Chapter Text
1.
The shuttle arrived in Vorbarr Sultana on time. Byerly looked around with interest as he disembarked: the shuttleport had been modernized further since the last time he’d been here, and everything glinted with electronic panels, glass, and polished metal. Enormous panoramic windows let in the gray morning light.
Spotting the public com booths, he decided not to waste any time. He took a booth, tossed his bag casually on the floor, and immersed himself in the question of real estate options.
His expression soon grew concerned. Even the shabbiest flat in Vorbarr Sultana’s residential district would cost almost the entirety of his pitiable funds. He checked his credit card just to be sure, but of course his account—tied to his father’s—was blocked. With a grimace, Byerly snapped the card in half and tossed it in the nearest garbage receptacle. Not that he actually had any intention of taking anything from that freak, but cleaning him out one last time would have been great.
Drumming his fingers thoughtfully over the table, he punched his cousin Donna’s name into the search. According to this, Donna, née Vorrutyer, was now married to one Roman Vorkester. The accompanying data entry informed Byerly that Vorkester belonged to a branch of his family tree which, if not the most senior, was at least fairly well-off. Judging by the gossip column articles that immediately popped up alongside, Donna was doing well.
Byerly wrote her number down on a card, picked up his bag, and abandoned the terminal, coat collar turned up.
*
Donna met him wrapped in a gilded dressing gown. This was the sole hint of her turbulent social life; her meticulously made-up face appeared fresh, and her hair lay against her shoulders in well-combed dark waves.
She yawned, “You could have shown up a little later,” and pointed him to the opposite couch. The maid poured them coffee and slipped out the door, obedient to her mistress’s nod.
“Glad to see you too,” Byerly said, earnestly. Though, if he were to be totally honest, he was equally glad to see the coffee.
Once they’d both savored their first sips, Donna said, “So?”
Byerly hesitated, not knowing which version to tell.
It had been a long time since they’d last seen each other, perhaps six years—Donna had still been with her first husband when she’d come to visit them on the coast. Most of Byerly’s memories of her were from childhood, and quite positive: he recalled games of hunters-in-the-jungle, reading aloud, sand castles on the beach.
Until he’d turned seven they’d all lived together on the Count’s family estate, him and Donna and Richars and little Lily. Then the old count had died, and the district had passed—not without mutual efforts to drown each other—to Pierre, whereupon everyone had quarreled and parted ways. Twelve-year-old Donna had been taken by the widowed countess to the capital to receive an education, By’s parents had left for their own little property on the coast, and Richars had remained in the district. By still regretted that Richars, obsessed at the time with hunting for war trophies, hadn’t tripped into some old Cetagandan war cache and broken his neck.
Going by Donna’s harsh gaze, imperiously squared shoulders, and the slightly disgusted set of mouth, she was much the same person she’d been at age twelve. By could still remember a then-seventeen-year-old Richars walking around with a lopsided grimace and a shiner covering half his face—and Donna never did tell anyone what he’d done to earn them . . .
“Ah. Now, that facial expression clearly indicates a review of fond family memories.” Donna gave a dry laugh. “Quit wallowing in nostalgia, By, and have a look at this.”
She handed him a letter printed on a plastic flimsy. Byerly felt a chill down the back of his neck.
A single diagonal glance was enough to get the picture. Ran off—debauched—don’t indulge . . .
By released the page with disgust, letting it fall to the table. “Drivel,” he commented, not lifting his lashes.
Donna crossed one leg over the other, and spent a while twisting her cup in her hands.
Well, By thought: there you go. Time to get up and leave. Better than dignifying—that—with an explanation.
Suddenly, Donna said, “Don’t go to Pierre.” By raised his eyes, and saw that her face had gone hard. “Without me. I’ll open an account for you, enough to rent a flat, but beyond that you’ll have to hustle for yourself—my husband is a bloody paranoid, first off, and anyway it’ll be good for you. I’ll take you to see Pierre in a few days, for breakfast. Brainwashing my dear brother is best done in private, these days his head isn’t all there. For now you’ll go with Kristof, my chauffeur. He’ll buy everything you need, and help with the lease, since your sweet face has ‘I’m a provincial oaf, rob me blind!’ written all over it. Now buzz off; I still mean to get some sleep today.” With that she rose, and By, scattered, did too.
Only when he was already at the door did he stop and look back. Kristof the driver waited outside; Donna was scribbling something into her portable com, and gave an impatient quirk of her brows at his hesitation.
“Donna, I—” By broke off. His throat squeezed shut, and it was only with a great effort that he managed to force out the rest. “I really didn’t. I never did anything like that to Lily.”
There was a long silence. Finally Donna said, “Idiot,” not unkindly.
Scarlet with shame, Byerly shot out the door.
