Miles in Love - Lois McMaster Bujold [168]
"Nikki would be so envious. Um . . . what exactly is this and that? If I may ask." Would he answer?
"Er. Well. Yes, I think you should, all things considered. Better sooner than later, belike."
He was growing terribly Barrayaran, she thought; that use of belike was pure Dendarii mountain dialect. This outburst of confidences was at least as entertaining as putting him on fast-penta might be. Better, given what he'd said about his weird reaction to the drug.
"There was Elli. She was a free mercenary trainee when I first met her."
"What is she now?"
"Fleet Admiral. Actually."
"So she was this. Who was that?"
"There was Taura."
"What was she, when you first met her?"
"A Jacksonian body-slave. Of House Ryoval—very bad news, House Ryoval used to be."
"I must ask more about those covert ops missions of yours sometime . . . So what is she now?"
"Master Sergeant in a mercenary fleet."
"The same fleet as, um, the this?"
"Yes."
Her brows rose, helplessly. Her Aunt Vorthys was leaning back with her finger over her lips again, her eyes alight with laughter; no, the Professora clearly wasn't going to interfere with this. "And . . . ?" she led him on, beginning to be immensely curious as to how long he'd keep going. Why in the world did he think all this romantic history was something she ought to know? Not that she would stop him . . . nor would Aunt Vorthys, apparently, not for a bribe of five kilos of chocolates. But her secret opinion of her gender began to rise.
"Mm . . . there was Rowan. That was . . . that was brief."
"And she was . . . ?"
"A technical serf of House Fell. She's a cryo-revival surgeon in an independent clinic on Escobar, now, though, I'm happy to say. Very pleased with her new citizenship."
Tien had protected her proudly, she reflected, in the little Vor-lady fortress of her household. Tien had spent a decade protecting her so hard, especially from anything that resembled growth, she'd felt scarcely larger at thirty than she'd been at twenty. Whatever it was Vorkosigan had offered to this extraordinary list of lovers, it hadn't been protection.
"Do you begin to notice a trend in all this, Lord Vorkosigan?"
"Yes," he replied glumly. "None of them would marry me and come live on Barrayar."
"So . . . what about the unrequited mad crush?"
"Ah. That was Rian. I was young, just a new lieutenant on a diplomatic mission."
"And what does she do, now?"
He cleared his throat. "Now? She's an empress." He added, under the pressure of Ekaterin's wide stare, "Of Cetaganda. They have several, you see."
A silence fell, and stretched. He shifted uneasily in his chair, and his smile flicked on and off.
She rested her chin in her hand, and regarded him; her brows quirked in quizzical delight. "Lord Vorkosigan. Can I take a number and get in line?"
Whatever it was he'd been expecting her to say, it wasn't that; he was so taken aback he nearly fell off his chair. Wait, she hadn't meant it to come out sounding quite like— His smile stuck in the on position, but decidedly sideways.
"The next number up," he breathed, "is `one.' "
It was her turn to be taken aback; her eyes fell, scorched by the blaze in his. He had lured her into levity. His fault, for being so . . . luring. She stared wildly around the room, groping for some suitably neutral remark with which to retrieve her reserve. It was a space station: there was no weather. My, the vacuum is hard out today . . . . Not that, either. She gazed beseechingly at Aunt Vorthys. Vorkosigan observed her involuntary recoil, and his smile acquired a sort of stuffed apologetic quality; he too looked cautiously to the Professora.
The Professora rubbed one finger thoughtfully over her chin. "And are you traveling back to Barrayar on a commercial liner, Lord Vorkosigan?" she asked him affably. The mutually alarmed parties blinked at her in suffused gratitude.
"No," said Vorkosigan. "Fast courier. In fact, it's waiting for me right now." He cleared his throat, jumped to his feet, and made a show of checking his chrono. "Yes, right now. Professora, Madame Vorsoisson,