Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [82]
"Thanks to you," said Elena. "I tried to stop him, but I was afraid. I couldn't do it." She blinked back last tears.
"Better this way. Everybody's edgy, too tired. Him too, you know." He almost asked her for a definition of "nuzzling," but stopped himself. She bore Baz off with tender murmurs that drove Miles wild.
He bit back his frustration and mounted again to the observation deck. Bothari still stood, grievously blank and inward. Miles sighed.
"You still have that scotch, Sergeant?"
Bothari started from his reverie, and felt his hip pocket. He handed the flask silently to Miles, who gestured at the benches. They both sat. The Sergeant's hands dangled between his knees, his head lowered.
Miles took a swallow, and handed the flask over. "Drink."
Bothari shook his head, but then took it and did so. After a time he muttered, "You never called me 'Armsman' before."
"I was trying to get your attention. My apologies."
Silence, and another swig. "It's the right title."
"Why were you trying to kill him? You know how badly we need techs."
A long pause. "He's not a right one. Not for her. Deserter . . ."
"He wasn't trying to rape her." It was a statement.
"No," lowly. "No, I suppose not. You never know."
Miles gazed around the crystal chamber, gorgeous in the sparked darkness. Superb spot for a nuzzle, and more. But those long white hands were down at the infirmary, probably laying cold compresses or something on Baz's brow. While he sat here getting drunk with the ugliest man in the system. What a waste.
The flask went back and forth again. "You never know," Bothari reiterated. "And she must have everything right, and proper. You see that, don't you, my lord? Don't you see it?"
"Of course. But please don't murder my engineer. I need him. All right?"
"Damn techs. Always coddled."
Miles let this pass, as an Old Service reflex complaint. Bothari had always seemed part of his grandfather's generation, somehow, although in fact he was a couple of years younger than Miles's father. Miles relaxed slightly, at this sign of a return to Bothari's normal—well, usual—state of mind. Bothari slipped into a reclining position on the carpet, shoulders against the settee.
"My lord," he added after a time. "You'd see to it, if I were killed—that she was taken care of, right. The dowry. And an officer, a fit officer. And a real go-between, a proper baba, to make the arrangements . . ."
Antique dream, thought Miles hazily. "I'm her liegelord, by right of your service," he pointed out gently. "It would be my duty." If I could only turn that duty to my own dreams.
"Some don't pay much attention to their duty anymore," Bothari muttered. "But a Vorkosigan—Vorkosigans never fail."
"Damn right," Miles mumbled.
"Mm," said Bothari, and slid down a little farther.
After a long silence, Bothari spoke again. "If I were killed, you wouldn't leave me out there, would you, my lord?"
"Huh?" Miles tore his attention from trying to make new constellations. He had just connected the dots into a figure dubbed, mentally, Cavalryman.
"They leave bodies in space sometimes. Cold as hell. . . . God can't find them out there. No one could."
Miles blinked. He had never known the Sergeant concealed a theological streak. "Look, what's all this all of a sudden about getting killed? You're not going to—"
"The Count your father promised me," Bothari raised his voice slightly to override him, "I'd be buried at your lady mother's feet, at Vorkosigan Surleau. He promised. Didn't he tell you?"
"Er . . . The subject never came up."
"His word as Vorkosigan. Your word."
"Uh, right, then." Miles stared out the chamber's transparency. Some saw stars, it seemed, and some saw the spaces between them. Cold . . . "You planning on heaven, Sergeant?"
"As my lady's dog. Blood washes away sin. She swore it to me. . . ." He trailed off, gaze never leaving the depths.