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"And lastly... you may be pleased to know that Lord Vorkosigan is now married." Evening briefing concluded, Captain Negri, head of Imperial Security, snaps the folder shut and looks at him.
Ezar Vorbarra, the Emperor of Barrayar and not on the guest list at Aral Vorkosigan's wedding, only snorts, leaning further back in the nest of pillows that is his official office these days. He resents it – his favoured form of leadership is right at the head of the pack, splashing through mud, blood streaming down his face and staining his vision red. Even better if it's not his own. Leading from a desk has never appealed; leading from a bed appeals even less. He resents even more the fact that it's no longer his choice.
"The brat is married – that's it? That's all the information that ImpSec could put together? Details, man!"
Negri rolls his eyes. "Anyone would think that you're an old wife looking for gossip, sire. They eloped. Went in secret down to a village in the Vorkosigan district and were married by the Speaker. It was reportedly all very … traditional."
"If by traditional you mean dating back to the Time of Isolation, then yes. Traditional." He pronounces it like it leaves a foul taste. Most things do, these days – the illness that has been killing him for years seems to have claimed his sense of taste, and now everything is ashes in his mouth. Seeing how many fires he's started in his time, crowned by the blazing funeral pyre at Escobar, he's hardly surprised. "At least that Betan woman has sense. They'll need every ounce of it during the Regency."
Negri raises an eyebrow, looking at him with a critical eye. Analysing how far he's deteriorated, no doubt, and counting the number of days that he has left. But Ezar is used to that now, and it doesn't bother him. There are worse ways to die than in bed, with enough time to sort out the affairs of your empire, even if he despises the weakness. If there is one thing he wishes he could change, that would be to see Gregor through to his majority - but in his absence, other people will simply have to rise to the task. Whether or not they actually want to is irrelevant. "You still believe that Lord Vorkosigan will accept the Regency," Negri says.
"Oh he will." He waves a hand, then scowls at how pale it is now, veins blue against the pallor of his skin. Some days, he thinks that there's something to be said for going down in a blaze of glory in the prime of one's life. Too late now. "Leave the boy to me."
"Very confident, sire," Negri says, and there is a touch of irony in his tone.
Ezar only gives him a level look. The corner of Negri's mouth twitches – his Security Chief has always had a slightly warped sense of humour – before bowing his head. "If I may be excused..."
"Oh get out, Captain," Ezar sighs, feeling weariness starting to tug at the edge of his consciousness. Negri sketches a salute, then steps to the door. He pauses, which makes Ezar glance over for a second, in time to see Negri exchange a few words with someone in the corridor, before looking over.
"Someone to see you, sire," Negri says, and before Ezar can tell him to tell whoever it is to get lost, the captain has slipped through the door and vanished.
There are only two people that Negri would allow in with so little ceremony, and the one that slips through the door and shuts it quietly behind him is too tall to be Gregor. Ezar narrows his eyes. "I don't recall giving you permission to drop by so casually, Illyan."
"My apologies, sire." The voice is soft, the familiar cadences unchanged, but there is a shadow about it now, something that has taken off the bright edge of the boy he knew. That same shadow is reflected in Simon Illyan's face as he steps closer to the bed, and Ezar recognises it for what it is – the death of innocence, slaughtered in the fires and blood of war. Or was it slaughtered by close contact with his son and Grishnov? Either way it's gone, lost beyond recall, and for a moment – a brief, fleeting moment – he regrets sending the boy out to Escobar with Aral. But that thought is pure selfishness, and he throws it out without a second's pause. He cannot protect Simon from the inevitable, after all. If it was not Escobar – which on the surface, at least, was a relatively clean campaign, compared to many of the battles that Ezar has seen – it would be something else. And the darkness that haunts Simon's eyes pales in comparison to the darkness that might have engulfed them all, if Serg was allowed to live.
"If you were truly sorry, boy, you would be backing out of that door," Ezar says. "And since you're obviously going to be a pest until you spit out whatever's on your mind, hurry up and say it."
His tone is calculated to be deliberately cruel – not even hurtful, but cool, distant, disinterested.
Somewhere during the Escobar campaign, Simon has learnt the art of being unreadable. There is nothing but careful politeness in his expression. "I believe Captain Negri would have informed you. It's done."
"You're going to have to be more specific than that," Ezar says, even though he knows exactly what Simon is talking about.
"Lord Vorkosigan is wedded, sire," Simon says, his tone as emotionless as his face, but before Escobar, the boy was constantly at his side, and Ezar can see that the very lack of emotion is a shield for the cracks that would otherwise be showing.
