Memory

without him to prop and push. . . . the way children went on living, without any further act of will on the parents' part.

Quinn was surely his worthy successor. He ought to give up any pretense of his return to the Dendarii and just promote her to Admiral, period. Or would personnel assignments now be Haroche s job? Miles would have trusted Illyan to handle Quinn. But did Haroche have the insight, the imagination required? He sighed unease.

His peregrinations brought him to the second-floor succession of rooms with the best view of the back garden, that had been his formidable grandfather's lair for the last years of the old man's life. Miles's father and mother had not chosen to move into them after the old Count's death, instead retaining their own extensive chambers on the floor above. But they'd had the old Count's rooms refurbished as a sort of Imperial-grade guest suite: bedroom, private bath, sitting room, and study. Even Ivan, a connoisseur of comfort, had not had the nerve to claim the elegantly appointed space on his recent sojourn. He'd taken instead a small bedroom down the hall from Miles, though that might have been for convenience in keeping an eye on his erratic cousin. Staring around the silent chambers, Miles was seized an inspiration.

'Kidnapping?' murmured General Haroche, eyeing Miles over Illyan's comconsole desk the following morning.

Miles smiled blandly. 'Hardly that, sir. An invitation to Illyan to enjoy the hospitality of Vorkosigan House during his convalescence, offered by me in my fathers name and place. I've no doubt he would approve.'

'Admiral Avakli's team has not yet ruled out sabotage of the chip, though I find I'm drifting more and more to the natural explanation myself. But given that uncertainty, er, Vorkosigan House really secure enough? Compared to ImpSec HQ?'

'If Illyan's chip was sabotaged, it may well have happened in ImpSec environs; that's where Illyan mostly was, after all. ImpSec is demonstrably no protection. And, ah … if Vorkosigan House is not securable by ImpSec, it will certainly be news to the former Lord Regent. I might even call it a major scandal.'

Haroche bared his teeth. 'Point taken, my Lord Auditor.' He glanced at Ruibal, seated beside Miles. 'And how does this removal look in your medical opinion, Dr. Ruibal? A good idea, or a bad one?'

'Mm . . . more good than bad, I think,' said the pudgy neurologist. 'Illyan is physically ready to return to normal light activity—that does not include work, of course. A little extra distance between him and his office might help prevent arguments about that.'

Haroche s brows rose. He had apparently not considered this awkward possibility before.

Dr. Ruibal added, 'Let him take medical leave, rest and relax, do a little reading or whatever . . . keeping a log of any further problems. I can give him his daily examination there as well as here, certainly.'

'Further problems,' Miles noted Ruibal's turn of phrase. 'What are his current problems? How is he shaping up, now?'

'Well, he's physically fine, if understandably fatigued. Motor reflexes normal. But his short-term memory, to put it plainly, is shot to hell at present. His scores on cognitive tasks that involve short-term memory—and most of them do—are all well below his norms. His former norms, of course, were extraordinary. It's too early to tell if this will be a permanent condition, or if his brain will retrain itself over time. Or if some kind of medical intervention will be required. Or, God help me, what form that intervention might take. My prescription is for a couple of weeks of rest and varied activity, and then we'll see.'

Thus buying time for Ruibal to scramble for solutions. 'It sounds reasonable to me,' Miles said.

Haroche nodded agreement. 'On your head be it, then, Lord Vorkosigan.'

After another personal call on Avakli in his lab, Miles trooped over to the ImpSec clinic to pitch the invitation to Illyan. There he found an unexpected ally in his self-appointed mission of persuasion in Lady Alys, visiting Illyan again. She was impeccably turned out as usual, today in something dark red and Vorishly feminine, i.e., expensive.

'But it's a splendid notion,' she said, as Illyan began to hesitantly demur. 'Very right and proper of you, Miles. Cordelia would approve.'

'Do you think so?' said Illyan.

'Yes, indeed.'

'And the suite has windows,' Miles pointed out helpfully. 'Lots and lots of windows. That's what I always missed most, whenever I was stuck in here.'

Illyan glanced around his blank-walled patient room. 'Windows, eh? Not that they are necessarily an advantage. You were done in when Evon Vorhalas fired that gas grenade through your parents' bedroom window. I can remember that night. . . .' His hand twitched; he frowned. 'It's like a dream.'

The incident had occurred slightly over thirty years ago. 'That's why all the windows in Vorkosigan House were subsequently force-screened,' Miles said. 'No problem now. Its pretty quiet there at present, but I have this new cook.'

'Ivan mentioned your new cook,' Illyan admitted. 'At length.'

'Yes,' said Lady Alys, a faintly calculating look crossing her fine features—was she regretting that the days of horse, cattle, and serf raids upon neighboring lords' property were gone forever? 'And it will be ever so much more convenient—and comfortable—for people to visit you there than in this dreadful depressing place, Simon.'

'Hm,' said Illyan. He smiled briefly at her, looking thoughtful. 'That's true. Well, Miles . . . yes. Thank you. I accept.'

'Excellent,' said Lady Alys. 'Do you need any help? Would you care to use my car?'

'I have my car and driver outside,' said Miles. 'I think we can manage.'

'Then in that case, I believe I'll meet you there. I'm sure you haven't thought of everything, Miles. Men never do.' Lady Alys nodded decisively, rose in a sweep of skirts, and hurried out.

'Whatever can she intend to provide that Vorkosigan House doesn't already have?' Illyan wondered in some bemusement.

'Flowers?' hazarded Miles. 'Dancing maids?' Er. . . soap and towels? She was right, he hadn't thought of everything.

'I can hardly wait to find out.'

'Well, whatever she comes up with, I'm sure it will be done right.'

'With her, you can count on that,' agreed Illyan. 'Reliable woman.' Unlike some men of Illyan s generation Miles knew, he did not seem to find this a contradiction in terms. He hesitated, and looked through narrowed eyes at Miles. 'I seem to remember . . . she was here. At some rather unpleasant moments.'

'That she was. In style.'

'With Lady Alys, how else?' Illyan glanced around the little patient room, as if really seeing it for the first time in weeks. 'Your respected aunt is right. This place is dismal.'

'Then let's blow out of here.'

They decamped from ImpSec HQ with only one valise and very little further fuss. Illyan had been traveling light for more years than Miles had been alive, after all.

Martin wafted them back to Vorkosigan House in the fusty luxury of the old armored groundcar. They arrived at Illyan's new digs to find Alys directing a cleanup crew, who were just departing. Flowers, soap and towels, and fresh sheets had been laid on. If Miles ever made good his threat to turn Vorkosigan House into a hotel, he knew who he wanted to hire for his general manager. Martin spent all of five minutes distributing Illyan's meager belongings to their new storage, then was packed off by Alys to the kitchen.

Illyan's slight awkwardness at all these attentions was relieved by the return of Martin trundling a tea cart laden with a mighty afternoon snack a la Ma Kosti. He laid the spread on the sitting room's table, overlooking the back garden through an outcurving window. Lady Alys's hand was apparent in the service; all the correct trays and utensils seemed to have been found at last, and put to their proper uses. But after a round of tea and cream, little sandwiches, stuffed eggs, meatballs in plum sauce, the famous spiced peach tarts, sweet wine, and some decorated killer chocolate things with the density of plutonium that Miles didn't even know the name of, everybody was relaxed.

Into the replete and meditative silence that followed the demolishing of the tea, Miles at last dared to float a question.