Chapter Text
The party is going well. There are still a few hours left before the serious drinkers will take over and Gregor can relax or relax as much as an Emperor ever can. He’ll be expected to stay, though, luckily, not to outdrink anyone, but eligible ladies won’t be presented, no serious talk can be expected to be remembered, servicemen are on duty to make sure no guest goes where they shouldn’t, and anything even close to a weapon is firmly out of reach. There are times when everyone knows the Emperor is just there as a symbol, and Gregor might even partake in some of the more lightweight drinking contests among the men who remain mostly cheerful even when drunk.
Right now, Gregor is still expected to keep up a certain level of sociability, but it’s a degree that even he can handle without trouble, even on days when he didn’t suspect a minor conspiracy among senior staff to make things as easy for him as possible, which he doesn’t feel requires any sort of rejection. Most of the women he’s danced with have been on the more ‘matronly’ side of things, or good at pretending the part, including Aunt Cordelia, whose assures him that Aral is more resigned than anything at the confirmation that he’ll be Prime Minister and Lady Alys, who turned out to have a collection of amusing anecdotes about various Counts she can share without losing a step.
Miles had sat with him for a bit, but even though he still looks paler than seems fully explained by his year mostly out of the sun (an impression admittedly suggested in part by Arsman Stas’ slightly panicked looked when he lost sight of his charge), he’s recovered enough from his silent mood to make a few jokes about how it must have taken at least a few hours to throw this shindig together and whether the amount of wine Count Vordurn can put away counts as theft from the crown, which had been a relief. He and Henri had seemed to get on when they’d met, before Miles had abandoned them for the younger crowd.
Gregor has derived some quiet amusement in watching Lord Ivan Vorpatril, whose attempts to go between smiling charmingly at his date and sending warning glares over to where Miles is talk – conferring, even – with a tall young women who must be his sister leave him looking like he’s suffering facial spasms. He suspects Lord Padma Vorpatril finds it equally funny, as he’s cheerfully ignored his son’s pleading looks in order to tease his cousin. It can be hard to think of the Lord Regent – the Prime Minister as a family man when he’s in uniform, but Lord Padma’s dramatically staged confusion over just who could possibly be chosen from such a long list of candidates has made even Count Vorkosigan smile.
His mother seems to be having a good time. The Princess-Dowager, Empress Mother, would never ruffle her role son’s hair in public or let herself get struck down by any obvious sentimentality, but she’d smiled with less of the secret strain than usual during the long toasts and he’d even heard her laugh a few times from where she had stepped back from hosting to sit with Minister Quintillan, Aunt Cordelia and Lady Filippa.
Captain Illyan looks like he’s not entirely sure he shouldn’t have set a few more men to stand guard on the fireworks, which might be as relaxed as he can be. If the Emperor can never be completely at ease, his chief of security must be even less so. But Gregor doesn’t think that his quiet talk with Captain Koudelka was purely on work matters, and there had been a smile when the Empress Mother had demanded a dance.
Henri’s nerves had steadied after the first toasts, and he’s telling a woman (Lady something Vorsmythe) about his dance number theory, though her patience hasn’t been faced with anything being knocked over by his enthusiastic hand gestures yet. Perhaps not completely representative of the new wave of Counts, but not a bad start. Gregor has seen some far worse examples of the old guard, but tonight is not a night to do anything about them beyond having them watched.
Across Barrayar, the parties ushering in a new era have been going without any more major trouble than the expected public drunkenness. If there are any riots on Komarr, nothing serious enough to merit the attention of the highest ranks of the government. On a different planet, this assemblage of the great and powerful would likely have plenty of cameras in attendance to capture the moment for history, but that’s one mark of ‘progress’ Gregor doesn’t regret being without. There are some parts of history that should be taken out of the shadows, there are other memories that can just belong to the people there.
Tomorrow will be a new day, he might even be looking forward to it.