"I think so. The first crack, anyway." Miles decided not to disturb her morning by explaining that the first crack consisted of discovering himself being framed for the crime.
"Ah. I wasn't sure if the abstracted look was that, or lack of sleep."
"Both. I'm on my way to bed, but I want to talk to Illyan first. Is he up yet, do you know?"
"I think so. Pym just took him up his breakfast."
"Breakfast in bed halfway to noon. What a life."
"I think he's earned it, don't you?"
"The hard way." He sucked up some more of her coffee, and rose to go upstairs.
"Oh. Knock, first," she advised him as he passed the doorway.
"Why?"
"He's having breakfast with Alys."
That explained the book; Lady Alys had delivered it. He wondered what piece of Vorish history she was making poor Illyan read.
As advised, he knocked politely on the door of the second-floor guest suite. No response: he knocked again. Pym had not lingered to serve the breakfast, it appeared, because instead of the retainer opening it, Illyan's voice finally floated through the wood: "Who is it?"
"Miles. I have to talk to you."
"Just a minute."
The minute became two or three or four, as he leaned against the door frame and scuffed his boot on the patterned carpet. He knocked again. "C'mon, Simon, let me in."
"Don't be so impatient, Miles," his aunt's voice admonished him firmly. "It's a bit rude."
He closed his teeth on a snappish reply, and scuffed the carpet some more, and fingered his Auditor's chain, and while he was about it unfastened the high collar of his brown-and-silver tunic. Some shuffling and clinking noises came from within, and a low laugh. At long last, Lady Alys's light step approached the door; a click, as she unlocked it, and it swung aside.
"Good morning, Aunt Alys," he said dryly.
"Good morning, Miles," she responded, much more cheerfully than he'd been expecting. She waved him inside to the sitting room. The cluttered breakfast tray was jammed onto the little table in the bay window overlooking the back garden. Only crumbs left, alas. Lady Alys was dressed oddly formally for this hour of the day, Miles thought, in a gown more suitable for dinner than breakfast, and was apparently experimenting with her hairstyle; it was loose, brushed in burnished black and silver waves down her back.
Illyan appeared from the direction of the bathroom, shrugging on a tunic over his shirt and trousers, and still wearing bedroom slippers. "Good morning, Miles," he echoed Lady Alys, right down to the repellent morning-person chirp in his voice. His smile faded as he took in Miles's rumpled up-all-night look. His tone flattened. "What's happening?"
"I found some very interesting things at ImpSec HQ last night."
"Progress?"
"Two steps forward, three sideways. Um . . ." He frowned at his aunt, wondering how to throw her out politely. She failed to take a hint, instead seating herself on the little sofa beside the table and attending to him with sharpened interest. Illyan sat beside her. Miles decided cravenly to let Illyan do the dirty work. "This is all highly classified, or it's going to be."
He waited a beat, while they both looked at him. "Do you really think it's appropriate for Lady Alys's ears?" he added.
Bad choice of phrasing; Illyan merely replied, "Certainly. Out with it, Miles, don't keep us in suspense."
Well, if Illyan thought it was all right . . . Miles took a breath, and began a fast-forward description of his last day-cycle's investigation at ImpSec. Neither of his listeners interrupted him, though Lady Alys muttered, "Good for Ivan," when he got to the description of finding their prize needle in the haystack of Weapons Room IV.
Illyan's cheerful air had vanished altogether; he sat tensely. Lady Alys watched his profile in concern, and took his hand; he squeezed hers in turn.
"What I need to know," Miles finished, "is if you remember anything, anything at all, about the time that sample was brought in, during the thwarting of that last Komarran fling."
Illyan rubbed his forehead. "It's . . . pretty blank. I remember Ser Galen's plot, of course, and that initial horrific fuss over discovering the existence of Lord Mark. The Countess was very upset, in her most Betan style. Drove your father to distraction. I remember your report from Earth. A masterpiece of its literary genre. That Sector Four adventure where you smashed both your arms was . . . right after that, right?"
"Yes. But surely someone must have reported on the prokaryote to you. I can see why you might not have risked inspecting it in person."
"I'm sure someone did." Illyan's right hand released Lady Alys's, and clenched into a fist. "They doubtless gave me all the details. And I doubtless put them where I always put the details. But there's nothing left now."
Lady Alys frowned irritatedly at Miles, as if it were somehow all his fault.
"Who ought to have given you that report?" Miles pushed on.
