It works - she trusts the man before her, to be as he is, she has no gift to otherwise. Easy to tell, because her expression at once becomes horrified and shocked as she catches what he is indicating too. What he's asking for. Feels a heat in her face all at once for it - but she had given her word. There wasn't much else to it.
And with that realisation, her face starts to warm up. It's not like she was new to this, she had been married, she had had children, she had ruled and seen to all manner of delegations where exchanges were made. Young, naive, but married. She has no business squirming that a stranger does not understand what he's asking for.
"Are you - ?" This wasn't the time, Lakshmi. "Yes. It is yours." It wouldn't mean anything, anyway, so no one had to know what had passed between them.
That... is not quite the reaction he was expecting. Anger, yes, or horror,
but not... What is this anyway? Because there’s some horror there, but
there’s that flush too. What exactly did he ask for? Something more
precious than the blade itself, yes, but what?
“Then we have a deal.” He takes up the blade, looking it over with
unfeigned appreciation. All Barrayarans enjoy a fine blade, and Miles is
hardly an exception. “You seem startled, though. Have I asked for something
particularly rare?” Here he gives her a grin that he doesn’t feel. Still
trying to play the part of a rogue mercenary in it for a bit of treasure.
Better to let her think she has this piece of leverage over him, for her
own sanity as well as his own control over the situation.
Her hands fall away. Rolling back from him. Choking on his question - how even to answer it? But he has a blade to inspect and the long khanjar was beautiful to behold. Set with gold filigree, with a lion that roared on the pommel. It's eyes rubies, it's mane a solid weight in the hand, though its teeth years ago dulled. A working blade, rather than a decorative piece. There were knicks and cuts from its duty. A duty that was obvious, one press of his thumb to the edge, and it would draw blood.
"Not... exactly.." She takes her breath, steeling herself. She doesn't return his grin, only takes it as confirmation that all he thinks he has, is a knife. "Only the royal blade of the house of Newalker. To sum that is worth much, others, nothing at all." Which is grand enough in and of itself. But that wasn't what it truly was, what it meant.
"But you must never show any of my people that you have it."
Edited (i should... be asleep....) 2018-05-30 18:07 (UTC)
Miles sucks in a breath. A working blade, yes, with a duty more than just its sharp edge ... This is an inheritance in his hands. An entire planet. A symbol much like his own dagger, worth more for what it means than for what it is. Good god. He hardly dares to touch it, now; he cannot even bear the fiction that he might attempt to keep it.
So he swallows, slowly. Lowering his hands with absolute reverence, so that the blade rests gently in his lap. "A symbol of your planet held as collateral for the honor of your planet," he murmurs. "That seems fiercely appropriate."
He runs his fingers gently along the details again. Just. Overwhelmed a moment. Perhaps more than a Betan should be, but he does not particularly care at the moment. "I will keep it secret, and hold it in trust until you have been freed."
How strange a man he was - one moment, he seems honourable. The next, he takes that was without price with a mercantile interest... and regards it like he might a lover, more than she ever expected for a Betan. She nods to it, an explanation with it. "We do not bring about Kings except in times of strife. In those moments, they are the sword that protects our people. But fitting for you too - you will be part of that defence."
The rest - it didn't matter. He wasn't aware of how that between those that upheld that honour, this was the world. Such a thing was binding until death. That he had asked for her whole soul, bound for the rest of their lives, completely, in asking for the blade. That she had no choice but to accept. It wasn't much more than the central part of a longer ceremony when she had married the first time. But she'd heard of it certainly, it happened with village girls in these times often enough. A blade that could be the only certainty a married couple might have. A need to find some hope in that motion. If she thought of it like that, it wasn't so bad. So then, let it mean that, in motion if not quite in... well, body. If anyone asked ( and they would, is the irritable groan of a thought ) she could say it had been given in mutual goals.
She rises then from his bedside. "If we are not are freed, perhaps I can take comfort with you having it. Should I fall, should they take my life -" an understanding, that if she was going lose, she would die in the battle to the end. " - the hope of my people will not not fall into my enemies hands."
A miserable thought, but for it, she smiles softly.
If Miles knew the full gravity of this exchange - if he realized that this was, essentially, a marriage proposal given and accepted - he would be horrified. The thought of anyone forced into such a relationship with him is beyond abhorrent to him. Because of course he is no prize, and to take advantage of someone to the point where they are bound to him with their planet on the line? No, no, no. It's the same reason why he hadn't so much as breathed in the direction of, say, asking for sex or something as a price. No one should be pressured into sleeping with someone as unappealing as him.