"I've already been informed. If you have nothing better to do than waste my time--"
"My mission is accomplished," Simon says, cutting him off. Yet another thing that the wide-eyed Lieutenant he had sent out would never have dared to do. "I'm requesting a transfer back to the capital."
"Denied," Ezar says.
And there – at last – a crack in that facade. A flash of shock, which transmutes quickly into anger. He needs more practice, Ezar thinks distantly. "Sire," Simon says through gritted teeth. "You sent me to Escobar to watch and report, and to keep Admiral Vorkosigan's back. You sent me to watch him after his retirement to ensure that he didn't kill himself. He's in no danger of that now." And despite Simon's obvious efforts, emotion leaks into that last sentence. Joy and anguish, mingled in equal measure. Ah, Ezar thinks.
"You will have new orders. Lord Vorkosigan and his lady wife will need security, no doubt. I'm fairly certain--" and he has to stop, because Simon has gone to his knees beside the bed, and the pure pain in his eyes cuts right through all the deception and lies that Ezar has fed to himself over the months since he ordered Simon away from his side and out of the capital – that the boy is nothing but an amusing past time, an interchangeable piece in the series of nameless, faceless ImpSec agents who have been tasked with the unenviable duty of throwing themselves between a bullet and their Emperor.
Fool, he thinks at himself, and at that treacherous emotion called attachment, that weakness that emperors cannot afford.
To this day, he doesn't know what makes Simon different from all the others. It isn't the chip, even if that is amusing in itself and occasionally even useful. It isn't that he's particularly good at his job – he will be better, one day, a fitting successor for Negri, but only if he learns and lives long enough. He doubts that it's the devotion – there are others just as devoted; Negri gives him only his most fanatically loyal officers.
And indeed, when Simon first turned up in his personal security detail, Ezar had registered him as little more than yet another scrupulously polite officer, overwhelmed by breathing the same air as the Emperor and trying not to show it. The chip had been a curiosity, but the novelty had worn off within a few weeks – and Ezar had largely relegated him back to his role of the silent observer, Negri's substitute when Negri himself could not be present to run security for the Emperor.
Until the day that Negri asked him for his opinion on the pup.
What opinion, Ezar had snapped, irritable. He does his job, stays the hell out of the way, is pleasant enough when spoken to, silent when not.
You haven't noticed? Negri had raised his eyebrows, the feigned surprise a subtle jab, and Ezar had swallowed a retort and narrowed his eyes. Negri had kept his expression ferociously bland, but Ezar had sensed a hint of triumph behind that wall.
Spit it out, he had snarled, not in the mood to play games.
Two months, Negri had pointed out. He's managed to stay on your security detail for two months without pissing you off once. An unprecedented success, in my books. Negri's tone had dropped. You've been looking for a leash for Vorkosigan for a while. We may have found the right person for the job.
He'd started paying attention then. He'd noted the rare talent that the boy had for dealing with the prickly pride of the Vor – how much of that was training and how much of that was natural he didn't know, but Simon had a gift for being bland, inoffensive, and invisible. He'd also had a gift, Ezar had discovered, for looking at his Emperor in a way that made him feel like a human being and not like a figurehead.
It's the look that Simon is giving him now, and Ezar thinks in that moment that it's because Simon actually, honestly thinks of him as a person and not just his liegelord. He should have crushed it years ago, before it had the chance to go overboard. Before the loyalty that Simon harbours for his Emperor became devotion to him as a person instead. Before Ezar himself foolishly allowed that sentiment to get to him, and reached across the gulf that divided them. They are not equals - can never be - but once, Simon stood the highest in his confidences other than Negri. Once, they were... something less than friends, for an emperor has no friends, and yet something more than friends, for that absolute devotion that Simon harbours for him, and the fierce protectiveness that he yet harbours for Simon, is something that friendship alone does not always entail. They were liegeman and liegelord and yet more than that, and try as he might, Ezar has never been able to put a word to it.
Weakness, he thinks. If not for that error in judgement, he would not have to deal with this … problem … today.
"Have I been somehow remiss in my duty, sire, to offend you so?" Simon asks, and even if his tone is still soft, still level, it's practically a heartfelt cry. And Ezar thinks that maybe this new darkness that clings to him isn't just because of the carnage he's seen at Escobar.
