"His name was mentioned frequently, in speculation about the upcoming Regency," Vortala commented. "I rather fear he may have been counting on it for himself. He's made great efforts to cultivate Kareen."
"He should have been cultivating Ezar," said Aral dryly. "Well . . . maybe he'll come down out of the air overnight. Try him again in the morning, Vortala—a little more humbly this time, eh?"
"Coddling Vordarian's ego could be a full-time task," grumbled Vortala. "He spends too damn much time studying his family tree."
Aral grimaced agreement. "He's not the only one."
"He is to hear him tell it," growled Vortala.
The next day Cordelia had an official escort to the full Joint Council session in the person of Captain Lord Padma Xav Vorpatril. He turned out to be not only a member of her husband's new staff, but also his first cousin, son of Aral's long-dead mother's younger sister. Lord Vorpatril was the first close relative of Aral's Cordelia had encountered besides Count Piotr. It wasn't that Aral's relatives were avoiding her, as she might have feared; he had a real dearth of them. He and Vorpatril were the only surviving children of the previous generation, of whom Count Piotr was himself the last living representative. Vorpatril was a big cheerful man of about thirty-five, clean-cut in his dress greens. He had also, she discovered shortly, been one of her husband's junior officers during his first captaincy, before Vorkosigan's military successes of the Komarr campaign and its politically ruinous aftermath.
She sat with Vorpatril on one side and Droushnakovi on the other, in an ornate-railed gallery overlooking the Council chamber. The chamber itself was a surprisingly plain room, though heavy with what still seemed to Cordelia's Betan eye to be incredibly luxurious wood paneling. Wooden benches and desks ringed the room. Morning light poured through stained-glass windows high in the east wall. The colorful ceremonies were played out below with great punctilio.
The ministers wore archaic-looking black and purple robes set off by gold chains of office. They were outnumbered by the nearly sixty District counts, even more splendid in scarlet and silver. A sprinkling of men young enough to be on active service in the military wore the red and blue parade uniform. Vorkosigan had been right in describing the parade uniform as gaudy, Cordelia reflected, but in the wonderful setting of this ancient room the gaud seemed most appropriate. Vorkosigan looked quite good in his set, she thought.
Prince Gregor and his mother were seated on a dais to one side of the chamber. The princess wore a black gown shot with silver decoration, high-necked and long-sleeved. Her dark-haired son looked rather like an elf in his red and blue uniform. Cordelia thought he fidgeted remarkably little, under the circumstances.
The Emperor too had a ghostly presence, over closed circuit commlink from the Imperial Residence. Ezar was shown in the holovid seated, in full uniform, at what physical cost Cordelia could not guess, the tubes and monitor leads piercing his body concealed at least from the vid pickup. His face was paper-white, his skin almost transparent, as if he were literally fading from the stage he had dominated for so long.
The gallery was crammed with wives, staff, and guards. The women were elegantly dressed and decorated with jewelry, and Cordelia studied them with interest, then turned her attention back to pumping Vorpatril for information.
"Was Aral's appointment as Regent a surprise to you?" she asked.
"Not really. A few people took that resignation-and-retirement business after the Escobar mess seriously, but I never did."
"He meant it seriously, I thought."
"Oh, I don't doubt it. The first person Aral fools with that prosey-stone-soldier routine is himself. It's the sort of man he always wanted to be, I think. Like his father."
"Hm. Yes, I had noticed a certain political bent to his conversations. In the middle of the most extraordinary circumstances, too. Marriage proposals, for instance."
Vorpatril laughed. "I can just picture it. When he was young he was a real conservative—if you wanted to know what Aral thought about anything, all you had to do was ask Count Piotr, and multiply by two. But by the time we served together, he was getting . . . um . . . strange. If you could get him going . . ." There was a certain wicked reminiscence in his eye, which Cordelia promptly encouraged.
"How did you get him going? I thought political discussion was forbidden to officers."
He snorted. "I suppose they could forbid breathing with about as much chance of success. The dictum is, shall we say, sporadically enforced. Aral stuck to it, though, unless Rulf Vorhalas and I took him out and got him really relaxed."
"Aral? Relaxed?"
"Oh, yes. Now, Aral's drinking was notable—"
"I thought he was a terrible drinker. No stomach for it."
