"Their freedom?" the freighter captain demanded. She frowned slightly at the interruption. "Why should I inflate your salary? Another week of life."
He trailed off after the soldier, hands clenched angrily, teeth clenched prudently.
What the hell? Miles thought. He didn't know much about Vervain, but he was pretty sure not even their martial law made provisions for holding innocent relatives hostage against the good behavior of unconvicted traitors.
The freighter captain gone, Cavilo keyed her wristcom again. "Kurin's Hand Security? Ah, good. I'm sending you my pet double agent. Run the recording we made last week of Cell Six for his motivation, aye? Don't let him know it's not real-time . . . right. Cavilo out."
So, was the man's family free? Already dead? Being held elsewhere? What were they getting into here?
More boots rounded the corner, a heavy regulation tread. Cavilo smiled sourly, but smoothed the expression into something sweeter as she turned to greet the newcomer.
"Stanis, darling. Look what we netted this time. It's that little renegade Betan who was trying to deal stolen arms on Pol Station. It appears he isn't an independent after all." The tan and black Rangers' uniform looked just fine on General, too, Miles noted crazily. Now would be a wonderful time to roll up his eyes and pass out, if only he had the trick of it. General Metzov stood equally riveted, his iron-grey eyes ablaze sudden unholy joy. "He's no Betan, Cavie."
12
"He's a Barrayaran. And not just any Barrayaran. We've got to get him out of sight, quickly," Metzov went on.
"Who sent him, then?" Cavilo stared anew at Miles, her lip in a dubious curl.
"God," Metzov avowed fervently. "God has delivered him into my hand." Metzov, that cheerful, was an unusual and alarming sight. Even Cavilo raised her brow.
Metzov glanced at Gregor for the first time. "We'll take him and his —bodyguard, I suppose . . ." Metzov slowed.
The pictures on the mark-notes didn't look much like Gregory being several years out of date, but the emperor had appeared in enough vid-casts—not dressed like this, of course. . . . Miles could almost see Metzov thinking. The face is familiar, 1 just can't place the name. . . . Maybe he wouldn't recognize Gregor. Maybe he wouldn't believe it.
Gregor, drawn up in a dignity concealing dismay, spoke for the first time. "Is this yet another of your old friends, Miles?"
It was the measured, cultured voice that triggered the connection. Metzov's face, reddened with excitement, drained white. He looked around involuntarily—for Illyan, Miles guessed.
"Uh, this is General Stanis Metzov," Miles explained.
"The Kyril Island Metzov?"
"Yeah."
"Oh." Gregor maintained his closed reserve, nearly expressionless.
"Where is your security, sir?" Metzov demanded of Gregor, his voice harsh with unacknowledged fear.
You're looking at it, Miles mourned.
"Not far behind, I imagine," Gregor essayed, cool. "Let Us go Our way, and they will not trouble you."
"Who is this fellow?" Cavilo tapped a boot impatiently.
"What," Miles couldn't help asking Metzov, "what are you doing here?"
Metzov went grim. "How shall a man my age, stripped of his Imperial Pension—his life savings—live? Did you hope I would sit down and quietly starve? Not I."
Inopportune, to remind Metzov of his grudge, Miles realized. "This . . . looks like an improvement over Kyril Island," Miles suggested hopefully. His mind still boggled. Metzov, working under a woman? The internal dynamics of this command chain must be fascinating. Stanis darling?
Metzov did not look amused.
"Who are they?" Cavilo demanded again.
"Power. Money. Strategic leverage. More than you can imagine," Metzov answered.
"Trouble," Miles put in. "More than you can imagine."
"You are a separate matter, mutant," Metzov said.
"I beg to differ, General," said Gregor in his best Imperial tones. Feeling for footing in this floating conversation, though concealing his confusion well.
"We must take them to the Kurin's Hand at once. Out of sight," said Metzov to Cavilo. He glanced at the arrest squad. "Out of hearing. We'll continue this in private."
They marched off, escorted by the patrol. Metzov's gaze felt like a knife blade in Miles's back, prodding and probing. They passed through several deserted docking bays till they arrived at a major one actively servicing a ship. The command ship, judging by the number and formality of duty guards.
"Take them to Medical for questioning," Cavilo ordered the squad as they were saluted through a personnel hatch by the officer in charge.
"Hold on that," said Metzov. He stared around the cross-corridors, almost jittering. "Do you have a guard who's deaf and mute?"
"Hardly!" Cavilo stared indignantly at her mysteriously agitated subordinate. "To the brig, then."
"No," said Metzov sharply. Hesitating to throw the Emperor into a cell, Miles realized. Metzov turned to Gregor and said with perfect seriousness, "May I have your parole, sire—sir?"
"What?" cried Cavilo. "Have you stripped a gear, Stanis?"
"A parole," Gregor noted gravely, "is a promise given between honorable enemies. Your honor I am willing to assume. But are you thus declaring yourself Our enemy?" Excellent bit of weaseling, Miles approved.
Metzov's eye fell on Miles. His lips thinned. "Perhaps not yours. But you have a poor choice of favorites. Not to mention advisors." Gregor was now very hard to read. "Some acquaintances are imposed on me. Also some advisors."
"To my cabin," Metzov held up his hand as Cavilo opened her mouth to object, "for now. For our initial conversation. Without witnesses, or Security recordings. After that, we decide, Cavie."
Cavilo, eyes narrowing, closed her mouth. "All right, Stanis. Lead off." Her hand curved open ironically, and gestured them onward. Metzov posted two guards outside his cabin door, and dismissed the rest. When the door had sealed behind them, he tied Miles with a tangle-cord and sat him on the floor. With helplessly ingrained deference, he then seated Gregor in the padded station chair at his corn-console desk, the best the spartan chamber had to offer.
Cavilo, seated cross-legged on the bed watching the play, objected to the logic of this. "Why tie up the little one and leave the big one loose?"
"Keep your stunner drawn, then, if he worries you," Metzov advised. Breathing heavily, he stood hands on hips and studied Gregor. He shook his head, as if still not believing his eyes.
"Why not your stunner?"
"I have not yet decided whether to draw a weapon in his presence."
"We're alone now, Stanis," Cavilo said in a sarcastic lilt. "Would you kindly explain this insanity? And it had better be good."
"Oh yes. That—" he pointed to Miles, "is Lord Miles Vorkosigan, the son of the Prime Minister of Barrayar. Admiral Aral Vorkosigan—I trust you've heard of him."
Cavilo's brows lowered. "What was he doing on Pol Six in the guise of a Betan gunrunner, then?"
"I'm not sure. The last I'd heard he was under arrest by Imperial Security, though of course no one believed they were serious about it."
"Detainment," Miles corrected. "Technically."
"And he—" Metzov swung to point to Gregor, "is the Emperor of Barrayar. Gregor Vorbarra. What he's doing here, I cannot imagine."