“Garnet Five is this quaddie dancer, yes?”
“Yes.”
Remarkable enough, for a Barrayaran to be attracted to a quaddie; the deeply ingrained cultural prejudice against anything that smacked of mutation would seem to work against it. Had Corbeau received less than the usual indulgent understanding from his fellows and superiors that a young officer in such a plight might ordinarily expect?
“And your connection with all this is—what?”
Did Bel take an apprehensive breath? “Nicol plays harp and hammer dulcimer in the Minchenko Ballet orchestra. You do remember Nicol, the quaddie musician we rescued during that personnel pickup that almost went down the disposer?”
“I remember Nicol vividly.” And so, apparently, had Bel. “I gather she made it home safely after all.”
“Yes.” Bel's smile grew tenser. “Not surprisingly, she also remembers you vividly—Admiral Naismith.”
Miles went still for a moment. At last he said cautiously, “Do, ah . . . you know her well? Can you command, or persuade, her discretion?”
“I live with her,” said Bel briefly. “No one needs to command anything. She is discreet.”
Oh. Much becomes clear . . .
“But she's a personal friend of Garnet Five's. Who is in a tearing panic over all of this. She's convinced, among other things, that the Barrayaran command wants to shoot her boyfriend out of hand. The pair of thugs that Vorpatril sent to pick up your stray evidently—well, it went beyond rude. They were insulting and brutal, for starters, and it slid downhill from there. I've heard the unabridged version.”
Miles grimaced. “I know my countrymen. You can take the ugly details as read, thanks.”
“Nicol has asked me to do what I can for her friend and her friend's friend. I promised I'd put in a word. This is it.”
“I understand.” Miles sighed. “I can't make any promises yet. Except to listen to everyone.”
Bel nodded and looked away. It said after a moment, “This Imperial Auditor gig of yours—you're a big wheel in the Barrayaran machine now, huh?”
“Something like that,” said Miles.
“The Emperor's Voice sounds like it would be pretty loud. People listen, do they?”
“Well, Barrayarans do. The rest of the galaxy”—one side of Miles's mouth turned up—”tend to think it's some kind of fairy tale.”
Bel shrugged apologetically. “ImpSec is Barrayarans. So. The thing is, I've come to like this place—Graf Station, Quaddiespace. And these people. I like them a lot. I believe you'll see why, if I get much chance to show you around. I'm thinking of settling here permanently.”
“That's . . . nice,” said Miles. Where are you taking me, Bel?
“But if I do take an oath of citizenship here—and I've been thinking hard about it for a while—I want to take it honestly. I can't offer them a false oath, or divided loyalties.”
“Your Betan citizenship never interfered with your career in the Dendarii Mercenaries,” Miles pointed out.
“You never asked me to operate on Beta Colony,” said Bel.
“And if I had?”
“I . . . would have faced a dilemma.” Bel's hand stretched in urgent entreaty. “I want a clean start, with no secret strings attached. You claim ImpSec is your personal utility now. Miles—can you please fire me again?”
Miles sat back and chewed on his knuckle. “Cut you loose from ImpSec, you mean?”
“Yes. From all old obligations.”
He blew out his breath. But you're so valuable to us here! “I . . . don't know.”
“Don't know if you have the power? Or don't know if you want to use it?”
Miles temporized, “This power business has proved a lot stranger than I anticipated. You'd think more power would bring one more freedom, but I've found it's brought me less. Every word that comes out of my mouth has this weight that it never had before, when I was babbling Mad Miles, hustler of the Dendarii. I never had to watch my mass like this. It's . . . damned uncomfortable, sometimes.”
“I'd have thought you'd love it.”
“I'd have thought that too.”
Bel leaned back, easing off. It would not make the request again, not soon, anyway.
Miles drummed his fingers on the cool, reflective surface of the table. “If there is anything more behind this mess than overexcitement and bad judgment—not that that isn't enough—it hinges on the evaporation of that Komarran fleet security fellow, Solian—”
Miles wrist com chimed, and he raised it to his lips. “Yes?”
“M'lord,” came Roic's apologetic voice. “We're in dock again now.”
“Right. Thanks. We'll be out directly.” He rose from the table, saying, “You must meet Ekaterin properly, before we go back out there and have to play dumb again. She and Roic have full Barrayaran security clearances, by the way—they have to, to live this close to me. They both need to know who you are, and that they can trust you.”
Bel hesitated. “Do they really need to know I'm ImpSec? Here?”
“They might, in an emergency.”
“I would particularly like the quaddies not to know I've been selling intelligence to downsiders, you see. Maybe it would be safer if you and I were mere acquaintances.”
Miles stared. “But Bel, she knows perfectly well who you are. Or were, anyway.”
“What, have you been telling covert ops war stories to your wife?” Clearly disconcerted, Bel frowned. “Those rules always applied to someone else, didn't they?”
“Her clearance was earned, not just granted,” Miles said a little stiffly. “But Bel, we sent you a wedding invitation! Or . . . did you get it? ImpSec notified me it was delivered—”
“Oh,” said Bel, looking confused. “That. Yes. I did get it.”
“Was it delivered too late? It should have included a travel voucher—if someone pocketed that, I'll have his hide—”
“No, the voucher came through all right. About a year and a half ago, yes? I could have made it, if I'd scrambled a bit. It just arrived at an awkward period for me. Kind of a low point. I'd just left Beta for the last time, and I was in the middle of a little job I was doing for ImpSec. Arranging a substitute would have been difficult. It was just effort, at a time when more effort . . . I wished you well, though, and hoped you'd finally got lucky.” A wry grin flashed. “Again.”
“Finding the right Lady Vorkosigan . . . was a bigger, rarer kind of luck than any I'd had before.” Miles sighed. “Elli Quinn didn't come either. Though she sent a present and a letter.” Neither especially demure.
“Hm,” said Bel, smiling a little. And added rather slyly, “And Sergeant Taura?”
“She attended.” Miles's lips curled up, unwilled. “Spectacularly. I had a burst of genius, and put my Aunt Alys in charge of getting her dressed civilian-style. It kept them both happily occupied. The old Dendarii contingent all missed you. Elena and Baz were there—with their new baby girl, if you can imagine it—and Arde Mayhew, too. So the very beginning of it all was fully represented. It was as well that the wedding was small. A hundred and twenty people is small, yes? It was Ekaterin's second, you see—she was a widow.” And profoundly stressed thereby. Her tense, distraught state the night before the wedding had reminded Miles forcibly of a particular species of precombat nerves he'd seen in troops facing, not their first, but their second battle. The night after the wedding, now—that had gone much better, thank God.