Nothing, he wants to say, and grits his teeth against the unfiltered truth – that a mere Lieutenant has managed to inveigle the Emperor of Barrayar, that the experiment that he started so long ago has spun off into directions that it was never supposed to take, and that it is a danger to them all.
"Maybe it's all these damnable questions," Ezar snaps, but he can't put enough heat into the response, and he knows that Simon notices it when the Lieutenant – Commander, now -- narrows his eyes.
"Sire," Simon says again, and this time his tone is like the drizzle of chilly rain that's coming down right now, outside the Residence, out of season.
Ezar sits up a little straighter, calling on decades of power and authority. "You presume too much," he says. "You are a security officer, nothing more. And you are not my security, at this time."
Simon looks down. Looks up again, and there's a stubborn spark that won't die. Ezar remembers that spark. It was the deciding factor in sending Simon to Escobar. Bland and inoffensive isn't enough, where it comes to handling Vorkosigan. "My job is security, sir," Simon says, "But security was not my only role. Is not my only role."
Ezar remembers, of course, and doesn't need an eidetic memory chip to do so. It might have started out as a test, to see what manner of person his ImpSec Lieutenant was, whether he could deal with a depressed Aral Vorkosigan when alcohol had loosened his tongue, setting free those dangerous, firebright ideas of his. It hadn't stayed as a test. His attempts to interrogate Simon had turned into conversations, the subject turning from Barrayar politics to discussions on how to deal with the Vor, to which Vor lord was the biggest idiot, to whatever had Ezar's temper up that day. It was when he started enjoying those conversations, had started leaning on the figurative shoulder that Simon offered, that he realised that it had gone too far.
It's the innocence, Ezar thinks. The light that Serg lost, a long time ago. Serg is – was - Vor, and Vor means warrior, but warriors can be such thickheaded idiots. And a great warrior does not a great leader make.
Not that Simon will make a great leader for Barrayar, he reflects. The boy lacks the fire and the vision. But as Aral Vorkosigan's familiar, perhaps...
For some reason, it hasn't worked. Simon may have imprinted upon Vorkosigan, but he's back now, instead of in stable orbit around Vorkosigan's sun. Ezar wonders what went wrong.
"I know why you sent me away," Simon says quietly, bold enough now to speak out of turn. Their eyes meet, and Ezar sees a flash of Vorkosigan's own stubborn determination in Simon's gaze. Of all the things to rub off... "My Emperor," Simon says, and – damn the presumptuous boy – catches his hand, the way he used to when he realised that his quiet touch was the best way to bring Ezar down from a roaring, murderous temper. "You have ever scorned weakness, and laughed in the face of death. If I may hazard a guess – you did not want to me to see you in your weakness."
"Illyan," Ezar growls, a warning note in his voice. But the anger in his tone is a dead giveaway, and something flickers in Simon's eyes.
"But you are not weak to me, my liege," Simon says quietly.
Ezar's greatest fears make their presence known in the back of his mind, mocking him with their laughter as they are realised. The shadows that dog Simon's heels are the legacy of an unstable orbit, torn between two suns, neither of which have room for a lonely, wandering comet. In trying to keep Simon intact by driving him away, he's managed to put him in more danger of being torn apart than ever.
It's suddenly clear to him what must have happened between Simon and Vorkosigan – after months of dragging Vorkosigan out of depression and saving the ungrateful brat's tail from drunken suicide attempts, the brat turns around and marries an offworlder and goes on to live his happy ever after. Leaving all those people who had been fighting to keep him afloat suddenly lost and adrift.
Another officer might have sighed in relief at the completion of his job. Simon was chosen for that mission because he didn't see it as a job. Joy and anguish – when your victory is also your greatest defeat... And so, after his sun moves on, the lost comet comes hurtling back. Simon, you idiot.
"Fool," he snaps. "I'm dying. How much longer do you think I have? Six months if I'm lucky." He pulls his hand back; Simon does not resist the movement.
"I reject that," Simon replies evenly.
Ezar stares at him. "Then you are an even bigger fool than I thought."
"It is unlike you, sire, to give up the fight before it's over."
This is why it's dangerous. Those words strike way too close to home, with their payload of useless, dangerous hope. Hope that Ezar doesn't want to hear about. Hope that he can't afford. In his younger days, he might have raised his hand to strike Simon down where he kneels, just to stop those words in their tracks. "You forget your place, Lieutenant."
"I forget nothing," Simon counters, his eyes flashing. "But if you prefer me with red tabs, sir, then I will return these." His hands tremble only very slightly as he pulls the commander rank tabs off his collar and places them on the bedside table. But the utter conviction in his eyes doesn't change.
