"I was surprised," said Miles, "though very happy, that you got your forces past Pol so fast. I was afraid they wouldn't let you through till the Cetagandans were in the Hub. And then it would be too late."
"Yes, well, that's the other reason you got me instead of Simon. As Prime Minister and former Regent, it was perfectly reasonable for me to make a state visit to Pol. We came up with a quick list of the top five diplomatic concessions they've been wanting from us for years, and suggested it for an agenda.
"It being all formal and official and aboveboard, it was then perfectly reasonable for us to combine my visit with the Prince Serg's shakedown cruise. We were in orbit at Pol, shuttling up and down to official receptions and parties," (his hand unconsciously rubbed his abdomen in a pain-warding motion) "with me still trying desperately to talk our way into the Hub without shooting anybody, when word of the Cetagandan surprise attack on Vervain broke. At that point, getting permission to proceed was suddenly expedited. And we were only days, not weeks, away from the action. Getting the Aslunders to lie down with the Polians was a trickier matter. Gregor astonished me, handling that. The Vervani were no problem, they were highly motivated to seek allies by then."
"I hear Gregor is now quite popular on Vervain."
"He's being feted in their capital even as we speak, I believe." Count Vorkosigan glanced at his chrono. "They've gone wild over him. Letting him ride shotgun in the Prince Serg's tac room may have been a better idea that I thought. Purely from a diplomatic standpoint." Count Vorkosigan looked rather abstracted.
"It . . . astonished me, that you permitted him to jump with you into the fire zone. I hadn't expected that."
"Well, when you came down to it, the Prince Serg's fleet tac room had to have been among the most tightly defended few cubic meters anywhere in Vervain local space. It was, it was . . ."
Miles watched with fascination as his father tried to spit out the words perfectly safe, and gagged on them instead. Light dawned. "It wasn't your idea, was it? Gregor ordered himself aboard!"
"He had several good arguments to support his position," Court Vorkosigan said. "The propaganda angle certainly seems to be bearing fruit."
"I thought you'd be too . . . prudent. To permit him the risk." Count Vorkosigan studied his own square hands. "I was not in love with the idea, no. But I once swore an oath to serve an emperor. The most morally dangerous moment for a guardian is when the temptation to become a puppet-master seems most rational. I always knew the moment must . . . no. I knew that if the moment never came, I should have failed my oath most profoundly." He paused. "It was still a shock to the system, though. The letting-go."
Gregor faced you down? Oh, to have been a fly on the wall of that chamber. "Even with you to practice on, all these years," Count Vorkosigan added meditatively.
"Ah . . . how's your ulcers?" Count Vorkosigan grimaced. "Don't ask." He brightened slightly-"Better, the last three days. I may actually demand food for lunch, instead of that miserable medical mush."
Miles cleared his throat. "How's Captain Ungari?"
Count Vorkosigan twitched a lip. "He's not overly pleased with you."
"I … cannot apologize. I made a lot of mistakes, but disobeying his order to wait on Aslund Station wasn't one of them."
"Apparently not." Count Vorkosigan frowned at the far wall. "And yet . . . I'm more than ever convinced the regular Service is not the place for you. It's like trying to fit a square peg—no, worse than that. Like trying to fit a tesseract into a round hole."
Miles suppressed a twinge of panic. "I won't be discharged, will I?"
Elena regarded her fingernails and put in, "If you were, you could get a job as a mercenary. Just like General Metzov. I understand Commander Cavilo is looking for a few good men." Miles nearly meowed at her; she traded a smirk for his exasperated look.
"I was almost sorry to learn that Metzov was killed," remarked Count Vorkosigan. "We'd been planning to try and extradite him, before things went crazy with Gregor's disappearance."
"Ah! Did you finally decide the death of that Komarran prisoner way back when during their revolt was murder? I thought it might be—"
Count Vorkosigan held up two fingers. "Two murders."
Miles paused. "My God, he didn't try and track down poor Ahn before he left, did he?" He'd almost forgotten Ahn.
"No, but we tracked him down. Though not, alas, before Metzov had left Barrayar. And yes, the Komarran rebel had been tortured to death. Not wholly intentionally, he apparently had had some hidden medical weakness. But it was not, as the original investigator had suspected, in revenge for the death of the guard. It was the other way around. The Barrayaran guard corporal, who had participated in or at least acquiesced to the torture, though over some feeble protest, according to Ahn—the corporal suffered a revulsion of feeling, and threatened to turn Metzov in.
"Metzov murdered him in one of his panic-rages, then made Ahn help him cook up and vouch for the cover story about the escape. So Ahn was twice tainted with the thing. Metzov kept Ahn in terror, yet was equally in Ahn's power if the facts ever came out, a kind of strange lock on each other . . . which Ahn at last escaped. Ahn seemed almost relieved, and volunteered to be fast-penta'd, when Illyan's agents came for him."
Miles thought of the weatherman with regret. "Will anything bad happen to Ahn now?"
"We'd planned to make him testify, at Metzov's trial . . . Illyan thought we might even turn it to our favor, with respect to the Komarrans. Present that poor idiot guard corporal to them as an unsung hero. Hang Metzov as proof of the emperor's good faith and commitment to justice for Barrayarans and Komarrans alike . . . nice scenario." Count Vorkosigan frowned bitterly. "I think we will quietly drop it now. Again."
Miles puffed out his breath. "Metzov. A goat to the end. Must be some bad karma, clinging to him . . . not that he didn't earn it."
"Beware of wishing for justice. You might get it."
"I've already learned that, sir."
"Already?" Count Vorkosigan cocked an eyebrow at him. "Hm."
"Speaking of justice," Miles seized the opening. "I'm concerned over the matter of Dendarii pay. They took a lot of damage, more than a mercenary fleet will usually tolerate. Their only contract was my breath and voice. If … if the Imperium does not back me, I will be forsworn."
Count Vorkosigan smiled slightly. "We have already considered the matter."
"Will Illyan's covert ops budget stretch, to cover this?"
"Illyan's budget would burst trying to cover this. But you, ah, seem to have a friend in a high place. We will draw you an emergency credit chit from ImpSec, this fleet's fund, and the Emperor's privy purse, and hope to recoup it all later from a special appropriation rammed through the Council of Ministers and the Council of Counts. Submit a bill."
Miles fished a data disk from his pocket. "Here, sir. From the Dendarii fleet accountant. She was up all night. Some damage estimates are still preliminary." He set it on the comconsole desk.
One corner of Count Vorkosigan's mouth twisted up. "You're learning, boy. . . ." He inserted the disk in his desk for a fast scan: "I'll have a credit chit prepared over lunch. You can take it with you when you depart."
"Thank you, sir."
"Sir," Elena put in, leaning forward earnestly, "what will happen to the Dendarii fleet now?"