“Did it,” she breathed.

It was all too much. The window was safely shatterproof, but his hand was not; his soul-driven fist bunched, drew back, and struck.

The Countess caught it with a quick open hand; his self-directed violence smacked into her palm and was deflected.

“Save that,” she advised him coolly.

A large mirror in a hand-carved frame hung on the wall of the antechamber to the library. Mark, nervous, detoured to stand in front of it for one last check before his inspection by the Countess.

The brown and silver Vorkosigan cadet’s uniform did little to conceal the shape of his body, old distortions or new, though when he stood up very straight he fancied it lent him a certain blunt blockiness. Unfortunately, when he slumped, so did the tunic. It fit well, which was ominous, as when it had been delivered eight weeks ago it had been a little loose. Had some ImpSec analyst calculated his weight gain against this date? He wouldn’t put it past them.

Only eight weeks ago? It felt like he’d been a prisoner here forever. A gently held prisoner, true, like one of those ancient officers who, upon giving their oath of parole, were allowed the run of the fortress. Though no one had demanded his word on anything. Perhaps his word had no currency. He abandoned his repellent reflection and trudged on into the library.

The Countess was seated on the silk sofa, careful of her long dress, which was a high-necked thing in cloud-soft beige netted with ornate copper and silver embroidery which echoed the color of her hair, done up in loops on the back of her head. Not a speck of black or gray or anything that could suggest anticipation of mourning anywhere: almost arrogantly elegant. We’re just fine here, the ensemble seemed to say, and very Vorkosigan. Her head turned at Mark’s entry, and her absorbed look melted into a brief spontaneous smile. It drew an answering smile from him despite himself.

“You look well,” she said approvingly.

“So do you,” he replied, and then, because it seemed too familiar, added, “ma’am.”

Her brow quirked at the addition, but she made no comment. He paced to a nearby chair but, too keyed-up to sit, only leaned on its back. He suppressed a tendency for his right boot to tap on the marble floor. “So how do you think they’re going to take this tonight? Your Vor friends.”

“Well, you will certainly rivet their attention,” she sighed. “You can count on it.” She lifted a small brown silk bag with the Vorkosigan logo embroidered in silver on it, and handed it across to Mark. It clinked interestingly from the heavy gold coins it held. “When you present this to Gregor in the taxation ceremony tonight as proxy for Aral, it will serve formal notice to all that we claim you as a legitimate son—and that you accept that claim. Step One. Many others to follow.”

And at the end of that path—the countship? Mark frowned deeply.

“Whatever your own feelings—whatever the final outcome of the present crisis—don’t let them see you shake,” the Countess advised. “It’s all in the mind, this Vor system. Conviction is contagious. So is doubt.”

“You consider the Vor system an illusion?” Mark asked.

“I used to. Now I would call it a creation, which, like any living thing, must be continually re-created. I’ve seen the Barrayaran system be awkward, beautiful, corrupt, stupid, honorable, frustrating, insane and breathtaking. Its gets most of the work of government done most of the time, which is about average for any system.”

“So … do you approve of it, or not?” he asked, puzzled.

“I’m not sure my approval matters. The Imperium is like a very large and disjointed symphony, composed by a committee. Over a three-hundred year period. Played by a gang of amateur volunteers. It has enormous inertia, and is fundamentally fragile. It is neither unchanging nor unchangeable. It can crush you like a blind elephant.”

“What a heartening thought.”

She smiled. “We aren’t plunging you into total strangeness, tonight. Ivan and your Aunt Alys will be there, and young Lord and Lady Vortala. And the others you’ve met here in the past few weeks.”

Fruit of the excruciating private dinner parties. From before the Count’s collapse, there had been a select parade of visitors to Vorkosigan House to meet him. Countess Cordelia had determinedly continued the process despite the week-old medical crisis, in preparation for this night.

“I expect everyone will be trolling for inside information on Aral’s condition,” she added.

“What should I tell ’em?”

“Flat truth is always easiest to keep track of. Aral is at ImpMil awaiting a heart to be grown for transplant, and being a very bad patient. His physician is threatening alternately to tie him to his bed or resign if he doesn’t behave. You don’t need to go into all the medical details.”

Details that would reveal just how badly damaged the Prime Minister was. Quite. ”… What if they ask me about Miles?”

“Sooner or later,” she took a breath, “if ImpSec doesn’t find the body, sooner or later there must be a formal declaration of death. While Aral lives, I would rather it be later. No one outside of the highest echelons of ImpSec, Emperor Gregor, and a few government officials know Miles is anything but an ImpSec courier officer of modest rank. It is a perfectly true statement that he is away on duty. Most who inquire after him will be willing to accept that ImpSec hasn’t confided to you where they sent him or for how long.”

“Galen once said,” Mark began, and stopped.

The Countess gave him a level look. “Is Galen much on your mind, tonight?”

“Somewhat,” Mark admitted. “He trained me for this, too. We did all the major ceremonies of the Imperium, because he didn’t know in advance just what time of year he’d drop me in. The Emperor’s Birthday, the Midsummer Review, Winterfair—all of ’em. I can’t do this and not think of him, and how much he hated the Imperium.”

“He had his reasons.”

“He said … Admiral Vorkosigan was a murderer.”

The Countess sighed, and sat back. “Yes?”

“Was he?”

“You’ve had a chance to observe him for yourself. What do you think?”

“Lady … I’m a murderer. And I can’t tell.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Justly put. Well. His military career was long and complex—and bloody—and a matter of public record. But I imagine Galen’s main focus was the Solstice Massacre, in which his sister Rebecca died.”

Mark nodded mutely.

“The Barrayaran expedition’s Political Officer, not Aral, ordered that atrocious event. Aral executed him for it with his own hands, when he found out. Without the formality of a court martial, unfortunately. So he evades one charge, but not the other. So yes. He is a murderer.”

“Galen said it was to cover up the evidence. There’d been a verbal order, and only the Political Officer knew it.”

“So how could Galen know it? Aral says otherwise. I believe Aral.”

“Galen said he was a torturer.”

“No,” said the Countess flatly. “That was Ges Vorrutyer, and Prince Serg. Their faction is now extinct.” She smiled a thin, sharp smile.

“A madman.”

“No one on Barrayar is sane, by Betan standards.” She gave him an amused look. “Not even you and me.”

Especially not me. He took a small breath. “A sodomite.” She tilted her head. “Does that matter, to you?”

“It was … prominent, in Galen’s conditioning of me.”

“I know.”

“You do? Dammit …” Was he glass, to these people? A feelie-drama for their amusement? Except the Countess didn’t seem amused. “An ImpSec report, no doubt,” he said bitterly.

“They fast-penta’d one of Galen’s surviving subordinates. A man named Lars, if that means anything to you.”

“It does.” He gritted his teeth. Not a chance at human dignity, not one shred left to him.