But he doesn't know any of that. So instead, he nods up at her, moving to stand as well. As with almost everyone, he is considerably shorter than her, the frailty of his bones and frame even more obvious as he gets to his feet. His spine curves to one side; his head is squashed, sitting poorly on his shoulders. "Then I will defend your world with my life," he says, with a slight bow. "As will my fleet."
And frankly, he has quite a lot of experience in breaking blockades. Surely he can do it again here.
Lakshmi wets her lips, briefly before she nods her head. That was settled this. His oath and hers gave to it. At once, a weight comes off of her. He did have the experience, he had the wiles. She needed more than brute force to cut their lines. She needed cleverness and every report she had, every piece of information sent back to her, she'd come across said the same:
If you wanted someone to think around a problem - get the Dendarii, but especially, get Naismith.
So when he stands, and she looks over him, there's a shakiness to her smile as she looks down at him, but it spreads, brilliant and wide. Guileless, and for once younger than she seems. Hope, for the first time, a chance for something other than a massacre. All she sees at that moment, in him, is hope. It fills her all the way up and out. "I thank you." She begins a motion, almost to reach for him once more before she lets it stop. Her hands falling back away.
Business then.
"I will gather my people, and meet you in the morning. My retinue is small. I escaped with few others, but they are my most trusted advisors."
He can do this. Absolutely. It won't be easy - he'll have trouble, absolutely, and there will be unexpected hiccups. But. On the whole, he'll figure this out.
In response to her shaky smile, his own is bright and warm. Confident, even, though he doesn't know how the hell he's going to do this yet. And hopeful. If he can give her this hope, that's good enough to start with, right? The rest ... eh, he'll figure it out as he goes.
That hand gesture, though. His gray eyes flicker a bit as he notices it, and he decides to take a chance. Gently, he reaches to take her hand, bowing over it with entirely too much ceremony. Then he lets it drop.
"I look forward to meeting your full entourage, then," he says. "Hopefully you will forgive me if I don't look completely well-rested."
For that, she laughs, for his gesture, that he would look bedraggled come morning. All her fault. Something that she squeezes his hand with, curling around his in a brief grip.
"They will be glad to meet you too, we have heard much of you and your exploits. Though I hope our differences does not bother your... Betan ways if we are to travel together. We are... very private. I would request a room where we might have some seclusion amongst ourselves. I am comfortable being exposed, but they are... they have never been so far from home."
To say the least, they were very out of their depth, on Earth and around Betans. Some of it reactive. A need to cut themselves off with what little they could keep from the UC, others... older.
Odd customs, eh? Miles has a few of his own. In any case, he has no concerns about space, so the request is an easy one to grant. He squeezes her hand back for just a moment before withdrawing completely.
"You shall have it," he says with a wave of his hand. "As long as you leave your quarters clean and undamaged at the end, I couldn't care less about what you do in them." Hell, if they leave the place clean after they leave, they'll be better guests than most. "Do they have any fears that I might be able to allay more directly?"
Her hands settle back to her sides, her shoulders falling open and easy, a sight more comfortable in his presence then she was when she first arrived. He had given her so much, already, and granted, he had taken something he quite probably didn't expect.
But she takes a moment. "Two, I suppose. This is somewhat personal a request. Of an evening, I would like you to join us for a drink. I am trying to help them adjust to the galaxy they have been denied. You will be a good... starting point." Then she takes a deeper breath. "... And of a morning, we pray and train together. Unless it is a pressing matter, I would like us to be undisturbed at that time."
A little time in the morning, a little drink in the evening. That seems ... quite reasonable? Reasonable to the point where Miles wonders if he ought to be paranoid instead, but. Well. He is just curious instead.
"Granted," he says. "As long as the drink is decent, anyway." He'll just make sure he brings a good bottle of wine along with him.
"Of course." She laughs again, eager almost. "We will prepare you something of our home, perhaps. They would be glad to show you something of us, for what you will be giving in return."
But with that she steps away, and looks about - she needs to go, relate to her own people everything that has passed in more detail for what they would only have heard half of.
"I should leave you to get what rest you can."
And she heads - not towards the door, but the balcony. Out the way she came, down the side of the building.
Perfect. A proper exchange of culture, then - the alcoholic sort. Miles is already looking forward to it. All the more reason to make sure this works during their meeting. Not that his outfit has much of a choice when he's made up his mind, but. It's easier when they agree.
"I do need my beauty rest," he says with another bow, this time small and sarcastic. Beauty, ha. Though he just sort of. Pauses as she moves to leave. "I see I need to lock my balcony more thoroughly this time."
Which he is absolutely going to do, goodness. If she'd been an assassin, he'd have been dead.
