“I see,” Mark blinked. “Is that an ambition of your parents?”

“Not necessarily,” Kareen shrugged. “But all else being equal, that prefix does give a fellow an edge.”

“That’s … good to know. I guess.” He considered his wine, and did not drink.

Ivan came out of one of the ballroom doors, saw them both, and gave them a friendly wave, but kept on going. He had not a glass but an entire bottle swinging from his hand, and he cast a slightly hunted look back over his shoulder before disappearing down the walkway. Glancing over the balustrade a few minutes later, Mark saw the top of his head pass by on a descending path.

Mark took a gulp of his drink then. “Kareen … am I possible?”

“Possible for what?” She tilted her head and smiled.

“For—for women. I mean, look at me. Square on. I really do look like a toad. All twisted up, and if I don’t do something about it soon, I’m going to end up as wide as I am … short. And on top of it all, I’m a clone.” Not to mention the little breathing problem. Summed up that way, hurling himself head-first over the balustrade seemed a completely logical act. It would save so much pain in the long run.

“Well, that’s all true,” she allowed judiciously.

Dammit, woman, you’re supposed to deny it all, to be polite.

“But you’re Miles’s clone. You have to have his intelligence, too.”

“Do brains make up for all the rest? In the female view?”

“Not to every woman, I suppose. Just to the smart ones.”

“You’re smart.”

“Yes, but it would be rude of me to say so.” She raked her curls and grinned.

How the hell was he to construe that? “Maybe I don’t have Miles’s brains,” he said gloomily. “Maybe the Jacksonian body-sculptors stupified me, when they were doing all the rest, to keep me under control. That would explain a lot about my life.” Now there was a morbid new thought to wallow in.

Kareen giggled. “I don’t think so, Mark.”

He smiled wryly back at her. “No excuses. No quarter.”

“Now you sound like Miles.”

A young woman emerged from the ballroom. Dressed in some pale blue silky stuff, she was athletically trim, glowingly blonde, and nearly as tall as Ivan. “Kareen!” she waved. “Mama wants us all.”

“Now, Delia?” said Kareen, sounding quite put-out.

“Yes.” She eyed Mark with alarmingly keen interest, but drawn by whatever daughterly duty, swung back inside.

Kareen sighed, pushed away from the stonework upon which she had been leaning, dusted futilely at a snag in her raspberry gauze, and smiled farewell. “It was nice meeting you, Lord Mark.”

“It was nice talking with you too. And dancing with you.” It was true. He waved, more casually than he felt, as she vanished into the warm light of the Residence. When he was sure she was out of sight, he knelt and surreptitiously collected the last of the tiny flowers she had shed, and stuffed them into his pocket with the rest.

She smiled at me. Not at Miles. Not at Admiral Naismith. Me, myself, Mark. This was how it could have been, if he hadn’t bankrupted himself at Bharaputra’s.

Now that he was alone in the dark as he had wished, he discovered he didn’t much care for it. He decided to go find Ivan, and struck off down the garden walkways. Unfortunately, the paths divided and re-divided, presumably to more than one destination. He passed couples who had taken to the sheltered benches despite the chill, and a few other men and women who’d just wandered down here for private talks, or to cool off. Which way had Ivan gone? Not this way, obviously; a little round balcony made a dead-end. He turned back.

Someone was following him, a tall man in red-and-blues. His face was in shadow. “Ivan?” said Mark uncertainly. He didn’t think it was Ivan.

“So you’re Vorkosigan’s clowne.” Not Ivan’s voice. But his skewed pronunciation made the intended insult very clear.

Mark stood square. “You’ve got that straight, all right,” he growled. “So who in this circus are you, the dancing bear?”

“A Vor.”

“I can tell that by the low, sloping forehead. Which Vor?” The hairs were rising on the back of his neck. The last time he’d felt such exhilaration combined with intense sickness to his stomach had been in the alley in the caravanserai. His heart began to pound. But he’s made no threat yet, and he’s alone. Wait.

“Offworlder. You have no concept of the honor of the Vor,” the man grated.

“None whatsoever,” Mark agreed cheerfully. “I think you’re all insane.”

“You are no soldier.”

“Right again. My, we are quick tonight. I was trained strictly as a lone assassin. Death in the shadows is a sort of specialty of mine.” He began counting seconds in his head.

The man, who had started to move forward, sagged back again. “So it seems,” he hissed. “You’ve wasted no time, promoting yourself to a Countship. Not very subtle, for a trained assassin.”

“I’m not a subtle man.” He centered his balance, but did not move. No sudden moves. Keep bluffing.

“I can tell you this, little clowne.” He gave it the same insulting slur as before. “If Aral Vorkosigan dies, it won’t be you who steps into his place.”

“Well, that’s just exactly right,” purred Mark. “So what are you all hot about, Vor bore?” Shit. This one knows that Miles is dead. How the hell does he know? Is he an Imp Sec insider? But no Horus-eye stared from his collar; he bore a ship insignia of some kind, which Mark could not quite make out. Active-duty type. “What, to you, is one more little spare Vor drone living off a family pension in Vorbarr Sultana? I saw a herd of them up there tonight, swilling away.”

“You’re very cocky.”

“Consider the venue,” said Mark in exasperation. “You’re not going to carry out any death threats here. It would embarrass ImpSec. And I don’t think you want to annoy Simon Illyan, whoever the hell you are.” He kept on counting.

“I don’t know what hold you think you have on ImpSec,” the man began furiously.

But he was interrupted. A smiling servant in the Residence’s livery walked down the path carrying a tray of glasses. He was a very physically-fit young man.

“Drinks, gentlemen?” he offered.

The anonymous Vor glowered at him. “No, thank you.” He turned on his heel and strode off. Shrubbery whipped in his wake, scattering droplets of dew.

“I’ll take one, thanks,” said Mark brightly. The servant proffered the tray with a slight bow. For his abused stomach’s sake Mark stuck with the same light wine he’d been drinking most of the evening. “Eighty-five seconds. Your timing is lousy. He could have killed me three times over, but you interrupted just as the talk was getting interesting. How do you fellows pick this stuff out, real-time? You can’t possibly have enough people upstairs to be following every conversation in the building. Automated key-word searches?”

“Canape, sir?” Blandly, the servant turned the tray and offered the other side.

“Thank you again. Who was that proud Vor?”

The servant glanced down the now-empty pathway. “Captain Edwin Vorventa. He’s on personal leave while his ship is in orbital dock.”

“He’s not in ImpSec?”

“No, my lord.”

“Oh? Well, tell your boss I’d like to talk to him, at his earliest convenience.”

“That would be Lord Voraronberg, the castellan’s food and beverage manager.”

Mark grinned. “Oh, sure. Go away, I’m drunk enough.”

“Very good, my lord.”

“Not come morning. Ah! One more thing. You wouldn’t know where I could find Ivan Vorpatril right now, would you?”

The young man stared absently over the balcony a moment, as though listening, though no earbug showed. “There is a sort of gazebo at the bottom of the next left-hand turn, my lord, near a fountain. You might try there.”

“Thank you.”

Mark followed his directions, through the cool night mist. In a stray ray of light, fog droplets on his uniform sleeve shone like a cloud across the little silver rivers of the embroidery. He soon heard the plash of the fountain. A petite stone building, no walls, just deeply shadowed arches, overlooked it.