"Well, how can he, if no one he knows is allowed to see him?"
"Um. Good point. Look, I have no intention of defending Haroche to you. I'm pretty annoyed at him myself."
"Not annoyed enough," snapped Lady Alys. "Haroche actually had the nerve to tell me—me!— that it was no sight for a lady. I asked him what he had been doing during the War of Vordarian's Pretendership." Her voice trailed off in a hiss—Miles's ear was not quite sure, but he thought it detected suppressed barracks language. "I can see Gregor is thinking he may have to work with Haroche for a long time yet. He didn't say it in so many words, naturally, but I gather Haroche has persuaded Gregor that his status as acting Chief of ImpSec is too new and fragile to bear interference from such dangerously unauthorized—and female—persons such as myself. Simon never had any such qualms. I wish Cordelia were here. She was always better than I at cutting through masculinist drivel."
"So to speak," said Miles, thinking of Vordarian's fate at his mothers hands. But Lady Alys was quite correct: Illyan had always treated her as a valued, though different, member of Gregor's support team. Haroche's new and tighter professional order must have come as a bit of a shock to her. Miles went on, "Haroche is in an excellent position to persuade Gregor. He's in total control of the flow of all information to him." Though you couldn't call that a change in how things were done; it had always been that way, but when Illyan had been the sluice keeper it had somehow never bothered Miles.
Alys's dark brows twitched; she said nothing aloud to this. Beneath her speculative frown the silence grew . . . noticeable.
To break the discomfort his unguarded words had engendered, Miles said lightly, "You could go on strike. No wedding till Gregor twists Haroches arm for you."
"If something sensible isn't done and done soon, I just might."
"I was joking," he said hastily.
"I was not." She gave him a curt nod, and cut the com.
Martin cautiously shook Miles awake shortly after dawn the next morning.
"Um . . . m'lord? You have a visitor downstairs."
"At this ungodly hour?" Miles rubbed his sleep-numbed face, and yawned. "Who?"
"Says his name's Lieutenant Vorberg. One of your ImpSec sticks again, I guess."
"Vorberg?" Miles blinked. "Here? Now? Why?"
"He wants to talk to you, so I guess you'd better ask him."
"Quite, Martin. Um . . . you didn't leave him standing on the doorstep, did you?"
"No, I put him in that big downstairs room on the east side."
"The Second Receiving Room. That's fine. Tell him I'll be down in just a minute. Make some coffee. Bring there on a tray with two cups, and the usual trimmings. If there's any of your mothers pastries or breads left over in the kitchen, stuff 'em in a basket or something and bring them too, right? Good." Curiosity aroused, Miles pulled on the first shirt and trousers that came to hand, and padded barefoot down two flights of the curving front staircase, then turned ft and made his way through three more rooms till he came to Second Rec. Martin had pulled a cover off one clair for the guest, and left it in a white heap on the floor. Fingers of sunlight poked through the heavy curtains, leaving the shadows in which Vorberg sat somehow denser. The lieutenant was wearing undress greens, but his face was gray with a faint beard stubble. He frowned wearily at Miles.
"Good morning, Vorberg," said Miles, cautiously polite. "What brings you to Vorkosigan House so early i the day?"
"It's late in the day for me," said Vorberg. "I just came off night shift." His brows lowered.
"They found you a job, did they?"
"Yes. I'm night guard commander for the close security on the clinic."
Miles sat down on a covered chair, abruptly awake even without coffee. Vorberg was one of Illyan's guards? But of course, as a courier, he already had the kind of clearance required. He was at loose ends, readily requisitionable for a physically light, if mentally demanding duty. And … he was an HQ outsider. No close old friends there to gossip with. Miles tried to keep his tone level, noncommittal. "Oh? What's up?"
Vorberg's voice went tight, almost angry. "I do think it's bad form of you, Vorkosigan. Almost petty, under the circumstances. Illyan was your fathers man for years, passed the message on at least four times. Why haven't you come?"
Miles sat very still. "Excuse me. I think I've missed the first half of something. What, ah … could you please tell me exactly what's been going on in there? How long have you been on this duty?"
"Since the first night they brought him in. It's been pretty ugly. When he's not sedated, he babbles. When he is sedated, if he's been combative again, he still babbles, but you can't make out what he's saying. The medics keep him restrained almost all the time. It's as if he's wandering through history, in his mind, but every once in a while, he seems to pass through the present. And when he does, he asks for you. At first I thought it was the Count your father he wanted, but it's definitely you. Miles, he says, and Get that idiot boy in here, and Haven't you found him yet, Vorberg? It's not like you can mistake the hyperactive little shit. Sorry," Vorberg added as an afterthought, "that's just what he said."
"I recognize the style," whispered Miles. He cleared his throat, and his voice grew stronger. "I'm sorry. This is the first I've heard of this."
"Impossible. I've passed it on in my night report four or five nights in a row, now."
Gregor would not have failed to redirect such a word. Gregor hadn't a hint of this. The break was somewhere else up in Vorberg's chain of command. We will find out. Oh yes, we will. "What kind of medical treatment or tests is he receiving?"
"I don't know. Nothing much happens on my shift."
"I suppose . . . that's reasonable."
They both fell silent as Martin brought the coffee and rolls on a baking sheet for a makeshift tray—Make a note for Lesson Six in butlering, Finding the Serving Utensils— snagged a roll for himself, smiled cheerily, and strolled back out. Vorberg blinked at this odd turn of service, but sucked down coffee gratefully. He frowned again at Miles, more speculatively this time. "I've been hearing a lot of strange things from the man, in the deep night. Between the times the sedatives wear off, and before he goes, uh, goes noisy and wins another dose."
"Yes. I would imagine so. Do you know why Illyan is asking for me?"
"Not exactly. Even in his more lucid moments, it comes out sounding pretty garbled. But I've been getting the damnedest unpleasant feeling that the problem is half in me. Because I don't know the background, I can't decipher what may be perfectly clear statements. I have figured out you were never a bloody courier."
"No. Covert ops." A sunbeam was creeping over his chair arm, making the coffee in the thin cup perched here glow red.
"High level covert ops," said Vorberg, watching him in the shadows and light beams.
"The highest."
"I don't quite know why he discharged you—"
"Ah." Miles smiled bleakly. "I really must tell you, someday. It's true about the needle grenade. Just not complete."
"Part of the time he doesn't seem to know he discharged you. But part of the time he does. And he still asks for you, even then."
"Have you ever reported this directly to General Haroche?"
"Yes. Twice."
"What did he say?"
"Thank you, Lieutenant Vorberg."
"I see."