"Vorkosigan. I told you not to come back here."
"Try again," Miles said grimly.
Haroche stared at the chain glittering across his chest. Despite the flanking Vorbarra Armsmen, both personally known to him, he choked, "That can't be real."
"The penalty for counterfeiting an Imperial Auditor's credentials," Miles stated flatly, "is death."
Miles felt he could almost hear the gears grinding in Haroche s head. Some long seconds crawled past, then Haroche corrected himself in a slightly cracked voice, "My Lord Auditor."
"Thank you," Miles husked. Now they were on-script, his new authority formally recognized and acknowledged, and they could proceed. "My Imperial master Gregor Vorbarra requests and requires me to audit ImpSec's handling of the current situation. I request and require your full cooperation in this examination. Shall we continue this in your office?"
Haroche's brows drew down; a faintly ironic light started in his eye. "Oh, I think we should. My Lord Auditor."
Miles dismissed his two Vorbarra outriders to be driven back to the Imperial residence by Martin, and led Haroche inside.
The flat filtered air of Illyan's office was fraught with memory. Miles had sat or stood in here a hundred times, to receive orders or deliver results. He'd been fascinated, excited, certainly challenged, occasionally triumphant, sometimes exhausted, sometimes defeated, sometimes in pain. Sometimes in great pain. This room had been the center from which his life had radiated. All that was gone now. Miles's position across from Illyan's comconsole desk was the same, but the flow of authority was reversed. He'd have to watch out for old reflexes.
Haroche pulled up a chair from the side wall for him with his own hands; after a moment, Ivan retrieved one for himself, and sat flanking Miles. Haroche settled his bulk in Illyan s chair, tented his hands above the black glass, and waited cautiously.
Miles leaned forward, and counted off with his right hand, fingers pressing the cold surface. "All right. As you should have deduced by now, Gregor is seriously displeased with the way this organization has been treating Simon Illyan's breakdown. So this is what I want, and this is the order I want it in. First, I want to see Illyan. Then, I want a conference with his full medical staff. I want them to bring everything they have learned so far, and be prepared to brief me. After that . . . I'll figure out what else after that."
"You have, necessarily, my full cooperation. My Lord Auditor."
"Now that we're down to business, you can shelve the formalities."
"But you've given me a dilemma."
And a moment of near heart failure, too, Miles hoped nastily. But no. There was no place for personal animosities now. "Oh?"
"It was, and remains, premature to accuse any man of sabotage in the matter of Illyan's chip failure before the cause of the chip failure is determined. Potentially very embarrassing, if the cause turns out to be natural."
"I'm conscious of this too."
"Yes . . . you would be. But I can't help thinking ahead. In fact, it's my job. So I have a little list, that I'm holding in limbo pending the arrival of some data with which to pin it to reality."
"Only a little list?"
"Illyan always divided his lists into the short one and the long one. A kind of triage, I suppose. Seems a good system. But on my short list—you are very near the top."
"Oh," Miles echoed. Suddenly, Haroche's obstructionism fell into place.
"And now you've made yourself untouchable," Haroche added.
"The full phrase is, untouchable Vor bore," Miles said. "I … see." This was exactly the sort of humiliating suspicion he'd most dreaded, in taking on Illyan's rescue. Well . . . too bad.
They stared steadily at one another, across the black glass. Haroche continued, "So the very last thing in the world I want is to admit you to Illyan's presence where you can get off some kind of second shot. Now, it appears, I must do so. But I want to formally register the fact that I do so under protest. My Lord Auditor."
"Noted." Miles's mouth was dry. "Do you have a motive, to go along on your list with my opportunities and the as-yet-nonexistent method?"
"Isn't it obvious?" Haroche's hands opened. "Illyan terminated you, very abruptly. Destroyed your career."
"Illyan helped create me. He had a right to destroy me." Under the circumstances—of which Haroche was fully apprised by now, Miles could see it in his eyes—almost an obligation.
"He terminated you for falsifying your reports. A documented fact that I would also like to formally register, my Lord Auditor." Haroche glanced at Ivan, who remained wonderfully bland, a defensive response he'd spent a lifetime perfecting.
"One report. Once. And Gregor already knows all about it." Miles could almost feel the ground shifting under his feet. How had he ever classified this man as thickheaded? He was losing his momentum almost as fast as he'd gained it. But he tightened his jaw against all temptation to defend, explain, protest, apologize, or otherwise be diverted from his goal.
"I don't trust you, Lord Vorkosigan."
"Well, you're stuck with me. I can't be removed except by the Emperor's own Voice which appointed me, or a three-quarters vote of impeachment by the Council of Counts and the Council of Ministers in full joint session assembled, something I don't think you can arrange."
"Then it would likely be useless for me to go to Gregor and request a different Auditor for this case."
"You can try."
"Ha. That answers that. And even if you were guilty . . . I'm starting to wonder if I could do anything about it. The Emperor is the only appeal, and you appear to already have him sewn up. Would attempting to take you out be career suicide?"
"Well … if our positions were reversed, I wouldn't give up till I'd nailed you to the wall with the biggest spikes available." Miles added after a moment, "But if, after I go in to see Illyan, some sort of second shot occurs . . . you can bet I'll be measuring its trajectory with utmost care."
Haroche vented a long sigh. "This is premature. I'll be more relieved than anyone if the medics bring in a diagnosis of natural causes. It would short-circuit a world of trouble."
Miles grimaced reluctant agreement. "You've got that right, General."
They regarded each other with a certain steady reserve. In all, Miles thought he felt more relieved than unnerved. Haroche had certainly been as blunt as Miles could have desired about clearing the air. Maybe he could work with this man after all.
Haroche's study of Miles hung up on the magpie collection of military baubles on his tunic. His voice went unexpectedly plaintive. "Vorkosigan, tell me—is that really a Cetagandan Order of Merit?"
"Yeah."
"And the rest of it?"
"I didn't clean out my fathers desk drawer, if that's what you're asking. Everything here is accounted for, in my classified files. You may be one of the few men on the planet who doesn't have to take my word for it."
"Hm." Haroche's brows quirked. "Well, my Lord Auditor, carry on. But I'll be watching you."
"Good. Watch closely." Miles rapped the black glass, and rose. Ivan scrambled up behind him.
In the corridor on their way downstairs to the HQ clinic, Ivan murmured, "I've never seen a general tap-dance sitting down, before."
"It feels like a minuet in a minefield, to me," Miles admitted.
"Watching you become the little Admiral at him was worth the price of admission, though."
"What?" He almost stumbled.
"Wasn't it on purpose? You're acting just like you do when you play Admiral Naismith, except without the Betan accent. Full tilt forward, no inhibitions, innocent bystanders scramble for their lives. I suppose you'll say terror is good for me, clears the arteries or something."