*
He greeted the evening seated at one the little restaurant-diners in the old part of the city, where the rock-solid Kristof had found him a small charming flat. The neighborhood, though run-down, was considered trendy among the Vorbarr Sultana youth. Byerly sat with his back to the counter, glass in his hands, and observed the group of young people engaged in a lively chatter at the big table by the window, all to a one dressed in bizarre woolly jackets in frivolous colors. Several older men dined under the window opposite; these were more sensibly dressed, but with a calculated negligence about their person that similarly betrayed in them something of the local beau monde.
The diner had also been shown to him by Kristof. Taciturn, effectual, and unflappable, Kristof topped it all off by being handsome, tall and fair-haired with watchful gray eyes. Not for the first time, By wondered whether Donna was sleeping with him—he certainly would, in her place.
He smiled crookedly to himself, and finished off his cognac. (Who could have guessed that the aristocratic swill of the capital would turn out to be so vile!) The accusations that his father had chosen to believe were made all the more laughable by the simple fact that Byerly had always liked boys better than girls, but of course that wasn’t argument he could’ve used in his defense.
Though that did rouse a suspicion. Could those filthy allegations have come from his old classmate Karel Topoleff, who’d spent half an autumn crudely harassing him, and been equally crudely rebuffed? Anyone could have seen him out walking with Lily, seen how tenderly they cared for each other . . . Or maybe it had been one of her admirers? Who knew. It hardly mattered now, anyway.
The holovid on the wall winked with a blue splash screen, signaling the beginning of the evening news. There was a brief shot of the council chamber of the Council of Counts, then they showed the Regent. Lord Vorkosigan was collected, austere, commanding. He was smiling, speaking earnestly into the microphone, but the sound on the holovid was turned off, and By could only guess at what was being said.
In this he was aided by two gentlemen who had just sat down further along the counter. They were discussing the broadcast; By pricked up his ears.
“—probably telling them how everything’s coming up roses, and how everything’s ready for the transfer of power to Emperor Gregor after the coronation.”
“Less than a year left—what post d’you suppose Vorkosigan is going to assume after that? Will he return to the fleet?”
“Ha! Who in their right mind would let that kind of power slip out of their hands? They say Emperor Gregor’s his lapdog.”
“Suppose the young emperor gives him the boot? There are other advisors to be found in the government, after all . . .”
Just then there was an explosion of laughter at the table of the Bizarre Jackets, and Byerly’s attention was diverted. He didn’t know much about politics, and when it came to high politics—even less. In theory Lord Aral Vorkosigan was Byerly’s quasi-uncle by way of his first marriage, but neither side liked to recall that particular piece of family history. These days Vorkosigan was married to a Betan who’d given him a mutant son a few years younger than By, which was the sum total of Byerly’s knowledge about the man. That being said, he could probably count on Donna not to leave him in the dark about affairs in the capital.
One of the Jackets suddenly glanced in his direction. To hell with it all, By decided, and gave the stranger a shy smile, slightly raising his glass.
This promised to be an interesting evening.
*
It wasn’t that Byerly had intended, in setting out for Vorbarr Sultana, to sink to the bottom as quickly as possible. Upon examining his face in the mirror the following morning, however, he was forced to congratulate himself on outstanding achievement in that particular field.
Aside from By himself the mirror showed the partially ajar door into the bedroom, where his new friend (God, what was his name?) was currently hopping around on one foot, struggling to squeeze into his foppish too-narrow trousers. Byerly averted his gaze, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. Dark circles had set in underneath, but on the whole he didn’t look too bad, especially considering how much he’d drunk. He ran his hand over his chin, and, assured that there was still nothing whatsoever to shave, gave a sigh. His new acquaintance, meanwhile, pulled on his hideous jacket.
The lighthearted Later, darling! from the hall was lost under the sound of the water as By turned on the shower. He didn’t regret last night in the least, but he was always drawn to solitude in the mornings.
So, let’s take stock, he thought, distractedly lathering on soap. What had he achieved? A little flat in Vorbarr Sultana, for one, and becoming acquainted with an interesting crowd for another. Losing his virginity, for a third.
He snorted, and felt his backside. Who would’ve thought that everything was so . . . simple, here in the capital. Back on the coast exhibiting such tendencies could result in being persecuted, or even make one a target of attempted rape, as with Topoleff of unfond memory. Here, meanwhile, Fred (ah, that’s right, that was his name) had gone from winking to getting down to business in no time flat. At the party they’d headed to after the restaurant—where they’d downed several strong drinks and consumed several of the suspicious pastries—Fred’s hand had already been hanging constantly about By’s waist, and starting to slink even lower.
Byerly hadn’t minded, especially as by that point he’d started to experience brief lapses of reality. For example, he couldn’t remember just how they’d wound up tucked into the nook between doors where Fred’s lips had proved so insistent below his belt, or at what point in the night they had transposed themselves to By’s flat (or, more importantly, how he’d managed to find it while in such a state).
At that point the effect of the alcohol (or whatever else) must have begun to wear off, because Byerly remembered with perfect clarity how Fred had tipped him delicately into the bed, and taken it upon himself to undress him—and also how he, Byerly, had nearly torn all the buttons off of Fred’s shirt in his desire to return the favor.