That conviction almost gets to him, almost makes him believe – in the face of all his doctors have tried, and said - that there's something that can be done about this illness. Hope is for fools, he thinks, and sneers at the useless sentiment until the feeling dissolves. "Leave," he says, and his tone is ice, "And do not return unless ordered."
Simon doesn't move immediately, and for a moment Ezar thinks that this may be the first direct order that Simon has ever disobeyed. Then the boy rises, salutes, and turns to leave. Ezar does not watch him go.
*
Negri is in his room the next morning, radiating disapproval. He places the morning coffee on the side table, right next to the rank tabs.
"Remove those," Ezar says.
"And pin them back on him?" Negri says, sarcastic. "That was hardly warranted."
"And if I wanted your opinion, I would have asked for it. The boy was insubordinate."
"As far as statements of fact go, I daresay that his were accurate," Negri says, and there's no mistaking the exasperation in his tone. "And I've said worse to you before."
"If you have a burning desire to be demoted as well, be my guest," Ezar snaps.
But Negri isn't as easy to shut up as Simon is. "He's good for you. It's to your own detriment if you send him away."
Suddenly, Ezar has a glimpse of being set up. Not that Negri would go so far as to plan last night's conversation. No, Negri would have sent the recall order, Ezar theorises, then dropped a hint to the boy that there might be a possibility that he can have his old job back, go ask the Emperor … "Good for me," Ezar scoffs. "You seem to delight in tormenting me in my old age, Negri."
"He's your scabbard," Negri says, and because everyone seems to think that just because he's dying means he's stupid, goes on to elaborate, "–The one that keeps you from decapitating the entire council of Counts on a bad day." Like today, is the unspoken tag on the end of that sentence.
Ezar doesn't want to admit it, but there's a grain of truth in that statement. Nevertheless.
You are not weak to me, Simon had said.
Bullshit, he thinks viciously. "Illyan will not return to my security detail," he says, with finality.
Negri knows when a battle is hopeless. He gives him an annoyed look, but says nothing more on the subject, moving on to the morning security briefing.
Ezar has been taking his coffee black as sin and unsweetened for most of his life, but that morning it tastes exceptionally bitter.
*
About three months later, it's Aral Vorkosigan in his face, or at least, across the commconsole.
"Sire," Vorkosigan says.
Ezar raises an eyebrow. "Now, isn't this a pleasant surprise. To what do I owe the honour of this? Or are you calling to ask about the post you didn't want to hear about at our last meeting?"
"Hardly," Vorkosigan replies, then seems to remember that he's talking to his Emperor, and moderates his tone. "I called Captain Negri with a simple question. He seemed to think that you're better placed to answer it."
This reeks of trouble. Ezar is tempted to cut the call off now, summon Negri and give him a royal chewing out, but Vorkosigan has that bullish glint in his eye that suggests that that course of action would be more trouble than it's worth.
"What question is that?" Ezar says, and resists the urge to sigh.
"I asked him where Commander Illyan was. He informs me that he has no idea where Lieutenant Illyan is." Vorkosigan narrows his eyes. "If this has anything to do with Escobar--"
"—Arranging a convenient accident to get rid of a junior officer who found out the truth?" Ezar says. "That would be a waste of Imperial resources, wouldn't it?"
Vorkosigan's expression turns sardonic. He doesn't say anything – he doesn't have to, with five thousand lives and deaths hanging between both of them.
"This has nothing to do with Escobar," Ezar says, but part of him is more concerned than it should be over a junior officer gone missing. He shouldn't have to bother with these things, but--
--he hits a button on his commconsole anyway, calling up his secretary. "Contact Negri. Patch him into conference with Lord Vorkosigan and myself."
His secretary nods in acknowledgment, and Negri's image flickers onto an adjacent screen almost immediately. The man must have been waiting for this call. Damn brats, all of them.
"What is this about?" Ezar demands, not bothering to moderate the harsh note in his tone. "A Lieutenant goes missing and you tell Lord Vorkosigan to ask me where he is? Do you think I keep track of the whereabouts of every officer in the Imperium? Like counting my sheep before I sleep, perhaps? I have better things to do with my time, Captain."
Negri's absolutely stonefaced, today. "To be precise, Lord Vorkosigan wanted to know why Lieutenant Illyan had been reassigned, and wouldn't take 'I don't know' for an answer."