She beams, a little pleased. "You bathroom, I came in through your bathroom window, most are not slender enough - or have experience scaling building." Or her skill of picking locks. It's giddy though, but keeps it in, she shouldn't be giggling. "But most don't ever think to come in such a way, that usually no one locks them, either. So I would attend to that too."
But she slides open the door, letting in the fresh night air and the sounds of London below. The call of nightlife, the yowl of cats squabbling. Lights that glittered like fine embroidered gold. Weaving and shining. She turns back to him, just the once, as she flicks the button on her helmet, her visor sliding back down over her eyes a nose. Leaving no more than a smiling mouth. "Well met, Admiral Naismith. I look forward to meeting you again in the morning." Looks, briefly, over the edge. "We will arrive through more usual means." Some assurance.
She hops up onto the bar of the balcony railing. Holding her weight in a crouch, body tensed with her inevitable jump to the balcony below.
Oh. He definitely didn't lock the bathroom window, and for one simple reason: it's too damn high for him to reach on his own. He'll have to get Bel. Or a step stool. Or something.
He trails after her, all the more fascinated after that little revelation. Goodness, he can just picture her scaling the walls somehow. What an extraordinary woman ... "As do I," he says, just the slightest bit awed. "We'll be here to receive her when you do."
He'll stay on the balcony for a while; he wants to watch her go.
Lakshmi gives him a nod goodbye, briefly smiling once more - and then simply, she's off, just like she came. Quietly, quickly and suddenly.
She swings down with no warning - one arm holding her weight as her feet get the perch she wants on the outside edge. Dropping with a heavy landing that springs into a running step that launches her at speed, a long-stride sprint that gains the momentum she needs so that when she jumps over the street - off and across to a nearby roof she clears it easily, rolling in a summersault to break her landing before she's up and moving again. Wasting no time in her departure - there was too much to do as she scrambled into the night over rooftops. Disappearing into the echo of street lights and neon signs of Earth.
The rest - the intervening hours - she barely gets more than a few hours sleep. Telling her people the good news, their preparations to leave in the hotel where no one asked their names and didn't bother strangers. They left there at some early hour with as little sleep as any of them got. Preparing herself in a long hour of silence that - it was coming together. This war, it might just be seen through. The blockaded might just be broken, she scarcely dare breath as she codes the message back to her father. To tell him to begin the preparations, a feverish feeling that seizes her. Bold and sharp that grips her and infects her guards. Gambling with something intangible.
Though when she is waiting for him the next morning, she's easy to spot sitting in the lobby for him and his men. A serious, darkly dressed woman, rich in fabrics. She sits shoulders back, hands in her lap, elbows on the arms of the chair. Draped to a position far greater than one she currently was. Flanked by the guards that stand either side of her. All six of them in total. Hard in the mouth, hard in the eyes. Their plasma arcs and swords were worn in even weight to each other. Serious and quiet, watching for the slightest thing that would dare approach their Rani.
Far different, to how she'd been, appearing in the dark of night. A Queen, not a woman, and she holds herself to that purpose - at least until she sees him approach, and rises to greet whoever comes to lead her away.
Good god, but that woman is incredible. He watches her parkour her way across the roof with nothing short of absolute awe. Also some jealousy; he knows his body will never, ever perform anywhere near that well. In fact he's not certain it's a normal human trait. Some Jacksonian enhancements, perhaps? She doesn't seem the type, but... Well, it's a mystery for another time.
Miles will not return to sleep, in fact. Instead he spends the time preparing. Researching still more about the UC, about her beleaguered world. There will be time to sleep once they're all on the ship, anyway, and he wants to get al the information he possibly can. It paints a woefully inaccurate picture, given the omnipresence of the UC's PR department, but there are some scraps of truth in there, and Miles ferrets out all he can.
When he descends to the lobby to meet her, he is every bit the Admiral the rumors made him out to be. No bedhead or bedclothes, nor even any sign that he hasn't slept since her interruption. His eyes are fever-bright, taking in her entourage with interest and excitement both. Ah, here's a motley crew. He can see their scars by the reflections cast in their eyes.
But Miles' own guards are, perhaps, still more unusual. Bel Thorne on his right, androgynous but emphasizing their masculine side today, all uniform edges and stunner pommels. On his left is ... well. Taura. Who needs no introduction, surely. She towers over all in the room, her eight feet of sheer muscle contrasting with the bright splash of pink along her claws. (Quinn is elsewhere. Close, but elsewhere.)
"Good morning," he says brightly, coming to sit down in his own chair, his guardians still flanking him. "I hope you slept well."
My God, - she knows that even if she has seen more of the galaxy then her guards, she has seen little of the wider galaxy. It's composure, not exposure, that saves her from staring at his guards. The woman could have thrown her across the room and - cut down a hundred of the UC. Leaves her mouth dry.
