The warrior's apprentice by Lois McMaster Bujold

remained uncompromisingly blank and silent. After a time he became conscious of the stiff figure of the floor duty guard at the end of the corridor. The man was politely not looking at him. The Prime Minister’s security detail was, after all, among the most discreet, as well as the most alert, available. Miles swore under his breath, and shuffled back to the lift tube.

 
     
    CHAPTER FOUR
     
    *        *        *
     
      Miles ran into his mother in the back passage downstairs.
    “Have you seen your father lately, heart?” Countess Vorkosigan asked him.
    “Yes,” unfortunately, “he went into the library with Captain Koudelka and the Sergeant.”
    “Sneaking off for a drink,” she analyzed wryly, “with his old troopers. Well, I can’t blame him. He’s so tired. It’s been a ghastly day. And I know he hasn’t gotten enough sleep.” She looked him over penetratingly. “How have you been sleeping?”
    Miles shrugged. “All right.”
    “Mm. I’d better go catch him before he has more than one—ethanol has an unfortunate tendency to make him blunt, and that egg-sucker Count Vordrozda just arrived, in company with Admiral Hessman. He’ll have trouble ahead if those two are getting in bed together.”
    “I shouldn’t think the far right could muster that much support, with all the old soldiers solidly behind Father.”
    “Oh, Vordrozda’s not a rightist at heart. He’s just personally ambitious, and he’ll ride any pony that’s going his way. He’s been oozing around Gregor for months...” Anger sparked in her grey eyes. “Flattery and innuendo, oblique criticisms and these nasty little barbs stuck in all the boy’s self doubts—I’ve watched him at work. I don’t like him,” she said positively.
    Miles grinned. “I never would have guessed. But surely you don’t have to worry about Gregor.” His mother’s habit of referring to the Emperor as if he were her rather backward adopted child always tickled him. In a sense it was true, as the former Regent had been Gregor’s personal as well as political guardian during his minority.
    She grimaced. “Vordrozda’s not the only one who wouldn’t hesitate to corrupt the boy in any area he could sink his claws into—moral, political, what you will—if he thought it would advance himself one centimeter, and damn the long range good of Barrayar—or of Gregor, for that matter.” Miles recognized this instantly as a quote from his mother’s sole political oracle, his father. “I don’t know why these people can’t write a constitution. Oral law—what a way to try and run an interstellar power.” This was homegrown opinion, pure Betan.
    “Father’s been in power so long,” said Miles equably. “I think it would take a gravity torpedo blast to shift him out of office.”
    “That’s been tried,” remarked Countess Vorkosigan, growing abstracted. “I wish he’d get serious about retiring. We’ve been lucky so far,” her eye fell on him wistfully, “—mostly.”
    She’s tired too, Miles thought.
    “The politicking never stops,” she added, staring at the floor. “Not even for his father’s funeral.” She brightened wickedly. “Nor do his relations. If you see him before I do, tell him Lady Vorpatril’s looking for him. That’ll make his day—no, better not. We’d never be able to find him, then.”
    Miles raised his brows. “What does Aunt Vorpatril want him to do for her now?”
    “Well, ever since Lord Vorpatril died she’s been expecting him to stand in loco parentis to that idiot Ivan, which is fine, up to a point. But she nailed me a while ago, when she couldn’t find Aral—seems she wants Aral to stand the boy up in a corner somewhere and brace him for—er—swiving the servant girls, which ought to embarrass them both thoroughly. I’ve never understood why these people won’t clip their kids’ tubes and turn them loose at age twelve to work out their own damnation, like sensible folk. You may as