That had been all right. They’d kissed and touched each other, and that had been very nice; and then there was another gap in By’s memory, and the next thing he’d known was being facedown in the pillows with a prick up his ass, listening to Fred’s quiet exhortations. Well, in general Fred had been right: it hadn’t particularly hurt, but it hadn’t been very pleasant, either. Still, afterward Fred had jerked him off, and they’d gone to bed friends.
Not bad for a first experience, By decided, and turned off the water. Next up: the substantial problem of where to go from here.
He’d already thoroughly missed the school year, he thought a while later, as he rummaged through his kitchen cabinets in search of anything edible (or, failing that, coffee). Frankly, he didn’t want to go to school anyway; his only associations with the Marennes polytechnical college, from which he’d fled and which all west coast youth attended, were boredom and sexual harassment.
He fished a box of tea out of the depths of the cabinet, and dove in for a second pass, this time in search of a teapot.
He needed to ask Donna to write to Lily, to tell her that he was all right. His own letters were unlikely to get past the systemic blockade within his father’s mansion. Fine, he told himself. Lily would be all right; she was already sixteen, after all, and anyway it had been her who’d insisted that he leave.
Thoughtlessly, Byerly traced the edge of the cezve he’d unearthed from the cabinet, having already forgotten that the only thing he’d discovered thus far was tea, not coffee.
He felt very alone.
*
Judging from his sour expression, Pierre wasn’t very happy to see them. Donna was unbothered; over breakfast she and Pierre discussed the news, while Byerly ate in silence. It was mostly everything he’d already seen on the newsvid—a reception by Vor-this, another by Vor-that, a philanthropic gala, the latest session of the Council of Counts, Emperor Gregor’s coronation—but Donna described each event with such profound irony that By kept having to choke down laughter. Pierre threw him disapproving looks.
The young and asocial Count Pierre Vorrutyer was currently thirty-six years old. He had never been married; something always seemed to happen to his brides. By, for his part, felt less sympathy for Pierre than for whatever lovely young lady would eventually become his Countess. Everyone in the family knew that Pierre had a difficult character, poor health, and a total lack of talent for running the district. In light of these facts By was of the opinion that there really wasn’t any point in appearing before the man, but Donna had adamantly declared that Byerly would thank her later, and then hung up on him. Five minutes later there’d been the honk of a familiar automobile out front, the imperturbable Kristof at the wheel.
In any case, everything went all right at breakfast. It was only over coffee that things went south, when Pierre pulled a face and asked, “So tell me, how am I to take Uncle Michael’s letter?” He threw a momentary glance towards Byerly, who found himself struggling to swallow around his last bite. By carefully set down his cup on its saucer, and straightened up.
Donna emit a vaguely contemptuous sound. “You don’t mean to say you actually believed that nonsense? Uncle dear has always had an—imagination.”
Pierre drawled, “Oh, yeah?” Once again, he fixed By with a disapproving gaze. “Because I heard that it’s him who has the—imagination.” Pierre’s sharp chin inclined menacingly in By’s direction. “Michael’s always complaining that his son hangs about disreputable establishments, and doesn’t want to study.”
By could feel the heat of shame and fury creeping into his face. Pierre could hardly have a complete picture of him, given that he heard the complaints from his uncle perhaps once a year. And still he was ready to judge, ready to believe . . .
“All teenagers hang around disreputable establishments and don’t want to study.” Donna dismissed this with a wave of her hand.
Pierre frowned. “Yes, but if he really—”
Byerly stood, checking the table with his hip. The china cups clinked tragically.
“Sir,” he said, in a voice tight with fury, “they say lots of things about you, too, believe me. But permit me one question, sir.” He hesitated momentarily, filling his lungs, and then bent across the table, looming over Pierre. “Would you sleep with your sister?”
Pierre choked. Donna made an indeterminate noise.
“Think hard about that one, sir, before you pass judgement on me,” By finished almost calmly.
And walked out of the living room.
*
Half an hour later he received a call from Donna.
“Well, you certainly made a scene. Though I can’t say that it wasn’t effective,” she said, studying his grim expression, and By caught a note of approval in her voice. “In any event, Pierre will pay for your education, so take yourself in hand, and hit the books.”
Byerly scowled. The urge to fling the com out the window was still very strong.
He was seriously considering cutting the call when Donna added, “Lily says to tell you ‘hello.’ ”
She flashed an ironic smile, and disconnected. The com blinked over to the standard screensaver.
By stared at it until the screen went dark.
2.
Byerly did not, of course, go to school. Right from the start he was greatly demoralized by the entrance exams (the Imperial Service Academy was decidedly not the district college) and then it turned out that he had little chance of passing the medical, anyway, as the preliminary screening revealed some degree of dystrophy. This came as a considerable surprise to Byerly, since while he was, of course, skinny, he’d also never been one to turn his nose up at a meal.
