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Kaspar woke at first light, before the sun had risen, when it was still gray outside the small window. He got up and first thing rolled up his bedding and stored it away. He got the broom down and swept the small room, brushing the little bits of leaves and scraps into the banked fire in the wood stove. He then fed the fire to get it warming the room and ready to cook breakfast.
Next Kaspar went out to the hens’ roost to collect eggs. He found three, a very good morning for this late in the year. They might even get to eat one for their breakfast, before selling the others or giving them to needier neighbors.
Kaspar's next chore was to milk the two nanny goats. Kaspar was proud of his skill at milking. He was quick and sure, without distressing the goats. Though you had to be careful with Rozya, she was ornery and might kick the pail for spite. Even Leni might nip at you if you were too rough
Footsteps interrupted Miles' reading. He was just lifting his head to look around when a hand reached over his shoulder and grabbed the sheaf of flimsies from his grasp. “How dare you.” Gregor's voice was low and angry. “Who told you you could go through my stuff!” His voice was getting louder. Miles straightened up, opened his mouth, but Gregor spoke over him, “Get out!”
“But--” started Miles, sliding off the desk chair.
“Get. Out!”
Miles started backing away, but he still wanted to explain. “The stories---”
Gregor advanced towards him, his hands balling into fists, crumpling the flimsies. Miles had never seen him so angry. Gregor'd had a growth spurt last summer, and since he'd been away at prep academy he'd grown even more. He'd always been much taller than Miles but now he seemed to absolutely tower over him. Miles closed his mouth and scurried out of the room.
A few steps down the hall Miles paused. Gregor had stayed in the room and all sounded quiet again. Miles snuck back and peered in the still-open door.
Gregor was kneeling by the bedroom's fireplace and feeding the flimsies into the flames, one by one. He was wiping his face with one sleeve and his chest was heaving as if he'd just run up all five flights of Vorkosigan House.
Miles couldn't understand. “The stories are really good, Gregor! Why would you--”
Gregor lunged up at him and Miles ran down the hallway and down the stairs as fast as he could, Gregor yelling at him all the way. “Stay out of my room! Stay out of my things!”
Miles' mother was standing at the foot of the stairs, along with Armsman Esterhazy, drawn by the noise. Miles had reached them as Gregor reached the top of the stairs. He yelled down at Miles, “Leave me alone, you NOSY PRYING M-” -- everyone froze, breath held-- “MEDDLESOME SNEAK!”
Gregor turned to leave, then turned back and looked at Cordelia. “And you don't need to tell me I don't need to yell, because I ALREADY KNOW!” he bellowed.
He stalked back to his room and shut the door firmly. He leaned against it, trembling and panting. They'd all thought he'd call Miles the m-word. They'd thought he'd do that. And that was more infuriating than all the rest.
“They're really good stories,” Miles was explaining to his mother. “They're about a boy named Kaspar who lives in the mountains and rides a pony and his family has goats and stuff and he has all these adventures! A little girl gets lost in the caves and Kaspar figures out how to find her – he's really clever – and a goat gets stuck in a crevasse and Kaspar rescues it and has all kinds of adventures like that. Gregor calls the mountains the Denali Range but they seem a lot like the Dendarii to me. And they're really good stories! Why doesn't he want anyone reading them?”
“Gregor told you to stay out of his stuff; that's all you need to understand,” Cordelia explained patiently. “And you do know to stay out of other people's things when you don't have their permission. 'Other people' includes Gregor.”
“But why would he burn them? They were really good!”
“And they belong to Gregor and he can decide what to do with them. What you need to decide is if you're going to apologize.”
Gregor was studying a holovid of Polian diplomatic etiquette when Lord Miles Vorkosigan requested an audience. Gregor sighed. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to deal with this at all. “Come in,” he replied.
Lord Miles was wearing his House uniform, still a little baggy on him as he hadn't yet done the growing they'd anticipated. “Sire,” he began, and continued with the appropriate form of apology they'd all been taught by Lady Alys.
Gregor didn't want to forgive him. He'd been planning to stay mad at Miles for a long time. Maybe forever. Not show it, or act on it, but he'd been going to hold onto that anger – at Miles – for a long long time.
Gregor stifled his sigh and issued the formal words accepting the apology and forgiving the transgression.
Miles beamed back at him and rubbed his hands. “Oh good, that's done. Whatcha doing? Do you want to play a game?”
“I don't have time for games. I have to attend the state dinner tonight opening the trade conference. I'm studying the protocol for greeting the delegations from around the Nexus and their heads of state.”
“Oh.” Miles deflated a bit, and Gregor hoped he would slump himself right out of the room, but no luck. Straightening up, Miles offered to help Gregor with his studying. “I could pretend to be each of the delegates and you could practice on me!”
“You'd have to know how to act as each delegate first,” Gregor pointed out. Besides, Miles was terrible at pretending to be anybody except himself. Whoever he started playing as gradually morphed into someone very like what Miles wanted to be. Gregor didn't want to see what Miles would turn the Magister of Marilac into.
“I could learn!”
Gregor started to argue with this, then got a little craftier. “Yes, you could. Good idea.” He inserted a blank holodisk in the commconsole and entered a command. After a moment he removed the disk, newly loaded with the protocol program, and gave it to Miles, who accepted it with great solemnity. “Sire,” he said with a bow, “thank you for entrusting me with this great task.”
Gregor was supposed to respond with something like, “Do not fail me in this. The fate of the Imperium relies upon your success,” but he wasn't in the mood. He merely nodded, and Miles trotted away.
