‘I—knew a man once,’ his voice came out of the darkness. ‘He was married, at twenty, to a girl of high rank of eighteen. Arranged, of course, but he was very happy with it.’

'He was away most of the time, on duty. She found herself free, rich, alone in the capital in the society of people—not altogether vicious, but older than herself. Rich parasites, their parasites, users. She was courted, and it went to her head. Not her heart, I think. She took lovers, as those around her did. Looking back, I don’t think she felt any more emotion for them than vanity and pride of conquest, but at the time… He had built up a false picture of her in his mind, and having it suddenly shattered… This boy had a very bad temper. It was his particular curse. He resolved on a duel with her lovers.’

'She had two on her string, or her on theirs, I can’t say which. He didn’t care who survived, or if he were arrested. He imagined he was dishonored, you see. He arranged to have each meet him at a deserted place, about half an hour apart.’

He paused for a long time. Cordelia waited, barely breathing, uncertain whether to encourage him to go on or not. He continued eventually, but his voice went flatter and he spoke in a rush.

'The first was another pigheaded young aristocrat like himself, and he played out the game by the rules. He knew the use of the two swords, fought with flair, and almost killed m—my friend. The last thing he said was that he’d always wanted to be killed by a jealous husband, only at age eighty.’

By this time, the little slip was no surprise to Cordelia, and she wondered if her story had been as transparent to him. It certainly seemed so.

'The second was a high government minister, an older man. He wouldn’t fight, although he knocked him down and stood him up several times. After—after the other, who had died with a joke in his mouth, he could hardly bear it. He finally slew him outright in the middle of his begging, and left them there.’

'He stopped at his wife’s apartment, to tell her what he’d done, and returned to his ship, to wait for arrest. This all happened in one afternoon. She was enraged, full of wounded pride—she would have dueled with him, if she could—and she killed herself. Shot herself in the head, with his service plasma arc. I wouldn’t have thought it a woman’s weapon. Poison, or cutting the wrists, or something. But she was true Vor. It burned her face entirely away. She’d had the most beautiful imaginable face…’

'Things worked out very strangely. It was assumed the two lovers had killed each other—I swear, he never planned it that way—and that she’d killed herself in despondency. No one ever asked him the first question about it.’

His voice slowed, and intensified. 'He went through that whole afternoon like a sleepwalker, or an actor, saying the expected lines, going through the expected motions, and at the end his honor was no better for it. Nothing was served, no point was proved. It was all as false as her love affairs, except for the deaths. They were real.’ He paused. 'So you see, you Betans have one advantage. You at least permit each other to learn from your mistakes.’

Lois McMaster Bujold, Shards of Honor