Another fic for ![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
ailis_fictive, who wanted a sort of missing scene from "Thirty," something to do with Aral's thirtieth, from Piotr's POV (and you get the bonus Piotr/Ezar, if not in any more detail than the original). I'm not sure how much sense this makes, but it was entertaining to write.
*
So tired of power games.
The disconnected thought fluttered into Piotr's mind, then landed with a thud, broken-winged, making its message literal. It was not a message graced with a pronoun; he couldn't quite manage to admit that he himself was the one exhausted by playing at one-upmanship (over it, beyond it, across the river and fleeing into the hills), but the only other man in the room was Negri, and when Negri was done with power games he'd be dead.
Perhaps he just didn't want to admit that Negri (and through him, Ezar) held the upper hand. It was true that Piotr had enough credit with the Imperium to ask Negri for favors; but when the favor was "spy on my son and make sure he isn't misbehaving himself, because he keeps evading my Armsmen" that tended to give the head of Ezar's Imperial Security plenty of room for preemptive strikes, or blackmail, or the snide looks that were the hardest of all to take.
Of course, by every other measure Negri was decisively outranked. He wasn't Vor; he was a little man who'd crept around and spied on the right people until Ezar noticed; he'd had the brains not to work for Yuri and he still possessed the cunning not to pay attention to what color the tabs in his collar were, but technically--
"Count Vorkosigan? Do you care to have me present my report?"
Piotr gave Negri a lordly wave, leaning back in his chair relaxed, as if he didn't care. "What did he get up to last night?"
"Drinking. To excess."
"It was his birthday," Piotr snapped back, stung at the disapproval. "If that's all…"
"Philosophizing. Loudly. In rhyme." And now Negri sounded amused, as if Aral were some kind of freak show. Piotr tensed, but didn't respond. "On the other hand," Negri went on, "he kept his liquor down and all his body parts inside his clothing, and his companions were unimpeachable officers and gentlemen, so all in all, a marginally normal night out for a Vor lord of his stature. Was that all? Sir," he added as a blatant afterthought.
"Did he say anything in all that poetry to offend the Emperor?"
"Oh, plenty, but no one but my man had the wits left to untangle it. Don't you care to know if he said anything to offend you?"
"I'm sure he did. I'm also sure I've heard it before. How about… did anything, um. Of a sexual nature occur?"
"I believe there was a plan to deposit young Vorpatril in one of the more salubrious brothels, but he was less able to manage his drink, so the enterprise was scrapped. Your son? No. I don't believe he's a patron of such establishments, as a general rule." Negri paused. "Or were you thinking of, mm, less professional, more convenient accommodation? Such as his friends and fellow officers?"
Piotr bristled, pointlessly. "Merely curious. None of my business, I'm sure. Well, I'm glad to know he didn't… cause any trouble. Thank you, Captain." He put his hands on the arms of the chair, ready to rise.
Negri's voice stopped him. "My lord Count," he said, and his tone was oddly gentle. "You have nothing to worry about. Matters have… altered, considerably, from where they were several years ago. I hadn't quite finished the report."
Piotr settled back down. "What?" he said, with no energy left to be other than blunt. "Did he screw somebody he shouldn't have, then? Just more quietly than he did that bastard Vorrutyer?"
"Commander Vorrutyer made an appearance at the Broken Sword last night, in fact," Negri reported. "He was drunk and offensive; he put himself in Captain Vorkosigan's way, accused and insinuated and did his best to provoke either a fight or… something else. Your son gave him nothing he wanted, and finally Vorrutyer threw a few last insults at him and left. Tail between his legs, if he'd had one."
"And Aral controlled himself?"
"Admirably." And that, coming from Negri, was a lot. "Though the rate of his drinking did increase, subsequently." He paused, then added, "He probably needed it."
"Ges Vorrutyer does have that effect. I had to drink more myself, the times I held back from punching him. What did he say?"
"Nothing that wasn't true, unfortunately."
Piotr laughed, bitterly. "I wasn't going to sue him for slander."
"No, that would be inadvisable." Negri waited until he raised curious eyebrows, then added, "He seems to know about your… liaison with the Emperor."
"My… dammit, man, that was years ago. In the middle of a bloody land war. And he wasn't the Emperor then; he was my aide-de-camp. What did you call it? Convenient accommodation."
"A long-standing military tradition, certainly," Negri said dryly.