There was a way out of this problem: protein shakes, hitting the gym, grueling workouts . . . at first By actually thought about doing it, so as to spite his father by exiting the Academy a proud, handsome soldier (admittedly, after Uncle Ges the Vorrutyers’ military uniform was also slightly stained, but one could always look up to great-grandfather, right?) but then Fred rematerialized beside him at dinner, and By discovered that there were more interesting things in the world.
Carousing with the Jackets (whom Byerly privately continued to think of as such) brought him many new acquaintances, and not just among the capital’s high society. During breaks in between revels the screen of his com would invariably light up with Donna (often herself the cause of the break) who would take him out to an evening at one of the Vor salons. By met a couple of charming debutantes, then their equally charming brothers (not all of whom made such pleasant acquaintances) had to be carried home from a party (he recalled the rough texture of Kristof’s uniform jacket against his cheek as the man carried him over-the-shoulder back to the car) and then had the good fortune to catch the eye of the relatively young, and very rich, widow Vorgrigorov. For half the summer Vorgrigorov whisked him away to her residence in the country, and there fed him on cheese and wine, usually directly in bed—and so By never did gain any weight.
September came, and Pierre received the disappointing news that his cousin had failed to be admitted anywhere. There was a minor scandal, during which By lost his stipend, and also became convinced that the Count really was somewhat mentally unwell. Donna looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and accusation; By remained careless, counting on his widow, but soon discovered that even the most vigorous tomatoes wither in autumn. Thus he soon found himself back at the very same restaurant where it had all started, once again sitting alone, a glass of still-vile cognac in hand.
Unfortunately, beneath the silly difficulties of his bacchanal life lay a far more serious cause for despondency: Lily didn’t write to him. Save for the greeting passed on by Donna shortly after his arrival in Vorbarr Sultana, he hadn’t had a word from her in six months. In response to his inquiries Donna gave the unchanging answer that all was well with his sister. He tried to believe that Lily was refraining from contact with him for his own good, or at least hers—after all, who knew what she was dealing with from their father, now that By was gone—but he wasn’t much good at persuading himself. He was lonely and miserable, and even the cognac failed to help.
He was just thinking about where to acquire something more substantial when Gruber sat down next to him.
They were nodding acquaintances by way of the Jackets, but Byerly had never liked Gruber; against the broader bohemian backdrop he seemed somehow simple. He probably didn’t have anything in the way of narcotics, either.
The newsvid was showing the regent again; only half a month remained until the coronation. Byerly stared at the vid screen—not that he was terribly interested, but it ought to serve as a clear enough demonstration of his opinion of Gruber.
. . . Or not. Gruber sprawled casually in a nearby chair, and said, “Heard your girlfriend dumped you, hmm?”
By raised an eyebrow, copying Gruber’s impudent look. The opening was so brazen that it distracted him from his black thoughts, which was what he needed. “Which girlfriend are you referring to?”
Gruber barked a laugh. “Ah, that’s right, you’re a playboy. Well, will you at least admit that you’ve been denied your allowance? You’ve only got one cousin who happens to be a count.” His gaze suddenly became disturbingly sharp.
By tensed. “What do you want, Gruber?” The question was blunt, which told him that the last glass of cognac had probably been in excess—normally he was capable of giving someone the shove rather more gracefully. But not when he was this drunk.
“Me?” Gruber looked like a cat who’d gotten the cream, and Byerly was liking this less and less. “Maybe it’s you who needs something. Money, say.”
“I don’t fuck for money,” grit out Byerly—through his teeth, but very clearly. He wanted to get up, but found that his legs were disinclined to cooperate.
This time Gruber’s laugh was low and insulting. “Ah, of course, what else would our golden boy be thinking of! Like I need you for that. It’s not your ass I’m interested in, kid, it’s your head. Will you listen?”
Byerly, who had just finished his review of his bodily systems and determined that said body wasn’t currently going anywhere, shot Gruber a look of disgust and let out a gloomy sigh.
As it turned out, within ten minutes it became apparent that Gruber really didn’t want anything like that from him. Still sprawling in his chair, he questioned Byerly with idle curiosity about the salons to which Donna had introduced him. After answering about a dozen stupid questions along the lines of which salon was currently the most popular, what topics of discussion were the most trendy, and where one could find the most ladies, Byerly broke into a nasty chuckle, giving Gruber a pitying look:
“What, are you looking for a Vor lady bride? Don’t get your hopes up. Vor daughters are picky these days, even I hardly get a backward glance.”
Gruber pursed his lips and made a rude noise. “Comparing apples to oranges! Here’s you, the penniless youngster, expelled with a bang from the third branch of the family, and then there’s me, a moneyed man in the prime of my life . . .”
This so amused Byerly that he didn’t even bother to think about who Gruber actually was.
*
The next time they met rather more purposefully; Gruber called Byerly directly, and offered to go out for drinks. By, having once again been read the riot act by Donna and thus running dry, was grateful for the invitation.
