Memory

He dressed carefully, and called Delia Koudelka.

'Hi,' he greeted her blondness. At least he didn't get a crick in his neck looking up, over a comconsole. 'What are you doing tonight?'

'I'm . . . rather busy,' she responded politely. 'Why do you ask?'

'Oh.' Damn. His own fault, for waiting till the last minute, and just assuming . . .

'Or—this doesn't have anything to do with your Imperial Auditor thing, does it?' she added in worry.

A vision of a splendid opportunity to abuse his new powers danced in his head, briefly. Regretfully, he pushed it aside. 'No. Just a Miles-thing.'

'Sorry,' she said, sounding sincere.

'Um … is Martya in?'

'She's busy tonight too, I'm afraid.'

'And Olivia?'

'Her, too.'

'Ah. Well, thanks anyway.'

'Whatever for?' She cut the com.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Miles's verbal report to Gregor made them both late for the party; Gregor had dozens of questions, most of which Miles could not yet answer. He chewed on his lip in frustration as they paused in the shadowed vestibule opening onto one of the Imperial Residence s smaller reception rooms. It was already bright and crowded with people. In the chamber next to it, visible through arched doors thrown open, a small orchestra was tuning up.

Colonel Lord Vortala the younger, in charge of the Residence's security tonight, had escorted Miles and the Emperor there personally. Vortala, who looked both neat and harried simultaneously, now saluted and broke away back into the hallway, already answering some subordinate though his headset.

'It's hard to get used to not having Illyan at my back,' sighed Gregor, staring after him. 'Though Vortalas doing a fine job,' he added hastily. He glanced down at Miles. 'Try not to look so grim. Even without your Auditors chain, it will make people curious what we've been up to, and then we'll both have to spend the rest of the evening trying to squelch gossip.'

Miles nodded. 'Same goes for you.' He couldn't think of any good, or even awful, jokes just at the moment. 'Think of Laisa,' he advised.

Gregor's face lightened right up; smiling dryly in turn, Miles followed him into the chamber. There they completed Gregor's happiness by finding Dr. Toscane, under Lady Alys's wing as usual. Countess Vorkosigan also stood with them, chatting amiably.

'Oh, good,' said the Countess. 'Here they are.' Gregor captured Laisa's hand, and placed it on his arm, possessively; she smiled up at him with starry eyes. The Countess continued, 'Alys, now that her proper escort is here, why don't you let me play Baba for a while. You ought to relax and enjoy yourself at one of these things for a change.' A slight inclination of her head: Miles followed the nod to notice Illyan, quite sharp in a dark and unusually well cut civilian-style tunic and trousers, yet managing by pure habit to look not-quite-there, as if light parted to flow around him.

'Thank you, Cordelia,' murmured Lady Alys. After Gregor greeted his former security chief, and they exchanged some standard how-are-you-feeling, fine, Sire, you-look-well party chat, Alys determinedly bore Illyan off, before he could slip back into any land of attempted work-mode.

'His convalescence does seem to be going well,' said Gregor, watching this byplay in approval.

'You can thank Lady Alys for that,' Countess Vorkosigan told him.

'Your son too.'

'So I understand.'

Miles bowed slightly, and not altogether ironically. He glanced after Illyan and his aunt, who were apparently heading for the refreshment tables. 'Not that I'm intimately familiar with the contents of Illyan's closet, but . . . there's something different about the way he's dressed, I swear. Conservative as hell, as always, but . . .'

Countess Vorkosigan smiled. 'Lady Alys finally persuaded him to let her recommend a tailor. His taste, or lack of it, in clothing has made her tear her hair for years.'

'I always thought it was part of his ImpSec persona. Blandly invisible.'

'That, too, certainly.'

Gregor and Laisa began comparing what they had been doing for the interminable four hours since they'd last met, a conversation mainly absorbing to its principals; Miles, having spotted Ivan across the room, left them together under his mother's indulgent eye. Ivan was escorting Martya Koudelka, ah ha.

Martya was a younger, shorter, and tawnier version of Delia, though no less striking in her own way. She wore something pale green tonight, in a shade perfectly calculated to complement Imperial dress uniforms.

As Miles neared them, Martya poked her partner and said, 'Ivan, you twit, stop watching my sister. You asked me to this dance, remember?'

'Yes, but … I asked her first.'

'You were too slow off the mark. Serve you right if I step on your boots and spoil the shine.' She glanced aside at Miles, and added to him, 'I'm going to be so glad when Delia finally picks someone, and moves out. I'm getting as tired of hand-me-down men as I am of hand-me-down clothes.'

'As well you should be, milady.' Miles bowed over her hand, and kissed it.

That got Ivan's attention; he repossessed Martya's hand, and patted it soothingly. 'Sorry,' he apologized. But his eyes shifted left for one more surreptitious glance.

Miles looked too, and spotted the bright blond head at once. Delia Koudelka was seated on one of the little sofas next to Duv Galeni; they were apparently sharing the plate of hors d'oeuvres balanced on Galeni's knee. The dark head and the blond bent together for a moment, then Delia laughed. Galeni's long teeth flashed in one of his more saturnine smiles. Galeni's knee was touching Delia's, Miles noted with unexpectedly keen interest.

A servitor with a tray of glasses circulated near. 'Would you care for a drink?' Ivan asked Martya.

'Yes, please, but not that red stuff. White, please.' Ivan departed in pursuit of the servitor, and Martya confided to Miles, 'When I dribble it on myself, it won't show that way. I don't know how Delia does it. She never spills anything. Some days I feel like she's practicing to be Lady Alys.'

Galeni hadn't mentioned he would be here—with Delia—when they'd spoken at ImpSec HQ . . . only yesterday? 'How long has this been going on?' Miles asked Martya, with a jerk of his head in Galeni's direction.

Martya smirked. 'Delia told our Da a month ago that Duv was going to be the one. She likes Duv's style, she says. I think he's all right, for an old fellow.'

'I have style, too,' Miles pointed out.

'One all your own,' Martya agreed blandly.

Miles prudently decided not to follow up on that straight line. 'Um . . . and when did old Duv find out?'

'Delia's working on it. Some fellows you have to hit with a brick to get their attention. Some you have to hit with a big brick.'

As Miles was trying to figure out which category she thought he fell into, Ivan returned, balancing beverages. A few minutes later the first strains of music sounded from the next room; Ivan rescued Martya's gown from its rendezvous with spiced wine and bore her away for the dancing. If the civilian strangers' faces here were work-friends of Laisa's from the shippers consortium, there was quite a sprinkling of other Komarrans in the crowd. Nothing political about this party, hah. Galeni's presence, Miles suspected, must be due to Laisa's hand in the guest list. Her best old friend, of course.

Miles grazed for a time on the hors d'oeuvres, splendid as always, then drifted into the next room to listen to the music and watch the dancers. He became keenly aware that his failure to pack along his own partner left him odd man out, and not the only one; the ratio of men to women present was easily ten to nine, if not ten to eight. He cadged one or two dances with women who knew him well enough not to mind his height, such as Henri Vorvolk's