"He seems more inclined to plow through it," murmured the Count dryly, and hesitated. "His appearance . . . Miles took enormous pains to move, act, dress, so as to draw attention away from his appearance. To make his personality overpower the evidence of the eye. A kind of whole-body sleight-of-hand, if you will. Mark . . . almost seems to be willfully exaggerating it."
"What, the surly slump?"
"That, and . . . I confess, I find his weight gain disturbing. Particularly, judging from Elena's report, its rapidity. Perhaps we ought to have him medically checked. It can't be good for him."
The Countess snorted. "He's only twenty-two. It's not an immediate health problem. That's not what's bothering you, love."
"Perhaps . . . not entirely."
"He embarrasses you. My body-conscious Barrayaran friend."
"Mm." The Count did not deny this, Mark noticed.
"Score one for his side."
"Would you care to clarify that?"
"Mark's actions are a language. A language of desperation, mostly. They're not always easy to interpret.
That
one is obvious, though."
"Not to me. Analyze, please."
"It's a three-part problem. In the first place, there's the purely physical side. I take it you did not read the medical reports as carefully as I did."
"I read the ImpSec synopsis."
"I read the raw data. All of it. When the Jacksonian body-sculptors were cutting Mark down to match Miles's height, they did not genetically retrofit his metabolism. Instead they brewed up a concoction of time-release hormones and stimulants which they injected monthly, tinkering with the formula as needed. Cheaper, simpler, more controlled in result. Now, take Ivan as a phenotypic sample of what Miles's genotype should have resulted in, without the soltoxin poisoning. What we have in Mark is a man physically reduced to Miles's height who is genetically programmed for Ivan's weight. And when the Komarrans' treatments stopped, his body again began to try to carry out its genetic destiny. If you ever bring yourself to look at him square on, you'll notice it's not just fat. His bones and muscles are heavier too, compared to Miles or even to himself two years ago. When he finally reaches his new equilibrium, he's probably going to look rather low-slung."
You mean spherical
, Mark thought, listening with horror, and intensely conscious of having overeaten at dinner. Heroically, he smothered an incipient belch.
"Like a small tank," suggested the Count, evidently entertaining a somewhat more hopeful vision.
"Perhaps. It depends on the other two aspects of his, um, body-language."
"Which are?"
"Rebellion, and fear. As for rebellion—all his life,
other
people have made free with his somatic integrity. Forcibly chosen his body-shape. Now at last it's his turn. And fear. Of Barrayar, of us, but most of all fear, frankly, of being overwhelmed by Miles, who can be pretty overwhelming even if you're not his little brother. And Mark's right. It's actually been something of a boon. The armsmen and servants are having no trouble distinguishing him, taking him as Lord Mark. The weight ploy has that sort of half-cocked half-conscious brilliance that . . . reminds me of someone else we both know."
"But where does it stop?" The Count was now picturing something spherical too, Mark decided.
"The metabolism—when he chooses. He can march himself to a physician and have it adjusted to maintain any weight he wants. He'll choose a more average body-type when he no longer needs rebellion or feels fear."
The Count snorted. "I know Barrayar, and its paranoias. You can never be safe enough. What do we do if he decides he can never be fat enough?"
"Then we can buy him a float pallet and a couple of muscular body-servants.
Or
—we can help him conquer his fears. Eh?"
"If Miles is dead," he began.
"If Miles is not recovered and revived," she corrected sharply.
"Then Mark is all we have left of Miles."
"No!" Her skirts rustled as she rose, stepped, turned, paced.
God, don't let her walk over this way!
"That's where you take the wrong turn, Aral. Mark is all we have left of
Mark
."
The Count hesitated. "All right. I concede the point. But if Mark is all we have—do we have the next Count Vorkosigan?"
"Can you accept him as your son even if he
isn't
the next Count Vorkosigan? Or is that the test he has to pass to get in?"
The Count was silent. The Countess's voice went low. "Do I hear an echo of your father's voice in yours? Is that him I see, looking out from behind your eyes?"
"It is . . . impossible . . . that he not be there." The Count's voice was equally low, disturbed, but defiant of apology. "On some level. Despite it all."
