Miles in Love - Lois McMaster Bujold [243]
For lunch, Tsipis led them to Hassadar's most exclusive locale—the official dining room of the Count's Residence, overlooking the Square. The remarkable spread which the staff laid on hinted that Miles had sent down a few urgent behind-the-scenes instructions for the care and feeding of his . . . gardener. Mark confirmed this after dessert when Kareen led Enrique and the widow off to see the garden and fountain in the Residence's inner courtyard, and he and Tsipis lingered over the exquisite vintage of Vorkosigan estate-bottled wine usually reserved for visits from Emperor Gregor.
"So, Lord Mark," said Tsipis, after a reverent sip. "What do you think of this Madame Vorsoisson of your brother's?"
"I think . . . she is not my brother's yet."
"Mm, yes, I'd understood that part. Or should I say, it has been explained to me."
"What all has he been telling you about her?"
"It is not so much what he says, as how he says it. And how often he repeats himself."
"Well, that too. If it were anyone but Miles, it would be hilarious. Actually, it's still hilarious. But it's also . . . hm."
Tsipis blinked and smiled in perfect understanding. "Heart-stopping . . . I think . . . is the word I should choose." And Tsipis's vocabulary was always as precise as his haircut. He stared out over the square through the room's tall windows. "I used to see him as a youngster rather often, when I was in company with your parents. He was constantly overmatching his physical powers. But he never cried much when he broke a bone. He was almost frighteningly self-controlled, for a child that age. But once, at the Hassadar District Fair it was, I chanced to see him rather brutally rejected by a group of other children whom he'd attempted to join." Tsipis took another sip of wine.
"Did he cry then?" asked Mark.
"No. Though his face looked very odd when he turned away. Bothari was watching with me—there was nothing the Sergeant could do either, there wasn't any physical threat about it all. But the next day Miles had a riding accident, one of his worst ever. Jumping, which he had been forbidden to do, on a green horse he'd been told not to ride . . . Count Piotr was so infuriated—and frightened—I thought he was going to have a stroke on the spot. I came later to wonder how much of an accident that accident was." Tsipis hesitated. "I always imagined Miles would choose a galactic wife, like his father before him. Not a Barrayaran woman. I'm not at all sure what Miles thinks he's doing with this young lady. Is he setting himself up to go smash again?"
"He claims he has a Strategy."
Tsipis's thin lips curved, and he murmured, "And doesn't he always . . ."
Mark shrugged helplessly. "To tell the truth, I've barely met the woman myself. You've been working with her—what do you think?"
Tsipis tilted his head shrewdly. "She's a quick study, and meticulously honest."
That sounded like faint praise, unless one happened to know those were Tsipis's two highest encomiums.
"Quite well-looking, in person," he added as an afterthought. "Not, ah, nearly as over-tall as I was expecting."
Mark grinned.
"I think she could do the job of a future Countess."
"Miles thinks so too," Mark noted. "And picking personnel was supposed to have been one of his major military talents." And the better he got to know Tsipis, the more Mark thought that might be a talent Miles had inherited from his—their—father.
"It's not before time, that's certain," Tsipis sighed. "One does wish for Count Aral to have grandchildren while he's still alive to see them."
Was that remark addressed to me?
"You will keep an eye on things, won't you?" Tsipis added.