Captain Vorpatril's Alliance (7 page)

“Uh…what?”

“A
jeeves
is a Jacksonian slang term for an obligate-loyal servant or slave. Made variously, either by psychological conditioning or genetic bias or both, and unswervingly devoted to their object of attachment. They’re said to pine if they are separated from their master or mistress, and sometimes even die if he or she dies.”

They actually sounded a bit like his cousin Miles’s loyal armsmen, but that select cadre of stern men wasn’t nearly so photogenic. Ivan kept this reflection to himself. “Baronne Cordonah? Any relation to Cordonah Station?” One of five vital jump point stations guarding the wormholes into and out of Jacksonian local space. Fell Station, which served the jump point out to the Hegen Hub, was usually of the most interest to Barrayar, but the others were important, too.

“Until recently, Shiv and Udine ghem Estif Arqua, Baron and Baronne Cordonah, were the joint masters of House Cordonah and all its works.”

“Until how—wait, what? Ghem Estif?” A pure Cetagandan name. “How the hell did that happen?”

“Oh, now that’s a tale and a half.” A glint of enthusiasm lit Morozov’s eye. “How far back should I start?”

“How far back does it go?”

“Quite a way—you’d be amazed.”

“All right, begin there. But keep in mind that I get mixed up easily.” Ivan cast an eye on the time, but quelled an urge to tell Morozov to fast-forward it. An ImpSec analyst in a
forthcoming
mood was a wonder not to be wasted.

“The name of General ghem Estif may be dimly familiar to you from your history lessons…?” Morozov paused in hope. More dim than familiar, but Ivan nodded to encourage him. “One of the lesser Cetagandan generals who oversaw the last days of the Occupation, and its assorted debacles,” Morozov generously glossed. “At about that time in his career, he actually was awarded a haut wife.”

The highest honor, and burden, a Cetagandan ghem lord could acquire; such a spouse was a genetic gift bestowed by the upper tier of Cetagandan aristocracy, the haut, a super-race-in-progress, or so they imagined themselves. Having met a few daunting haut ladies, Ivan could imagine that the reward had been a very mixed blessing for the old general.

“When most of his brother ghem officers returned to Eta Ceta to lay their somewhat terminal apologies before their emperor, ghem Estif and his wife understandably lingered on Komarr. It must have been a strange life and wrenching life for them, expatriate Cetagandans in the domes. But ghem Estif had his connections, and eventually his daughter Udine, who was actually born here in Solstice, married an extremely wealthy Komarran shipping magnate.”

“Uh, how many generations of Udines are we talking about…?”

Morozov held up a hand. “Wait for it…Ghem Estif’s schemes were unfortunately knocked asunder by us once more, when Barrayar annexed Komarr. The family fled in various directions. The daughter and her husband got out at the last possible moment, under fire, with the protection and aid of a mercenary captain from the Selby Fleet, which Komarr had hired to augment their defense. A somewhat eccentric Jacksonian sometime-smuggler and hijacker by the name of Shiv Arqua.”

“Was the Komarran husband killed, then?”

“Nope. But by the end of the voyage, young Udine had definitely switched allegiances. It is unclear just who hijacked whom, but Shiv Arqua’s rise to prominence in House Cordonah began at about that time.”

“I see.”
I think
. Ivan wondered just what accumulated frustrations on the part of the defeated ghem general’s expat daughter had triggered such an elopement. Or had it been a more positive choice? “Er, was Shiv an especially glamorous…space pirate, then?”

Mororsov rubbed his chin. “I’m afraid even ImpSec has no explanation for women’s tastes in men.” He bent forward again and called up another scan. “The official portrait, when Arqua took the Baron’s seat, twenty years back. He’d be grayer and stouter now, if that helps.”

A man and a woman appeared standing side by side, staring into the pick-up with grave, closed expressions. Both were dressed in red, her gown deep carmine, his jacket and trousers almost black. The woman drew Ivan’s eye first. Oh, yeah, she had the height, the luminous eyes and skin, the superb sculpted bone structure, the marrow-deep confidence that marked a liberal serving of haut genes. A thick, black hank of shining hair bound with jeweled ribbons was drawn over her shoulder, to hang, visibly, past her knees, very much harking to the haut style.

