level of the general staff, the central committee of the two Councils, and the emperor. That means this conversation is to go no farther, Aristede."
Vorkalloner glanced pointedly at Cordelia. " She's not on the general staff. Come to think of it—"
"Neither am I, anymore," Vorkosigan conceded. "As for our guest, I've told her nothing she couldn't deduce for herself. As for myself, my opinion was requested on—certain aspects. They didn't like it, once they'd got it, but they did ask for it." His smile was not at all nice.
"Is that why you were shipped out of town?" asked Cordelia perceptively, feeling she was beginning to get the hang of how things were done on Barrayar. "So Lieutenant Commander Vorkalloner was right about pulling guard duty. Was your opinion requested by, uh, a certain old friend of your father's?"
"It certainly wasn't requested by the Council of Ministers," said Vorkosigan, but refused to be drawn any further, and changed the subject firmly. "Have my men been treating you properly?"
"Quite well, yes."
"My surgeon swears he will release me this afternoon, if I am good and stay in bed this morning. May I stop by your cabin to speak with you privately later? There are some things I need to make clear."
"Sure," she responded, thinking the request was phrased rather ominously.
The surgeon came in, aggrieved. "You're supposed to be resting, sir." He glared accusingly at Cordelia and Vorkalloner.
"Oh, very well. Send these off with the next courier, Aristede"— he pointed to the screen—"along with the verbals and the formal charges."
The doctor herded them out, as Vorkosigan began typing again.
* * *
She wandered around the ship for the rest of the morning, exploring the limits of her parole. Vorkosigan's ship was a confusing warren of corridors, sealable levels, tubes, and narrow doors designed, she realized at last, to be defensible from boarding parties in hand-to-hand combat. Sergeant Bothari kept pace with slow strides, looming silently as the shadow of death at her shoulder, except when she would begin to make a turn into some forbidden door or corridor, when he would halt abruptly and say, "No, ma'am." She was not permitted to touch anything, either, as she found when she ran a hand casually over a control panel, eliciting another monotonous "No, ma'am," from Bothari. It made her feel like a two-year-old being taken on a toddle.
She made one attempt to draw him out.
"Have you served Captain Vorkosigan long?" she inquired brightly.
"Yes, ma'am."
Silence. She tried again. "Do you like him?"
"No, ma'am."
Silence.
"Why not?" This at least could not have a yes-or-no answer. For a while she thought he wasn't going to answer at all, but he finally came up with, "He's a Vor."
"Class conflict?" she hazarded.
"I don't like Vors."
"I'm not a Vor," she suggested.
He stared through her glumly. "You're like a Vor. Ma'am."
Unnerved, she gave up.
* * *
That afternoon she made herself comfortable on her narrow bunk and began to explore the menu the library computer had to offer her. She picked out a vid with the unalarming grade-school title of "People and Places of Barrayar" and punched it up.
Its narration was as banal as the title had promised, but the pictures were utterly fascinating. It seemed a green, delicious, sunlit world to her Betan eyes. People went about without nose filters or rebreathers, or heat shields in the summer. The climate and terrain were immensely varied, and it had real oceans, with moon-raised tides, in contrast to the flat saline puddles that passed for lakes at home.
A knock sounded at her door. "Enter," she called, and Vorkosigan appeared around it, greeting her with a nod. Odd hour of the day for him to be in dress uniform — but my word, he cleans up good. Nice, very nice. Sergeant Bothari accompanied him; he remained standing stolidly outside the half-opened door. Vorkosigan walked around the room for a
Vorkalloner glanced pointedly at Cordelia. " She's not on the general staff. Come to think of it—"
"Neither am I, anymore," Vorkosigan conceded. "As for our guest, I've told her nothing she couldn't deduce for herself. As for myself, my opinion was requested on—certain aspects. They didn't like it, once they'd got it, but they did ask for it." His smile was not at all nice.
"Is that why you were shipped out of town?" asked Cordelia perceptively, feeling she was beginning to get the hang of how things were done on Barrayar. "So Lieutenant Commander Vorkalloner was right about pulling guard duty. Was your opinion requested by, uh, a certain old friend of your father's?"
"It certainly wasn't requested by the Council of Ministers," said Vorkosigan, but refused to be drawn any further, and changed the subject firmly. "Have my men been treating you properly?"
"Quite well, yes."
"My surgeon swears he will release me this afternoon, if I am good and stay in bed this morning. May I stop by your cabin to speak with you privately later? There are some things I need to make clear."
"Sure," she responded, thinking the request was phrased rather ominously.
The surgeon came in, aggrieved. "You're supposed to be resting, sir." He glared accusingly at Cordelia and Vorkalloner.
"Oh, very well. Send these off with the next courier, Aristede"— he pointed to the screen—"along with the verbals and the formal charges."
The doctor herded them out, as Vorkosigan began typing again.
* * *
She wandered around the ship for the rest of the morning, exploring the limits of her parole. Vorkosigan's ship was a confusing warren of corridors, sealable levels, tubes, and narrow doors designed, she realized at last, to be defensible from boarding parties in hand-to-hand combat. Sergeant Bothari kept pace with slow strides, looming silently as the shadow of death at her shoulder, except when she would begin to make a turn into some forbidden door or corridor, when he would halt abruptly and say, "No, ma'am." She was not permitted to touch anything, either, as she found when she ran a hand casually over a control panel, eliciting another monotonous "No, ma'am," from Bothari. It made her feel like a two-year-old being taken on a toddle.
She made one attempt to draw him out.
"Have you served Captain Vorkosigan long?" she inquired brightly.
"Yes, ma'am."
Silence. She tried again. "Do you like him?"
"No, ma'am."
Silence.
"Why not?" This at least could not have a yes-or-no answer. For a while she thought he wasn't going to answer at all, but he finally came up with, "He's a Vor."
"Class conflict?" she hazarded.
"I don't like Vors."
"I'm not a Vor," she suggested.
He stared through her glumly. "You're like a Vor. Ma'am."
Unnerved, she gave up.
* * *
That afternoon she made herself comfortable on her narrow bunk and began to explore the menu the library computer had to offer her. She picked out a vid with the unalarming grade-school title of "People and Places of Barrayar" and punched it up.
Its narration was as banal as the title had promised, but the pictures were utterly fascinating. It seemed a green, delicious, sunlit world to her Betan eyes. People went about without nose filters or rebreathers, or heat shields in the summer. The climate and terrain were immensely varied, and it had real oceans, with moon-raised tides, in contrast to the flat saline puddles that passed for lakes at home.
A knock sounded at her door. "Enter," she called, and Vorkosigan appeared around it, greeting her with a nod. Odd hour of the day for him to be in dress uniform — but my word, he cleans up good. Nice, very nice. Sergeant Bothari accompanied him; he remained standing stolidly outside the half-opened door. Vorkosigan walked around the room for a
Similar Books