Gruber was already waiting for him when By entered the restaurant. On the table before him was a weeping decanter filled with some kind of tincture, and an enormous roast intricately garnished with herbs. Upon seeing him Gruber stuck two green onion sprouts onto his teeth in the manner of fangs, and pulled a gruesomely welcoming face. By rolled his eyes.
The conversation once again drifted to the topic of the salons held by Donna’s girlfriends. After asking whether the young Lady Vortrifani had a nice bosom, Gruber—thoughtfully tracing the countertop with the tip of his knife—asked, “And what about Lady Vorhalas? Ever visit with her?”
“Out of my league, and older than Donna by ten years besides.” Byerly shrugged, surprised. “What do you need her for? What, have you fallen in love with her?”
“Sure,” Gruber agreed, absently. “Fell for her the moment I set eyes on her at the last Winterfair Ball, not a moment of peace since. Tell you what,” his gaze grew sharp, “try and get in with her, eh? Ask her sister. I’ll owe you one.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger expressively together.
Byerly, too baffled and intrigued to refuse this dubious offer, nodded.
*
Things continued in this way until close to the coronation. Byerly told Gruber the goings-on in the Vor salons, and Gruber treated him to drinks. Byerly gradually went from thinking that Gruber was searching for a bride to suspecting that he was the point man for a gang of burglars, which perturbed him slightly; but for now the capital remained quiet, and managed without any burglaries.
Rather to his own surprise, he wound up attending the coronation. Pierre, having spent all autumn as a recluse, suddenly developed an inexplicable desire to show off his family’s greatness; Byerly, dressed in his Vorrutyer house uniform, stood at Pierre’s back throughout the ceremony and had an excellent view.
The young emperor was even more good-looking in person than in the holovids, and beside him the Lord Regent—a large, graying man—struck an imposing figure. The air thrummed with nervous energy, peaking at last after building for months ahead of the coronation. Byerly recalled the many varied predictions voiced in the Vor salons. The Lord Regent would not cede the throne. The Lord Regent would declare a military coup. Emperor Gregor would be shot during the ceremony, like that one president from ancient Earth . . .
But no, By thought, watching the crowd, it couldn’t be that easy. His vision suddenly changed, rather like looking at a three-dimensional work of art—at first glance you might see only a mishmash of colors, and then something would shift, and you’d see a butterfly, or an elephant. He noticed that besides the guardsmen in the crowd there were also, here and there, a number of very expressionless, very ordinary, yet markedly focused individuals. Of course: ImpSec.
As if in answer to his thoughts, a thin man in parade red-and-blues with Horus eyes on the collar briefly appeared from behind a pillar. He cast an oddly vague gaze across the chamber, and exchanged barely-perceptible nods with the Lord Regent.
It was only a moment later that Byerly realized he’d just seen Simon Illyan himself.
*
At the reception he was approached by Richars. They’d last seen each other at Winterfair, at a family gathering at the mansion on the west coast, just a couple months before By had been kicked out. Since then he’d managed to avoid Richars in the capital, but this time there was nowhere to retreat. He gave his cousin a glum look.
“Well met, Byerly!” declaimed Richars, peering at him with a taxidermist’s curiosity. “You’ve changed! Grown up, have you?”
By took the opportunity to return the once-over. Richars was just over thirty; his Service uniform fit him perfectly, and captain’s tabs glinted on his collar. Richars served on the General Staff, and was, by the looks of things, doing well.
“Hello, cousin.” Byerly didn’t bother feigning a smile. “I see congratulations are in order?” He nodded towards Richars’s collar.
Richars burst into laughter. “Ah, you’re behind the times, my little By! My promotion was over half year ago.” He moved slightly nearer, dropping his voice to a confidential tone. “Around the same time you were kicked out of the house, in fact. What happened there, lad?”
Richars’s tendency to contort himself into the image of a sweet uncle drove By up the wall.
“It just turned out that way,” he said, gently baring his teeth.
“Ah. And what, you’ve not heard from the family in all this time? Even about the wedding?” Richars smiled sympathetically.
By’s heart went cold. Very slowly, he asked, “What wedding?”
“But, my dear boy!” His cousin nearly made a splash with his hands. “Lily’s wedding!”
By stared at Richars in disbelief, frozen. What . . . ?
“Hm.” Richars frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. “They didn’t even tell you? Lily was married off in the beginning of spring, to a charming rich Vor from the South Continent. Barely a month after your . . . departure. I heard they’re doing well. Well enough that you’ll soon have a nephew! Speaking of which, By . . .” Richars leaned in to speak directly into Byerly’s ear; Byerly was rigid. “If you really did fuck your sister, maybe it won’t be your nephew, eh?”
Blind rage swept over By. He couldn’t remember swinging, but it didn’t matter—Richars easily caught the fist aimed at his jaw.
