Gregor motioned him to desist; Miles bit his tongue. "When did you decide to frame Captain Galeni?" Gregor asked sternly.
"I didn't, not then. I didn't want to frame anyone, but if I had to, I wanted to get Vorkosigan. He was perfect for it. There was a kind of justice in it. He'd damn near got away with murder, in that business with the courier. I'd have court-martialed the hyper little dwarf, but he was still Illyan's pet, even after all that mess. Then he turned up on my front doorstep with that damned Auditors chain around his neck, and I realized he wasn't just Illyan's pet." Haroche's eyes, meeting Gregor's at last, were accusing.
Gregor's eyes were very, very cool. "Go on," he said, utterly neutral.
"The little git wouldn't leave it alone. He pushed and pushed—if I'd been able to hold him off one more week, I'd never have had to frame anyone at all. It was Vorkosigan forced my hand. But it was clear by then Vorkosigan was fireproof; I'd never make it stick to him. Galeni was around him, he caught my attention, I realized his suspect profile was even better than Vorkosigan's. He wasn't my first choice, but … he was a lot more disposable. He was a potential embarrassment to the Empress-to-be, if nothing else. Who would miss him?"
Gregor had grown so neutral as to seem almost gray. So, that's what rage looks like on him. Miles wondered if Haroche realized what Gregor's extreme lack of expression meant. The general seemed caught up in his own words, indignant, speaking faster now.
"The little git still wouldn't give it up. Three days—he found those capsules in the evidence room in three days. It was supposed to have taken him three months. I couldn't believe it. I thought I could get him to run all the way to Jackson's Whole and back, but he stuck tight to me, all hours of the day or night I'd turn around and there he'd be, under my elbow, all over my building. I had to get rid of him before I strangled him, so I advanced the timetable on Galeni as much as I dared and delivered him gift-wrapped. And the little git still wouldn't give it up! So I gave him the bait he was hungry for, I was sure he'd swallow that one, I practically stuffed it down his throat but he was salivating so hard by that time, the next thing I turn around he's back in my office with that damned arrogant galactic biobird with those frigging filters apart, and I'm down here and he's . . . up." Haroche paused for breath.
Gregor blinked. "What bait?"
Aw, hell, Haroche, you don't have to go into that, really. . . .
When Haroche did not reply, Gregor's gaze turned to Miles. "What bait?" he asked, with deceptive mildness.
Miles cleared his throat. "He offered me the Dendarii. He said I could go back to work for him on the same terms I used to work for Simon. Oh, better. He threw in a captaincy."
Three nearly identical astonished stares seemed to pin him to the wall.
"You did not mention this to me," said Illyan at last.
"No."
"You didn't mention it to me, either," said Gregor.
"No."
"You mean you didn't say yes?" asked Ivan, in a stunned voice.
"No. Yes. Whatever."
"Why not?" said Illyan, after what seemed like a full minute.
"Didn't think I could prove it was a bribe."
"No. I mean, I know what a bribe it is, God knows you don't have to demonstrate that to me" said Illyan. "Why didn't you take it?"
"And give up Galeni to him as a goat? And let him run ImpSec for the next ten, twenty years, knowing what I knew about him? How long d'you think it would have been before he stopped just reporting to Gregor, and began manipulating him through his reports, or more directly? For his own good, of course, and the good of the Imperium."
"I would not. I would have served you well, Sire," Haroche insisted, his head bent, his voice low.
Gregor frowned, deeply.
Hell, let him have his denial. Miles would no more have tried to wrest it from him than he would have tried to take a log from a drowning man. He didn't want anything more from Haroche, not more confession, not even revenge. He didn't even need to hate him back. Miles might grieve for the honest Haroche of Midsummer, now lost; the Haroche of Winterfair had chosen his fate. You have no mass, and cannot move me. I'm tired, and I want my dinner. "Are we done yet?" he sighed.
Gregor sat back. "I'm afraid so."
"You're acting like it was murder, and it wasn't. It wasn't treason," Haroche insisted. "You must see that, Sire."
Try, "I'm sorry." Give up on justification, go for mercy. You'd be surprised what can happen.
"Simon wasn't even hurt!"
Very deliberately, Gregor rose and turned his back on him. Haroche's mouth opened on more desperate defenses, which did not emerge, but seemed to clot there. Illyan, famous for silken verbal venom, looked as if he couldn't think of anything to say scathing enough.
As soon as Gregor motioned the door open and ducked through, Ivan scooted out after him. Illyan waited for Miles, by sheer habit not letting him turn his back on a potential hazard unguarded, and followed him into the corridor. The door hissed closed on Haroche's last choked protests, cutting them off as abruptly as a blade to his throat.
They were all silent, until they reached the processing area again. Then Illyan remarked, "I'd thought that crack about wrestling with temptation was a joke."
"Best two falls out of three, Simon. It was that close. I … really don't want to talk about it."
"He did try to bribe one of my Auditors, then," said Gregor. "It's a capital charge."
"I don't think I want to try to explain it to a military court, Sire. Haroche has enough on his plate. He can scarcely be more ruined. Let it go. Please."
"If you wish. My Lord Auditor." Gregor had a strange look on his face, staring down at Miles; Miles shifted uncomfortably. It wasn't surprise or amazement, which would have unraveled to an insult, after all. Awe? Surely not. "What stopped you? I too want to know why, you know. You owe me that much."
"I don't . . . quite know how to put it." He searched for, and rather to his surprise found, that odd calm place inside, still there. It helped. "Some prices are just too high, no matter how much you may want the prize. The one thing you can't trade for your heart's desire is your heart."
"Oh," said Gregor.
Illyan had estimated the time to compose the Auditor's report would be equal to the time it had taken to crack the case. This turned out to be optimistic; he hadn't factored in the interruptions. Miles spent most of the following week holed up in his bedroom, shoving masses of data files and words around on his comconsole. After identifying all the missing pieces, he trudged back and forth to ImpSec HQ to confer with Forensics, the clinic, and a half-dozen other departments, to record depositions, or to closet himself with General Allegre. He made one trip out of Vorbarr Sultana to collect extra medical testimony from Admiral Avakli. He rechecked everything. This was one report he didn't want to see floating back on a tide of clarification queries, even if they would lack Illyan's acerbic marginalia.
Miles was in deep concentration composing a brief, neutrally worded account of Haroche's stonewalling and misdirection during the peak of Illyan's medical crisis, and cursing himself for every clue he had missed—oh, Haroche had handled him all right, handled them all—when Ivan barged in, unannounced, to demand loudly, "Do you realize what's been going on in your guest suite?"
Miles groaned, and ran his hands through his hair, waved Ivan to silence, tried and failed to remember the brilliant way he'd been going to finish that paragraph, gave up, and shut down his comconsole. "You don't need to bellow."
"I am not bellowing," said Ivan. "I'm being firm."