Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [310]
"How is it dealing with pain to give yourself more pain?" she asked plaintively.
He half-smiled, hands on his knees, staring at the floor. "There is a kind of riveting fascination to it. Takes your mind off the real thing. Consider what a toothache does to your attention span."
She shook her head. "I'd rather not, thank you."
"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-crèche. 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