Gentleman Jole and the Red Queen by Lois McMaster Bujold Read Free Book Online

did at a lamppost. A dog. Maybe a dog would be simpler, saner…easier to explain. Many famous senior officers in history had sported famous pets/mounts/mistresses/plants…well, perhaps not plants. Although there was a certain cadre of fellows, after their twenty or twice-twenty years of service were up, who threw themselves into gardening. The more flamboyant live accessories seemed to be part of the mystique or public relations of command. Jole had always traveled lighter.
    A few blocks of walking brought him out of Kareenburg’s central business area, and he found himself staring across the street to the so-called Viceroy’s Palace. The name was misleading—it was actually a low, rambling house. Surrounded, true, by a remarkable garden, gift of the Vicereine’s even more remarkable daughter-in-law, which was growing up lushly these days to lend color and privacy, or the illusion of it. The old, hand-painted sign still hung by the gate.
    The original Viceroy’s Palace had been a relocated field shelter, much to the dismay of the first Viceroy. His unhappy successors had made do with several field shelters, stuck together in assorted arrays. These had at length been followed by a semi-fortified prefabricated dwelling of remarkable ugliness. The present Vicereine, in the first year of her and her husband’s reign, had ordered it knocked flat and the site cleared, and started over with a saner and far more elegant design. The barracks at the back of the premises, which had housed Count Vorkosigan’s personal armsmen during his tenure, were now converted to various Viceregal offices; the sole remaining armsman lived in the main house with a few other principal servants.
    On impulse, Jole crossed the street and presented himself to the lone gate guard—another reduction from Aral’s day. The premises’ current security was thinner and much more discreet. Jole didn’t mind the second, but wasn’t so sure he approved of the first.
    The gate guard, who knew him well, saluted. “Admiral Jole, sir.”
    “Afternoon, Fox. Is Her Excellency home to visitors?”
    “I’m sure she’s at home to you, sir. Go on in.”
    Jole strolled on up the curving drive. He almost turned around again when he spotted the array of parked vehicles, many of them with diplomatic stickers from the assorted planetary consulates based in Kareenburg, that marked some kind of diplomatic meeting—ah, yes, the welcoming reception for the new Escobaran consul was this afternoon, wasn’t it. Jole had dumped the task of representing the Sergyaran military forces upon his downside base commander, to give the two men a chance to get acquainted in a less fraught setting before they had to sort out some inevitable contretemps involving, to choose an unfortunately unhypothetical example, off-duty soldiers with too much to drink and galactic tourists insufficiently briefed on the fine points of Barrayaran culture. Far better that they should first meet in the Vicereine’s garden than in a hospital or, worse, the Kareenburg municipal guard’s morgue. These elegant soirees had more than one practical function.
    Perversely, being blocked from a chance to talk with Cordelia heightened his anxiety to do so. He continued on the walkway around the house, noting one security man in uniform and another pretending to weed, who made note of him with nods of greeting in turn, till the familiar murmur of voices and clink of glassware guided him to the patio and terrace that flowed out into the garden. Perhaps a hundred well-dressed people were scattered about, clutching little plates and talking. He hesitated on the fringe. Happily, Cordelia was in sight, wearing something light and flowing for the balmy afternoon, and her glance found him after only a moment. She immediately detached herself from the half-dozen people clustered around her and made her way to his side.
    “Oliver,” she said warmly. “How did your visit to the rep center go?”
    “Mission