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Aral wandered through the Residence late in the evening, passing through the sections under repair after the fire, winter-cold and draughty and still smelling faintly of smoke and plaster dust. Their state rooms were in the old wing, beyond where Cordelia's fire had reached, but almost half the enormous building had taken some form of damage. Kareen's first pyre.
They'd lit one for Negri today, a small and discreet ceremony, since Simon had insisted that he would have hated anything showy or public. The funerals had been daily for several weeks, all Vorbarr Sultana sometimes seemed draped in black and scented of smoke and incense. Negri had faded into the background in death as he had in life.
Aral turned a corner and wandered down in the direction of the security headquarters. After the funeral he'd told Simon to take some time off, but he'd noticed him disappearing into his temporary office here anyway, earlier in the evening.
A low light was burning in Simon's office. Aral knocked perfunctorially and went in, then stopped short. Simon was sitting at his desk, head down on top of a stack of files, a half-empty bottle of something that looked lethally home-distilled on the table in front of him.
"Simon?"
Simon raised his head slowly. His eyes were red and bloodshot. "M'lord." He made an automatic effort to rise, but sank back. Aral went over to him.
"Wasn't quite what I meant when I suggested you take some time off, but I suppose it'll do," he commented. "What is that stuff?"
"Peach brandy. Negri used to keep it in his desk drawer," Simon said, eyes half-closed. "I think he mostly drank it with Ezar, before. We had a drink together when we heard about--about the baby. Miles. It was still there when I got into his office last month. Wasn't poisoned. I checked. I was saving it for today. Want some?" His voice was slow and thickened, but he seemed remarkably coherent for someone this spectacularly drunk. The chip, Aral supposed. But when Simon opened his eyes and reached out to pour a shot for Aral, the bottle slipped from his grasp. Aral took it and poured for himself.
It was searingly strong, but good. "To Negri," he murmured. Simon turned slowly to look at him.
"I miss him," he said.
"We all do."
"I hate him," Simon added, his voice dreamlike. "Left me this fucking mess and no clue how to fix it. Damn him. Drilled me often enough on ducking faster, why didn't he duck faster? Damn him!" He drew back his arm with unexpected speed and lashed out at the files he'd been resting his head on. Aral caught them before they could spill over the floor, and moved the pile to the far side of the desk. Simon glared at him and for a moment Aral thought he was going to turn his amorphous anger on the nearest available target. He frowned, just a little, and Simon subsided. "Damn him," he whispered, and closed his eyes again. His breathing began to grow slower and heavier.
Aral waited, then said, "Are you done here?"
It took a few minutes for Simon to respond, but just when Aral thought he was going to have to shake him alert, he mumbled, "Yessir."
"Come on, then. You can't sleep here."
Simon opened his eyes and focused on Aral then, looking worried by the prospect, and finally said, "I live to serve."
Aral decoded that message. "Won't hurt you to change ends for a bit. You've put me to bed more times than I can count."
"Eleven," said Simon unexpectedly. "You threw up on me twice."
"I'd be grateful if you could restrain yourself. Come on, Simon." He got an arm around his man and pulled him upright, disentangled him from the chair and desk, and walked him out of the office. In the chilly corridor, Simon straightened up, seeming a little more in possession of himself. "Where have we put you?"
Simon, he reflected, had the distinct advantage of never being too drunk to forget where his room was. "Just around the corner," he mumbled. "Near the office."
The room, when Aral navigated his way to it, was as cold as the corridor, and the light was broken. "In here?" he said. "Is this really the best we can offer you?"
Simon pulled away from him and stumbled urgently into the adjoining washroom. Aral hesitated over whether to follow him, but there were no alarming crashes and Simon emerged on his feet after only a few minutes, pale and sweat-streaked and shivering.
"This is no good, you're freezing," Aral said as Simon collided with his shoulder. "Come on upstairs."
Simon made an uncoordinated gesture. "'m fine, sir. It's fine."
"Don't argue with me. Here." He looped an arm around Simon again and propelled him back out of the room, along the corridor and up two flights of stairs. Simon followed blindly, his head against Aral's shoulder.
In their suite, there was a spare bedroom with heat and light. Aral hauled Simon inside with a certain amount of clatter, and from the sofa, Cordelia looked up.
"Good God, Aral, what--" Cordelia began, then stood up and came over. "Captain Illyan. What's wrong with--oh." She got a whiff of the alcohol and raised both eyebrows. "That's not like you."
"M'lady," Simon said, his eyes widening with alarm. "I--I--"
"He was raising a glass to Negri," Aral said across whatever apology or explanation Simon was trying to make. "It's not as if he makes a habit of this."
"Makes him quite unusual among Barrayarans," Cordelia said. "I wasn't criticising. Just commenting. Why are you up here?"
"There's no heat or light or hot water in his room downstairs."
"He never mentioned it."
"He wouldn't."
"Ha. No." Cordelia squeezed Simon's shoulder, and Aral saw her notice his tear-streaked face. "I'm sorry about Negri, Simon. It's been a rough day for you. I won't wait up for you, love."