The top of her husband’s head was barely level with her chin, though Arqua was by no means unusually short. Middle height, stocky build, the remains of a muscular youth softening in middle age; black hair of unknown length, but drawn back, probably, into some knot at his nape. Maybe some faint streaks of silver, in there? Rich, deep mahogany skin. A heavy, rather squashed face that looked as if it would be more at home running a gang of enforcers, but featuring liquid black eyes that would, Ivan suspected, be dangerously penetrating if turned on you in person.

Ivan wasn’t sure, but by the angle of their arms, he thought the two might be holding hands behind that velvety fold of skirt.

“Impressive,” said Ivan, sincerely.

“Yes,” Morozov agreed. “I was actually rather sorry to lose them. Arqua and his wife were pretty even-handed in their dealings. Arqua got out of the hijacking trade and into the middleman, ah, recovery business quite a while back. House Cordonah had the best record for getting hostages back alive of any of the Houses that dabble in that commerce. Reliable, in their own special way. They were just as happy to sell Barrayaran information to Cetaganda as Cetagandan information to ImpSec, but if the data the Cetas received was as solid as what we did, they should have been satisfied customers. And the Cordonahs were willing to return favors, both above and below the table.”

“You keep using the past tense. So what’s Barrayar’s current relationship with House Cordonah, then?”

“It’s in disarray, I’m afraid. About seven months ago, House Cordonah suffered an especially hostile takeover by one of their rival jump-point control cartels, House Prestene. With this much time gone by without an attempt at a countercoup, it’s almost certain that both the Baron and the Baronne are dead. A real loss. They had such
style
.” He sighed.

“Are, uh, the House’s new masters less helpful to us, then?”

“Say rather, untested. And uncommunicative. Several data lines were lost during the shifts, which have not yet been replaced.”

Ivan squinted, trying to imagine what that last sentence would translate to if it weren’t in ImpSec Passive Voice.
Trail of bodies
was a phrase that rose to mind.

“It was not known if the late Baronne’s Jewels were captured, killed, or scattered in the takeover,” Morozov went on. “So I have a keen interest in any sightings, if perhaps academic at this late date. Just where did you see Lapis Lazuli?”

“We need to talk about that,” Ivan evaded, “but I’m out of time.” He glanced at his wristcom; it wasn’t a lie, oops. He scrambled up. “Thank you, Captain Morozov, you’ve been very helpful.”

“When can we continue?” said Morozov.

“Not this afternoon, I’m afraid; I’m bespoke.” Ivan picked his way over cartons to the cubicle door. “I’ll see what I can fit in.”

“Stop by any time,” Morozov invited. “Oh, and please convey my personal best wishes to your, er, stepfather, which I trust will find him much recovered.”

“Virtual stepfather, at most,” Ivan corrected hastily. “M’mother and Illyan haven’t bothered to get married yet, y’know.” He managed a somewhat wooden smile.

As he fled in disorder down the dingy corridor, it occurred to him that there could be
another
reason he was getting such an unusual degree of cooperation from the ImpSec old guard these days, and it had nothing to do with his association with Admiral Desplains. He shuddered and ran on.

*
 
*
 
*

Ivan headed for the door at day’s end with his brain jammed with everything from personnel promotion debates to surprise inspection schemes to the lurid history of House Cordonah, but mostly with urgent mulling of just where to stop for a take-away dinner that would most please Tej.
If she’s still there
. He was anxious to get home and find out. It was, therefore, no joy to see, out of the corner of his eye, a lieutenant from the front security desk waving frantically and hurrying to catch him. “Sirs! Wait!”

Too late to speed up and pretend not to have seen the fellow. Ivan and Admiral Desplains both paused to allow him to come up, slightly out of breath.

“What is it, lieutenant?” inquired Desplains. He did a better job than Ivan of concealing his dismay at their impeded escape, only a faint ironic edge leaking into his resigned tone.

“Sir. Two Solstice Security people just turned up at the front desk, saying they want to interview Captain Vorpatril.”

Interview
, not
arrest
, Ivan’s suddenly-focused mind noted. Although he imagined any attempt by civilian dome authorities to arrest a Barrayaran officer from the midst Barrayaran HQ could be a tricky proposition, jurisdiction-wise.

Desplains’s brows rose. “What’s this all about, Vorpatril? It can’t be the Imperial Service’s largest collection of parking violations, again—you don’t have a vehicle here. And we’ve only been downside four days.”

