Sense of Wonder: A Century of Science Fiction (479 page)

“Yes,” said Karal, his eyes on the horizon, “so it will.” His gaze fell to the graves at his feet. “But it swallows us all in the end, doesn’t it? You will outlive the old ones.”

“Or in the beginning.” Miles pointed down. “Don’t tell
me
who I’m going to outlive. Tell Raina.”

Karal’s shoulders slumped. “True. S’truth. Make your judgment, lord. I’ll back you.”

* * * *

M
iles assembled them all in Karal’s yard for his Speaking, the porch now having become his podium. The interior of the cabin would have been impossibly hot and close for this crowd, suffocating with the afternoon sun beating on the roof, though outdoors the light made them squint. They were all here, everyone they could round up, Speaker Karal, Ma Karal, their boys, all the Csuriks, most of the cronies who had attended last night’s funereal festivities, men, women, and children. Harra sat apart. Lem kept trying to hold her hand, though from the way she flinched it was clear she didn’t want to be touched. Ma Mattulich sat displayed by Miles’s side, silent and surly, flanked by Pym and an uncomfortable-looking Deputy Alex.

Miles jerked up his chin, settling his head on the high collar of his dress greens, as polished and formal as Pym’s batman’s expertise could make him. The Imperial Service uniform that Miles had earned. Did these people know he had earned it, or did they all imagine it a mere gift from his father, nepotism at work? Damn what they thought. He knew. He stood before his people, and gripped the porch rail.

“I have concluded the investigation of the charges laid before the Count’s Court by Harra Csurik of the murder of her daughter Raina. By evidence, witness, and her own admission, I find Mara Mattulich guilty of this murder, she having twisted the infant’s neck until it broke, and then attempted to conceal that crime. Even when that concealment placed her son-in-law Lem Csurik in mortal danger from false charges. In light of the helplessness of the victim, the cruelty of the method, and the cowardly selfishness of the attempted concealment, I can find no mitigating excuse for the crime.

“In addition, Mara Mattulich by her own admission testifies to two previous infanticides, some twenty years ago, of her own children. These facts shall be announced by Speaker Karal in every corner of Silvy Vale, until every subject has been informed.”

He could feel Ma Mattulich’s glare boring into his back.
Yes,
go on and hate me, old woman. I will bury you yet, and you know it.
He swallowed and continued, the formality of the language a sort of shield before him.

“For this unmitigated crime, the only proper sentence is death. And I so sentence Mara Mattulich. But in light of her age and close relation to the next-most-injured party in the case, Harra Csurik, I choose to hold the actual execution of that sentence. Indefinitely.” Out of the corner of his eye Miles saw Pym let out, very carefully and covertly, a sigh of relief. Harra combed at her straw-colored bangs with her fingers and listened intently.

“But she shall be as dead before the law. All her property, even to the clothes on her back, now belongs to her daughter Harra, to dispose of as she wills. Mara Mattulich may not own property, enter contracts, sue for injuries, nor exert her will after death in any testament. She shall not leave Silvy Vale without Harra’s permission. Harra shall be given power over her as a parent over a child, or as in senility. In Harra’s absence Speaker Karal will be her deputy. Mara Mattulich shall be watched to see she harms no other child.

“Further. She shall die without sacrifice. No one, not Harra nor any other, shall make a burning for her when she goes into the ground at last. As she murdered her future, so her future shall return only death to her spirit. She will die as the childless do, without remembrance.”

A low sigh swept the older members of the crowd before Miles. For the first time, Mara Mattulich bent her stiff neck.

Some, Miles knew, would find this only spiritually symbolic. Others would see it as literally lethal, according to the strength of their beliefs. The literal-minded, such as those who saw mutation as a sin to be violently expiated. But even the less superstitious, Miles saw in their faces, found the meaning clear. So.

Miles turned to Ma Mattulich, and lowered his voice. “Every breath you take from this moment on is by my mercy. Every bite of food you eat, by Harra’s charity. By charity and mercy—such as you did not give—you shall live. Dead woman.”

“Some mercy. Mutie lord.” Her growl was low, weary, beaten.

“You get the point,” he said through his teeth. He swept her a bow, infinitely ironic, and turned his back on her. “I am the Voice of Count Vorkosigan. This concludes my Speaking.”

* * * *

Miles met Harra and Lem afterward, in Speaker Karal’s cabin.

“I have a proposition for you.” Miles controlled his nervous pacing and stood before them. “You’re free to turn it down, or think about it for a while. I know you’re very tired right now.”
As are we all.
Had he really been in Silvy Vale only a day and a half? It seemed like a century. His head ached with fatigue. Harra was red-eyed, too. “First of all, you can read and write?”

“Some,” Harra admitted. “Speaker Karal taught us some, and Ma Lannier.”

“Well, good enough. You wouldn’t be starting completely blind. Look. A few years back Hassadar started a teacher’s college. It’s not very big yet, but it’s begun. There are some scholarships. I can swing one your way, if you will agree to live in Hassadar for three years of intense study.”

“Me!” said Harra. “I couldn’t go to a college! I barely know…any of that stuff.”

“Knowledge is what you’re supposed to have coming out, not going in. Look, they know what they’re dealing with in this district. They have a lot of remedial courses. It’s true, you’d have to work harder, to catch up with the town-bred and the lowlanders. But I know you have courage, and I know you have will. The rest is just picking yourself up and ramming into the wall again and again until it falls down. You get a bloody forehead, so what? You can do it, I swear you can.”

Lem, sitting beside her, looked worried. He captured her hand again. “Three years?” he said in a small voice. “Gone away?”

“The school stipend isn’t that much,” said Miles. “But Lem, I understand you have carpenter’s skills. There’s a building boom going on in Hassadar right now. Hassadar’s going to be the next Vorkosigan Vashnoi, I think. I’m certain you could get a job. Between you, you could live.”

