Captain Vorpatril's alliance

Ivan studied Byerly, who was only a few years older than himself. They shared the same brown eyes, dark hair, and olive skin common to Barrayar’s somewhat inbred military caste, or aristocracy, whatever one wanted to call it, and, indeed, common to most Barrayarans. By was shorter and slighter than Ivan’s six‑foot‑one, broad‑shouldered fitness, but then, he didn’t have a Desplains riding him to keep up the recruiting‑poster appearance expected of an officer serving at Imperial Headquarters. Granted, when they weren’t squinting from the dissolution, By’s eyes had the startling beauty that distinguished his famous, or infamous, clan, to which Ivan was connected by a few twigs in his own family tree. That was the problem with being Vor. You ended up related to all sorts of people you’d rather not be. And they all felt free to call on you for favors.

“What do you want, Byerly?”

“So direct! You’ll never become a diplomat that way, Ivan.”

“I once spent a year as assistant military attache to the Barrayaran Embassy on Earth. It was as much diplomacy as I cared for. Get to the point, By. I want to go to bed. And by the looks of you, so do you.”

By let his eyes widen. “Why Ivan! Was that an invitation? I’m so thrilled!”

“Someday,” Ivan growled, “I might say yes to that old line, just to watch you have a coronary.”

By spread his hand over his heart, and intoned wistfully, “And so I might.” He drained his water and gave over the vamping, the face so often arranged in a vague smarminess firming intently in a way Ivan always found a touch disturbing. “Actually, I have a little task to ask of you.”

“Figured.”

“It’s quite in your line. I may even be said to be doing you a good turn, who knows. I’d like you to pick up a girl.”

“No,” said Ivan, only in part to see what By would say next.

“Come, come. You pick up girls all the time.”

“Not on your recommendations. What’s the catch?”

Byerly made a face. “So suspicious, Ivan!”

“Yeah.”

By shrugged, conceding the point. “Unfortunately, I’m not entirely sure. And my duties with, if I may say it, the unusually unpleasant people I am presently accompanying‑”

Spying on, Ivan translated this without difficulty. And the company By kept was usually unpleasant, in Ivan’s opinion. Unusually unpleasant implied…what?

“‑leave me little opportunity to check her out. But they have an inexplicable interest in her. Which I suspect is not friendly. It worries me, Ivan, I must say.” He added after a moment, “She’s quite well‑looking, I assure you. You need have no fear on that score.”

Ivan frowned, stung. “Are you implying I’d refuse to supply assistance to a homely girl?”

Byerly sat back, eyebrows flicking up. “To your credit, I actually don’t believe that’s the case. But it will add a certain convincing verisimilitude for the outside observer.” He pulled a small plastic flimsy from his jacket and handed it across.

The background was too fuzzed to make out, but the picture showed a striking young woman striding down a sidewalk. Apparent age could be anything between twenty and thirty standard‑years, though that was no certain clue as to real age. Tumbling black hair, bright eyes, skin glowing an interesting cinnamon brown against a cream tank top. Decided nose, determined chin; either the natural face she was born with, or the work of a real artist, because it certainly didn’t bear the stamped‑from‑the‑same‑mold blandness of the usual body sculpture, a biological ideal that lost its appeal with repetition. Long legs in tan trousers that hugged in all the right places. A nicely full figure. Nicely full. If the face was natural, might the other prominent features be, too? With weakening reluctance, Ivan said, “Who is she?”

“Supposedly, a Komarran citizen named Nanja Brindis, lately moved to Solstice from Olbia Dome.”

“Supposedly?”

“I have reason to suspect that might be a recent cover identity. She did move here about two months ago, it does seem.”

“So who is she really?”

“It would be a fine thing if you could find that out.”

“If she’s hiding her identity for a good reason, she’s hardly going to tell me.” Ivan hesitated. “Is it a good reason?”

“I suspect it’s a very good reason. And I also suspect she is not a professional at the game.”

“This is all pretty vague, Byerly. May I remind you, my security clearance is higher than yours.”

“Probably.” Byerly blinked in doubt. “But then there is that pesky need‑to‑know rule.”

“I’m not sticking my head into one of your dodgy meat grinders‑ again – unless I know as much as you know. At least.”

Byerly flung up his well‑manicured hands in faux‑surrender. “The people I’m with seem to have got themselves involved in a complex smuggling operation. Rather over their heads.”

“Komarr local space is a major trade nexus. The place is lousy with smugglers. As long as the transients don’t try to offload their goods within the Imperium, in which case Imperial Customs deals sharply with ’em, they get ignored. And the Komarran trade fleets police their own.”

“That’s two out of three.”