Miles in Love - Lois McMaster Bujold [417]
He deposited the tired-looking pilot first. Sergeant Taura's second floor guest room was one of the modernized ones, with its own bath, around the corridor's corner from m'lord's own suite. She reached up and trailed a claw along the ceiling, and smiled in evident approval of Vorkosigan House's three-meter headspace.
"So," she said, turning to him, "is a Winterfair wedding considered especially auspicious, in Barrayaran custom?"
"They're not so common as in summer. Mostly I think it's now because m'lord's fiancée is between semesters at University."
Her thick brows rose in surprise. "She's a student?"
"Yes, ma'am." He had a notion one addressed female sergeants as ma'am. Pym would have known.
"I didn't realize she was such a young lady."
"No, ma'am. Madame Vorsoisson's a widow—she has a little boy, Nikki—nine years old. Mad about jumpships. Do you happen t' know—does that pilot fellow like children?" Mayhew was bound to be a magnet for Nikki.
"Why . . . I don't know. I don't think Arde knows either. He hardly ever meets any in a free mercenary fleet."
He would have to watch, then, to be sure little Nikki didn't set himself up for a painful rebuff. M'lord and m'lady-to-be might not be paying their usual attention to him, under the circumstances.
Sergeant Taura circled the room, gazing with what Roic hoped was approval at its comfortable appointments, and glanced out the window at the back garden, shrouded in winter white, the snow luminous in the security lighting. "I suppose it makes sense that he'd have to wed one of his own Vor kind, in the end." Her nose wrinkled. "So, are the Vor a social class, a warrior caste, or what? I never could quite figure it out from Miles. They way he talks about them you'd half think they were a religion. Or at any rate, his religion."
Roic blinked in bafflement. "Well, no. And yes. All of that. The Vor are . . . well, Vor."
"Now that Barrayar has modernized, isn't a hereditary aristocracy resented by the rest of your classes?"
"But they're our Vor."
"Says the Barrayaran. Hm. So, you can criticize them, but heaven help any outsider who dares to?"
"Yes," he said, relieved that she seemed to have grasped it despite his stumbling tongue.
"A family matter. I see." Her grin faded into a frown that was actually less alarming—not so much fang. Her fingers clenching the curtain inadvertently poked claws through the expensive fabric; wincing, she shook her hand free and tucked it behind her back. Her voice lowered. "So she's Vor, well and good. But does she love him?"
Roic heard the odd emphasis in her voice, but was unclear how to interpret it. "I'm very sure of it, ma'am," he avowed loyally. M'lady-to-be's frowns, her darkening mood, were surely just pre-wedding nerves piled atop examination stress, on the substrate of her not-so-distant bereavement.
"Of course." Her smile flicked back in a perfunctory sort of way. "Have you served Lord Vorkosigan long, Armsman Roic?"
"Since last winter, ma'am, when a space fell vacant in the Vorkosigans' armsmen's score. I was sent up on recommendation from the Hassadar Municipal Guard," he added a bit truculently, challenging her to sneer at his humble, non-military origins. "A count's twenty armsmen are always from his own District, y'see."
She did not react; the Hassadar Municipal Guard evidently meant nothing to her.
He asked in return, "Did you . . . serve him very long? Out there?" In the galactic backbeyond where m'lord had acquired such exotic friends.
Her face softened, the fanged smile reappearing. "In a sense, all my life. Since my real life began, ten years ago, anyway. He is a great man." This last was delivered with unselfconscious conviction.
Well, he was a great man's son , certainly. Count Aral Vorkosigan was a colossus bestriding the last half-century of Barrayaran history. Lord Miles had led a less public career. Which no one would tell Roic anything about, the most junior armsman not being ex-ImpSec like m'lord and most of the rest of the armsmen, eh.
Still, Roic liked the