"Well enough." Her hand's press, palm to palm in greeting. Her head bowing over them. A smile playing there, as she meets his eyes. Her hair that reached comfortably in a braid to her hips, fell over her shoulder with the gesture. A set of pins that were hooked at intervals with gold pendants that gave it the weight to let it swing in a pendulum before she straightens.
Then she sits again, arranging the drape of the material over her shoulder. Fixing it in place as she settles herself once more. It's then that she gestures to her guards. Who - were doing their best not to stare. "These are my durgavasi - guards." Her hand sweeps from one side to the other. "Vijay, Jhalkari, Lakshman." They step forward at their names. A stiff bow from the waist, a hand on their swords, a formality to the familiar movement. "Kashi, Ram and Devi." She hovers a moment, a deeper breath. She's far been from nervous for most of this.
But this? Her hand gestures - the woman closest to her, Kashi, step aside with a leading hand and from behind her, emerges a boy. Not past six years old. "And my son. Damodar Rao Newalker."
He's a little thing, dark-eyed as his mother. But determined not to let her down as he steps forward, letting go of his nurse's hand. Just - as taken back by how tall Taura was to how little Miles was. Staring with big wide eyes before he remembers himself. He bows like his mother and speaks - a slight stumble on English around the form of Admiral Naismith when he speaks in the long string of Hindi. Lakshmi's hand lifts to the boy's shoulder, proud, so fiercely proud. Then lifts to translates. "He says that if you, Admiral, are as brave and kind as his father, that you will surely assure our victory."
The words said, he steps back to his mother's side. Going to step next to her, a serious little man. Her hand sweeps down his back, a mild but sure affection. "I regret not telling you he was with us earlier, but I am sure you can understand the secrecy. He will not be in the way, he is raised around warriors and knows to mind his way around them."
Miles can't help but be a bit delighted at their reactions to Taura. (And guilty in the same moment; he can see Taura folding her arms over her chest, determined to make the best of it but clearly not enjoying their stares.) Later he'll make it up to her in their quarters, absolutely. But for now he's quite grateful for the advantage her presence provides. If there was any chance this little group was intending an assassination attempt, the implied promise of Taura will be enough to make them think twice...
He bows lightly as she introduces her guards, noting all of their names. And then - oh. A child. Far from being annoyed or distressed (although Bel looks distinctly unhappy), Miles' eyes brighten with delight. The one constant of the universe is that Miles is terribly baby mad at all times. God, what he wouldn't give to get married and have a few of his own ... but that's well beyond anything happening here. He stands at that, coming to stand a little closer to Damodar. He's taller than the boy, but not by nearly as much as most adults would be. "Hello," he says. "You must be very brave to travel with your mother like this."
He nods - stiff at the stranger, then looks at his mother for to translation - something Lakshmi leans in gladly to do. Relating, "He is my son, and he promised to stand by my side." It hurts, it hurts utterly to know who he would have promised it too. How solemn he would have been to her husband. She leans, pressing a kiss to the top of his head.
Because - he should be a boy, he shouldn't be so serious. So hard, but like her, like her guards, there was nothing else for it. He should be a boy, laughing, playing, not living a rough life of fighting and running and fighting. She turns her gaze up, this wasn't the time to reminisce, to look about in longing. "Shall we? There is much to discuss, but half the time."
Such a good boy. Miles gives him another nod before returning to his chair, once again the invincible little Admiral. "By all means. I require the precise terms of the job in advance, of course. As well as the details of our payment."
Not even a flicker in his eyes at the blatant lie; he, of course, already knows what the payment will be. What he's been paid already. The sword is safely housed in his own ship already, locked away with the Vorkosigan seal dagger at its side.
Her hand lifts and flicks in an order that is understood. Reaching for her son, as she settles back into her chair. Lifting him easily, and settling him in her lap in a way that is practised. Obediently, he falls quiet, and she goes about her business. If there is a strangeness to involving a child in war plans of all things, she is not troubled by it. Though there is one concession - as Kashi produces a toy lion that is given for the boy to fiddle with as the adults talk around him.
"The Maratha system has only one wormhole to gain access too it and has been under forced occupation for the last 500 hundred years. The United Corporation as such is - thoroughly entrenched, as they say. They have settlements of their own men at important sights as well as two battle cruises that orbit the planet of Jhansi. They have sort, over the years, to cripple us. But I have people - a whole planet that can fight down to their last, ready and waiting for when I get weapons to them." Numbers, she has, in fact, more than has - it's equipment, the cutting edge of technology, that she doesn't. "I need to organise an outfit of stunners, plasma arcs and nerve disruptors, transport them down the surface, for which I would employ your men to help us in transport and the distraction required." To not be shot out of the air, no less.
