"No, that's . . . that's fine. In fact, I'd like to talk to Benin again. I, ah … shall I go fetch Ivan, then, sir?" Miles rose to his feet. Bad, bad idea to let the two suspects consult before the interrogation, but then, this wasn't Vorreedi's case. How fully had Miles convinced the man of his secret clout?
"Go ahead," said Vorreedi affably. "Though I must say . . ."
Miles paused.
"I do not see how Lord Vorpatril fits into this. He's no courier officer. And his records are as transparent as glass."
"A lot of people are baffled by Ivan, sir. But … sometimes, even a genius needs someone who can follow orders."
Miles tried not to scamper, hustling down the corridor to Ivan's quarters. The luxury of privacy their status had bought them was about to come to a screeching halt, he suspected. If Vorreedi didn't turn on the bugs in both their rooms after this, the man either had supernatural self-control or was brain dead. And the protocol officer was the voraciously curious type; it went with his job.
Ivan unlocked his door with a drawl of "Enter," at Miles's impatient knock. Miles found his cousin sitting up in bed, half-dressed in green trousers and cream shirt, leafing through a pile of hand-calligraphed colored papers with an abstracted and not particularly happy air.
"Ivan. Get up. Get dressed. We're about to have an interview with Colonel Vorreedi and ghem-Colonel Benin."
"Confession at last, thank God!" Ivan tossed the papers up in the air and fell backward on his bed with a woof of relief.
"No. Not exactly. But I need you to let me do most of the talking, and confirm whatever I assert."
"Oh, damn." Ivan frowned up at the ceiling. "What now? "
"Benin has to have been investigating Ba Lura's movements, the day before its death. I'm guessing he's traced the Ba to our little encounter at the pod dock. I don't want to screw up his investigation. In fact, I want it to succeed, at least as far as identifying the
Ba's murderer. So he needs as many real facts as possible."
"Real facts. As opposed to what other kind of facts?"
"We absolutely can't bring up any mention of the Great Key, or the haut Rian. I figure we can tell events exactly as they happened, just leave out that one tiny detail."
"You figure, do you? You must be using a different kind of math than the rest of the universe does. Do you realize how pissed Vorreedi and the Ambassador are going to be about our concealing that little incident?"
"I've got Vorreedi under control, temporarily. He thinks I'm on a mission from Simon Illyan."
"That means you aren't. I knew it!" Ivan groaned, and pulled a pillow over his face, and squashed it tight.
Miles pulled it out of his grasp. "I am now. Or I would be, if Illyan knew what I know. Bring that nerve disrupter. But don't pull it out unless I tell you to."
"I am not shooting your commanding officer for you."
"You're not shooting anybody. And anyway, Vorreedi's not my commander." That could be an important legal point, later. "I may want it for evidence. But not unless the subject comes up. We volunteer nothing."
"Never volunteer, yes, that's the ticket! You're catching on at last, coz!"
"Shut up. Get up." Miles threw Ivan's undress uniform jacket across his prostrate form. "This is important! But you have to stay absolutely cool. I may be completely off-base, and panicking prematurely."
"I don't think so. I think you're panicking post-maturely. In fact, if you were panicking any later it would be practically posthumously. I've been panicking for days."
Miles tossed Ivan his half-boots, with ruthless finality. Ivan shook his head, sat up, and began pulling them on.
"Do you remember," Ivan sighed, "that time in the back garden at Vorkosigan House, when you'd been reading all those military histories about the Cetagandan prison camps during the invasion, and you decided we had to dig an escape tunnel? Except it was you who did all the designing, and me and Elena who did all the digging?"
"We were about eight," said Miles defensively. "The medics were still working on my bones. I was still pretty friable then."
"—and the tunnel collapsed on me?" Ivan went on dreamily. "And I was under there for hours?"
"It wasn't hours. It was minutes. Sergeant Bothari had you out of there in practically no time."
"It seemed like hours to me. I can still taste the dirt. It got stuffed up my nose, too." Ivan rubbed his nose in memory. "Mother would still be having the fit, if Aunt Cordelia hadn't sat on her."
"We were stupid little kids. What has this got to do with anything?"
"Nothing, I suppose. I just woke up thinking about it, this morning." Ivan stood up, fastened his tunic, and pulled it straight. "I never believed I'd miss Sergeant Bothari, but I think I do now. Who's going to dig me out this time?"
Miles wanted to snap out a sharp rejoinder, but shivered instead. I miss Bothari too. He had almost forgotten how much, till Ivan's words hit the scar of his regret, that secret little pocket of anguish that never seemed to drain. Major mistakes . . . Dammit, a man walking a tight-wire didn't need someone shouting from the sidelines how far down the drop was, or what lousy balance he had. It wasn't like he didn't know; but what he most needed was to forget. Even a momentary loss of concentration—of self-confidence—of forward momentum, could be fatal. "Do me a favor, Ivan. Don't try to think. You'll hurt yourself. Just follow orders, huh?"
Ivan bared his teeth in a non-smile, and followed Miles out the door.
They met with ghem-Colonel Benin in the same little conference room as before, but this time, Vorreedi rode shotgun personally, dispensing with the guard. The two colonels were just finishing the amenities and sitting down as Miles and Ivan entered, by which sign Miles hoped they'd had less time to compare notes than he and Ivan'd had. Benin was dressed again in his formal red uniform and lurid face paint, freshly and perfectly applied. By the time they'd all finished going through the polite greetings once more, and everyone was reseated, Miles had his breathing and heartbeat under control. Ivan concealed his nerves in an expression of blank benevolence that made him look, in Miles's opinion, remarkably sappy.
"Lord Vorkosigan," ghem-Colonel Benin began. "I understand you work as a courier officer."
"When I'm on duty." Miles decided to repeat the party line for Benin's benefit. "It's an honorable task, that's not too physically demanding for me."
"And do you like your duties?"
Miles shrugged. "I like the travel. And, ah … it gets me out of the way, an advantage that cuts two ways. You know about Barrayar's backward attitude to mutations." Miles thought of Yenaro s longing for a post. "And it gives me an official position, makes me somebody"
"I can understand that, "
Yeah, I thought you would.
"But you're not on courier duty now?"
"Not this trip. We were to give our diplomatic duties our undivided attention, and, it was hoped, maybe acquire a little polish."
"And Lord Vorpatril here is assigned to Operations, is that right?"
"Desk work," Ivan sighed. "I keep hoping for ship duty."
Not really true, Miles reflected; Ivan adored being assigned to HQ at the capital, where he kept up his own apartment and a social life that was the envy of his brother-officers. Ivan just wished his mother Lady Vorpatril might be assigned ship duty, someplace far away.
"Hm." Benin's hands twitched, as if in memory of sorting stacks of plastic flimsies. He drew breath, and looked Miles straight in the eyes. "So, Lord Vorkosigan—the funeral rotunda was not the first time you saw the Ba Lura, was it?"