“A Vor lady hardly needs to work.” Tien smiled.

“Nor a Vor lord,” added Vorkosigan, almost under his breath, “yet here we are…”

“That depends on your ability to choose the right parents,” said Tien, a touch sourly. He glanced across at Vorkosigan.

“Relieve my curiosity. Are you related to the former Lord Regent?”

“My father,” Vorkosigan replied, with quelling brevity. He did not smile.

“Then you are the Lord Vorkosigan, the Count’s heir.”

“That follows, yes.”

Vorkosigan was getting unnervingly dry, now. Ekaterin blurted, “Your upbringing must have been terribly difficult.”

“He managed,” Vorkosigan murmured.

“I meant for you!”

“Ah.” His brief smile returned, and flicked out again.

The conversation was going dreadfully awry, Ekaterin could feel it; she hardly dared open her mouth on an attempt to redirect it. Tien stepped in, or stepped in it: “Was your father the great Admiral reconciled that you couldn’t have a military career?”

“My grandfather the great General was more set on it.”

“I was a ten-years man myself, the usual. In Administration, very dull. Trust me, you didn’t miss much.” Tien waved a kindly, dismissive hand. “But not every Vor has to be a soldier these days, eh, Professor Vorthys? You’re living proof.”

“I believe Captain Vorkosigan served, um, thirteen years, was it, Miles? In Imperial Security. Galactic operations. Did you find it dull?”

Vorkosigan’s smile upon the Professor grew genuine, for an instant of time. “Not nearly dull enough.” He jerked up his chin, evidently a habitual nervous tic. For the first time Ekaterin noticed the fine white scars on either side of his short neck.