He has payment, he as more than he knows as payment - but, he asked, and she offers what she had intended, as she looks across the faces of his crew. Wets her lips, letting out a held breath, knowing this isn't - a lot, at least, not as it appears in the immediate. "We promise you pillaging rights to all the UC's equipment and sights to do with as you wish in all ensuing battles, for your immediate payment, and once we have been - liberated, you will have one full year's profit from our mines. I will ensure that even in the event of my death, you will be paid it in the full." Let that at least tantalise as a thought of long-term payment, enough to agree in the short term.
Five hundred years. Miles draws in a sharp little breath, unable to hide his shock at the sheer scope of it. For a world to be occupied for five hundred years ... that means the United Corporation had to have dominated it nearly from its first settlement. He'd known that Maratha had been one of the very first colonies after the wormholes had been discovered, but even so. Barrayar had suffered enough under twenty years of occupation. The fact that this woman stands before him at all is nothing short of a miracle.
But that too may be their downfall. A company so firmly entrenched may well be lazy, or at least thoroughly surprised by Dendarii audacity. Both of which he will need in the coming fight, he is certain of it. He can't think of any other mercenary outfits that have attempted it - much to Barrayar's dismay. The UC is currently imposing some very displeasing taxes on the entire Imperium. Which is fortunate, as it's the entire basis of Miles' communication back to Simon to request money for the whole debacle. If it goes poorly, his outfit will still be paid. If it goes well ... they might be paid thrice over. Which is good, because Bel is giving him a look about this whole lack of being paid in advance thing.
He's quiet a moment, mulling it over. Mostly a show for both of their guards, but. "The mines that the UC is currently profiting handsomely from, I'm sure." Hell, maybe he wouldn't even need payment from Barrayar in that case. His portion alone would be enough to feed a lovely revenue stream directly back to his homeworld. "So - tell me. How many mercenary outfits have you approached before mine?"
He thinks he knows the answer to that. Surely his is the latest in a string of many rejections. Could she possibly have come to him first and foremost?
She meets him in it, somewhere between offended, somewhere between blazing fiercely as she bites into it, she looks at him, and she looks only at him with all of the pent-up bravery, fear and devotion and how much is bound up in this moment for her, for all of her people. Looks at him like if he were near him she would grip in her hands. As if her will might be enough.
Because it's not flattery when she speaks, no honeying of words, it is what she sees to be the truth. "None, for I never would have asked another. I need more than brute force. We have done that, we have tried that. Until our wars have slicked our ground with blood it turned to mud." She takes a breath in, slow. "I need a will that does not flinch. For that is what will secure this victory, and give me leave of what I need to do after - expose them to the Galaxy for what they have done so they may never rise again."
She shakes her head. "There could be no one else but you, Admiral." A slip of her own language, her own forms. But honest, as she looks at him, she doesn't see a little man, twisted and weak, not at all. She sees strength and cleverness - and kindness too, for what he had accepted the night before in the quiet between them. "You have given me proof of that, already."
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
no subject
And with that realisation, her face starts to warm up. It's not like she was new to this, she had been married, she had had children, she had ruled and seen to all manner of delegations where exchanges were made. Young, naive, but married. She has no business squirming that a stranger does not understand what he's asking for.
"Are you - ?" This wasn't the time, Lakshmi. "Yes. It is yours." It wouldn't mean anything, anyway, so no one had to know what had passed between them.
no subject
That... is not quite the reaction he was expecting. Anger, yes, or horror, but not... What is this anyway? Because there’s some horror there, but there’s that flush too. What exactly did he ask for? Something more precious than the blade itself, yes, but what?
“Then we have a deal.” He takes up the blade, looking it over with unfeigned appreciation. All Barrayarans enjoy a fine blade, and Miles is hardly an exception. “You seem startled, though. Have I asked for something particularly rare?” Here he gives her a grin that he doesn’t feel. Still trying to play the part of a rogue mercenary in it for a bit of treasure. Better to let her think she has this piece of leverage over him, for her own sanity as well as his own control over the situation.
no subject
"Not... exactly.." She takes her breath, steeling herself. She doesn't return his grin, only takes it as confirmation that all he thinks he has, is a knife. "Only the royal blade of the house of Newalker. To sum that is worth much, others, nothing at all." Which is grand enough in and of itself. But that wasn't what it truly was, what it meant.
"But you must never show any of my people that you have it."
no subject
So he swallows, slowly. Lowering his hands with absolute reverence, so that the blade rests gently in his lap. "A symbol of your planet held as collateral for the honor of your planet," he murmurs. "That seems fiercely appropriate."
