Lois McMaster Bujold - 12a Winterfair Gifts

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Winterfair Gifts

Lois McMaster Bujold

from Irresistible Forces

First Printing, February 2004

ISBN 0-451-21111-1

From Armsman Roic's wrist

com the gate guard's voice

reported laconically, “They're in.

Gate's locked.”

“Right,” Roic returned.

“Dropping the house shields.” He

turned to the discreet security

control panel beside the carved

double doors of Vorkosigan

House's main entry hall, pressed

his palm to the read-pad, and

entered a short code. The faint

hum of the force shield protecting

the great house faded.

Roic stared anxiously out one

of the tall, narrow windows

flanking the portal, ready to throw

the doors wide when m'lord's

groundcar pulled into the porte

cochere. He glanced no less

anxiously down the considerable

length of his athletic body,

checking his House uniform:

half-boots polished to mirrors,

trousers knife-creased, silver

embroidery gleaming, dark brown

fabric spotless.

His face heated in mortified

memory of a less expected arrival

in this very hall-also of Lord

Vorkosigan with honored company

in tow-and the unholy tableau

m'lord had surprised with the

Escobaran bounty hunters and the

gooey debacle of the bug butter.

Roic had looked an utter fool in

that moment, nearly naked except

for a liberal coating of sticky

slime. He could still hear Lord

Vorkosigan's austere, amused

voice, as cutting as a razor-slash

across his ears: Armsman Roic,

you're out of uniform.

He thinks I'm an idiot. Worse,

the Escobarans' invasion had been

a security breach, and while he'd

not, technically, been on duty-he'd

been asleep, dammit-he'd been

present in the house and therefore

on call for emergencies. The mess

had been in his lap, literally.

M'lord had dismissed him from

the scene with no more than an

exasperated Roic . . . get a bath,

somehow more keenly excoriating

than any bellowed dressing-down.

Roic checked his uniform

again.

The long silvery groundcar

pulled up and sighed to the

pavement. The front canopy rose

on the driver, the senior and

dauntingly competent Armsman

Pym. He released the rear canopy

and hurried around the car to

assist m'lord and his party. The

senior armsman spared a glance

through the narrow window as he

strode by, his eye passing coolly

over Roic and scanning the hall

beyond to make sure it contained

no unforeseen drama this time.

These were Very Important

Off-World Wedding Guests, Pym

had impressed upon Roic. Which

Roic might have been left to

deduce by m'lord going personally

to the shuttleport to greet their

descent from orbit-but then, Pym

had walked in on the bug butter

disaster, too. Since that day, his

directives to Roic had tended to be

couched in words of one syllable,

with no contingency left to chance.

A short figure in a

well-tailored gray tunic and

trousers hopped out of the car

first: Lord Vorkosigan, gesturing

expansively at the great stone

mansion, talking nonstop over his

shoulder, smiling in proud

welcome. As the carved doors

swung wide, admitting a blast of

Vorbarr Sultana winter night air

and a few glittering snow crystals,

Roic stood to attention and

mentally matched the other people

exiting the groundcar with the

security list he'd been given. A tall

woman held a baby bundled in

blankets; a lean, smiling fellow

hovered by her side. They had to

be the Bothari-Jeseks. Madame

Elena Bothari-Jesek was the

daughter of the late, legendary

Armsman Bothari; her right of

entree into Vorkosigan House,

where she had grown up with

m'lord, was absolute, Pym had

made sure Roic understood. It

scarcely needed the silver circles

of a jump pilot's neural leads on

midforehead and temples to

identify the shorter middle-aged

fellow as the Betan jump pilot,

Arde Mayhew-should a jump pilot

look so jump-lagged? Well,

m'lord's mother, Countess

Vorkosigan, was Betan, too; and

the pilot's blinking, shivering

stance was among the most

physically unthreatening Roic had

ever seen. Not so the final guest.

Roic's eyes widened.

The hulking figure unfolded

from the groundcar and stood up,

and up. Pym, who was almost as

tall as Roic, did not come quite up

to its shoulder. It shook out the

swirling folds of a gray-and-white

greatcoat of military cut and

threw back its head. The light

from overhead caught the face and

gleamed off . . . were those fangs

hooked over the outslung lower

jaw?

Sergeant Taura was the name

that went with it, by process of

elimination. One of m'lord's old

military buddies, Pym had given

Roic to understand, and-don't be

fooled by the rank-of some

particular importance (if rather

mysterious, as was everything

connected with Lord Miles

Vorkosigan's late career in

Imperial Security). Pym was

former ImpSec himself. Roic was

not, as he was reminded, oh, three

times a day on average.

At Lord Vorkosigan's urging,

the whole party poured into the

entry hall, shaking off

snow-spotted garments, talking,

laughing. The greatcoat was

swung from those high shoulders

like a billowing sail, its owner

turning neatly on one foot, folding

the garment ready to hand over.

Roic jerked back to avoid being

clipped by a heavy,

mahogany-colored braid of hair as

it swept past, and rocked forward

to find himself face to . . . nose to .

. . staring directly into an entirely

unexpected cleavage. It was

framed by pink silk in a plunging

vee. He glanced up. The outslung

jaw was smooth and beardless.

The curious pale amber eyes, irises

circled with sleek black lines,

looked back down at him with, he

instantly feared, some amusement.

Her fang-framed smile was deeply

alarming.

Pym was efficiently organizing

servants and luggage. Lord

Vorkosigan's voice yanked Roic

back to focus. “Roic, did the count

and countess get back in from

their dinner engagement yet?”

“About twenty minutes ago,

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[versionhistory]WinterfairGiftsLoisMcMasterBujoldfromIrresistibleForcesFirstPrinting,February2004ISBN0-451-21111-1FromArmsmanRoic'swristcomthegateguard'svoicereportedlaconically,“They'rein.Gate'slocked.”“Right,”Roicreturned.“Droppingthehouseshields.”Heturnedtothediscreetsecuritycontrolpanelbesidethe...

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