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“He should have. Sergeant Bothari was very important to Miles. And to us all. Bothari was … a difficult man. I don’t think Elena ever was quite reconciled to that. She’s needed to come to some acceptance of him, to be easy with herself.”
“Difficult? Criminal, I’d heard.”
“That is very …” The Count hesitated. Unjust, Mark expected him to add, or untrue, but the word he finally chose was ”… incomplete.”
They walked around among the graves, the Count giving Mark a tour. Relatives and retainers … who was Major Amor Klyeuvi? It reminded Mark of all those museums. The Vorkosigan family history since the Time of Isolation encapsulated the history of Barrayar. The Count pointed out his father, mother, brother, sister, and his Vorkosigan grandparents. Presumably anyone dying prior to their dates had been buried at the old District capital of Vorkosigan Vashnoi, and been melted down along with the city by the Cetagandan invaders.
“I mean to be buried here,” commented the Count, looking over the peaceful lake and the hills beyond. The morning mist was clearing off the surface, sun-sparkle starting to glitter through. “Avoid that crowd at the Imperial Cemetery in Vorbarr Sultana. They wanted to bury my poor father there. I actually had to argue with them over that, despite the declaration of his will.” He nodded to the stone, General Count Piotr Pierre Vorkosigan, and the dates. The Count had won the argument, apparently. The Counts.
“Some of the happiest periods of my life were spent here, when I was small. And later, my wedding and honeymoon.” A twisted smile flitted across his features. “Miles was conceived here. Therefore, in a sense, so were you. Look around. This is where you came from. After breakfast, and I change clothes, I’ll show you more.”
“Ah. So, uh, no one’s eaten yet.”
“You fast, before burning a death-offering. They often tend to be dawn events for just that reason, I suspect.” The Count half-smiled.
The Count could have had no other use for the glorious parade uniform here, nor Elena her Dendarii greys. They’d packed them along for that dedicated purpose. Mark glanced at the dark distorted reflection of himself in the Count’s mirror-polished boots. The convex surface widened him to grotesque proportions. His future self? “Is that what we all came down here for, then? So that Elena could do this ceremony?”
“Among other things.”
Ominous. Mark followed the Count back to the big stone house, feeling obscurely unsettled.
Breakfast was served by the housekeeper on a su
He was glad for his restraint very shortly, as the Count led him directly up the hill. They crested it and paused to recover. The view of the long lake, winding between the hills, was very fine and worth the breath. On the other side a little valley flattened out, cradling old stone stables and pastures cultivated to Earth-green grasses. Some unemployed-looking horses idled around the pasture. The Count led Mark down to the fence, and leaned on it, looking pensive.
“That big roan over there is Miles’s horse. He’s been rather neglected, of late years. Miles didn’t always get time to ride even when he was home. He used to come ru
“What? Call the horse?”
“I’d be curious to see. If the horse can tell the difference. Your voices are … very like, to my ear.”
“I was drilled on that.”
“His name is, uh, Ni
Its name is Fat Ni
“Three times.”
“What?”
“Miles always repeated the name three times.”
The horse was standing across the pasture, its ears up, looking at them. Mark took a deep breath, and in his best Barrayaran accent called, “Here, Ni
The horse snorted, and trotted over to the fence. It didn’t exactly run, though it did kick up its heels once, bouncing, en route. It arrived with a huff that sprayed horse moisture across both Mark and the Count. It leaned against the fence, which groaned and bent. Up close, it was bloody huge. It stuck its big head over the fence. Mark ducked back hastily.
“Hello, old boy.” The Count patted its neck. “Miles always gives him sugar,” he advised Mark over his shoulder.
“No wonder it comes ru
“Yes, but Cordelia and I give him sugar too, and he doesn’t come ru
The horse was staring at him in, Mark swore, utter bewilderment. Yet another soul he had betrayed by not being Miles. The other two horses, in some sort of sibling rivalry, now arrived also, a massive jostling crowd determined not to miss out. Intimidated, Mark asked plaintively, “Did you bring any sugar?”
“Well, yes,” said the Count. He drew half a dozen white cubes from his pocket and handed them to Mark. Cautiously, Mark put a couple into his palm and held it out as far as his arm would reach. With a squeal, Ni
“Would you like to try riding him?” the Count offered. “Though he hasn’t been worked lately, he’s probably a bit fresh.”
“No, thank you,” choked Mark. “Some other time, maybe.”
“Ah.”
They walked along the fence, Ni
They were heading toward the woods. “There’s a riding trail … it circles around to a spot with a view back toward the house. We used to picnic there. Would you like to see it?”
A hike. Mark had no heart for a hike, but he’d already turned down the Count’s obvious overture about riding the horse. He didn’t dare refuse him twice, the Count would think him … surly. “All right.” No armsmen or ImpSec bodyguards in sight. The Count had gone out of his way to create this private time. Mark cringed in anticipation. Intimate chat, incoming.
When they reached the woods’ edge the first fallen leaves rustled and crackled underfoot, releasing an organic but pleasant tang. But the noise of their feet did not exactly fill the silence. The Count, for all his feigned country-casualness, was stiff and tense. Off-balance. U