“I don’t know, sir,” said Ivan, truthfully.
Suspect
was not the same thing as
know
, right?

“I suppose the fastest way to find out is to just talk to them. Well, go along, try to make them happy.” Unfeelingly, his boss waved Ivan away. “Tell me all about it in the morning.” Desplains made a swift strategic retreat, leaving Ivan as the sacrificial rear guard.

It could have been worse. Desplains could have wanted to sit in…Ivan sighed and trudged unwillingly after the too-efficient lieutenant, who told him: “I put them in Conference Room Three, sir.”

There were a handful of such reception rooms off the HQ building lobby, holding pens for people HQ didn’t care to admit to its inner sanctums. Ivan expected that every one of them was monitored. Conference Room Three, the smallest, had approximately the ambiance and intimacy of a tax office waiting area, Ivan discovered as the lieutenant ushered him inside. He wondered if it was made that dismal on purpose, to encourage visitors not to linger.

“Captain Vorpatril, this is Detective Fano and Detective-patroller Sulmona, Solstice Dome Security. I’ll just leave you to it, then, shall I? Detectives, please return to the front desk and sign out again when you’re finished.” The lieutenant, too, beat a retreat.

Fano was a stocky man, Sulmona a slim but fit-looking woman. He was in civvies, she in uniform complete with such street gear as would be expected on a patroller’s belt, including a stunner holster and shock-stick. Both were youngish but not young. Not grizzled veterans, but not rookies; born post-Conquest, then, though perhaps with older relatives possessing unhappy memories. Sulmona’s left hand bore a wedding ring, Ivan noted automatically.

“Thank you for agreeing to see us, Captain,” said Fano formally, standing up. He gestured to a chair across the table from the pair. “Please, sit down.”

Taking psychological possession of the space, Fano was, in proper interrogation-room style. Ivan let it pass and sat, granting them each a neutral nod. He had suffered through a course in counter-interrogation techniques once, long ago.
I suppose it will come back to me
. “Sir, ma’am. What can I do for Dome Security?”

They exchanged a look; Fano began. “We’re following up on a peculiar B&E arrest—that’s breaking and entering—early this morning in the Crater Lake neighborhood.”

Dammit, how had this pair nailed him so fast?
Don’t panic. You didn’t do anything wrong
. Well, all right, he’d done several things wrong, starting with listening to Byerly Vorrutyer. But he didn’t think he’d done anything
illegal
.
Yeah, I’m the victim, here
. What he said out loud was, “Ah?”

“Oh,” put in Sulmona, pulling a vid pickup from her pocket and setting it in front of them, “do you mind if we record? It’s standard procedure in these investigations.”

Why not? I’m pretty sure my people are
. Yes, and the transcript would be copied to Admiral Desplains first thing tomorrow morning, no doubt.
Ouch
. “Sure, go ahead,” said Ivan, trying for a tone of easy innocence. He offered a friendly smile to the detective-patroller. She seemed to be immune to his charm.

Fano went on, “The flat that was broken into is listed as rented by a young woman named Nanja Brindis, lately moved to Solstice from Olbia Dome. Unfortunately, Sera Brindis is not to be found, either last night or today—she didn’t report to her work this morning. We understand you had contact with the young woman earlier last evening. Would you care to describe it? In your own words.”

The better to hang myself
. How much of the story did this pair already possess? They had obviously seen some scan of the credit chit he’d used at the shipping shop, and maybe talked to the coworker, and who knew what else. So he’d likely better stick as closely to the truth as possible, without betraying Byerly or Nanja-Tej. Or the Imperium. Or himself, but it was pretty easy to see where he sat in that hierarchy, should a goat be required. He sighed, because he didn’t think the Komarrans would understand it if he bleated.

“Yes, well, I’d stopped in at the shop where she worked to ship a package home. It was closing time, so I offered to take her out for a drink or dinner.”

Sulmona frowned at him. “Why?”

“Er…haven’t you seen a picture of her yet?”

“There was a scan for her work ID,” said Fano.

“Then it didn’t do her justice. She was a very eye-catching young woman, believe me.”

“And?” said Sulmona.

“And I’m a soldier a long way from home, all right? She was pretty, I was lonely, it seemed worth a try. I know you Komarrans don’t always think us Barrayarans are human, but we are.” He matched her frown. She didn’t drop her eyes, but she did rock back a bit; point taken.