“Now, now—starting a fight at the Emperor’s coronation, that’s a bad idea,” Richars hissed, squeezing his fingers around By’s wrist until the skin went white. “Keep yourself in line, boy.”
Releasing his wrist, Richars stepped away, gave him a mocking nod, and vanished into the crowd.
By stared furiously after him.
Some day, he thought, he was definitely going to kill him.
*
Having apparently spotted the trouble from the across the buffet, Donna came over to join him.
“If you let it get to you every time something slithers off Richars’s vile tongue, you’ll find yourself in the madhouse,” she told him. “In keeping with the finest traditions of our family. Here, have a drink.”
Byerly took a mindless gulp of what she handed him. The sparkling wine tasted sour in his mouth.
“Our Richars,” Donna went on, “has started putting on airs, ever since he joined the war hawks. The war party, don’t you know! Well, the higher our dear cousin climbs, the farther he’ll have to fall. And I have no doubt,” her eyes flashed, “that eventually he will slip in his own shit, and fall.”
“Donna,” Byerly interrupted, a faint tremor in his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me? About Lily?”
He looked up at her; Donna bit her lip.
“You all knew, didn’t you? You, Pierre, Richars—everyone knew, but nobody told me anything!”
“Pierre spits on everything from the top of a tall belfry, this included, believe me. As for you . . .” She was momentarily silent. “Lily herself asked me not to tell you. To conceal it as long as possible.”
“But why?!” A nearby group of ladies startled, and By realized that he was shouting. He took a step back.
Donna grimaced. “I’d recommend that you ask her yourself, but I’m afraid it’s already late in the night on the South Continent. And I doubt her husband would appreciate it.”
Byerly flinched.
“Why,” he demanded quietly, with muleheaded obstinacy, “why did they marry her off? She’s only sixteen!”
Now it was Donna’s eyes that blazed with anger. “Perhaps to cover up this whole revolting scandal. To save her reputation. Agh!” A sharp wave of her hand. “You wouldn’t understand. You, like any man, can spoil as many chickens as you like, and the worst thing that will ever happen to you is being forced to marry used goods. For a Vor woman, reputation is everything. Your father was delighted when Richars found him an out . . . Try spending less time thinking about yourself, why don’t you! The world doesn’t revolve around you, By!”
She turned sharply on her heel, and left him. Byerly, twisting his empty glass mindlessly in his hands, was left to contemplate what he’d heard.
He could understand all of it, except for one thing. Why hadn’t Lily told him?
Why hadn’t she told him anything?
3.
Byerly hit the bottle, and was only forced to resurface from drowning his sorrows a week later, when he simultaneously ran out of food, money, and alcohol.
The discovery was distinctly unpleasant. By sat for a while in the first available chair in the kitchen, then stood and went to the window. On the other side of the glass—which could really use a wash—was an indistinguishable twilight, either early pre-winter morning or oncoming night.
The kitchen reeked stupefyingly of coffee; he’d spilled it while digging around in the cabinets in search of alcohol. Byerly’s gaze dropped to his little automatic coffeemaker, one of the first things he’d bought in the capital, and he licked his dry lips.
A couple of hours later he was back at the kitchen table, grimacing as he reviewed his triumphs over the past several days. Throw a tantrum at Donna, check. Cease looking human, check. Make three attempts to call his sister, only to run headlong into the answering machine each time—check . . .
His teaspoon tinked against the saucer as he set it down. He’d washed up and made himself reasonably fresh, but his hands still shook. His stomach gave a traitorous rumble.
Listening closely to the moans of his body, he decided to begin his return to life by addressing the most pressing needs first.
*
On the way to his much-favored restaurant By tried Gruber’s com several times, but Gruber didn’t answer. He wasn’t to be found at the establishment itself, either.
A problem was brewing. Byerly spent about ten minutes trying to persuade the barman to put the meal on his tab, but the barman—most unexpectedly—produced an already rather impressive bill for drinks from earlier in the week, still unpaid. Byerly couldn’t remember coming to the diner to drink, but the barman’s sour expression in response to his clarifying questions confirmed his worst fears. In particular, it turned out Gruber hadn’t fallen off the radar without reason: rather, it was because the last time they’d drunk together By had flown into a rage, and slugged him across the face.
By wanted to complain that he didn’t remember that, either, but thought better of it.
He could’ve called Fred, but a careful inquiry with the barman confirmed that he’d managed to quarrel with the Jackets, too. That left a couple Vor friends from Donna’s circle, but the thought of having to endure their questioning about the row with Richars made him wilt.
Two options left: call Donna, or call Pierre.
He was just mulling over the question of which option repulsed him more when a young man he’d never met approached the counter.
“Excuse me.” The guy’s smile was soft and a little shy. “I was just sitting over there, and couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. My apologies if I’m intruding, but”—he dropped his gaze, then looked back up, clear gray eyes meeting By’s—“perhaps you’d permit me to treat you?”
