Brothers in Arms

blown into hamburger during Mad Emperor Yuri's reign of terror. No, the mayor's lady might find it merely a shivery and outre tale, or even worse, romantic. He doubted she'd grasp the true violent stupidity of Yuri's affairs, with their consequences escaping in all directions to warp Barrayaran history to this day.

'Does Lord Vorpatril own a castle?' she inquired archly.

'Ah, no. His mother, my Aunt Vorpatril,' who is a social barracuda who would eat you alive, 'has a very nice flat in the capital city of Vorbarr Sultana.' Miles paused. 'We used to have a castle. But it was burned down at the end of the Time of Isolation.'

'A ruined castle. That's almost as good.'

'Picturesque as hell,' Miles assured her.

Someone had left a small plate with the remains of their hors d'oeuvres sitting on the railing by the fountain. Miles took the roll and started breaking off bits for the goldfish. They glided up to snap at the crumbs with a brief gurgle.

One refused to rise to the bait, lurking in the depths. How interesting, a goldfish that did not eat—now, there was a solution to Ivan's fish-inventory problem. Perhaps the stubborn one was a fiendish Cetagandan construct, whose cold scales glittered like gold because they were.

He might pluck it out with a feline pounce, stamping it underfoot with a mechanical crunch and electric sizzle, then hold it up with a triumphal cry—'Ah! Through my quick wits and reflexes, I have discovered the spy among you!'

But if his guess were wrong, ah. The squish! under his boot, the dowager's recoil, and the Barrayaran prime minister's son would have acquired an instant reputation as a young man with serious emotional difficulties. . . . 'Ah ha!' he pictured himself cackling to the horrified woman as the fish guts slithered underfoot, 'You should see what I do to kittens!'

The big goldfish rose lazily at last, and took a crumb with a splash that marred Miles's polished boots. Thank you, fish, Miles thought to it. You have just saved me from considerable social embarrassment. Of course, if the Cetagandan artificers were really clever, they might have designed a mechanical fish that really ate, and excreted little . . .

The mayor's lady had just asked another leading question about Ivan, which Miles in his absorption foiled to completely catch. 'Yes, most unfortunate about his disease,' Miles purred, and prepared to launch a monologue maligning Ivan's genes involving inbred aristocracies, radiation areas left from the First Cetagandan War, and Mad Emperor Yuri, when the secured comm link in his pocket beeped.

'Excuse me, ma'am. I'm being paged.' Bless you, Elli, he thought as he fled the dowager to find a quiet corner to answer it. No Cetagandans in sight. He found an unoccupied niche on the second level made private by green plants, and opened the channel. 'Yes, Commander Quinn?'

'Miles, thank God.' Her voice was hurried. 'We seem to have us a Situation down there, and you're the closest Dendarii officer.'

'What sort of situation?' He didn't care for situations that came capitalized. EUi was not normally inclined to panicky exaggerations. His stomach tightened nervously.

'I haven't been able to get details I can trust, but it appears that four or five of our soldiers on downside leave in London have barricaded themselves in some sort of shop with a hostage, holding off the police. They're armed.'

'Our guys, or the police?'

'Both, unfortunately. The police commander I talked to sounded like he was prepared for blood on the walls. Very soon.'

'Worse and worse. What the hell do they think they're doing?'

'Damned if I know. I'm in orbit right now, preparing to leave, but it'll be forty-five minutes to an hour before I can get down there. Tung's in worse position, it'd be a two-hour suborbital flight from Brazil. But I think you could be there in about ten minutes. Here, I'll key the address into your comm link.'

'How were our guys permitted to take Dendarii weaponry off-ship?'

'A good question, but I'm afraid we'll have to save it for the post-mortem. So to speak,' she said grimly. 'Can you find the place?'

Miles glanced at the address on his readout. 'I think so. I'll meet you there.' Somehow . . .

'Right. Quinn out.' The channel snapped closed.

Chapter Three

Miles pocketed the comm link, and gazed around the main reception court. The reception had peaked. There were perhaps a hundred people present, in a blinding variety of Earth and galactic fashions, and a fair sprinkling of uniforms besides Barrayaran. A few of the earlier arrivals were cutting out already, ushered past security by their Barrayaran escorts. The Cetagandans appeared to be truly gone, along with their friends. His escape must be opportune rather than clever, it appeared.

Ivan was still chatting with his beautiful charge down at the end of the fountain. Miles bore down upon him ruthlessly.

'Ivan. Meet me by the main doors in five minutes.'

'What?'

'It's an emergency. I'll explain later.'

'What sort of—?' Ivan began, but Miles was already slipping out of the room and making his way toward the back lift tubes. He had to force himself not to run.

When the door to his and Ivan's room slid shut behind him he peeled out of his dress greens, tore off the boots, and catapulted for the closet. He yanked on the black T-shirt and grey trousers of his Dendarii uniform. Barrayaran boots were descended from a cavalry tradition; Dendarii had evolved from foot-soldiers' gear. In the presence of a horse the Barrayaran were the more practical, although Miles had never been able to explain that to Elli. It would take two hours or so in the saddle on heavy cross-country terrain, and her calves rubbed to bleeding blisters, to convince her that the design had a purpose besides looks. No horses here.

He sealed the Dendarii combat boots and adjusted the grey-and-white jacket in midair, tumbling back down the lift tube at max drop. He paused at the bottom to pull down his jacket, jerk up his chin, and take a deep breath. One could not saunter inconspicuously while gasping. He took an alternate corridor, around the main court to the front entrance. Still no Cetagandans, thank God.

Ivan's eyes widened as he saw Miles approach. He flashed a smile at the blonde, excusing himself, and backed Miles against a potted plant as if to hide him from view. 'What the hell—?' he hissed.

'You've got to walk me out of here. Past the guards.'

'Oh, no I don't! Galeni will have your hide for a doormat if he sees you in that get-up.'

'Ivan, I don't have time to argue and I don't have time to explain, which is precisely why I'm sidestepping Galeni. Quinn wouldn't have called me if she didn't need me. I've got to go now.'

'You'll be AWOL!'

'Not if I'm not missed. Tell them—tell them I retired to our room due to excruciating pain in my bones.'

'Is that osteo-joint thing of yours acting up again? I bet the embassy physician could get that anti- inflammatory med for you—'

'No, no—no more than usual, anyway—but at least it's something real. There's a chance they'll believe it. Come on. Bring her.' Miles gestured with his chin toward Sylveth, waiting out of earshot for Ivan with an inquiring look on her flower-petal face.

'What for?'

'Camouflage.' Smiling through his teeth, Miles propelled Ivan by his elbow toward the main doors.

'How do you do?' Miles nattered to Sylveth, capturing her hand and tucking it through his arm. 'So nice to meet you. Are you enjoying the party? Wonderful town, London. …'

He and Sylveth made a lovely couple too, Miles decided. He glanced at the guards from the corner of his eye as they passed. They noticed her. With any luck, he would be a short grey blur in their memories.