He runs his fingers gently along the details again. Just. Overwhelmed a moment. Perhaps more than a Betan should be, but he does not particularly care at the moment. "I will keep it secret, and hold it in trust until you have been freed."
no subject
The rest - it didn't matter. He wasn't aware of how that between those that upheld that honour, this was the world. Such a thing was binding until death. That he had asked for her whole soul, bound for the rest of their lives, completely, in asking for the blade. That she had no choice but to accept. It wasn't much more than the central part of a longer ceremony when she had married the first time. But she'd heard of it certainly, it happened with village girls in these times often enough. A blade that could be the only certainty a married couple might have. A need to find some hope in that motion. If she thought of it like that, it wasn't so bad. So then, let it mean that, in motion if not quite in... well, body. If anyone asked ( and they would, is the irritable groan of a thought ) she could say it had been given in mutual goals.
She rises then from his bedside. "If we are not are freed, perhaps I can take comfort with you having it. Should I fall, should they take my life -" an understanding, that if she was going lose, she would die in the battle to the end. " - the hope of my people will not not fall into my enemies hands."
A miserable thought, but for it, she smiles softly.
It will be held with her new husband.
no subject
But he doesn't know any of that. So instead, he nods up at her, moving to stand as well. As with almost everyone, he is considerably shorter than her, the frailty of his bones and frame even more obvious as he gets to his feet. His spine curves to one side; his head is squashed, sitting poorly on his shoulders. "Then I will defend your world with my life," he says, with a slight bow. "As will my fleet."
And frankly, he has quite a lot of experience in breaking blockades. Surely he can do it again here.
no subject
If you wanted someone to think around a problem - get the Dendarii, but especially, get Naismith.
So when he stands, and she looks over him, there's a shakiness to her smile as she looks down at him, but it spreads, brilliant and wide. Guileless, and for once younger than she seems. Hope, for the first time, a chance for something other than a massacre. All she sees at that moment, in him, is hope. It fills her all the way up and out. "I thank you." She begins a motion, almost to reach for him once more before she lets it stop. Her hands falling back away.
Business then.
"I will gather my people, and meet you in the morning. My retinue is small. I escaped with few others, but they are my most trusted advisors."
no subject
In response to her shaky smile, his own is bright and warm. Confident, even, though he doesn't know how the hell he's going to do this yet. And hopeful. If he can give her this hope, that's good enough to start with, right? The rest ... eh, he'll figure it out as he goes.
That hand gesture, though. His gray eyes flicker a bit as he notices it, and he decides to take a chance. Gently, he reaches to take her hand, bowing over it with entirely too much ceremony. Then he lets it drop.
"I look forward to meeting your full entourage, then," he says. "Hopefully you will forgive me if I don't look completely well-rested."
Given she did wake him up super early.
no subject
"They will be glad to meet you too, we have heard much of you and your exploits. Though I hope our differences does not bother your... Betan ways if we are to travel together. We are... very private. I would request a room where we might have some seclusion amongst ourselves. I am comfortable being exposed, but they are... they have never been so far from home."
To say the least, they were very out of their depth, on Earth and around Betans. Some of it reactive. A need to cut themselves off with what little they could keep from the UC, others... older.
no subject
"You shall have it," he says with a wave of his hand. "As long as you leave your quarters clean and undamaged at the end, I couldn't care less about what you do in them." Hell, if they leave the place clean after they leave, they'll be better guests than most. "Do they have any fears that I might be able to allay more directly?"
no subject
But she takes a moment. "Two, I suppose. This is somewhat personal a request. Of an evening, I would like you to join us for a drink. I am trying to help them adjust to the galaxy they have been denied. You will be a good... starting point." Then she takes a deeper breath. "... And of a morning, we pray and train together. Unless it is a pressing matter, I would like us to be undisturbed at that time."
no subject
"Granted," he says. "As long as the drink is decent, anyway." He'll just make sure he brings a good bottle of wine along with him.
no subject
But with that she steps away, and looks about - she needs to go, relate to her own people everything that has passed in more detail for what they would only have heard half of.
"I should leave you to get what rest you can."
And she heads - not towards the door, but the balcony. Out the way she came, down the side of the building.
no subject
"I do need my beauty rest," he says with another bow, this time small and sarcastic. Beauty, ha. Though he just sort of. Pauses as she moves to leave. "I see I need to lock my balcony more thoroughly this time."
Which he is absolutely going to do, goodness. If she'd been an assassin, he'd have been dead.
no subject
But she slides open the door, letting in the fresh night air and the sounds of London below. The call of nightlife, the yowl of cats squabbling. Lights that glittered like fine embroidered gold. Weaving and shining. She turns back to him, just the once, as she flicks the button on her helmet, her visor sliding back down over her eyes a nose. Leaving no more than a smiling mouth. "Well met, Admiral Naismith. I look forward to meeting you again in the morning." Looks, briefly, over the edge. "We will arrive through more usual means." Some assurance.