"General Diamant, I suppose. Komarran Affairs chief before Allegre, you remember him? Died just two years after he retired, the poor sod. Miles, I really can't . . . I would surely have been reminded before this, if it were in here!" He clutched his head in frustration. Lady Alys recaptured his hand, and stroked it soothingly.
"Does your friend Captain Galeni have any ideas?" Illyan went on more calmly. "He might have some inside track. It was his father's plot, after all."
Miles smiled unhappily.
Illyan's eyes narrowed. "You know he's going to turn up on your short list, as soon as it's generated."
"Yes."
"Did you tell Haroche?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It would have been redundant. Duv will be checked along with everyone else. And . . . I've done him enough bad turns lately."
"Aren't you . . . prejudging your data—my Lord Auditor?"
"You know Galeni."
"Not so well as you do."
"Just so. I'm not judging data at all, here. I'm judging the man's character. Motivations, if you like."
"Hm," said Illyan. "Just watch your own motivations there, old son."
"Yes, yes, I know. I not only have to be impartial, I have to appear so. You taught me that one," he added rather nastily. "In a way I'm not likely to forget."
"I did? When?"
"Never mind." He pressed the bridge of his nose. He was not only exhausted, he was getting a fatigue headache. It was time to quit for the night, or he'd be unable to function properly on the next round.
"All right," he sighed. "Last thing. Do you remember, at any time in the last four months, anyone ever giving you a small brown capsule to swallow?"
"No."
"There's two missing. He might have taken one himself at the same time, right along with you." Whoever he was.
"No." Illyan sounded more certain than usual. "I haven't taken any medication in the past thirty years except what my personal physician gives me with his own hands."
Miles recalled Haroche's more-than-one-man theory. "It might even have been your own physician. It's the small brown capsule I'm trying to track."
Illyan shook his head.
Miles levered himself up, and made polite farewells, and staggered off to bed.
He woke in the midafternoon, and spent a futile half-hour trying to return to sleep, while his mind worried his new problems. He gave up, rose, and checked in with Haroche by comconsole; the systems analysis team had not yet offered their report. A call to Weddell in the ImpSec clinic labs elicited mostly snarls at the interruption, but also a promise of more information soon. Soon, but not yet.
His restless prowling around his room was interrupted in turn by a call from a very bleary Ivan, who reported the original biocontainer box had been duly examined and returned by Forensics, and could he for God's sakes give the damn thing to somebody else and go off-duty and go to bed now? Miles flinched guiltily, glad Ivan could not detect sleep on his breath over a comconsole, and ordered him to return the box to the guardianship of the Evidenc
e Rooms, and take the rest of the day off.
He was just stepping into the bath when his comconsole chimed again. This time it was Dr. Chenko, from the Imperial Military Hospital's veterans clinic.
"Lord Vorkosigan." Chenko ducked his head in cheery greetings. "My apologies for taking so long. These microengineering challenges always prove a little more complex in the execution than the planning. But we've worked up a device small enough to insert under your skull to, we hope safely, trigger your seizures, and we're finally ready to test it on you. If it works properly, we can go ahead with the final calibrations and schedule surgery to install it."
"Oh," said Miles. "Good work." Bad timing.
"When can you come in? Tomorrow?"
Haroche might call with the systems team's report at any time, and when that happened, Miles suspected, things would start to move very quickly. And . . . somewhere in Vorbarr Sultana was a very clever ImpSec-trained man who had made Miles his special target. Did Chenko's experimental gizmo use any protein circuits, and what had happened to that missing capsule? The thought of people he didn't know very well installing devices he didn't understand into his brain gave him cold chills, just now. "I . . . probably not tomorrow. I'll have to get back to you on scheduling, Doctor."
Chenko looked disappointed. "Have you had any more episodes since the one we forced in the lab?"
"Not so far."
"Hm. Well, I'd advise you not to wait too long, my lord."
"I understand. I'll do my best."
"And avoid stress," Chenko added as an afterthought, as Miles reached for the disconnect.
"Thank you, Doctor," Miles growled at the empty vid plate.
He was halfway through his shower when he suddenly recalled that this was the night of Laisa's party. His attendance had been just short of Imperially commanded; and his duties, it appeared, were going to permit. At the very least, it would be well to seize the chance beforehand to get in an interim report to Gregor. All he needed was to dredge up a dance partner.
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 Vortala's doing a fine job," he added hastily. He glanced down at Miles. "Try not to look so grim. Even without your Auditor's 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 kind 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.