"Trust," he answered without thinking, and then thought about it to the point of almost losing his step. He was going to need a mountain of trust, no lie.
So, start building it tonight, Lord Mark old boy. Hauling one bloody basket load at a time, if you have to.
He managed to make her laugh out loud four times, after that. He kept count.
He ate too much (even Gorge was sneakily sated), drank too much, talked too much, and danced
far
too much, and generally had a hell of a good time. The dancing was a little unexpected. Kareen reluctantly lent him to a string of several curious girlfriends. He was interesting to them only as a novelty, he judged, but he wasn't inclined to be picky. By two hours after midnight he was stimulated to the point of babbling, and starting to limp. Better to call it quits before Howl had to come out and take charge of his burnt-out remains. Besides, Miles had been sitting quietly in a corner for the last hour, looking uncharacteristically wilted.
A word passed to an Imperial household servant brought the Count's groundcar back for them, driven by the ubiquitous Pym, who had taken the Count and Countess home earlier. Miles and Mark took over the rear compartment, both sagging into their seats. Pym pulled out past the Residence's guarded gates and into the winter streets, grown as night-quiet as the capital's streets ever did, only a few other vehicles prowling past. Miles turned the heat up high, and settled back with his eyes half-closed.
Mark and his brother were alone in the compartment. Mark counted the number of people present. One, two. Three, four, five, six, seven. Lord Miles Vorkosigan and Admiral Naismith. Lord Mark Vorkosigan and Gorge, Grunt, Howl, and Killer.
Admiral Naismith was a
much
classier creation, Mark thought with a silent sigh of envy. Miles could take the Admiral out to parties, introduce him to women, parade him in public almost anywhere but Barrayar itself.
I suppose what my black gang lacks in savoir faire, we make up in numbers. . . .
But they all ran together, he and the black gang, on the deepest level. No part could be excised without butchering the whole. So, I'll just have to look after you all. Somehow. You just live, down there in the dark. Because someday, in some desperate hour, I may need you again. You took care of me. I'll take care of you.
Mark wondered what Admiral Naismith took care of, for Miles. Something subtle but important—the Countess even saw it. What was it she had said?
I won't seriously fear for Miles's sanity till he's cut off from the little Admiral.
Hence the desperate edge in Miles's drive to reclaim his health. His job with ImpSec was his lifeline to Admiral Naismith.
I think I understand that. Oh, yes.
"Did I ever apologize, for getting you killed?" Mark asked aloud.
"Not that I recall. . . . It wasn't altogether your fault. I had no business mounting that drop mission. Should have taken Vasa Luigi up on his ransom offer. Except . . ."
"Except what?"
"He wouldn't sell you to me. I suspect he was already planning to get a higher bid from Ryoval, even then."
"That would be my guess. Ah . . . thank you."
"I'm not sure it made a difference, in the end," Miles said apologetically. "Since Ryoval just tried again."
"Oh, yes. It made a huge difference, in the end. All the difference in the world." Mark smiled slightly, in the dark. Vorbarr Sultana's wildly assorted architecture passed by outside the canopy, snow-softened to a kind of unity.
"What do we do tomorrow?" Mark asked.
"Sleep in," murmured Miles, oozing down a little further in his stiff uniform collar, rather like paste being sucked back into a tube.
"After that."
"The party season ends here in three days, with the Winterfair bonfires. If my—our parents really go down to the District, I suppose I'll divide my time between Hassadar and here, till ImpSec lets me come back to work. Hassadar is slightly warmer than Vorbarr Sultana, this time of year. Ah—you're invited to come along with me, if you like."
"Thank you. I accept."
"What do you plan to do?"
"After your medical leave is over, I think I'll sign up for one of your schools."
"Which one?"
"If the Count and Countess are going to be mainly residing in Hassadar, maybe the District college there."
"Hm. I should warn you, you'll find a more, um, rural crowd there than you would in Vorbarr Sultana. You'll run into more Barrayaran old-style thinking."
"Good. That's exactly what I want. I need to learn how to handle those hassles without accidentally killing people."
"Er," said Miles, "true. What are you going to study?"
"It almost doesn't matter. It will give me an official status—student—and a chance to study the
people.
Data I can get off a machine. But I'm weak on people. There's so much to learn. I need to know . . . everything."
It was another kind of hunger, this insatiable gluttony for knowledge. An ImpSec analyst must surely possess the hugest possible data-base. The fellows he'd met at the coffee dispenser in ImpSec HQ had conducted flashing conversations with each other over the most appalling range and depth of subjects. He was going to have to hustle, if he wanted to compete in that crowd.
To win.
Miles laughed.
"What's funny?"
"I'm just wondering what Hassadar is going to learn from
you
."
The groundcar turned in at the gates of Vorkosigan House, and slowed. "Maybe I'll get up early," said Mark. "There's a lot to do."
Miles grinned sleepily, puddled down in his uniform. "Welcome to the beginning."