She hops up onto the bar of the balcony railing. Holding her weight in a crouch, body tensed with her inevitable jump to the balcony below.
no subject
He trails after her, all the more fascinated after that little revelation. Goodness, he can just picture her scaling the walls somehow. What an extraordinary woman ... "As do I," he says, just the slightest bit awed. "We'll be here to receive her when you do."
He'll stay on the balcony for a while; he wants to watch her go.
no subject
She swings down with no warning - one arm holding her weight as her feet get the perch she wants on the outside edge. Dropping with a heavy landing that springs into a running step that launches her at speed, a long-stride sprint that gains the momentum she needs so that when she jumps over the street - off and across to a nearby roof she clears it easily, rolling in a summersault to break her landing before she's up and moving again. Wasting no time in her departure - there was too much to do as she scrambled into the night over rooftops. Disappearing into the echo of street lights and neon signs of Earth.
The rest - the intervening hours - she barely gets more than a few hours sleep. Telling her people the good news, their preparations to leave in the hotel where no one asked their names and didn't bother strangers. They left there at some early hour with as little sleep as any of them got. Preparing herself in a long hour of silence that - it was coming together. This war, it might just be seen through. The blockaded might just be broken, she scarcely dare breath as she codes the message back to her father. To tell him to begin the preparations, a feverish feeling that seizes her. Bold and sharp that grips her and infects her guards. Gambling with something intangible.
Though when she is waiting for him the next morning, she's easy to spot sitting in the lobby for him and his men. A serious, darkly dressed woman, rich in fabrics. She sits shoulders back, hands in her lap, elbows on the arms of the chair. Draped to a position far greater than one she currently was. Flanked by the guards that stand either side of her. All six of them in total. Hard in the mouth, hard in the eyes. Their plasma arcs and swords were worn in even weight to each other. Serious and quiet, watching for the slightest thing that would dare approach their Rani.
Far different, to how she'd been, appearing in the dark of night. A Queen, not a woman, and she holds herself to that purpose - at least until she sees him approach, and rises to greet whoever comes to lead her away.
no subject
Miles will not return to sleep, in fact. Instead he spends the time preparing. Researching still more about the UC, about her beleaguered world. There will be time to sleep once they're all on the ship, anyway, and he wants to get al the information he possibly can. It paints a woefully inaccurate picture, given the omnipresence of the UC's PR department, but there are some scraps of truth in there, and Miles ferrets out all he can.
When he descends to the lobby to meet her, he is every bit the Admiral the rumors made him out to be. No bedhead or bedclothes, nor even any sign that he hasn't slept since her interruption. His eyes are fever-bright, taking in her entourage with interest and excitement both. Ah, here's a motley crew. He can see their scars by the reflections cast in their eyes.
But Miles' own guards are, perhaps, still more unusual. Bel Thorne on his right, androgynous but emphasizing their masculine side today, all uniform edges and stunner pommels. On his left is ... well. Taura. Who needs no introduction, surely. She towers over all in the room, her eight feet of sheer muscle contrasting with the bright splash of pink along her claws. (Quinn is elsewhere. Close, but elsewhere.)
"Good morning," he says brightly, coming to sit down in his own chair, his guardians still flanking him. "I hope you slept well."
Ha ha.
no subject
"Well enough." Her hand's press, palm to palm in greeting. Her head bowing over them. A smile playing there, as she meets his eyes. Her hair that reached comfortably in a braid to her hips, fell over her shoulder with the gesture. A set of pins that were hooked at intervals with gold pendants that gave it the weight to let it swing in a pendulum before she straightens.
Then she sits again, arranging the drape of the material over her shoulder. Fixing it in place as she settles herself once more. It's then that she gestures to her guards. Who - were doing their best not to stare. "These are my durgavasi - guards." Her hand sweeps from one side to the other. "Vijay, Jhalkari, Lakshman." They step forward at their names. A stiff bow from the waist, a hand on their swords, a formality to the familiar movement. "Kashi, Ram and Devi." She hovers a moment, a deeper breath. She's far been from nervous for most of this.
But this? Her hand gestures - the woman closest to her, Kashi, step aside with a leading hand and from behind her, emerges a boy. Not past six years old. "And my son. Damodar Rao Newalker."