Aral nodded and shepherded Simon through the inner passageway and into the spare bedroom.
In the warm lit bedroom, Simon broke free of Aral's grip and tacked not for the bed but the chaise longue by the fireplace. He collapsed onto it and gazed around the room.
"Shouldn't be here," he said, "but it is nice."
Aral sat companionably beside him. "I think it was one of the guest rooms, before."
"For second-rank guests," Simon agreed. "Dowager Countess Vorbohn had it for Ezar's funeral."
Of course he would know things like that drunk or sober.
"I don't think I've ever seen you drunk before," Aral observed. "Not that I remember it all that clearly, but I think even when you joined me in the bars, last year, you didn't even get tipsy."
"I remember," Simon said, redundantly. He stared into space for a while, his head sinking back against the wall. "Not that it would matter. Negri tested it, you know. It was the same peach brandy. Kept pouring and pouring, and watching me to see what happened. It doesn't matter how drunk I get. I don't forget any of it. Falling down and throwing up on his boots, all the whole sorry mess, crystal clear. Won't forget this, either. At least this time I did it to myself. Can't forget anything I want to forget this way either, not like you. Sorry. Sorry. Shouldn't mention that. Please make me stop talking, I won't forget this and I don't want to have to order my own arrest in the morning."
There were tears on Simon's face again, falling unheeded as he spoke. Aral reached out, and Simon flinched back as if from a blow. From some kind of touch he feared. "No, can't, you're married now," he mumbled.
Aral gave a smile he didn't feel, and laid his hand on Simon's head. "I hereby grant you an Imperial Pardon for anything you might say tonight."
"Too drunk anyway," Simon said, but he stopped flinching and let himself lean against Aral. "You don't want me for this job, sir. It made sense in the bunker, I was the only option then. You've got other options now. You should take them instead. I don't have the right background. I'm a jumped-up bodyguard with half a computer in his brain, no galactic experience, he's got no Komarr background, last year he was just another lieutenant on Palace duty. Negri had some serious men around him, I'd have been happy to serve under Taramov or--"
The change of person clued Aral in: Simon had gone from speaking his own thoughts to a chip playback of something he'd heard, or overheard. The mechanical recital in Simon's slightly slurred human voice gave him a pain somewhere. Maybe it was his heart. He wished he had a stop button, not for Simon but for the chip.
"Yeah, but it freaks me out the way he looks at you, like he's comparing everything you're doing now against everything else you've ever said or done. Like having God standing over you with a nerve disruptor." The words continued to fall from Simon's mouth, but there was a growing panic in his eyes, like a passenger in a hijacked ship.
"Stop," Aral ordered, and Simon fell mercifully silent. "I chose right, Simon, and you know it. You've already grown into the job, and you haven't stopped growing. I do want you for this job."
Simon's lips were pressed together tightly, as if trying to prevent something from escaping his mouth. Aral eyed him cautiously, but it was a vomit of words that Simon was holding back, he feared. Much harder to clean up.
"That lump of hardware in your head knows you're the best man for the job, doesn't it?" he said.
"It doesn't know a damned thing. It just thinks it does, it--shut up, damn you."
How many people were there in this room, Aral wondered. But he knew which one he cared about.
"If they ever invent time travel," Simon went on, "I'm going to go back and shoot myself. Can I send out black ops teams now that I'm in charge? I want the doctors who came up with this. I want them dead, so they can't do this again." He leaned sideways, clutched at his head with both hands and nearly fell off the chaise longue. Aral caught him, pulled him back so he was leaning against Aral's chest, maligned head falling heavily back on his shoulder. He was crying again. "This," he said in a blurred voice, "is why I don't usually drink. It gets away from me."
A flash of his own memory lit his mind suddenly, the positions reversed. Simon sitting patiently holding him, not in a comfortable warm room but in a caravanserai gutter, while he wept and talked and wept again. He couldn't remember what he had said, or what Simon had said. The answer was in the head cradled in the hollow of his shoulder. Aral ran his hands through Simon's hair, said quietly, "It's all right, Simon. It's all right," and let him cry. Sometimes a man needed to let loose his pain, pour it out into some larger vessel. Simon had been that vessel for him, time and again.
Eventually Simon's grief dried up; he became more and more limp against Aral's chest. "Come on, let's get you into bed," Aral said. Father of his people, they had called him at the ceremony to invest the Regency upon him. He felt it as he walked Simon from the chaise longue to the bed. Simon made a vague attempt to help as Aral stripped him, boots, trousers, tunic, shirt. Aral pushed his unsteady hands aside and did it himself, then got Simon under the blankets. Simon's eyes blinked up at him, no longer the keen Horus-eye of his badge but something red-rimmed and owlish and vague.
"Thank you, sir," he said hoarsely, and was asleep before Aral could answer. Aral placed a hand on his head for a moment, then turned, put out the lights, and went out quietly.
Cordelia was getting ready for bed in their adjoining room. "Is he all right?" she asked.
Aral considered this. "No," he said, "but he will be."