"Oh, that's what was notable. He seldom drank. Although he went through a bad period after his first wife died, when he used to run around with Ges Vorrutyer a lot . . . um . . ." He glanced sideways, and took another tack. "Anyway, it was dangerous to get him too relaxed, because then he'd go all depressed and serious, and then it didn't take a thing to get him on to whatever current injustice or incompetence or insanity was rousing his ire. God, the man could talk. By the time he'd had his fifth drink—just before he slid under the table for the night—he'd be declaiming revolution in iambic pentameter. I always thought he'd end up on the political side someday." He chuckled, and looked rather lovingly at the stocky red-and-blue-clad figure seated with the Counts on the far side of the chamber.
The Joint Council vote of confirmation for Vorkosigan's Imperial appointment was a curious affair, to Cordelia's mind. She hadn't imagined it possible to get seventy-five Barrayarans to agree on which direction their sun rose in the morning, but the tally was nearly unanimous in favor of Emperor Ezar's choice. The exceptions were five set-jawed men who abstained, four loudly, one so weakly the Lord Guardian of the Speaker's Circle had to ask him to repeat himself. Even Count Vordarian voted yea, Cordelia noticed—perhaps Vortala had managed to repair last night's breach in some early-morning meeting after all. It all seemed a very auspicious and encouraging start to Vorkosigan's new job, anyway, and she said as much to Lord Vorpatril.
"Uh . . . yes, Milady," said Lord Vorpatril after a sideways smile at her. "Emperor Ezar made it clear he wanted united approval."
His tone made it clear she was missing cues, again. "Are you trying to tell me some of those men would rather have voted no?"
"That would be imprudent of them, at this juncture."
"Then the men who abstained . . . must have some courage of conscience." She studied the little group with new interest.
"Oh,
they're
all right," said Vorpatril.
"What do you mean? They are the opposition, surely."
"Yes, but they're the open opposition. No one plotting serious treason would mark himself so publicly. The fellows Aral will need to guard his back from are in the other mob, among the yes-men."
"Which ones?" Cordelia's brow wrinkled in worry.
"Who knows?" Lord Vorpatril shrugged, then answered his own question. "Negri, probably."
They were surrounded by a ring of empty seats. Cordelia hadn't been sure if it was for security or courtesy. Evidently the second, for two latecomers, a man in commander's dress greens and a younger one in rich-looking civilian clothes, arrived and apologetically sat in front of them. Cordelia thought they looked like brothers, and had the guess confirmed when the younger said, "Look, there's Father, three seats behind old Vortala. Which one's the new Regent?"
"The bandy-legged character in the red-and-blues, just sitting down to Vortala's right."
Cordelia and Vorpatril exchanged a look behind their backs, and Cordelia put a finger to her lips. Vorpatril grinned and shrugged.
"What's the word on him in the Service?"
"Depends on who you ask," said the commander. "Sardi thinks he's a strategic genius, and dotes on his communiques. He's been all over the place. Every brushfire in the last twenty-five years seems to have his name in it someplace. Uncle Rulf used to think the world of him. On the other hand, Niels, who was at Escobar, said he was the most cold-blooded bastard he'd ever met."
"I hear he has a reputation as a secret progressive."
"There's nothing secret about it. Some of the senior Vor officers are scared to death of him. He's been trying to get Father with him and Vortala on that new tax ruling."
"Oh, yawn."
"It's the direct Imperial tax on inheritances."
"Ouch! Well, that wouldn't hit
him,
would it? The Vorkosigans are so damn poor. Let Komarr pay. That's why we conquered it, isn't it?"
"Not exactly, my fraternal ignoramus. Have any of you town clowns met his Betan frill yet?"
"Men of fashion, sirrah," corrected his brother. "Not to be confused with you Service grubs."
"No danger of that. No, really. There are the damnedest rumors circulating about her, Vorkosigan, and Vorrutyer at Escobar, most of which contradict each other. I thought Mother might have a line on it."
"She keeps a low profile, for somebody who's supposed to be three meters tall and eat battle cruisers for breakfast. Scarcely anybody's seen her. Maybe she's ugly."
"They'll make a pair, then. Vorkosigan's no beauty either."