*
Over the course of the next hour Byerly learned that the young man was named Karl Schweiger, and had only recently moved to Vorbarr Sultana—his slight northern accent had yet to dissipate after several months in the city. He was twenty, though he looked about seventeen: elegant, slender, with soft ashy hair and clear pale skin. Apparently he’d moved into the neighborhood only a week ago, just in time to catch Byerly’s bender.
“I’m usually better-behaved,” Byerly told him, with a pained smile. Dessert was just being served. “I was just—having some personal difficulties.”
“Oh-h,” drew out Karl, but didn’t pry. Byerly appreciated his tact, and changed the subject, inquiring whether it was the Imperial Service Academy that brought a young provincial to the capital.
“Oh, no,” Karl laughed. “I have no interest in military accolades. I program com systems, and dare to hope that I’ve attained certain heights in the field.”
The color of Karl’s credit card soon persuaded Byerly that the young man really did earn a good living. Towards the end of lunch they were almost friends, so By offered his services as a guide to the neighborhood, and they went out for a stroll, only to be driven into another bar by the starting snow.
Karl laughed, his cheeks gone pink from the cold. They downed hot wine and went out again, and wandered the neighborhood until it grew dark, alternating between the streets and warming up in the local bars and cafes.
After dinner Karl invited By over for a glass or two, and By didn’t decline—after all, the only thing waiting for him at home was a spectacular mess.
Karl’s flat proved to be on one of the neighboring side streets, not far from Byerly’s own home. It was slightly smaller, with more modern furnishings; after their long walk Byerly particularly appreciated the charms of the deep ergonomic chair with its subtle massage mode. And when Karl brought him a glass of cognac, well, life became truly heavenly.
So as to return the courtesy, Byerly continued to ask questions about Karl’s job. Karl blossomed immediately in response, and began to chatter. Alas, of his speeches By understood little, saturated as they were with technical terms; Karl then picked up his com-tablet and came to sit on By’s armrest, the better to demonstrate his beautiful, full-color three-dimensional models, of which By understood even less.
More cognac was drunk. Upon opening yet another programming masterwork Karl swayed in his seat, and, laughing, slid into Byerly’s lap.
Those gray eyes were were trimmed with fair eyelashes. This close, By could see the faint smattering of freckles across Karl’s white skin. His lips were slick, neither thin nor plump, and it seemed to By perfectly natural to lean in and taste them.
As always when he was drunk, the reality of what was happening arrived on a delay. Only when he was already kissing Karl did it occur to him that it was very likely he was about to be punched—but Karl defied his expectations, and responded readily to the kiss, twining his arms around By’s neck.
The tablet slid somewhere off to the side, but they paid it no heed. Byerly was far too occupied with the feeling of another’s weight across his lap. Like with a girl, but . . . better. A heady feeling washed over him, and a moment later it came to him that the feeling was power.
Karl’s clothes were quickly discarded; By had never had any issues with coordination, even while drunk. That made things better still: Karl was now sitting in his lap face to face, and By could stroke and caress his lithe and yielding body. Schweiger moaned, pressing into By’s rough touch, and tried to undo his pants. When his efforts met with success, it was Byerly’s turn to groan. Karl took both their cocks in his fist and threw back his head, biting his lip; his fingers seemed to know what By liked better than By did himself.
For a while after that Byerly still tried to maintain control, pulling the impassioned Schweiger closer and kissing his laughing lips. But at some point Karl’s hand disappeared, and then he was lifting himself up—
Byerly moaned low, feeling his cock slide in between Karl’s slick buttocks, the head slipping effortlessly inside. It felt so tight, so sweet . . . By grasped at Karl’s shoulders, and slowly, insistently, lowered him onto himself.
The sharp exhalation he let out through his teeth mingled with Karl’s long, strangled moan. For a moment they were both still, By’s fingers digging into white skin, Karl’s forehead resting against his own; then they started to move. Carefully, in unison, in answer to each other, and it was so good and it just kept getting better and better . . .
They must have both lost their heads, surrendering to feverish, greedy thrusts that brought them rapidly to completion. By came back to himself with his cheek pressed against Karl’s shoulder; Karl lay on top of him in the same relaxed pose. Black circles drifted before By’s eyes, and he could still feel the aftershocks of the pleasure he’d just survived ringing throughout his body.
“Shower,” Karl mumbled, “then bed.”
Soft cool lips touched his cheek, and By realized that his own lips were spread in a foolish grin.
*
It turned out to be exactly what By needed. Byerly ate, slept, fucked with Karl, and watched him work. Karl was gentle, cheerful, and unimposing; and it wasn’t that Byerly was in love, no, but . . . he managed to almost not think about Lily; about how she must have had the child, by now.
A couple weeks later Karl proudly reported that he’d been entrusted with some incredibly high-responsibility project fixing internal com systems, and that going forward they’d only see each other in the evenings, but By could move in with him, if he wanted. By, already used to falling asleep next to Karl following a round of good sex, wasn’t about to refuse.
