Chapter Text
“Vorkosigans!”
Countess Cordelia Vorkosigan schooled her face to hide the amusement engendered by Simon Illyan’s near perfect mimicry – right down to the Betan accent – of her own traditional curse: “Barayarans!” Instead, she said, in much the same tone she used on her son when he got into moods like this, “Don’t be so melodramatic, Illyan.”
“Melodramatic?” the Chief's voice went up half an octave on the utterance. “I have been keeping a lid on this… this… disaster for 6 weeks and you sit there telling me not to be melodramatic?!” He pressed two fingers to the center of his forehead and took a deep breath. “I am going to have a stroke right this moment and it will be all that…” - Illyan edited his language on the fly and Cordelia wondered idly what word he’d been about to use - “your husband’s fault!”
And that would be different from any other day of the week how? Cordelia thought but did not say. She knew it was way too soon for injecting her Betan humor into the situation. At least his use of hyperbole meant she no longer had to fear he might do actual harm to himself. What is it with all the men in my life and their tendency toward self-destruction?
She opted for plain honesty, hoping to cool him down just a bit more. “Well, your suffering is richly redeemed. I’ve been imagining all the worst-case scenarios since I received that blasted note of yours calling me home weeks early. ‘See me before you speak to anyone else’ indeed! At first, I was certain someone had managed to assassinate Aral. Or Gregor! But then I realized either of those messages would have been accompanied by much more than a lone ImpSec courier officer. So, I was sure it was some new calamity with Miles, and hadn’t we just…”
“Oh, Milady, I would never…” Illyan began haltingly.
Cordelia held up a hand to forestall further apologies. “The point is, this is not a disaster, it’s not even a surprise to me.” Much. “It’s just a situation that needs handling.”
He snorted his vehement disagreement. He still had traces of the ‘man about to fall on his sword’ expression which, coupled with her sheer relief, had caused her to laugh in his face after he’d solemnly declared: “Milady, I regret to inform you, your lord husband has been unfaithful to you with his secretary.”
“Simon, did you think I was going to come the offended Vor woman and, what, murder Jole?” Cordelia asked, amused and a little offended. “We’ve known each other for twenty damn years. What in our history together gave you the impression that I would do such a thing?”
Cheif Illyan gave her a pointed look. “To name just one example," he said dryly. "The last man who stood between you and your family lost his head, literally.”
Oh, good, Cordelia thought, he’s regaining some semblance of his sense of humor. Which was notably nearly as odd, by Barayaran standards, as Aral’s.
“Yes, and then I gave it to my husband for a present, remember?”
“Ha!” Illyan barked, but there was little humor in the sound. “I told the Emperor,” he admitted grimacing. “Last night. There was only so long I could honorably keep it from him. His Prime Minister’s sexual habits are not usually a matter of State, per se, but anything that might blow up His Government is absolutely something he needs to know.”
“And how did he take it?” Cordelia asked, mostly because she knew Illyan wanted her to. She had a great deal of faith in her foster son.
“Well." Illyan frowned. “I think. He can be very hard to read. He ordered me to classify it ‘Top Secret: Need to Know’ - as if I hadn't already - and to keep it out of the gossip rags but otherwise voiced no concerns.”
“Good for Gregor!” she responded firmly.
“But, milady,” Illyan hesitated. “He, the Emperor, he’s still trying to make up for not trusting the Prime Minister during all that business with Miles. I felt he was deliberately overlooking the potential pitfalls just to prove he would keep faith with the Vorkosigans going forward. I tried to get him to speak to the Count at least. He declined to hear my further concerns.”
Cordelia’s lips twitched in an almost-smile – she clearly heard her foster son’s voice rendering that last line in the Imperial We – but remained silent, suddenly not sure she liked where this was going.
Illyan dragged a hand through his hair. “His only concession was allowing me to meet you here at the shuttleport, alone, to tell you in person, to prevent any… well, I thought, I mean worried…”
The half-mark dropped. “Wait!” Cordelia leaned forward; all amusement fled. “You thought I might try to kill Aral?”
Illyan looked away, unable to meet her intent gaze.
“I know how you love him, Cordelia, with everything you are. I know what I would do if the one I loved that deeply betrayed me.” Illyan’s voice caught. He went on in a voice just above a whisper: “It’s treason, for a Vor woman to kill her husband. Even Gregor could not save you from that fate. I thought I would lose you both.” The admission seemed to be wrung from him.
Cordelia sat back, stunned. She’d always known Illyan’s fidelity to Aral was surpassed only by his fealty to the Emperor. She had not realized that this extended to her. Or rather, that she in her own person ranked so close to Aral in Simon’s chart of loyalties. She was deeply touched. This had to be handled quite delicately and she was, just then, not sure she knew how.
“Simon…” was all she could manage for a moment. Then she looked at his face, the half of it she could see anyway, more closely.
And found Illyan was blushing.