"I . . . yes. I understand. I'm sorry." She sat again, to Mark's frozen relief. "Although surely it isn't that hard to qualify as a count of Barrayar. Look at some of the odd ducks who sit on the Council now. Or fail to show up, in some cases. How long did you say it's been since Count Vortienne cast a vote?"
"His son is old enough to hold down his desk now," said the Count. "To the great relief of the rest of us. The last time we had to have a unanimous vote, the Chamber's Sergeant-at-Arms had to go collect him bodily from his Residence, out of the most extraordinary scene of . . . well, he finds some unique uses for his personal guard."
"Unique qualifications, too, I understand." There was a grin in Countess Cordelia's voice.
"Where did you learn
that
?"
"Alys Vorpatril."
"I'm . . . not even going to ask how she knows."
"Wise of you. But the point is, Mark would really have to work at it to be the worst count on the Council. They are not so elite as they pretend."
"Vortienne is an unfairly horrible example. It's only because of the extraordinary dedication of so many of the counts that the Council functions at all. It consumes men. But—the counts are only half the battle. The sharper edge of the sword is the District itself. Would the people accept him? The disturbed clone of the deformed original?"
"They came to accept Miles. They've even grown rather proud of him, I think. But—Miles creates that himself. He radiates enough loyalty, they can't help but reflect some of it back."
"I'm not sure what Mark radiates," mused the Count. "He seems more of a human black hole. Light goes in, nothing comes out."
"Give him time. He's still afraid of you. Guilt projection, I think, from having been your intended assassin all these years."
Mark, breathing through his mouth for silence, cringed. Did the damned woman have x-ray vision? She was a most unnerving ally, if ally she was.
"Ivan," said the Count slowly, "would certainly have no trouble with popularity in the District. And, however reluctantly, I think he would rise to the challenge of the Countship. Neither the worst nor the best, but at least average."
"That's exactly the system he's used to slide through his schooling, the Imperial Service Academy, and his career so far. The invisible average man," said the Countess.
"It's frustrating to watch. He's capable of so much more."
"Standing as close to the Imperium as he does, how brightly does he dare shine? He'd attract would-be conspirators the way a searchlight attracts bugs, looking for a figurehead for their faction. And a handsome figurehead he'd make. He only plays the fool. He may in fact be the least foolish one among us."
"It's an optimistic theory, but if Ivan is so calculating, how can he have been like this since he could walk?" the Count asked plaintively. "You'd make of him a fiendishly Machiavellian five-year-old, dear Captain."
"I don't insist on the interpretation," said the Countess comfortably. "The point is, if Mark were to choose a life on, say, Beta Colony, Barrayar would contrive to limp along somehow. Even your District would probably survive. And Mark would not be one iota less our son."
"But I wanted to leave so much more. . . . You keep coming back to that idea. Beta Colony."
"Yes. Do you wonder why?"
"No." His voice grew smaller. "But if you take him away to Beta Colony, I'll never get a chance to know him."
The Countess was silent, then her voice grew firmer. "I'd be more impressed by that complaint if you showed any signs of wanting to get to know him
now
. You've been avoiding him almost as assiduously as he's been ducking you."
"I cannot stop all government business for this personal crisis," said the Count stiffly. "As much as I might like to."
"You did for Miles, as I recall. Think back on all the time you spent with him, here, at Vorkosigan Surleau . . . you stole time like a thief to give to him, snatches here and there, an hour, a morning, a day, whatever you could arrange, all the while carrying the Regency at a dead run through about six major political and military crises. You cannot deny Mark the advantages you gave Miles, and then turn around and decry his failure to outperform Miles."
"Oh, Cordelia," the Count sighed. "I was younger then. I'm not the Da Miles had twenty years ago. That man is gone, burned up."
"I don't ask that you try to be the Da you were then; that would be ludicrous. Mark is no child. I only ask that you try to be the father you are now."
"Dear Captain . . ." His voice trailed off in exhaustion.
After a thoughtful silence, the Countess said pointedly, "You'd have more time and energy if you
retired
. Gave up the Prime Ministership, at long last."
