It was only his paranoia, Mark decided, that made it seem as if all heads turned toward him and a wave of silence crossed the crowd at their entry; but a few heads did turn, and a few nearby conversations did stop. One was Ivan Vorpatril and his mother, Lady Alys Vorpatril; she waved Countess Vorkosigan over to them at once.

“Cordelia, dear,” Lady Vorpatril gave her a worried smile. “You must bring me up to date. People are asking.”

“Yes, well, you know the drill,” the Countess sighed.

Lady Vorpatril nodded wryly. She turned her head to direct Ivan, evidently continuing the conversation the Vorkosigan entrance had interrupted, “Do make yourself pleasant to the Vorsoisson girl this evening, if the opportunity arises. She’s Violetta Vorsoisson’s younger sister, perhaps you’ll like her better. And Cassia Vorgorov is here. This is her first time at the Emperor’s Birthday. And Irene Vortashpula, do get in at least one dance with her, later. I promised her mother. Really, Ivan, there are so many suitable girls here tonight. If only you would apply yourself a little …” The two older women linked arms to step away, effectively shedding Mark and Ivan from their private conversation. A firm nod from Countess Vorkosigan to Ivan placed him on notice that he was on guard duty again. Recalling the last time, Mark thought he might prefer the more formidable social protection of the Countess.

“What was that all about?” Mark asked Ivan. A servant passed with a tray of drinks; following Ivan’s example, Mark snagged one too. It turned out to be a dry white wine flavored with citrus, reasonably pleasant.

“The biennial cattle drive,” Ivan grimaced. “This and the Winterfair Ball are where all the high Vor heifers are trotted out for inspection.”

This was an aspect of the Emperor’s Birthday ceremonies Galen had never mentioned. Mark took a slightly larger gulp of his drink. He was beginning to damn Galen more for what he’d left out than for what and how he’d forced Mark to learn. “They won’t be looking back at me, will they?”

“Considering some of the toads they do kiss, I don’t see why not,” shrugged Ivan.

Thank you, Ivan. Standing next to Ivan’s tall red-and-blue glitter, he probably did look rather like a squat brown toad. He certainly felt like one. “I’m out of the running,” he said firmly.

“Don’t bet on it. There are only sixty Counts’ heirs, but a lot more daughters to place. Hundreds, seems like. Once it gets out what happened to poor damned Miles, anything could happen.”

“You mean … I wouldn’t have to chase women? If I just stood still, they’d come to me?” Or at any rate, to his name, position, and money. A certain glum cheer came with the thought, if that wasn’t a contradiction in terms. Better to be loved for his rank than not to be loved at all; the proud fools who proclaimed otherwise had never come so close to starving to death for a human touch as he had.

“It seemed to work that way for Miles,” said Ivan, an inexplicable tincture of envy in his voice. “I could never get him to take advantage of it. Of course, he couldn’t stand rejection. Try again, was my motto, but he’d just get all shattered and retreat into his shell for days. He wasn’t adventurous. Or maybe he just wasn’t greedy. Tended to stop at the first safe woman he came to. First Elena, and then when that fell through, Quinn. Though I suppose I can see why he might stop at Quinn.” Ivan knocked back the rest of his wine, and exchanged the glass for a full one from a passing tray.

Admiral Naismith, Mark reminded himself, was Miles’s alternate personality. Very possibly Ivan did not know everything about his cousin.

“Aw, hell,” Ivan remarked, glancing over his glass rim. “There’s one of the ones on Mamere’s short list, being aimed our way.”

“So are you chasing women, or not?” asked Mark, confused.

“There’s no point in chasing the ones here. It’s all look-don’t-touch. No chance.”

By chance in this context, Mark gathered Ivan meant sex. Like many backward cultures still dependent on biological reproduction instead of the technology of uterine replicators, the Barrayarans divided sex into two categories: licit, inside a formal contract where any resultant progeny must be claimed, and illicit, i.e., all the rest.

Mark brightened still further. Was this event, then, a sexual safety-zone? No tension, no terror?

The young woman Ivan had spotted was approaching them. She wore a long, soft pastel-green dress. Dark brown hair was wound up on her head in braids and curls, with some live flowers woven in. “So what’s wrong with that one?” whispered Mark.

“Are you kidding?” murmured Ivan in return. “Cassia Vorgorov? Little shrimp kid with a face like a horse and a figure like a board … ?” He broke off as she came within earshot, and gave her a polite nod. “Hi, Cass.” He kept almost all of the pained boredom out of his voice.

“Hello, Lord Ivan,” she said breathlessly. She gave him a starry-eyed smile. True, her face was a little long, and her figure slight, but Mark decided Ivan was too picky. She had nice skin, and pretty eyes. Well, all of the women here had pretty eyes, it was the make-up. And the heady perfumes. She couldn’t be more than eighteen. Her shy smile almost made him want to cry, so uselessly focused was it on Ivan. Nobody has ever looked at me like that. Ivan, you are a filthy ingrate!

“Are you looking forward to the dance?” she inquired of Ivan, transparently encouraging.

“Not particularly,” shrugged Ivan. “It’s the same every year.”

She wilted. Her first time here, Mark bet. If there had been stairs, Mark would have been tempted to kick Ivan down them. He cleared his throat. Ivan’s eye fell on him, and lit with inspiration.

“Cassie,” Ivan purred, “have you met my new cousin, Lord Mark Vorkosigan, yet?”

She seemed to notice him for the first time. Mark gave her a tentative smile. She stared back dubiously. “No … I’d heard … I guess he doesn’t look exactly like Miles, does he.”

“No.” said Mark. “Fin not Miles. How do you do, Lady Cassia.”

Belatedly recovering her manners, she replied, “How do you do, um, Lord Mark.” A nervous bob of her head made the flowers shiver.

“Why don’t you two get acquainted. Excuse me, I have to see a man—” Ivan waved to a red-and-blue uniformed comrade across the room, and slithered away.

“Are you looking forward to the dance?” Mark tried. He’d been so concentrated on remembering all the formal moves of the taxation ceremony and the dinner, not to mention a Who’s Who approximately three hundred names long all starting with “Vor,” he’d hardly given the ensuing dance a thought.

“Um … sort of.” Her eyes reluctantly abandoned Ivan’s successful retreat, touched Mark, and flicked away.

Do you come here often? he managed not to blurt. What to say? How do you like Barrayar? No, that wouldn’t do. Nice fog we’rehaving outside tonight. Inside, too. Give me a cue, girl! Say something, anything!

“Are you really a clone?” Anything but that. “Yes.”

“Oh. My.”

More silence.

“A lot of people are,” he observed.

“Not here.”

“True.”

“Uh … oh!” Her face melted with relief. “Excuse me, Lord Mark. I see my mother is calling me—” She handed off a spasmodic smile like a ransom, and turned to hurry toward a Vorish dowager on the other side of the room. Mark had not seen her beckon.

Mark sighed. So much for the hopeful theory of the overpowering attraction of rank. Lady Cassia was clearly not anxious to kiss a toad. If I were Ivan I’d do handstands for a girl who looked at me like that.

“You look thoughtful,” observed Countess Vorkosigan at his elbow. He jumped slightly.

“Ah, hello again. Yes. Ivan just introduced me to that girl. Not a girlfriend, I gather.”