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cryo-revival almost worked."
The corporal looked enlightened. "I never thought a courier s job was the
feather bed some people make it out to be."
Martin stared down at him in utter fascination, almost as impressed as he d
been by the drain-cleaning confession. "You were dead
, my lord?"
"So they tell me."
"What was it like?"
"I don t know," said Miles shortly. "I missed it." He relented slightly.
"Being alive again hurt, though."
"Wow." Martin shoved the lacquer box toward his brother. Zap the Cat emerged
again to roll backwards across the mirror-
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polished toes of the corporal s boots, purring wildly, waving her claws in the
air, and glaring at the box.
"Calm down, Zap, you ll set off the alarms," said the corporal, amused. He set
the box down on the kiosk s tiny table and released the lid. Somewhat
absently, he tore off the cover of his Service-issue ready-meal lunch, and set
it on the floor; Zap sniffed it, and returned to clawing his booted leg and
looking longingly at the lacquered box.
The inside of the box lid turned into a clever tray or plate, with little
compartments. Onto it Kosti placed two temperature-
controlled jugs, a bowl, and cups; there followed an assortment of sandwiches
on two different kinds of bread with variously colored fillings, cut into
circle, star, and square shapes, the crusts removed; carved fruit on a stick;
buttery cookies; and round tarts with flaky, fluted, sugar-sprinkled crusts,
oozing dark, thick fruit syrups. From one of the jugs Kosti poured a pinkish
cream soup into the bowl; from the other, some spicy hot drink. Both steamed
in the cool air. For Zap the Cat there was a wad of prettily tied
green leaves that unfolded to reveal a meat paste of some kind, apparently the
same as filled one of the sandwiches. Zap dived in the moment Kosti spread it
on the floor, growling ecstatically, tail lashing.
Miles stared in amazement, and swallowed saliva. "What all that, Corporal?"
is
"My lunch," said Kosti simply. "M mother sends it over every day." He batted
away a brotherly paw descending on one sandwich. "Hey. You can get yours at
home. This is mine." He glanced up a little uncertainly at Miles.
Technically, ImpSec personnel on duty were not supposed to eat anything but
ImpSec-issued rations, to avoid any attacks through ingestible drugs or
poisons. But if you couldn t trust your mother and brother, who could you
trust? Besides... it wasn t
Miles s officerly job to enforce ImpSec regs in idiotic situations anymore.
"Your mother makes all that? Every day?"
"Mostly," said Kosti. "With my sisters married - "
Of course
.
" and just Martin left in the house, I think she s getting a little bored."
-
"Corporal Kosti. Martin." Miles took a deep breath, laden with delectable
aromas. "Do you think your mother would like a job
?"
"Things are looking up," said Ivan judiciously over their lunch the next day.
Ma Kosti had deposited her artistic offering and withdrawn from the Yellow
Parlor, possibly to bring the next load. Several minutes later he added,
muffled around a full mouth, "What are you paying her?"
Miles told him.
"Double it," said Ivan decisively. "Or you ll lose her after your first dinner
party. Someone will hire her away. Or kidnap her."
"Not with her son as my gate guard. Besides, I m not planning any dinner
parties."
"That would be a shame. Want me to?"
"No." Miles weakened, possibly a subtle and sinister effect of the spiced
peach tart melting in his mouth. "Not at present, anyway." He smiled slowly.
"But in the department of great leaders of history... you can tell everyone
with perfect truth that Lord
Vorkosigan eats the same food as his gate guard and driver."
A contract with Ivan s cleaning service to send in people twice a week
completed the staffing of Vorkosigan House to Ivan s convenience. But as a
ploy to get rid of Ivan, Miles realized, the acquisition of Ma Kosti had
proved a slight miscalculation. He should have hired a bad cook.
If Ivan would only leave, Miles could go back to brooding in peace. He
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couldn t lock his bedroom door and not answer it without it being an
invitation to Ivan to break it down; and there was a limit to how much he
could snarl and sulk without risking another ice-water dip.
At least Ivan could start going back to work in the daytime, Miles thought. He
tried a broad hint over dinner.
"  Most men, " he quoted, "  are of naught more use in their lives but as
machines for turning food into shit. "
Ivan cocked an eyebrow at him. "Who said that? Your grandfather?"
"Leonardo da Vinci," Miles returned primly. But was compelled to add,
"Grandfather quoted it to me, though."
"Thought so," said Ivan, satisfied. "Sounds just like the old General. He was
a monster in his day, wasn t he?" Ivan put another bite of roast dripping with
wine sauce into his mouth, and started chewing.
Ivan... was a pain. The last thing a monster wanted was a fellow to follow him
around all day long with a mirror.
The days had blended formlessly into a week before Miles found a message from
the outside world on his comconsole. He hit the replay, and the fine-boned
face of Lady Alys Vorpatril composed itself over his vid plate.
"Hello, Miles," she began. "I was very sorry to hear about your medical
discharge. I know it must be a great disappointment to you, after all your
efforts."
Credit to Ivan, he had certainly not told her the whole story, or her
condolences would have been much differently phrased.
She dismissed his utter destruction with an airy wave, and went on to her own
concerns. "At Gregor s request I am hostessing an intimate luncheon in the
Residence s south garden tomorrow afternoon. He has asked me to invite you. He
asks you to come an hour early for a personal conference. I d take that as
Requests and Requires your Attendance
, rather than just invites
, if I were you, on that first matter. Or so I read it between the lines,
though he was all soft-voiced about it, the way he gets sometimes, you know.
RSVP immediately you get this message, please." She cut the com.
Miles bent, and rested his forehead on the cool edge of the comconsole. He d
known this moment must come; it was inherent in choosing to live. Gregor was
giving him the opportunity to formally apologize. They had to clear the air
sooner or later. If only as Count of his District someday, Miles was going to
be around Vorbarr Sultana for a long time yet. He wished he might render his
apology in the old archaic belly-sticking sense.
In absentia
. It would be easier and less painful.
Why didn t they just leave me dead the first time
?
He sighed, sat up, and punched in Lady Alys s number on the com.
CHAPTER NINE [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]