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Count Boriz Vormoncrief sighed contentedly. “That sounds quite satisfactory. Sigur here will pay.”
Sigur Vorbretten winced. It was the first time he had been included in this conversation, although of course Count Vormoncrief had experience that Sigur lacked in dealing with the official printer to the Council of Counts. After encountering the man’s particular mix of obsequiousness and arrogance, Sigur was not particularly looking forward to gaining such experience.
The printer smiled suavely at him. “That will be thirty-one marks, Lord Vorbretten. And may I say I hope and believe you will find your results worth the expense. I’m sure that these scans will help prove your point. And we all know that no Ceta deserves to be a member of the great Council of Counts, of which I am but a humble servant and yet an indispensable…”
“I just have one question,” Sigur interrupted. “The specs for this order have huge margins, extending my original 30-page document onto 41 pages. Multiplied by 70 copies for 70 counts, this represents a large increase in my expense and your profit. Do you have an explanation?”
“Oh, but sir, that’s quite standard. Many of the counts have orders of business and cares on their minds when they enter the Counts’ Chamber. They thus forget to bring any extra paper with them, and suddenly awaken to find themselves in a crowded room listening to a tedious filibuster—begging your pardon, sir. Giving them large margins to take notes on, or otherwise occupy themselves, is our service to the Council of Counts, and as the official printer to the Council of Counts, I hold every service which I can perform for them as a sacred duty, a bright—”
“All right, I’ll pay it,” Sigur snapped. “Give it here.”
The printer was quite expedient when it came to money and their transaction was soon completed.
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The next day, Sigur sat in the Council of Counts and wished himself anywhere but there. As one count after another mumbled nothings about honor and Cetas and heirs and “sacred trust,” he noticed many of the listeners staring at their desks, writing. For example, Lord Vorkosigan—if he kept up at that rate, the margins of every flimsy on his desk would be full before they called the vote on the new Count Vorrutyer, much less Count Vorbretten.
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Fireworks. Explosions. Screams. It seemed unbelievable that the chamber was as unbloodied as it had stood an hour before—well, except maybe a bit from the new Count Vorrutyer; his leg looked pretty bad. Sigur thought once again of how much a relief it would be for René to win…he could go back home, stay out of politics…
As the vote began, he looked around the chamber. There was Lord Vorkosigan, still writing all over the margins of his flimsies. He must be writing on top of his earlier writing by now. What could he have to write about at such a time? Then Lord Vorkosigan glanced up at the balcony, and the answer was obvious.