The Vor Game

Metzov glanced contemptuously at Miles, looking low and unmilitary in Victor Rotha's now limp and grimy green silk shirt, baggy trousers, and bare feet—the processing guards had taken his sandals.

'Hardly. He's not going to jump me.'

Damn straight, Miles agreed with regret.

Metzov tapped his wrist comm. 'I'll call you when I'm done.'

'Very well, sir.' The door sighed closed. The cell seemed suddenly very tiny indeed. Miles drew his legs up, sitting in a small defensive ball on his pallet. Metzov stood at ease, contemplating Miles for a long, satisfied moment, then settled himself comfortably on the bench opposite.

'Well, well,' said Metzov, his mouth twisting. 'What a turn of fate.'

'I thought you'd be dining with the Emperor,' said Miles.

'Commander Cavilo, being female, can get a little scattered under stress. When she calms down again, she'll see the need for my expertise in Barrayaran matters,' said Metzov in measured tones.

In other words, you weren't invited. 'You left the Emperor alone with her?' Gregor, watch your step!

'Gregor's no threat. I fear his upbringing has made him altogether weak.'

Miles choked.

Metzov sat back, allowed his fingers to tap gently on his knee. 'So tell me, Ensign Vorkosigan—if it is still Ensign Vorkosigan. There being no justice in the world, I suppose you've retained your rank and pay. What are you doing here? With him?'

Miles was tempted to confine himself to name, rank, and serial number, except Metzov knew all those already. Was Metzov an enemy, exactly? Of Barrayar, that is, not of Miles personally. Did Metzov divide the two in his own mind? 'The Emperor became separated from his security. We hoped to regain contact with them via the Barrayaran consulate here.' There, nothing in that that wasn't perfectly obvious.

'And where did you come from?'

'Aslund.'

'Don't bother playing the idiot, Vorkosigan. I know Aslund. Who sent you there in the first place? And don't bother lying, I can cross-question the freighter captain.'

'No, you can't. Cavilo killed him.'

'Oh?' A flicker of surprise, suppressed. 'Clever of her. He was the only witness to know where you went.'

Had that been part of Cavilo's calculation, when she'd raised her nerve disrupter? Probably. And yet . . . the freighter captain was also the only corroborating witness who knew where they'd come from. Maybe Cavilo was not so formidable as she seemed at first glance.

'Again,' Metzov said patiently—Miles could see he felt he had all the time in the world—'How did you come to be in the Emperor's company?'

'How do you think?' Miles countered, buying time. 'Some plot, of course,' Metzov shrugged.

Miles groaned. 'Oh, of course!' He uncurled in his indignation. 'And what sane—or insane, for that matter—chain of conspiracy do you imagine accounts for our arrival here, alone, from Aslund? I mean, I know what it really was, I lived it, but what does it look like?' To a professional paranoid, that is. 'I'd just love to hear it.'

'Well . . .' Metzov was drawn out in spite of himself. 'You have somehow separated the Emperor from his security. You must either be setting up an elaborate assassination, or planning to implement some form of personality-control.'

'That's what just springs to mind, huh?' Miles thumped his back against the wall with a frustrated growl, and slumped.

'Or perhaps you're on some secret—and therefore dishonorable– diplomatic mission. Some sellout.'

'If so, where's Gregor's security?' Miles sang. 'Better watch out.'

'So, my first hypothesis is proved.'

'In that case, where's my security?' Miles snarled. Where, indeed?

'A Vorkosigan plot—no, perhaps not the Admiral's. He controls Gregor at home—'

'Thank you, I was about to point that out.'

'A twisted plot from a twisted mind. Do you dream of making yourself emperor of Barrayar, mutant?'

'A nightmare, I assure you. Ask Gregor.'

'It scarcely matters. The medical staff will squeeze out your secrets as soon as Cavilo gives the go-ahead. In a way, it's a shame fast-pente was ever invented. I'd enjoy breaking every bone in your body till you talked. Or screamed. You won't be able to hide behind your father's,' he grinned briefly, 'skirts, out here, Vorkosigan.' He grew thoughtful. 'Maybe I will anyway. One bone a day, for as long as they last.'

206 bones in the human body. 206 days. Illyan ought to be able to catch up with us in 206 days. Miles smiled bleakly.

Metzov looked too comfortable to arise and initiate this plan immediately, though. This speculative conversation scarcely constituted serious interrogation. But if not for interrogation, nor revenge-tortures, why was the man here? I.

His lover threw him out, he felt lonely and strange and someone familiar to talk to. Even a familiar enemy. It was was understandable. But for the Komarr invasion, Metzov had probably never set foot off Barrayar in his life. A life spent mostly in the constrained, ordered, predictable world-within-a-world of the Imperial military. Now the rigid man was adrift, and faced with more freewill choices than he'd ever imagined. God. The maniac's homesick. Chilling insight.

'I'm beginning to think I may have accidentally done you a good turn,' Miles began. If Metzov was in a talking mood, why not encourage him? 'Cavilo's certainly better-looking than your last commander.'

'She is that.'

'Is the pay higher?'

'Everyone pays more than the Imperial Service,' Metzov snorted.

'Not boring, either. On Kyril Island, every day was like every other day. Here, you don't know what's going to happen next. Or does she confide in you?'

'I'm essential to her plans.' Metzov practically smirked.

'As a bedroom warrior? Thought you were infantry. Switching specialties, at your age?'

Metzov merely smiled. 'Now you're getting obvious, Vorkosigan.'

Miles shrugged. If so, I'm the only obvious thing here. 'As I recall, you didn't think much of women soldiers. Cavilo seems to have made you change your tune.'

'Not at all.' Metzov sat back smugly. 'I expect to be in command of Randall's Rangers in six months.'

'Isn't this cell monitored?' Miles asked, startled. Not that he cared how much trouble Metzov's mouth bought him, but still. . . .

'Not at present.'

'Cavilo planning to retire, is she?'

'There are a number of ways her retirement might be expedited. The fatal accident Cavilo arranged for Randall might easily be repeated. Or I might even work out a way to charge her with it, since she was stupid enough to brag about murder in bed.'

That was no boast, that was a warning, dunderhead. Miles's eyes nearly crossed, imagining pillowtalk between Metzov and Cavilo. 'You two must have a lot in common. No wonder you get on so well.'

Metzov's amusement thinned. 'I have nothing in common with that mercenary slut. I was an Imperial officer.' Metzov glowered. 'Thirty-five years. And they wasted me. Well, they'll discover their mistake.'

Metzov glanced at his chrono. 'I still don't understand your presence here. Are you sure there isn't something else you want to say to me now, privately, before you say everything tomorrow to Cavilo under fast-