Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [149]
The Count exchanged a glance with his wife, and a small tilt of his head. Countess Vorkosigan rose smoothly.
"Come, Harra, down to the house. You must wash and rest before Miles takes you home."
The hill woman looked taken aback. "Oh, not in your house, lady!"
"Sorry, it's the only one I've got handy. Besides the guard barracks. The guards are good boys, but you'd make 'em uncomfortable . . ." The Countess eased her out.
"It is clear," said Count Vorkosigan as soon as the women were out of earshot, "that you will have to check out the medical facts before, er, popping off. And I trust you will also have noticed the little problem with a positive identification of the accused. This could be the ideal public-demonstration case we want, but not if there's any ambiguity about it. No bloody mysteries."
"I'm not a coroner," Miles pointed out immediately. If he could wriggle off this hook. . . .
"Quite. You will take Dr. Dea with you."
Lieutenant Dea was the Prime Minister's physician's assistant. Miles had seen him around—an ambitious young military doctor, in a constant state of frustration because his superior would never let him touch his most important patient—oh, he was going to be thrilled with this assignment, Miles predicted morosely.
"He can take his osteo kit with him, too," the Count went on, brightening slightly, "in case of accidents."
"How economical," said Miles, rolling his eyes. "Look, uh—suppose her story checks out and we nail this guy. Do I have to, personally . . . ?"
"One of the liveried men will be your bodyguard. And—if the story checks—the executioner."
That was only slightly better. "Couldn't we wait for the district magistrate?"
"Every judgment the district magistrate makes, he makes in my place. Every sentence his office carries out, is carried out in my name. Someday, it will be done in your name. It's time you gained a clear understanding of the process. Historically, the Vor may be a military caste, but a Vor lord's duties were never only military ones."
No escape. Damn, damn, damn. Miles sighed. "Right. Well . . . we could take the aircar, I suppose, and be up there in a couple of hours. Allow some time to find the right hole. Drop out of the sky on 'em, make the message loud and clear . . . be back before bedtime." Get it over with quickly.
The Count had that slit-eyed look again. "No . . ." he said slowly, "not the aircar, I don't think."
"No roads for a groundcar, up that far. Just trails." He added uneasily—surely his father could not be thinking of—"I don't think I'd cut a very impressive figure of central Imperial authority on foot, sir."
His father glanced up at his crisp dress uniform and smiled slightly. "Oh, you don't do so badly."
"But picture this after three or four days of beating through the bushes," Miles protested. "You didn't see us in Basic. Or smell us."
"I've been there," said the Admiral dryly. "But no, you're quite right. Not on foot. I have a better idea."
* * *
My own cavalry troop, thought Miles ironically, turning in his saddle, just like Grandfather. Actually, he was pretty sure the old man would have had some acerbic comments about the riders now strung out behind Miles on the wooded trail, once he'd got done rolling on the ground laughing at the equitation being displayed. The Vorkosigan stables had shrunk sadly since the old man was no longer around to take an interest, the polo string sold off, the few remaining ancient and ill-tempered ex-cavalry beats put permanently out to pasture. The handful of riding horses left were retained for their sure-footedness and good manners, not their exotic bloodlines, and kept exercised and gentle for the occasional guest by a gaggle of girls from the village.
Miles gathered his reins, tensed one calf, and shifted his weight slightly, and Fat Ninny responded with a neat half