Just how much Vor-power did this little charade give him? Just as much as Bothari-Jesek allowed, Mark decided, eyeing her athletic frame and shrewd face. No danger she would permit him to abuse his position. The uncertainty in her face was giving way to a suppressed pleasure that delighted his eye. Yes. That was the right move. No question but that he had pleased the Countess, who was grinning outright at her subversive son.