She smiled weakly, quickly straightening her face again. Because she did know how to play this role, in service of easing at least this burden for him and making them allies in it. She put a gentle hand on Simon’s arm: “Captain Illyan, look at me.” His eyes came up on reflex. She’d used her command voice and there was just no way he could not obey her. “I knew Aral was bisexual when I married him. And he knew I was Betan. There is no betrayal here, I swear to you by my word as Vorkosigan.”
That finally made Illyan believe. He fell into the chair next to her as if he might never be able to stand again. Relief and embarrassment warred on his face. Relief won out. She thought for a moment he might weep with it. Her hand was still on his arm, and she patted it tentatively.
“Upon reflection I have decided to be flattered that you believe I have the ability to kill Aral under any circumstances,” she joked after a long moment, unable to contain her sudden puckish humor at the whole situation.
That surprised a real laugh out of the man. He ran his hands through his hair more gently this time and looked at her rather sheepishly. “I guess it was a tad over the top.”
“An understatement, dear Simon,” she pronounced, but with fondness.
“Right then,” he said after a moment, straightening in his chair, his emotions at last fully back under control. “Not a disaster. A situation to be handled. Yes. Just so.”
Just so. Let’s triage this situation then.
“Who else knows?” she asked. He’d said he’d been keeping a lid on it but how much of a lid?
“I believe this situation is largely contained to your House for now, milady,” Simon replied, shifting smoothly into ‘reporting to a superior’ mode. Cordelia gave a little snort at that “your House” remark but let it go without comment. She’d been the one to invoke her nominal Vor-ness after all. “Most of the Vorkosigan Armsmen are aware. All of them by now, judging by Esterhazy’s determined expression when he took your detachment aside. A half dozen of the servants. All loyal to a person, the oath-sworn and freemen alike, I’d bet my ImpSec eyes on it.
“The Emperor’s secretary. But no one else on either his staff or the Prime Minister’s, I believe. Of course, I cannot exactly sweep the lot of them up and fast-penta them all. That would cause… comment.”
She gave a small wave of her hand to acknowledge the small joke and encourage him to go on.
“TS:NTK classification limits it to no more than four other ImpSec agents besides me, all on Aral's detail. There is not even a whisper of it to date at Ops HQ, and those officers gossip like washer women.
“That should be the sum total.”
“So, a close-kept secret then.” Clearly her puckish mood was not abating anytime soon. “Because thirty can keep a secret if twenty-nine of them are dead, yes?” She raised a wry eyebrow at Illyan.
“Thirty-six, but who’s counting?” Illyan remarked laconically. Cordelia rolled her eyes at him.
“Have you talked with Aral?” She wasn’t sure why she asked – the question answered itself.
“Good God, no!”
“Barryarans!” she spat, as if uttering the filthiest of swear words.
How much of Illyan’s panic, not to mention her own, could have been avoided if one of the men had been brave enough to be honest with the other.
Which suddenly made her wonder just exactly how Aral and his heartbreakingly handsome secretary had managed to get past their Barrayaran inhibitions to bed each other in the first place. It must have been Jole who made the first move.
Aral had never once taken advantage of her tacit permission to sleep with any of the bright young officers that had caught his eye over the years. And they were almost exclusively military men he’d had these little crushes on, a circumstance Cordelia knew had as much to do with personal preference as propinquity. Beyond the complex cultural taboos surrounding homosexual sex, Aral had an understandable fear that any such liaison with a subordinate would lack of mutual, enthusiastic consent.
Therefor it had to have been Jole who had correctly interpreted the signals and been receptive. She would have to see if she could get the story out of Aral after she’d finished alternatively scolding him for thoughtlessly letting Illyan twist in the wind and encouraging him to gush over the no-longer-unrequited nor silent crush.
Illyan gave a ‘what would you have of me’ shrug. “What’s next then?” he asked.
“First, I go inform the Count-my-husband’s Armsmen that they should not allow themselves to be infected by your panic.”
Illyan started to protest. She tilted an eyebrow at him, and he closed his mouth. “Then I go home to talk with Aral.” She frowned speculatively. “Then Jole, I think. Though that may be an even more fraught conversation than this one.” She gave him a teasing smile.
“An understatement, dear Cordelia.” Illyan shot back. He stood up, straightened his tunic, and brushed nonexistent dirt from his trouser legs with the backs of his hands. “Just be careful of the Lieutenant. You still don’t always know your range when you bring your Betan artillery to bear.”
“It is not my fault your culture is pathologically incapable of being the least bit practical about sexual matters, Simon.”
“This may or may not be true, Cordelia,” Illyan returned, once again mimicking her, this time in her most no-nonsense tone, “but the Lieutenant has a bright career ahead of him. Neither Aral nor the Emperor would thank you for knocking him off that course.”
“Noted,” Cordelia said flatly. “I’ll see what the lay of the land is then we all can discuss next steps.”
Illyan grimaced but nodded his acknowledgment.
“Would you please be so good as to send in the Armsmen?”
"I live to serve." Illyan gave her a small bow and went to fetch the liveried men.
Cordelia remained very still, smiling pleasantly until the door closed behind Simon Illyan. Then the Countess began to laugh so hard she nearly fell out of her chair.