"Well, it is. What the hell does Vorrutyer know? A few months on space patrol. Try years running guerrilla raids and sleeping in caves. You grab at… anything that makes you feel good. That resembles life." Piotr had a sudden flash of memory: Ezar, naked, standing in the sun by a river, the smooth young curve of his ass presented as bait for some Ceta who felt like slumming it with a Barrayaran, probably before slitting his throat. Ezar had done for him, instead; Piotr had never been so proud.
Though hearing about Aral standing down Ges came a close second. He'd never managed to tell Aral that it wasn't so much his preferences he minded as his damned awful taste. If he'd taken up with a better man, say Rulf Vorhalas (who'd probably made part of the drinking party last night), Piotr would have defended Aral's choice, as long as he also chose a wife who was willing to look the other way, stay at home and get on with having children.
But… God. Ges Vorrutyer. Slimy insinuating son of a bitch. Throwing it in Aral's face that his da had had it off with Ezar Vorbarra. He wondered what Aral had made of that; and he wondered if Aral had known, as Piotr had immediately, how Vorrutyer had found out.
"You looked surprised I didn't deny it," Piotr told Negri. "Like you'd… missed your stroke, or something."
Negri shrugged. "The Emperor has never denied the relationship either. There are still-living witnesses."
"Well, that's convenient for you. Though none of my men would be stupid enough to march up to Serg Vorbarra and tell him all about it. They know he might… misunderstand their intentions. And they've got no notion of playing with power the way you do. Because it is a game to you, isn't it? Move a piece, see how all the others react. Aral's just a pawn on the board. So's Ges. But I" -- Piotr stood up, gathered himself into the old fighting stance -- "I got to the last square a long time ago. You can call me whatever you want, but you can't checkmate Ezar while I'm standing in front of him."
Negri stared at him a moment, and then laughed. "We're on the same side of the board, my lord Count. All of us, all wearing the same colors. Black, for preference. But don't be so sure you know who's moving the pieces." He checked his chrono. "I'd get home to your son now if I were you. It's not every day a man begins his fourth decade of life; he'll want to be sobered up and ready to report for duty."
Piotr was being dismissed. He would have objected, but those were Ezar's chilly eyes looking out of Negri's weaselly face. So he merely nodded, said, "Thank you for the surveillance. It won't be required again," turned on his heel, and left, hoping he had imagined the smile and the look of pity lingering in the air.
ailis_fictive, who wanted a sort of missing scene from "Thirty," something to do with Aral's thirtieth, from Piotr's POV (and you get the bonus Piotr/Ezar, if not in any more detail than the original). I'm not sure how much sense this makes, but it was entertaining to write.*
So tired of power games.
The disconnected thought fluttered into Piotr's mind, then landed with a thud, broken-winged, making its message literal. It was not a message graced with a pronoun; he couldn't quite manage to admit that he himself was the one exhausted by playing at one-upmanship (over it, beyond it, across the river and fleeing into the hills), but the only other man in the room was Negri, and when Negri was done with power games he'd be dead.
Perhaps he just didn't want to admit that Negri (and through him, Ezar) held the upper hand. It was true that Piotr had enough credit with the Imperium to ask Negri for favors; but when the favor was "spy on my son and make sure he isn't misbehaving himself, because he keeps evading my Armsmen" that tended to give the head of Ezar's Imperial Security plenty of room for preemptive strikes, or blackmail, or the snide looks that were the hardest of all to take.
Of course, by every other measure Negri was decisively outranked. He wasn't Vor; he was a little man who'd crept around and spied on the right people until Ezar noticed; he'd had the brains not to work for Yuri and he still possessed the cunning not to pay attention to what color the tabs in his collar were, but technically--
"Count Vorkosigan? Do you care to have me present my report?"
Piotr gave Negri a lordly wave, leaning back in his chair relaxed, as if he didn't care. "What did he get up to last night?"
"Drinking. To excess."
"It was his birthday," Piotr snapped back, stung at the disapproval. "If that's all…"
"Philosophizing. Loudly. In rhyme." And now Negri sounded amused, as if Aral were some kind of freak show. Piotr tensed, but didn't respond. "On the other hand," Negri went on, "he kept his liquor down and all his body parts inside his clothing, and his companions were unimpeachable officers and gentlemen, so all in all, a marginally normal night out for a Vor lord of his stature. Was that all? Sir," he added as a blatant afterthought.
"Did he say anything in all that poetry to offend the Emperor?"
"Oh, plenty, but no one but my man had the wits left to untangle it. Don't you care to know if he said anything to offend you?"