Another week went by in this way, though subjectively it seemed to By like a year. Time flowed slowly, absent tasks to catch against, and Byerly—spending entire days in his much-loved deep armchair with a com tablet—kept well out of its way. He read the ancient epic The Odyssey, and felt happy.
On the very day when By happened to be finishing the last page, the melodic jingle of the security system alerted him of its owner’s return. By stretched, anticipating an excellent next stage to the evening, but when Karl appeared in the door he was pale and rumpled. He gave By a silent look, eyes glinting feverishly, and took to pulling off his frost-rimed scarf. His hands, red from the cold, didn’t seem to want to obey him.
By tensed. “What happened?” he asked.
He came up to Karl and helped his lover out of the scarf. He would’ve done the same with his coat, but Karl jerked suddenly back, pulling free of his grasp.
“I have to run, By,” he whispered. “They’re coming after me.”
He threw himself into collecting his things, haphazard, grabbing one thing after another. By froze, then followed after him.
“Who’s coming after you? Karl, stop and tell me what’s going on.”
Karl ignored him. Swinging by the bedroom, he threw his com-links into a bag, then flung it aside with a moan. By caught him by the hands.
“Karl!” By gave him a slight shake. “Tell me what happened, and I’ll help you.”
“Help—? Oh, but that’s right, your cousin’s a count!” For an instant Karl’s face lit with desperate hope, but it went out again just as fast. “No. Even a count won’t save me from them.”
Suddenly he grabbed By’s hands, and looked pleadingly into his face.
“It was a bad job, By. I realized right away, but I kept doing it, anyway. I hacked the internal network of the Imperial Treasury.” His eyes were huge; for that matter, by this point so were By’s. “ImpSec caught the break-in. They don’t know yet exactly who pulled it off, but it’s just a matter of time. I have to get off planet. Come with me, By!” His lips trembled. “We’ll run to Jackson’s Whole—the client gave me a generous advance payment—please, By!”
Byerly swallowed. Karl had cleaned out the Imperial Treasury? And he wanted to run?
He took a deep breath.
“Listen, Karl,” he said, in his most calming tone. “If you turn yourself in and tell the truth, it won’t be so bad. After all, the real responsibility lies with the client! But if you run—that would be treason. Treason against the Imperium. They won’t forgive you for that.”
“No! You’re Vor, you don’t understand . . .” Karl emit a hysterical laugh, twisting away again. “Nothing would happen to you, to a Vorrutyer. Me, they’ll send to the mines.”
He resumed packing. Byerly watched him with worry. He wasn’t going to join Karl in his flight, of course, but to just let him go . . . ? There was no question that to do so would make him complicit. How far was he willing to go, for the sake of what they’d shared?
For some reason, By found himself recalling the young Emperor, good-looking and tense, the way he’d been when By had seen him at the coronation.
“Karl—” his voice failed him without warning, and he cleared his throat. “You can’t go. I’ll tie you up, if I have to.”
Karl froze, bent over his bag. Then he turned; his gaze seemed to pierce right through Byerly, straight into his heart.
“No, By,” Karl whispered, pleading. “Don’t give me up to them. For the sake of everything we had.”
As calmly as he could, By said, “You don’t understand. The Imperial Treasury is—pensions for veterans. It’s free medicine, it’s food for orphans. If you turn yourself in now, there’s still a chance to fix all of this. ImpSec will figure out who ordered it, get the money back. You mustn’t run.”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” Karl’s voice faded. He bent even lower over his bag.
By, seized by hope, stepped closer. Karl shrugged his shoulders, turned—
And Byerly saw the muzzle aimed his chest.
There wasn’t, of course, time to do anything about it. There was a white flash; the room swayed, and then tilted on its axis. Belatedly, By realized he was on the floor. Theoretically he was lying on top of soft carpet, but he could hardly feel it. All he could do was watch as Karl came over to him and lowered himself to his knees, then reached over to check Byerly’s pulse.
Still watching By’s face, he pulled out his com-link, and said into it: “It’s over.”
The door hissed open, and a few seconds later By saw somebody’s boots. Then an unexpectedly familiar voice spoke overhead.
“Not bad, all things considered,” Gruber said. “But indecisive, and his reaction was bloody useless.”
“That’s easily fixed!” Karl replied cheerfully.
By was picked up and moved into a chair. Gruber entered his field of vision, loading some kind of ampule into a hypospray.
Horrified, By wondered, Are they going to question me? Kill me? But there was no pain after the hypospray touched his inner elbow; instead he felt a rush of energy, and his body began to sting—the stun was starting to wear off.
Karl leaned over him, carefully touching his face. By flinched away. Better to look at Gruber, than at—the traitor.
Gruber gave him a sympathetic smirk, and that was when By finally noticed the thing that he’d failed to notice from the beginning of today’s encounter.
Gruber was dressed in the dark green uniform of the Service, with silver Horus-eyes on the collar.