It's clear that Negri's still pissed at him for demoting Illyan. And hiding behind a Vorkosigan-shaped shield.
"As I understand it," Vorkosigan continues, "A mere Lieutenant cannot be the commander of a Vor lord's security, which meant that he was reassigned. Unfortunately, no one seems to be able to tell me where he was reassigned to." Vorkosigan raises an eyebrow.
He'd forgotten about that particular rule. He'd assumed that Illyan had returned to Vorkosigan's side, where he belonged. Damn Negri for not mentioning it, and for getting Vorkosigan involved, because there's no way in hell Vorkosigan is going to stop until he's convinced that it really has nothing to do with Escobar. For a moment, Ezar is sorely tempted to assign them both to Kyril Island indefinitely, or until they strangle each other. Even if Vorkosigan has resigned his commission. The only problem is that he needs them both, and soon.
He retaliates by throwing the entire mess back in Negri's face. "Well, Captain?" he asks sharply. "Where is your misplaced Lieutenant?"
"He went on leave," Negri replies.
"Leave?" Ezar says, at the same time Vorkosigan says, "For a whole three months?"
Negri shrugs. "He hasn't taken a day off in about two years. Coupled with all the overtime... he has something to the order of fifty days of paid leave this year. It's his prerogative to clear it all at one shot, assuming that his commanding officer doesn't require him to be around. And since he was out of a position after getting summarily demoted..."
Ezar can feel the beginnings of a headache coming on. He's too old to have huge screaming fights with Negri any more.
"And when is he expected back?" Vorkosigan asks, a clear protective note in his voice, and Ezar hides a smile of his own. Maybe it isn't all hopelessly lost after all, if Vorkosigan has taken to thinking of Illyan as one of his own. Hearing that Vorkosigan was asking after him should boost Simon's flagging morale – all these useless, spineless boys and their need for coddling – send him back into Vorkosigan's orbit, and hopefully he'll stay there this time.
"I don't know," Negri says, deadpan as ever. "His request for leave was indefinite."
"Indefinite?" Ezar says, narrowing his eyes. "What the hell were you thinking when you approved that, Negri?!"
Negri doesn’t reply. Vorkosigan huffs. "Well, a break never hurt anyone."
"Except where it involves wallowing in depression, drinking yourself into a coma, and needing people to haul your carcass out of a lightflyer," Ezar snaps, and Vorkosigan can't quite suppress the wince. "Where the hell is Illyan?"
"I don't know, sire," Negri replies coolly. "ImpSec has better things to do than track the location of one lowly Lieutenant. Although I do believe he's off-planet."
Ezar stabs a button on his console, putting Vorkosigan on hold and knocking off sound and visual for him. "That," he hisses at Negri, "Is the biggest load of horsecrap I've heard all year. You allow one of your top officers to run off, carrying massive amounts of data and incredibly expensive Imperial property in his head, and you tell me you've lost him?"
"Oh, so he's one of my top officers, now?" Negri snaps back, the reserved mask finally splintering. "We live to serve, sire, but good agents are few and far between, and I would thank you not to break them on a whim!"
"And Simon's so fragile that something like this would shatter him? The plan was to make him Vorkosigan's, and you know that," Ezar says sharply. "Do not play games with me, Negri. Recall him. Reinstate him. But for the love of all that's holy, debrief him first."
Negri may be a massive pain, but he won't disobey a direct order... unlike certain Vor lords. "It shall be done, sire," he says, and even manages to keep any smug satisfaction out of his voice.
Ezar doesn't bother replying. He cuts him off, cursing the impertinence and stupidity of ImpSec boys. It's a long time before he realises that he never did take Vorkosigan off hold.
*
It's another two weeks before Illyan returns, on the fastest fast courier. By the time Ezar deigns to grant him an audience, he's been debriefed for about thirty six hours straight and looking worse for the wear for it, but there is a familiar stubborn look in his eyes as he's ushered into the Emperor's presence.
Negri passes the synopsis of the report to Ezar wordlessly, and fades into the background. Illyan stands at parade rest by the bed, wearing a rumpled set of dress greens that looks like it's been scrounged out of the laundry. The only insignia on his collar are the ImpSec silver eyes.
"Beta Colony. Illyrica. ...Jackson's Whole." Ezar raises an eyebrow at the last. "You've certainly had quite the holiday. What is this, a round-the-galaxy sight-seeing trip?"
