“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 sunny patio off the end of the house, made private by landscaping and flowering bushes except for a view cut through to the lake. The Count re-appeared wearing old black fatigue trousers and a back-country style tunic, loose-cut and belted. Elena did not join them. “She wanted to take a long walk,” explained the Count briefly. “So shall we.” Prudently, Mark returned a third sweet roll to its covered basket.

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 running, when Miles called. It was the damndest thing, to see that big lazy horse get up and come running.” The Count paused. “You might try it.”

“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, Ninny.” At Mark’s look he added, “A sort of pet or stable name.”

Its name is Fat Ninny. You edited it. Ha. “So what do I do? Stand here and yell ’Here, Ninny, Ninny’?” He felt a fool already.

“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, Ninny, Ninny, Ninny. Here, Ninny, Ninny, Ninny!”

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 running, then!” said Mark indignantly. And he’d thought it was the I-love-Naismith effect.

“Yes, but Cordelia and I give him sugar too, and he doesn’t come running for us. He just sort of ambles around in his own good time.”

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, Ninny laid his ears back and snapped from side to side, driving off his equine rivals, then demurely pricked them forward again and grubbed up the sugar with big rubbery lips, leaving a trail of grass-green slime in Mark’s palm. Mark wiped some of it off on the fence, considered his trouser seam, and wiped the rest off on the horse’s glossy neck. An old ridged scar spoiled the fur, bumpy under his hand. Ninny butted him again, and Mark retreated out of range. The Count restored order in the mob with a couple of shouts and slaps— Ah, just like Barrayaran politics, Mark thought irreverently— and made sure the two laggards received a share of sugar as well. He did wipe his palms on his trouser seams afterward, quite unselfconsciously.

“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, Ninny trailing them on the other side till its hopes were stopped by the corner. It whinnied as they walked away, a staggeringly mournful noise. Mark’s shoulders hunched as from a blow. The Count smiled, but the attempt must have felt as ghastly as it looked, for the smile fell off again immediately. He looked back over his shoulder. “The old fellow is over twenty, now. Getting up there, for a horse. I’m beginning to identify with him.”

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. Unnerved by him, Mark blurted, “The Countess is making you do this. Isn’t she.”