Memory

voice cried Incoming!, and dove for cover, uselessly. The inner man would simply have to be dragged out again by the heels and propped upright to march on her orders.

But instead her first words were, 'Miles, how long have you known about this dreadful nonsense going on with Simon?'

'Um … a couple of weeks.'

'Did it never occur to any of you three young louts that I would wish to be informed?'

Young louts—Ivan, Miles, and . . . Gregor? She was upset.

'There was nothing you could do. You were halfway to Komarr. And you already had a top-priority job. But no, I confess I didn't think of it.'

'Fools,' she breathed. Her brown eyes smoldered.

'Um . . . how did things go, by the way? On Komarr.'

'Not terribly well. Laisa's parents are rather upset. I did what I could to soothe their fears, given that I judge some of their anxieties to be quite well founded. I asked your mother to stop on her way and speak to them some more.'

'Mothers on her way home?'

'Soon, I hope.'

'Ah . . . are you sure my mother is the best person for that job? She can be awfully blunt in her opinions of Barrayar. And she's not always the most diplomatic.'

'No, but she's absolutely honest. And she has this peculiar trick of making the most outlandish things seem perfectly sensible, at least for the duration of the time she's talking to you. People end up agreeing with her, and then spending the next month wondering how it happened. I have, at any rate, accomplished all the proper forms and duties of Gregor's Baba.'

'So … is Gregor's wedding on, or off?'

'Oh, on, of course. But there is a difference between things done in a scramble, and things done superbly well. There will be enough tensions that I can't ease. I don't intend to leave any hanging that I can eliminate. Goodwill is going to be at a premium.' She frowned fiercely. 'Speaking of goodwill, or the lack of it—they told me Simon was in the ImpSec Headquarters clinic, so of course I went immediately to see him. That idiot general what's-his-name wouldn't let me in!'

'Haroche?' ventured Miles.

'Yes, that was it. Not a Vor, that fellow, and it shows. Miles, can't you do something?'

'Me! I have no authority.'

'But you worked with those, those, those . . . men for years. You understand them, presumably.'

I am ImpSec, he'd once told Elli Quinn. He'd been quite proud to identify himself with that powerful organization, as if they'd flowed together to become some sort of higher cyborg. Well, he was amputated now, and ImpSec seemed to be stumping along without him in perfect indifference. 'I don't work for them anymore. And if I did, I'd still be just a lowly lieutenant. Lieutenants don't give orders to generals, not even Vor lieutenants. Haroche wouldn't let me in either. I think you need to talk to Gregor.'

'I just did. He was quite maddeningly vague about it all.'

'Maybe he didn't want to distress you. I gather Illyan is in a pretty disturbing mental state right now, not recognizing people and so on.'

'Well, how can he, if no one he knows is allowed to see him?'

'Um. Good point. Look, I have no intention of defending Haroche to you. I'm pretty annoyed at him myself.'

'Not annoyed enough,' snapped Lady Alys. 'Haroche actually had the nerve to tell me—me! — that it was no sight for a lady. I asked him what he had been doing during the War of Vordarian's Pretendership.' Her voice trailed off in a hiss—Miles's ear was not quite sure, but he thought it detected suppressed barracks language. 'I can see Gregor is thinking he may have to work with Haroche for a long time yet. He didn't say it in so many words, naturally, but I gather Haroche has persuaded Gregor that his status as acting Chief of ImpSec is too new and fragile to bear interference from such dangerously unauthorized— and female—persons such as myself. Simon never had any such qualms. I wish Cordelia were here. She was always better than I at cutting through masculinist drivel.'

'So to speak,' said Miles, thinking of Vordarian's fate at his mothers hands. But Lady Alys was quite correct: Illyan had always treated her as a valued, though different, member of Gregor's support team. Haroche's new and tighter professional order must have come as a bit of a shock to her. Miles went on, 'Haroche is in an excellent position to persuade Gregor. He's in total control of the flow of all information to him.' Though you couldn't call that a change in how things were done; it had always been that way, but when Illyan had been the sluice keeper it had somehow never bothered Miles.

Alys's dark brows twitched; she said nothing aloud to this. Beneath her speculative frown the silence grew . . . noticeable.

To break the discomfort his unguarded words had engendered, Miles said lightly, 'You could go on strike. No wedding till Gregor twists Haroches arm for you.'

'If something sensible isn't done and done soon, I just might.'

'I was joking,' he said hastily.

'I was not.' She gave him a curt nod, and cut the com.

Martin cautiously shook Miles awake shortly after dawn the next morning.

'Um . . . m'lord? You have a visitor downstairs.'

'At this ungodly hour?' Miles rubbed his sleep-numbed face, and yawned. 'Who?'

'Says his name's Lieutenant Vorberg. One of your ImpSec sticks again, I guess.'

'Vorberg?' Miles blinked. 'Here? Now? Why?'

'He wants to talk to you, so I guess you'd better ask him.'

'Quite, Martin. Um . . . you didn't leave him standing on the doorstep, did you?'

'No, I put him in that big downstairs room on the east side.'

'The Second Receiving Room. That's fine. Tell him I'll be down in just a minute. Make some coffee. Bring there on a tray with two cups, and the usual trimmings. If there's any of your mothers pastries or breads left over in the kitchen, stuff 'em in a basket or something and bring them too, right? Good.' Curiosity aroused, Miles pulled on the first shirt and trousers that came to hand, and padded barefoot down two flights of the curving front staircase, then turned ft and made his way through three more rooms till he came to Second Rec. Martin had pulled a cover off one clair for the guest, and left it in a white heap on the floor. Fingers of sunlight poked through the heavy curtains, leaving the shadows in which Vorberg sat somehow denser. The lieutenant was wearing undress greens, but his face was gray with a faint beard stubble. He frowned wearily at Miles.

'Good morning, Vorberg,' said Miles, cautiously polite. 'What brings you to Vorkosigan House so early i the day?'

'It's late in the day for me,' said Vorberg. 'I just came off night shift.' His brows lowered.

'They found you a job, did they?'

'Yes. I'm night guard commander for the close security on the clinic.'

Miles sat down on a covered chair, abruptly awake even without coffee. Vorberg was one of Illyan's guards? But of course, as a courier, he already had the kind of clearance required. He was at loose ends, readily requisitionable for a physically light, if mentally demanding duty. And … he was an HQ outsider. No close old friends there to gossip with. Miles tried to keep his tone level, noncommittal. 'Oh? What's up?'

Vorberg's voice went tight, almost angry. 'I do think it's bad form of you, Vorkosigan. Almost petty, under the circumstances. Illyan was your fathers man for years, passed the message on at least four times. Why haven't you come?'

Miles sat very still. 'Excuse me. I think I've missed the first half of something. What, ah … could you please tell me exactly what's been going on in there? How long have you been on this duty?'

'Since the first night they brought him in. It's been pretty ugly. When he's not sedated, he babbles. When he is sedated, if he's been combative again, he still babbles, but you can't make out what he's saying. The medics keep him restrained almost all the time. It's as if he's wandering through history, in his mind, but every once in a