Miles's pantomime gestures cued the engineer. Baz leaned back with a grin, and picked up his lead.
"My lord I ask your permission and aid to wed the first daughter of Armsman Konstantine Bothari, that my sons may serve you."
Miles cocked his head, and smirked. "Ah, good, we've all been watching the same vid dramas, I see. Yes, certainly, Armsman; may they all serve me as well as you do. I shall send the Baba."
He flipped the scarf into a triangle and tied it around his head. Leaning on an imaginary cane, he hobbled arthritically over to Elena's side of the table, muttering in a cracked falsetto. Once there, he removed the scarf and reverted to the role of Elena's liege lord and guardian, and grilled the Baba as to the suitability of the suitor she represented. The Baba was sent bobbing back twice to Baz's leige commander, to personally check and guarantee his a) continued employment prospects and b) personal hygiene and absence of head-lice.
Muttering obscene little old lady imprecations, the Baba returned at last to Elena's side of the table to conclude her transaction. Baz by this time was cackling with laughter at assorted Barrayaran in-jokes, and Elena's smile had at last reached her eyes.
When his clowning was over and the last somewhat scrambled formula was completed, Miles hooked a third chair into its floor bolts and fell into it.
"Whew! No wonder the custom is dying out. That's exhausting."
Elena grinned. "I've always had the impression you were trying to be three people. Perhaps you've found your calling."
"What, one-man shows? I've had enough of them lately to last a lifetime." Miles sighed, and grew serious. "You may consider yourselves well and officially betrothed, at any rate. When do you plan to register your marriage?"
"Soon," said Baz, and "I'm not sure," said Elena.
"May I suggest tonight?"
"Why—why …" stammered Baz. His eyes sought his lady's. "Elena? Could we?"
"I . .." she searched Miles's face. "Why, my lord?"
"Because I want to dance at your wedding and fill your bed with buckwheat groats, if I can find any on this benighted space station. You may have to settle for gravel, they've got plenty of that. I'm leaving tomorrow."
Three words should not be so hard to grasp as all that. ..
"What?" cried Baz.
"Why?" repeated Elena in a shocked whisper.
"I have some obligations to pursue," Miles shrugged. "There's Tav Calhoun to pay off, and—and the Sergeant's burial." And, very possibly, my own …
"You don't have to go in person, do you?" protested Elena. "Can't you send Calhoun a draft, and ship the body? Why go back? What is there for you?"
"The Dendarii Mercenaries," said Baz. "How can they function without you?"
"I expect them to function quite well, because I am appointing you, Baz, as their commander, and you, Elena, as his executive officer—and apprentice. Commodore Tung will be your chief of staff. You understand that, Baz? I'm going to charge you and Tung jointly with her training, and I expect it to be the best."
"I—I—" gasped the engineer. "My lord, the honor—I couldn't—"
"You'll find that you can, because you must. And besides, a lady should have a dowry worthy of her. That's what a dowry is for, after all, to provide for the bride's support. Bad form for the bridegroom to squander it, note. And you'll still be working for me, after all."
Baz looked relieved. "Oh—you'll be coming back, then. I thought—never mind. When will you return, my lord?"
"I'll catch up with you sometime," Miles said vaguely. Sometime, never … "That's the other thing. I want you to clear out of Tau Verde local space. Pick any direction away from Barrayar, and go. Find employment when you get there, but go soon. The Dendarii Mercenaries have had enough of this Tweedledum-and-Tweedledee war. It's bad for morale when it gets too hard to remember which side you're working for this week. Your next contract should have clearly defined objectives that will weld this motley bunch into a single force, under your command. No more committee warfare. Its weaknesses have been amply demonstrated, I trust—"
Miles went on with instructions and advice until he began to sound like a pint-sized Polonius in his own ears. There was no way he could anticipate every contingency. When the time came to leap in faith, whether you had your eyes open or closed or screamed all the way down or not made no practical difference.
His heart cringed from his next interview even more than from the last, but he forced his feet to carry him to it anyway. He found the comm link technician at work at the electron microscope bench of the Triumph's engineering repairs section. Elena Visconti frowned at his gesture of invitation, but turned the work over to her assistant and came slowly to Miles's side.
"Sir?"
"Trainee Visconti. Ma'am. Can we take a walk?"
"What for?"
"Just to talk."
"If it's what I think, you may as well save your breath. I can't go to her."
"I'm not any more comfortable talking about it than you are, but it's an obligation I cannot honorably evade."
"I've spent eighteen years trying to put what happened at Escobar behind me. Must I be dragged through it again?"
"This is the last time, I promise. I'm leaving tomorrow. The Dendarii fleet will follow soon after. All you short-contract people will be dropped off at Dalton Station, where you can take ship for Tau Ceti or wherever you want. I suppose you'll be going home?"
She fell in reluctantly beside him, and they paced down the corridor. "Yes, my employers will doubtless be astonished at how much back pay they owe me."
"I owe you something myself. Baz says you were outstanding on the mission."
She shrugged. "Straightforward stuff."
"He didn't mean just your technical efforts. Anyway, I didn't want to leave Elena—my Elena—up in the air like this, you see," he began. "She ought to at least have something, to replace what was taken from her. Some little crumb of comfort."
"The only thing she lost was some illusion. And believe me, Admiral Naismith, or whatever you are, the only thing I could give her would be another illusion. Maybe if she didn't look so much like him … Anyway, I don't want her following me around, or showing up at my door."
"Whatever Sergeant Bothari was guilty of, she is surely innocent."
Elena Visconti rubbed her forehead wearily with the back of her hand. "I'm not saying you're not right. I'm just saying I can't. For me, she radiates nightmares."
Miles chewed his lip gently. They turned out of the Triumph into a flex tube and walked across the quiet docking bay. Only a few techs were busy at some small tasks.
"An illusion …" he mused. "You could live a long time on an illusion," he offered. "Maybe even a lifetime, if you're lucky. Would it be so difficult, to do a few days—even a few minutes—of acting? I'm going to have to dip some Dendarii funds anyway to pay for a dead ship, and buy a lady a new face. I could make it worth your time."
He regretted his words immediately at the loathing that flashed across her face, but the look she finally gave him was ironically thoughtful.
"You really care about that girl, don't you?"
"Yes."
"I thought she was making time with your chief engineer."
"Suits me."
"Pardon my slowness, but that does not compute."
"Association with me could be lethal, where I'm going next. I'd rather she were travelling in the opposite direction."
The next docking bay was busy and noisy with a Felician freighter being loaded with ingots of refined rare metals, vital to the Felician war industries. They avoided it, and searched out another quiet corridor. Miles found himself fingering the bright scarf in his pocket.