Cordelia, vastly amused, hid a grin behind her hand, until the commander said, "I don't know who that three-legged spastic is he has trailing him, though. Staff, do you suppose?"
"You'd think he could do better than that. What a mutant. Surely Vorkosigan has the pick of the Service, as Regent."
She felt she'd received a body blow, so great was the unexpected pain of the careless remark. Captain Lord Vorpatril scarcely seemed to notice it. He had heard it, but his attention was on the floor below, where oaths were being made. Droushnakovi, surprisingly, blushed, and turned her head away.
Cordelia leaned forward. Words boiled up within her, but she chose only a few, and fired them off in her coldest Captain's voice.
"Commander. And you, whoever you are." They looked back at her, surprised at the interruption. "For your information, the gentleman in question is Lieutenant Koudelka. And there are no better officers. Not in anybody's service."
They stared at her, irritated and baffled, unable to place her in their scheme of things. "I believe this was a private conversation, madam," said the commander stiffly.
"Quite so," she returned, equally stiffly, still boiling. "For eavesdropping, unavoidable as it was, I beg your pardon. But for that shameful remark upon Admiral Vorkosigan's secretary,
you
must apologize. It was a disgrace to the uniform you both wear and the service to your Emperor you both share." She kept her voice very low, almost hissing. She was trembling.
An overdose of Barrayar. Get hold of yourself
.
Vorpatril's wandering attention was drawn, startled, back to her by this speech. "Here, here," he remonstrated. "What is this—"
The commander turned around further. "Oh, Captain Vorpatril, sir. I didn't recognize you at first. Um . . ." He gestured helplessly at his red-haired attacker, as if to say, Is this lady with you? And if so, can't you keep her under control? He added coldly, "We have not met, madam."
"No, but I don't go 'round flipping over rocks to see what's living underneath." She was instantly conscious of having been lured into going too far. With difficulty, she put a lid on her temper. It wouldn't do to be making new enemies for Vorkosigan at the very moment he was taking up his duties.
Vorpatril, waking up to his responsibilities as escort, began, "Commander, you don't know who—"
"
Don't
. . . introduce us, Lord Vorpatril," Cordelia interrupted him. "We should only embarrass each other further." She pressed thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose, closing her eyes and gathering more conciliating words.
And I used to pride myself on keeping my temper
. She looked up at their furious faces.
"Commander. My lord." She correctly deduced the young man's title from his reference to his father, sitting among the counts. "My words were hasty and rude, and I take them back. I had no right to comment on a private conversation. I apologize. Most humbly."
"As well you should," snapped the young lord.
His brother had more self-control, and replied reluctantly, "I accept your apology, madam. I presume the lieutenant is some relative of yours. I apologize for whatever insult you felt was implied."
"And I accept your apology, Commander. Although Lieutenant Koudelka is not a relation, but only my second-dearest . . . enemy." She paused, and they exchanged frowns, hers of irony, his of puzzlement. "I would ask a favor of you, however, sir. Don't let a comment like that fall in Admiral Vorkosigan's hearing. Koudelka was one of his officers aboard the
General Vorkraft,
and was wounded in his defense during that political mutiny last year. He loves him as a son."
The commander was calming down, although Droushnakovi still looked as if she had a bad taste in her mouth. He smiled a little. "Are you implying I'd find myself doing guard duty on Kyril Island?"
What was Kyril Island? Some distant and unpleasant outpost, apparently. "I . . . doubt it. He wouldn't use his office to carry out a personal grudge. But it would cause him unnecessary pain."
"Madam." She had puzzled him thoroughly now, this plain-looking woman, so out-of-place in the glittering gallery. He turned back with his brother to watch the show below, and all maintained a sticky silence for another twenty minutes, until the ceremonies stopped for lunch. The crowds in both gallery and floor broke away to meet in the corridors of power.
She found Vorkosigan, Koudelka at his side, speaking with his father Count Piotr and another older man in count's robes. Vorpatril delivered her and vanished, and Aral greeted her with a tired smile.
"Dear Captain, are you holding up all right? I want you to meet Count Vorhalas. Admiral Rulf Vorhalas was his younger brother. We must go shortly, we're scheduled for a private lunch with the Princess and Prince Gregor."