"I'm sure he did. I'm also sure I've heard it before. How about… did anything, um. Of a sexual nature occur?"
"I believe there was a plan to deposit young Vorpatril in one of the more salubrious brothels, but he was less able to manage his drink, so the enterprise was scrapped. Your son? No. I don't believe he's a patron of such establishments, as a general rule." Negri paused. "Or were you thinking of, mm, less professional, more convenient accommodation? Such as his friends and fellow officers?"
Piotr bristled, pointlessly. "Merely curious. None of my business, I'm sure. Well, I'm glad to know he didn't… cause any trouble. Thank you, Captain." He put his hands on the arms of the chair, ready to rise.
Negri's voice stopped him. "My lord Count," he said, and his tone was oddly gentle. "You have nothing to worry about. Matters have… altered, considerably, from where they were several years ago. I hadn't quite finished the report."
Piotr settled back down. "What?" he said, with no energy left to be other than blunt. "Did he screw somebody he shouldn't have, then? Just more quietly than he did that bastard Vorrutyer?"
"Commander Vorrutyer made an appearance at the Broken Sword last night, in fact," Negri reported. "He was drunk and offensive; he put himself in Captain Vorkosigan's way, accused and insinuated and did his best to provoke either a fight or… something else. Your son gave him nothing he wanted, and finally Vorrutyer threw a few last insults at him and left. Tail between his legs, if he'd had one."
"And Aral controlled himself?"
"Admirably." And that, coming from Negri, was a lot. "Though the rate of his drinking did increase, subsequently." He paused, then added, "He probably needed it."
"Ges Vorrutyer does have that effect. I had to drink more myself, the times I held back from punching him. What did he say?"
"Nothing that wasn't true, unfortunately."
Piotr laughed, bitterly. "I wasn't going to sue him for slander."
"No, that would be inadvisable." Negri waited until he raised curious eyebrows, then added, "He seems to know about your… liaison with the Emperor."
"My… dammit, man, that was years ago. In the middle of a bloody land war. And he wasn't the Emperor then; he was my aide-de-camp. What did you call it? Convenient accommodation."
"A long-standing military tradition, certainly," Negri said dryly.
"Well, it is. What the hell does Vorrutyer know? A few months on space patrol. Try years running guerrilla raids and sleeping in caves. You grab at… anything that makes you feel good. That resembles life." Piotr had a sudden flash of memory: Ezar, naked, standing in the sun by a river, the smooth young curve of his ass presented as bait for some Ceta who felt like slumming it with a Barrayaran, probably before slitting his throat. Ezar had done for him, instead; Piotr had never been so proud.
Though hearing about Aral standing down Ges came a close second. He'd never managed to tell Aral that it wasn't so much his preferences he minded as his damned awful taste. If he'd taken up with a better man, say Rulf Vorhalas (who'd probably made part of the drinking party last night), Piotr would have defended Aral's choice, as long as he also chose a wife who was willing to look the other way, stay at home and get on with having children.
But… God. Ges Vorrutyer. Slimy insinuating son of a bitch. Throwing it in Aral's face that his da had had it off with Ezar Vorbarra. He wondered what Aral had made of that; and he wondered if Aral had known, as Piotr had immediately, how Vorrutyer had found out.
"You looked surprised I didn't deny it," Piotr told Negri. "Like you'd… missed your stroke, or something."
Negri shrugged. "The Emperor has never denied the relationship either. There are still-living witnesses."
"Well, that's convenient for you. Though none of my men would be stupid enough to march up to Serg Vorbarra and tell him all about it. They know he might… misunderstand their intentions. And they've got no notion of playing with power the way you do. Because it is a game to you, isn't it? Move a piece, see how all the others react. Aral's just a pawn on the board. So's Ges. But I" -- Piotr stood up, gathered himself into the old fighting stance -- "I got to the last square a long time ago. You can call me whatever you want, but you can't checkmate Ezar while I'm standing in front of him."
Negri stared at him a moment, and then laughed. "We're on the same side of the board, my lord Count. All of us, all wearing the same colors. Black, for preference. But don't be so sure you know who's moving the pieces." He checked his chrono. "I'd get home to your son now if I were you. It's not every day a man begins his fourth decade of life; he'll want to be sobered up and ready to report for duty."
Piotr was being dismissed. He would have objected, but those were Ezar's chilly eyes looking out of Negri's weaselly face. So he merely nodded, said, "Thank you for the surveillance. It won't be required again," turned on his heel, and left, hoping he had imagined the smile and the look of pity lingering in the air.
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