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

accomplished, ma’am,” he told her with a mock, but not mocking, salute. Her brows flicked up in pleased surprise. “I…we need to talk, but obviously not now.”
    “This thing is winding down, actually. If you can hang on for about half an hour, I should be able to start getting rid of them. Or you could come back later.”
    He had work on his schedule for this evening, unfortunately. “I’m not in uniform,” he said in doubt.
    “Oh, let these paranoid galactics experience a nonthreatening Barrayaran officer for a change. It will widen their world-views.”
    “That seems counterproductive, somehow. The whole point of having us all Imperially out here is to make our wormhole jump-points uninviting to the uninvited.”
    She grinned. “You look fine. Go do the pretty. I know you know how.” She strolled away, and several persons with agendas hidden or otherwise bee-lined for her.
    Jole felt himself falling with the ease of long practice back into diplomatic-aide mode. He did check in first with his base commander, General Haines, who was properly attired in full dress greens, looking suitably broad and wall-like. The tall boots would be hot and sweaty, Jole was sure.
    “Ah, Oliver, you’re here!” said the general. “Didn’t think you could make it. Is there anything afoot?” And, hopefully, “Can I leave now?”
    “No and no. I’m just dropping by.” He glanced around the party, which had reached a relaxed and tipsy stage. “What did you think of the new Escobaran consul?”
    “Seems sensible enough, if young. At least he only has one sex, thank God.”
    Jole followed Haines’s eye to the familiar, androgynous figure of the Betan consul, now chatting with the Vicereine. Consul Vermillion was a Betan hermaphrodite, one of that planet’s bioengineered, double-sexed…you couldn’t call them a species, nor a race…Jole settled on minority. If the herm’s assignment here had been intended as a cultural challenge to the local Barrayarans, it had fallen flat under the Vicereine’s amused eye. Quite a few of the consulate personnel in Kareenburg were young diplomats on the make; if they didn’t screw up on Sergyar, they had a shot at a more prestigious—and less forgiving—embassy posting in Vorbarr Sultana. The Vicereine had confided to Jole that she thought Consul Vermillion might very well be the next Betan ambassador to present portfolio to Emperor Gregor, a notion that made her eyes glint in an appealing but slightly alarming fashion.
    A server paused to offer Jole a drink on a tray. “Your usual, sir?”
    “Thank you, Frieda.” Jole took a sip. Fizzy water, ice, and whatever mixer was available in the bar to give it a camouflaging color—he had been trained not to drink alcohol in any place that might offer diplomatic ambush back in his days as aide to the Prime Minister, and the habit had stuck.
    “Ah, your Vorinnis girl is around here somewhere—there she is.” General Haines nodded to a short figure in ISWA dress greens, which entailed skirts which were, Jole understood, not as uncomfortable in this heat as trousers and boots. She stood awkwardly on the other side of the garden gripping an untasted drink. “I had to explain to her that a last-minute personal invitation from the Vicereine did, actually, outrank her afternoon’s filing.”
    “Good. They only met in passing the other day. Did you present her yet?”
    “A while ago. She seemed a tad tongue-tied.”
    “Well, Cordelia will get her over that in due course. See she gets home to base as well, please; I have an, uh…unscheduled conference scheduled with the Vicereine after this.”
    Haines nodded, giving the girl a calculating glance. “How’s she working out for you?”
    Jole shrugged. “All right so far. She’s keen, and it’s clear she picked up a little Vorbarr Sultana polish on her last rotation—or maybe that’s her Vor blood talking, there.” He hesitated, considering. “When it comes to divvying up