"Milady . . . how in the world did Sergeant Bothari come by a baby? He's not married, is he?"

"Would you believe the stork brought her?" said Cordelia lightly.

"No."

From her frown, Drou did not approve this levity. Cordelia hardly blamed her. She sighed. How do I wriggle out of this one? "Very nearly. Her uterine replicator was sent on a fast courier from Escobar, after the war. She finished her gestation in a laboratory in Imp Mil, under Dr. Henri's supervision."

"Is she really Bothari's?"

"Oh, yes. Genetically certified. That's how they identified—" Cordelia snapped that last sentence off midway. Carefully, now . . .

"But what was all that about seventeen replicators? And how did the baby get in the replicator? Was—was she an experiment?"

"Placental transfer. A delicate operation, even by galactic standards, but hardly experimental. Look." Cordelia paused, thinking fast. "I'll tell you the truth." Just not all of it. "Little Elena is the daughter of Bothari and a young Escobaran officer named Elena Visconti. Bothari . . . loved her . . . very much. But after the war, she would not return with him to Barrayar. The child was conceived, er . . . Barrayaran-style, then transferred to the replicator when they parted. There were some similar cases. The replicators were all sent to Imp Mil, which was interested in learning more about the technology. Bothari was in . . . medical therapy, for quite a long time, after the war. But when he got out, and she got out, he took custody of her."

"Did the others take their babies, too?"

"Most of the other fathers were dead by then. The children went to the Imperial Service orphanage." There. The official version, all right and tight.

"Oh." Drou frowned at her feet. "That's not at all . . . it's hard to picture Bothari . . . To tell the truth," she said in a burst of candor, "I'm not sure I'd want to give custody of a pet cat to Bothari. Doesn't he strike you as a bit strange?"

"Aral and I are keeping an eye on things. Bothari's doing very well so far, I think. He found Mistress Hysopi on his own, and is making sure she gets everything she needs. Has Bothari—that is, does Bothari bother you?"

Droushnakovi gave Cordelia an are-you-kidding? look. "He's so big. And ugly. And he . . . mutters to himself, some days. And he's sick so much, days in a row when he won't get out of bed, but he doesn't have a fever or anything. Count Piotr's Armsman-commander thinks he's malingering."

"He's not malingering. But I'm glad you mentioned it, I'll have Aral talk to the commander and straighten him out."

"But aren't you at all afraid of him? On the bad days, at least?"

"I could weep for Bothari," said Cordelia slowly, "but I don't fear him. On the bad days or any days. You shouldn't either. It's . . . it's a profound insult."

"Sorry." Droushnakovi scuffed her shoe across the gravel. "It's a sad story. No wonder he doesn't talk about the Escobar war."