"Now? Cordelia, think! I dare not lose control now. As Prime Minister, Illyan and ImpSec still report to me. If I step down to a mere Countship, I am out of that chain of command. I'll lose the very power to prosecute the search."
"Nonsense. Miles is an ImpSec officer. Son of the Prime Minister or not, they'll hunt for him just the same. Loyalty to their own is one of ImpSec's few charms."
"They'll search to the limits of reason. Only as Prime Minister can I compel them to go beyond reason."
"I think not. I think Simon Illyan would still turn himself inside out for you after you were dead and buried, love."
When the Count spoke again at last his voice was weary. "I was ready to step down three years ago and hand it off to Quintillan."
"Yes. I was all excited."
"If only he hadn't been killed in that stupid flyer accident. Such a pointless tragedy. It wasn't even an assassination!"
The Countess laughed blackly at him. "A
truly
wasted death, by Barrayaran standards. But seriously. It's time to stop."
"Past time," the Count agreed.
"Let
go
."
"As soon as it's safe."
She paused. "You will never be fat enough, love. Let go anyway."
Mark sat bent over, paralyzed, one leg gone pins and needles. He felt plowed and harrowed, more thoroughly worked over than by the three thugs in the alley. The Countess was a scientific fighter, there was no doubt.
The Count half-laughed. But this time he made no reply. To Mark's enormous relief, they both rose and exited the library together. As soon as the door shut he rolled out of the wing-chair onto the floor, moving his aching arms and legs and trying to restore circulation. He was shaking and shivering. His throat was clogged, and he coughed at last, over and over, blessedly, to clear his breathing. He didn't know whether to laugh or cry, felt like doing both at once, and settled for wheezing, watching his belly rise and fall. He felt obese. He felt insane. He felt as if his skin had gone transparent, and passers-by could look and point to every private organ.
What he did not feel, he realized as he caught his breath again after the coughing jag, was afraid. Not of the Count and Countess, anyway. Their public faces and their privates ones were . . . unexpectedly congruent. It seemed he could trust them, not so much not to hurt him, but to be what they were, what they appeared. He could not at first put a word to it, this sense of personal unity. Then it came to him.
Oh. So that's what integrity looks like. I didn't know.
The Countess kept her promise, or threat, to send Mark touring with Elena. The ensuing few weeks were punctuated by frequent excursions all over Vorbarr Sultana and the neighboring Districts, slanted heavily to the cultural and historical, including a private tour of the Imperial Residence. Gregor was not at home that day, to Mark's relief. They must have hit every museum in town. Elena, presumably acting under orders, also dragged him over what must have been two dozen colleges, academies, and technical schools. Mark was heartened to learn that not every institution on the planet trained military officers; indeed, the largest and busiest school in the capital was the Vorbarra District Agricultural and Engineering Institute.
Elena remained a formal and impersonal factotum in Mark's presence. Whatever her own feelings upon seeing her old home for the first time in a decade, they seldom escaped the ivory mask, except for an occasional exclamation of surprise at some unexpected change: new buildings sprouted, old blocks leveled, streets re-routed. Mark suspected that the frenetic pace of the tours was just so she wouldn't have to actually talk to him; she filled the silences instead with lectures. Mark began to wish he'd buttered up Ivan more. Maybe his cousin could have sneaked him out to go pub-crawling, just for a change.
Change came one evening when the Count returned abruptly to Vorkosigan House and announced that they were all going to Vorkosigan Surleau. Within an hour Mark found himself and his things packed into a lightflyer, along with Elena, Count Vorkosigan, and Armsman Pym, arrowing south in the dark to the Vorkosigans' summer residence. The Countess did not accompany them. The conversation en route ranged from stilted to non-existent, except for an occasional laconic code between the Count and Pym, all half-sentences. The Dendarii mountain range loomed up at last, a dark blot against cloud shadows and stars. They circled a dimly glimmering lake to land halfway up a hill in front of a rambling stone house, lit up and made welcoming by yet more human servants. The Prime Minister's ImpSec guards were discreet shapes exiting a second lightflyer in their wake.