The warrior's apprentice by Lois McMaster Bujold Page B

down a meat-stuffed pastry. “But your time is all your own—you can do whatever you want with it.”
    “Every minute,” agreed Miles blandly. Neither the Emperor nor anyone else demanded his service. He couldn’t sell it—couldn’t give it away...
    Ivan, blessedly, fell silent for a few minutes, refueling. After a time he said hesitantly. “No chance of your father coming up here, is there?”
    Miles jerked his chin up. “What, you’re not afraid of him, are you?”
    Ivan snorted. “The man turns entire General Staffs to pudding, for God’s sake. I’m just the Emperor’s rawest recruit. Doesn’t he terrify you?”
    Miles considered the question seriously. “Not exactly, no. Not in the way you mean.”
    Ivan rolled his eyes heavenward in disbelief.
    “Actually,” added Miles, thinking back to the recent scene in the library, “if you’re trying to duck him this might not be the best place, tonight.”
    “Oh?” Ivan swirled his wine in the bottom of his cup. “I’ve always had the feeling he doesn’t like me,” he added glumly.
    “Oh, he doesn’t mind you,” said Miles, taking pity. “At least as you appear on his horizon at all. Although I think I was fourteen before I found out that Ivan wasn’t your middle name.” Miles cut himself off. That-idiotIvan was beginning a lifetime of Imperial service tomorrow. Lucky-Miles was emphatically not. He took another gulp of wine, and longed for sleep. They finished the canapes, and Ivan emptied the first bottle and opened the second.
    There came an authoritative double knock on the door. Ivan sprang to his feet. “Oh, hell, that’s not him, is it?”
    “A junior officer,” said Miles, “is required to stand and salute when a senior officer enters. Not hide under the bed.”      “I wasn’t thinking of hiding under the bed!” said Ivan, stung. “Just in the bathroom.”
    “Don’t bother. I guarantee there’ll be so much covering fire you’ll be able to retreat totally unnoticed.” Miles raised his voice. “Come!”
    It was indeed Count Vorkosigan. He pinned his son with eyes cold and grey as a glacier on a sunless day, and began without preamble, “Miles, what did you do to make that girl cr—” He broke off as his gaze passed over Ivan, standing at attention like a man stuffed. Count Vorkosigan’s voice returned to a more normal growl. “Oh, hell. I was hoping to avoid tripping over you tonight. Figured you’d be getting safely drunk in a corner on my wine—”
    Ivan saluted nervously. “Sir. Uncle Aral. Did, um, did my mother speak with you, sir?”
    “Yes,” Count Vorkosigan sighed. Ivan paled. Miles realized Ivan did not see the amusement in the hooded set of his father’s eyelids.
    Miles ran a finger pensively around the lip of the empty wine bottle. “Ivan has been commiserating me upon my injuries, sir.” Ivan nodded confirmation.
    “I see,” said Count Vorkosigan dryly—and Miles felt he really did. The coldness sublimated altogether. Count Vorkosigan sighed again, and addressed Ivan in a tone of gentle, rhetorical complaint. “Going on fifty years of military and political service, and what am I? A boogeyman, used to frighten boys into good behavior—like the Baba Yaga, who only eats the bad little children.” He spread his arms, and added sardonically, “Boo. Consider yourself chastized, and take yourself off. Go, boy.”
    “Yes, sir.” Ivan saluted again, looking decidedly relieved.
    “And stop saluting me,” Count Vorkosigan added more sharply. “You’re not an officer yet.” He seemed to notice Ivan’s uniform for the first time. “As a matter of fact—”
    “Yes, sir. No, sir.” Ivan began to salute again, stopped himself, looked confused, and fled. Count Vorkosigan’s lips twitched.
    And I never thought I’d be grateful to Ivan, Miles mused. “You were saying, sir?” he prompted.
    It took Count Vorkosigan a moment to collect his thoughts after the diversion provided by his young