Lem looked at first relieved, then extremely worried. “But they all use power tools—computers—robots.…”

“By no means. And they weren’t all born knowing how to use that stuff, either. If they can learn it, you can. Besides, the rich pay well for hand-work, unique one-off items, if the quality’s good. I can see you get a start, which is usually the toughest moment. After that you should be able to figure it out all right.”

“To leave Silvy Vale…” said Harra in a dismayed tone.

“Only in order to return. That’s the other half of the bargain. I can send a com unit up here, a small one with a portable power pack that lasts a year. Somebody’d have to hump down to Vorkosigan Surleau to replace it annually, no big problem. The whole setup wouldn’t cost much more than oh, a new lightflyer.” Such as the shiny red one Miles had coveted in a dealer’s showroom in Vorbarr Sultana, very suitable for a graduation present, he had pointed out to his parents. The credit chit was sitting in the top drawer of his dresser in the lake house at Vorkosigan Surleau right now. “It’s not a massive project like installing a powersat receptor for the whole of Silvy Vale or anything. The holovid would pick up the educational satellite broadcasts from the capital; set it up in some central cabin, add a couple of dozen lap-links for the kids, and you’ve got an instant school. All the children would be required to attend, with Speaker Karal to enforce it, though once they’d discovered the holovid you’d probably have to beat them to make them go home. I, ah”—Miles cleared his throat—“thought you might name it the Raina Csurik Primary School.”

“Oh,” said Harra, and began to cry for the first time that grueling day. Lem patted her clumsily. She returned the grip of his hand at last.

“I can send a lowlander up here to teach,” said Miles. “I’ll get one to take a short-term contract, till you’re ready to come back. But he or she won’t understand Silvy Vale like you do. Wouldn’t understand
why.
You—you already know. You know what they can’t teach in any lowland college.”

Harra scrubbed her eyes, and looked up—not very far up—at him. “You went to the Imperial Academy.”

“I did.” His chin jerked up.

“Then I,” she said shakily, “can manage…Hassadar Teacher’s College.” The name was awkward in her mouth. At first. “At any rate—I’ll try, m’lord.”

“I’ll bet on you,” Miles agreed. “Both of you. Just, ah”—a smile sped across his mouth and vanished—“stand up straight and speak the truth, eh?”

Harra blinked understanding. An answering half-smile lit her tired face, equally briefly. “I will. Little man.”

* * * *

F
at Ninny rode home by air the next morning, in a horse van, along with Pym. Dr. Dea went along with his two patients, and his nemesis the sorrel mare. A replacement bodyguard had been sent with the groom who flew the van from Vorkosigan Surleau, and stayed with Miles to help him ride the remaining two horses back down. Well, Miles thought, he’d been considering a camping trip in the mountains with his cousin Ivan as part of his home leave anyway. The liveried man was the laconic veteran Esterhazy, whom Miles had known most of his life; excellent company for a man who didn’t want to talk about it, unlike Ivan you could almost forget he was there. Miles wondered if Esterhazy’s assignment had been random chance, or a mercy of the Count’s. Esterhazy was good with horses.

They camped overnight by the river of roses. Miles walked up the vale in the evening light, desultorily looking for the spring of it; indeed, the floral barrier did seem to peter out a couple of kilometers upstream, merging into slightly less impassable scrub. Miles plucked a rose, checked to make sure that Esterhazy was nowhere in sight, and bit into it curiously. Clearly, he was not a horse. A cut bunch would probably not survive the trip back as a treat for Ninny. Ninny could settle for oats.

Miles watched the evening shadows flowing up along the backbone of the Dendarii range, high and massive in the distance. How small those mountains looked from space! Little wrinkles on the skin of a globe he could cover with his hand, all their crushing mass made invisible. Which was illusory, distance or nearness? Distance, Miles decided. Distance was a damned lie. Had his father known this? Miles suspected so.

He contemplated his urge to throw all his money, not just a lightflyer’s worth, at those mountains; to quit it all and go teach children to read and write, to set up a free clinic, a powersat net, or all of these at once. But Silvy Vale was only one of hundreds of such communities buried in these mountains, one of thousands across the whole of Barrayar. Taxes squeezed from this very district helped maintain the very elite military school he’d just spent—how much of their resources in? How much would he have to give back just to make it even, now? He was himself a planetary resource, his training had made him so, and his feet were set on their path.

What God means you to do, Miles’s theist mother claimed, could be deduced from the talents He gave you. The academic honors, Miles had amassed by sheer brute work. But the war games, outwitting his opponents, staying one step ahead—a necessity, true, he had no margin for error—the war games had been an unholy joy. War had been no game here once, not so long ago. It might be so again. What you did best, that was what was wanted from you. God seemed to be lined up with the Emperor on that point, at least, if no other.

Miles had sworn his officer’s oath to the Emperor less than two weeks ago, puffed with pride at his achievement. In his secret mind he had imagined himself keeping that oath through blazing battle, enemy torture, what-have-you, even while sharing cynical cracks afterwards with Ivan about archaic dress swords and the sort of people who insisted on wearing them.

But in the dark of subtler temptations, those which hurt without heroism for consolation, he foresaw, the Emperor would no longer be the symbol of Barrayar in his heart.

Peace to you, small lady
, he thought to Raina.
You’ve won a twisted poor modern knight, to wear your favor on his sleeve. But it’s a twisted poor world we were both born into, that rejects us without mercy and ejects us without consultation. At least I won’t just tilt at windmills for you. I’ll send in sappers to mine the twirling suckers, and blast them into the sky.…

He knew who he served now. And why he could not quit. And why he must not fail.