Gregor didn't know if Miles persevered with diplomatic etiquette or not; either way he didn't see him again until breakfast the next morning. This was a quiet, family affair at Vorkosigan House. The Lord Regent would be attending the trade conference immediately after, but Gregor's ceremonial part had ended after last night's dinner. He could spend a few more hours here on leave from school, but he needed to return to the prep academy in the evening. He planned to spend his time in security training with his Armsmen and in catching up on his studies, which too often were set aside in favor of his Imperial duties.
But first, breakfast. Despite last night's grand dinner, Gregor had a good appetite this morning. Although he was supposed to set an example at the formal dinners, eating from every dish offered, and thus encouraging his guests likewise, Gregor always found it difficult to eat much. He was too anxious about proper behavior and remembering everyone's names and titles and everything else he was supposed to keep straight about them. Breakfast with the Vorkosigans was a relaxed affair where he could really address himself to all the great food available.
Except that Miles, seated across from him, was acting in a very distracting manner. He'd sit up, look at Gregor, open his mouth to speak, glance at his mother, then subside again. His demeanor was so much like a kicked puppy Gregor couldn't stand it. With an inward sigh, he asked Miles, “Would you like to try out a new hologame? I received it at the reception last night.”
Miles was already grinning and nodding vigorously when Aral cut in. “What game is this? Who gave it to you?”
“It's called the... the Hansel League. It's about sailing ships from old Earth, I think. Sera Toscane of Komarr gave it to me.”
Aral nodded, relaxing back. “That should be fine. Enjoy yourselves,” he added, smiling at both boys.
It was actually called the Hanseatic League, as Miles found out shortly after that interminable breakfast. Apparently junior cadets at prep academy weren't fed all that well, even if they were Emperor, and his mother had stressed not rushing Gregor. Miles was conscious of still needing to be extra considerate of his foster brother, even if he still didn't understand why what he'd done was so wrong. They were good stories, and it was too bad Gregor had burnt them. Miles was glad he'd got the chance to read them first, but was careful not to mention that.
The Hanseatic League did involve sailing ships, but it was really more of a trading game. You started at one seaport, and you tried to make deals and alliances with other ports, and get them to trade with you, and the more trade there was, the better off everybody was.
Miles was cheerfully enjoying the game, and he thought Gregor was too. He was trying not to beat his foster brother too badly, but Miles looked to be securely in the lead, with the majority of the ports under his control. Then he glanced at the victory indicator. What? Gregor was ahead of him! How did that happen?!
While Miles was re-examining his strategy, he heard an arrival in the main hall. “Oh,” he said, affecting nonchalance, “I expect that's Lady Alys with Ivan. He's supposed to stay here while she's working at the Residence today. Do you mind if I invite him to play the game with us?”
Gregor had no objection and Miles raced down to fetch Ivan. This would make the game much easier to win, without making Gregor feel bad, he figured. Instead of control over two-thirds of the ports, he'd aim for just over a half. Though he was concerned that would be too easy, and make the game boring. But that's a sacrifice worth making to get Gregor cheerful again. Or at least not mad at Miles anymore.
It didn't take long to bring Ivan up to speed and soon Miles was well on his way to victory. In all senses, as Ivan was having such fun that even Gregor was smiling. Miles glanced at the win indicator, to verify that he was indeed in the lead – No! This was impossible! How could he be trailing both Gregor and Ivan?!
All right, he needed to regroup and think. “You know what,” he said casually. “I think this is the kind of game that's best with lots of players. What do you say I invite Mother to join us?” Gregor nodded approval absently – he seemed engrossed in the game – and Miles ran off, returning shortly with somewhat bemused but unresisting Cordelia.
With four players in the game, Miles set his sight on a mere three-eighths of the ports. It pained him to accept anything less than over half, but rationally, he kept assuring himself that with four players, anything over a quarter was definitely winning.
Four players did lead to more interesting game play; there was a great deal of talk among the players as they tried to establish deals that suited their own strategies and took advantage of their opponents' weaknesses. Or at least that was Miles' well-reasoned approach. He suspected Ivan's calculations were much simpler.
Finally, Miles was ready to peek at the victory indicator, just to make sure – he was sure, himself – and he threw down his controller in disgust. “This game is flawed! How can I possibly still be losing?!"
His mother looked over at him, amused. “Well, kiddo, what did you set for your victory conditions?”
“World domination,” answered Miles promptly. “Or league, anyway. What else would be winning?”
“I chose, ‘Develop the most new trading ports',” said Cordelia. “Gregor, what does winning in this game look like for you?”
“My ports would have the lowest poverty rates.”
Poverty rates? What? Who cared? It was a game! Couldn't Gregor ever let himself relax and have fun?
“Ivan, what did you pick for winning?” Gregor asked.
“That I have the fastest ships. And I do!” Ivan danced from side to side, like the holos of his fast ships sailing through the ocean waves.
Never mind that the fastest ships held the fewest goods and couldn't trade in the most valuable commodities. What a stupid choice – but it suited Ivan. And... Miles thought furiously, it suited his mother's strategy of seeking out far-flung ports: Ivan's fast ships couldn't trade much there, but they could trade at all, which increased her count of new ports. He'd generously invited them to join the game and they'd responded by scheming against him!
Miles brooded. There must be a way for him to win, even under these conditions. He meant to look at the victory indicator again, but glanced at Gregor instead. A cheerful Gregor, smiling at Ivan and chuckling at something Cordelia had just said. Victory conditions... maybe Miles had won. He studied the game - another of Ivan’s fast ships raced off to another of his mother’s distant ports - then he studied Gregor’s cheerful countenance.
Win indicated.