He's a little thing, dark-eyed as his mother. But determined not to let her down as he steps forward, letting go of his nurse's hand. Just - as taken back by how tall Taura was to how little Miles was. Staring with big wide eyes before he remembers himself. He bows like his mother and speaks - a slight stumble on English around the form of Admiral Naismith when he speaks in the long string of Hindi. Lakshmi's hand lifts to the boy's shoulder, proud, so fiercely proud. Then lifts to translates. "He says that if you, Admiral, are as brave and kind as his father, that you will surely assure our victory."
The words said, he steps back to his mother's side. Going to step next to her, a serious little man. Her hand sweeps down his back, a mild but sure affection. "I regret not telling you he was with us earlier, but I am sure you can understand the secrecy. He will not be in the way, he is raised around warriors and knows to mind his way around them."
no subject
He bows lightly as she introduces her guards, noting all of their names. And then - oh. A child. Far from being annoyed or distressed (although Bel looks distinctly unhappy), Miles' eyes brighten with delight. The one constant of the universe is that Miles is terribly baby mad at all times. God, what he wouldn't give to get married and have a few of his own ... but that's well beyond anything happening here. He stands at that, coming to stand a little closer to Damodar. He's taller than the boy, but not by nearly as much as most adults would be. "Hello," he says. "You must be very brave to travel with your mother like this."
no subject
Because - he should be a boy, he shouldn't be so serious. So hard, but like her, like her guards, there was nothing else for it. He should be a boy, laughing, playing, not living a rough life of fighting and running and fighting. She turns her gaze up, this wasn't the time to reminisce, to look about in longing. "Shall we? There is much to discuss, but half the time."
no subject
Not even a flicker in his eyes at the blatant lie; he, of course, already knows what the payment will be. What he's been paid already. The sword is safely housed in his own ship already, locked away with the Vorkosigan seal dagger at its side.
no subject
"The Maratha system has only one wormhole to gain access too it and has been under forced occupation for the last 500 hundred years. The United Corporation as such is - thoroughly entrenched, as they say. They have settlements of their own men at important sights as well as two battle cruises that orbit the planet of Jhansi. They have sort, over the years, to cripple us. But I have people - a whole planet that can fight down to their last, ready and waiting for when I get weapons to them." Numbers, she has, in fact, more than has - it's equipment, the cutting edge of technology, that she doesn't. "I need to organise an outfit of stunners, plasma arcs and nerve disruptors, transport them down the surface, for which I would employ your men to help us in transport and the distraction required." To not be shot out of the air, no less.
He has payment, he as more than he knows as payment - but, he asked, and she offers what she had intended, as she looks across the faces of his crew. Wets her lips, letting out a held breath, knowing this isn't - a lot, at least, not as it appears in the immediate. "We promise you pillaging rights to all the UC's equipment and sights to do with as you wish in all ensuing battles, for your immediate payment, and once we have been - liberated, you will have one full year's profit from our mines. I will ensure that even in the event of my death, you will be paid it in the full." Let that at least tantalise as a thought of long-term payment, enough to agree in the short term.
no subject
But that too may be their downfall. A company so firmly entrenched may well be lazy, or at least thoroughly surprised by Dendarii audacity. Both of which he will need in the coming fight, he is certain of it. He can't think of any other mercenary outfits that have attempted it - much to Barrayar's dismay. The UC is currently imposing some very displeasing taxes on the entire Imperium. Which is fortunate, as it's the entire basis of Miles' communication back to Simon to request money for the whole debacle. If it goes poorly, his outfit will still be paid. If it goes well ... they might be paid thrice over. Which is good, because Bel is giving him a look about this whole lack of being paid in advance thing.
He's quiet a moment, mulling it over. Mostly a show for both of their guards, but. "The mines that the UC is currently profiting handsomely from, I'm sure." Hell, maybe he wouldn't even need payment from Barrayar in that case. His portion alone would be enough to feed a lovely revenue stream directly back to his homeworld. "So - tell me. How many mercenary outfits have you approached before mine?"
He thinks he knows the answer to that. Surely his is the latest in a string of many rejections. Could she possibly have come to him first and foremost?
no subject
Because it's not flattery when she speaks, no honeying of words, it is what she sees to be the truth. "None, for I never would have asked another. I need more than brute force. We have done that, we have tried that. Until our wars have slicked our ground with blood it turned to mud." She takes a breath in, slow. "I need a will that does not flinch. For that is what will secure this victory, and give me leave of what I need to do after - expose them to the Galaxy for what they have done so they may never rise again."
She shakes her head. "There could be no one else but you, Admiral." A slip of her own language, her own forms. But honest, as she looks at him, she doesn't see a little man, twisted and weak, not at all. She sees strength and cleverness - and kindness too, for what he had accepted the night before in the quiet between them. "You have given me proof of that, already."
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)
(no subject)