Negri might have given him a smartassed answer. Vorkosigan almost certainly would have. Simon gives him a concerned look, probably comparing images of his current state against the last time he saw him. Ezar thinks, on the whole, he'd much rather have the smartass answer. "...Sire," Simon says at last, evidently at a loss as to how to answer.
"You might want to read on, sire," Negri interjects. "Lieutenant Illyan got you a souvenir."
"Oh did he," Ezar says, scowling at Simon. The Lieutenant swallows and directs his gaze at the wall instead. "And what exactly is this … souvenir … that you brought back? Chocolates in a pretty box with a ribbon on top? Some hideous thing to shove into the back of a display case? Or a special from the Orb, maybe?"
Simon works his jaw for a moment. "… Time," he says, finally.
Time. For a moment the word almost doesn't register, and Ezar thinks it's some kind of stupid joke, but Negri hasn't spoken up to correct it, and Simon is looking determined and a little nervous, but completely serious. "Explain," Ezar says, cold as the freezing void between the stars. Simon fidgets, then opens his mouth and starts giving Ezar a picture perfect word-for-word recitation of the synopsis that Negri handed to him earlier.
By the time Simon is done, Ezar isn't sure whether he wants to murder both him and Negri, or promote them both to the admiralty. Simon's account speaks of countless consultations with medical experts on Beta Colony and Illyrica, of infiltrations into laboratories on Jackson's Whole, industrial espionage at it's finest – every galactic agent should have an eidetic memory chip, Ezar thinks. Simon speaks of coordinating an interplanetary research team, backed up by a whole lot of ill-gotten Jackson's Whole research, most of it stretching much further back than the three months he's been gone. He's very careful to leave out names, but Ezar knows he couldn't have managed that alone or within such a short time. This entire thing has Negri's fingerprints all over it. The net result is the closest thing to a cure to the host of ailments that plague him that any doctor has ever come to. It isn't complete, isn't absolute, isn't even adequately tested, but it is, as Simon puts it - time.
"Fools," he says. "I never authorised this."
"You will note, sire, that Lieutenant Illyan did this entirely during his off-duty hours..."
"Using Imperial property and resources! Including that chip in his head! Under orders from his commanding officer!"
Negri glances over at Illyan, who's staring at the floor. "On the contrary, the original suggestion came from him," Negri says. "I simply... authorised the disbursements, thereafter. And signed the leave chit, of course."
"We live to serve, sire," Simon murmurs. "Sometimes, keeping our charge safe involves doing things that he may not actually like. Or order."
He should have known that assigning Simon to look after Vorkosigan would come back and bite him one day. He sighs. "Get out. Both of you."
They give him salutes that he doesn't return. Negri, always familiar with his Emperor's moods, takes the unusual step of leaving the room first. It makes things a little less awkward when Ezar says "Illyan," stopping the Lieutenant in his tracks just before the door.
"Sir?" Simon asks.
Ezar reaches into a drawer, pulling out a pair of blue Captain's tabs, and throws them at him. Simon grabs them out of sheer reflex, and stares wide-eyed.
"Oh, stop looking so damn surprised," Ezar says, exasperation leaking into his voice. "And tell Negri to find Vorkosigan a new security commander. Formally, anyway. The interim one that he had to appoint when you went carousing across the galaxy has been doing your job for the past three months. And as for you, I expect you back on duty here at seven a.m. sharp, tomorrow morning."
Something lights Simon's face, and Ezar can't stop the thought that that expression suits him so much better than saturnine darkness. "Thank you, sir," Simon says. Ezar flicks his hand at him in dismissal, and Simon bows his way out of the door.
Alone, Ezar runs a finger over the edge of the reader that Negri passed him earlier. Later, there will be time for details, for shelving all those succession plans that a pair of fool boys have thrown into disarray. Later, there will be time to ponder the thought that maybe hope isn't such a useless emotion, sometimes. For now, he leans back and allows himself – for the first time in longer than he can remember – to luxuriate in the gift of time, the gift unasked for and perhaps even undeserved. It's strange; even after so many years of being the absolute ruler of Barrayar, Ezar doesn't like the feeling of being indebted. That his officers serve him is a given, but this feels like something more. Something that he has to pay back, or pay forward. Perhaps there is much to be said for devotion, for useless emotion that goes beyond the call of duty. Perhaps allowing Simon into his life wasn't the colossal mistake he thinks it is. Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps.
If only the stupid boy had asked first, before setting the entire future ablaze with the light of a new day.
"My scabbard, you say?" Ezar murmurs. "More like my damn plasma-arc, Negri."