department had both access to knowledge of the bioengineered prokaryote, and some reason to do this? He had the access; he met with his father, Ser Galen, on Earth just before the original Komarran plot came to grief.'

'I know,' said Miles shortly. 'I was there.' Oh, God, Duv . . .

'I don't know how much weight to give the fact that your clone-brother shot Galeni's father—'

'If that were going to be a problem, it would have been a problem before this.'

'Perhaps. But it must have left some residue of feeling. Then, on top of that, you recently became instrumental in destroying his marital plans.'

'He's over that.'

'What marital plans?' asked Gregor.

Miles gritted his teeth. Haroche, you idiot. 'At one time, Duv was rather interested in Laisa. Which is how he came to escort her to your ambassadorial reception, where you met. Duv has since, um, found another love interest.'

'Oh,' said Gregor, looking stricken. 'I didn't quite realize . . . things were that serious between Laisa and Galeni.'

'It was one-sided.'

Haroche shook his head. 'I'm sorry, Miles. But the man called you, and I quote, a 'smarmy goddamn little pimp.' Haroche's gaze grew abstracted, his expression for a moment so like Illyan giving one of his verbatim quotes from his chip that Miles drew in his breath. 'And went on to declaim quite passionately, 'Vor does mean thief. And you goddamn Barrayaran thieves stick together all right. You and your fucking precious Emperor and the whole damn pack of you.' And you seriously expect me to construe he merely felt mild inconvenience?'

Gregor's eyebrows rose.

'It was to my face,' snapped Miles. From the look on Gregor's, the Emperor did not see why this remark constituted a defense. 'Not to my back,' Miles tried to explain. 'Never to my back, not Galeni. It's . . . not his style.' He added to Haroche, 'Where the hell did you get that? Does ImpSec have all its analysts' private comconsoles monitored, now? Or had someone targeted Galeni before Illyan ever went down?'

Haroche cleared his throat. 'Not Galeni's comconsole, in fact, my lord. Yours.'

'What!'

'All the public channels in Vorkosigan House are monitored by the ImpSec chiefs own office, for security. They have been for decades. The only three that are not are the Count and the Countess's personal machines, and your personal machine. Surely your parents mentioned this to you before. They knew.'

Monitored by Illyan, of course. His father and mother would not have objected to that. And he'd taken Galeni's call that night in … the comconsole station in the guest suite, right. Miles subsided, seething, but mostly with his mind whirling, trying to remember everything he'd said in the last three months to anyone over any comconsole in Vorkosigan House.

'Your loyalty to your friend does you great credit, Miles,' Haroche went on. 'But I'm not so sure he's any friend of yours.'

'No,' said Miles. 'No. I know what Galeni paid to get here. He wouldn't piss it down the wind for some . . . personal ire. This is a trail of smoke and mirrors. And anyway, even granted Galeni has some motivation to frame me, what about the original crime? What motive did he have to take out Illyan in the first place?'

Haroche shrugged. 'Political, perhaps. There are thirty years of bad blood between ImpSec under Illyan, and some Komarrans. I agree the case is not complete by any means, but it should be easier to pursue now that we have a real direction.'

Gregor looked almost distraught. 'I had hoped my marriage might do some little part toward healing things with Komarr. A truly unified empire …'

'It will,' Miles assured him. 'Doubly so, if Galeni ends up marrying a Barrayaran.' If he doesn't get jailed first on some trumped-up treason charge, that is. 'You know how Imperial fashions go; you're sure to start a big fad in cross-planetary romances. And given the shortage of Barrayaran girl babies our parents created in our generation, a mob of us are going to have to import wives anyway.'

Gregor's lips crooked up, in sad appreciation of Miles's attempted humor.

Miles gripped his copy of the report. 'I want to review this.'

'Please do,' said Haroche. 'Sleep on it. And if you can find anything in it that I haven't, let me know. I'm not happy to find any of my ImpSec people are disloyal, regardless of their planet of origin.'

Haroche took his farewells; Miles followed immediately, sending a residence servant to find Martin and have his car brought around. If he went back to the party, he'd be jumped by women demanding explanations and action, neither of which he could offer right now. He did not envy Gregor his task of returning and having to socialize as if nothing had happened.

He was in the Counts groundcar, halfway between the Imperial Residence and ImpSec, when his view through the canopy of some dilapidated buildings, with brightly lit towers behind, suddenly sharpened. They took on an abrupt unreal reality, as if grown denser, overpowering, as if about to be outlined in green fire. He had just time to think, Oh shit oh shit oh shi— before the whole scene dissolved into the familiar colored confetti, then darkness.

He returned to consciousness laid out on the car's backseat, with Martin's panicked form looming over him in the dim yellow light. His tunic was ripped open. The canopy was raised to the night mist, and he shivered in the cold.

'Lord Vorkosigan? My lord, oh hell, are you dying? Stop it, stop it!'

'Unh . . .' he managed. It came out a muffled groan to his ringing ears. His mouth hurt; he touched his wet lips, and his fingers came away smeared, red-brown in this light, with fresh blood.

''S all right, Martin. Only, uh, seizure.'

'Is that what they look like? I couldn't think but what you'd been poisoned or shot or something.' Martin looked only slightly relieved.

He tried to sit up; Martin's big hands opened in hovering uncertainty whether to help him up or shove him back down. Both his tongue and his lower lip were bitten, and bleeding freely over his best House uniform.

'Should I take you to a hospital or a doctor, my lord? Which one?'

'No.'

'Let me take you back home, at least, then. Maybe . . .' Martin's harried face brightened with hope. 'Maybe your lady mother will be there soon.'

'And take me off your hands?' Miles grunted a pained laugh. She's not going to kiss it and make it well, Martin. No matter how much she might like to.

He wanted desperately to go on to ImpSec HQ. He'd promised Galeni. . . . But he hadn't properly reviewed the new data, and the team of men he'd want to question about it when he had were undoubtedly gone home to a well-earned night's rest. And he was still shaken, and dizzy with the postseizure lassitude.

The military medical people were all too right. The stress-triggered aspect of the damned seizures virtually guaranteed they would always occur at the most inconvenient possible moment. Unfit for duty indeed, any duty. Unfit.

I hate this.

'Home, Martin,' he sighed.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Miles woke the next morning with what he was coming to recognize as a postseizure hangover. A couple of painkiller tablets helped only slightly. If anything, the symptoms were getting worse with time, not better. Or maybe

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