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went into the family transhipping concern. She s now stationed in Vorbarr
Sultana as a permanent lobbyist with the trade group representing all the
Komarran shipping concessions, as sort of an interface between them and the
Imperium. A brilliant woman."
Coming from Galeni, who d taken an academic doctorate in history himself
before becoming one of the first Komarrans ever admitted to the Imperial
military service, this was high praise. "So... are you romancing her, or
thinking of hiring her for your department?"
Miles swore Galeni almost blushed. "This is serious, Vorkosigan."
"Ambitious, too. If she s a scion of those
Toscanes."
"I was a scion of those
Galens, once. Back when the Galens rated that particular inflection."
"Thinking of rebuilding the family fortunes, are you?"
"Mm... times have changed. And they aren t changing back. But they are
changing onward. It s time for a little ambition in my life, I think. I m
almost forty, you know."
"And tottering on the brink of complete decrepitude, obviously." Miles
grinned. "Well, congratulations. Or should I say, good luck?"
"I ll take the luck, I believe. Congratulations are still premature. But they
will be in order soon, I hope. And you?"
My love-life is entirely too complicated at the moment. Or at any rate...
Admiral Naismith s is
. "Oh! You mean, work. I m, ah... not working, at present. I just got back
from a little galactic tour."
Galeni twitched an eyebrow in understanding; his own encounter several years
past with the Dendarii mercenaries and
"Admiral Naismith" was certainly still vivid in his memory. "Are you headed up
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and in, or down and out?"
Miles pointed to the down tube. "I m headed home. I have a few days leave."
"Maybe I ll see you around town, then." Galeni swung into the down tube, and
rendered Miles a cheerful parting semi-salute.
"I hope so. Take care." Miles descended in turn, exiting at the ground floor.
At the side entrance s security desk, Miles paused in a minor dilemma. Every
time he d ever gone home after a final ImpSec mission debriefing, he d either
called for a car from the Count s garage, driven by an Armsman or servant, or
more often found one waiting for him when he emerged from Illyan s lair. But
Armsmen, servants, vehicles, and all the rest of the household had decamped
with the Count and Countess for the Viceroy s Palace on Sergyar (though his
mother had written him dryly that the term "palace" was most misleading). So
should he requisition a ride from ImpSec HQ s motor pool? Or order a
commercial cab?
Though one might be certain that any cab which came here had been vetted by
Security first. He d sent his sparse luggage directly home from the
shuttleport.
It was chill and gray out, but not raining. And he d just spent a great many
days stuck aboard a decidedly cramped (if fast)
jump-ship. He collected his greatcoat and stepped outside. He was only under
orders to keep a bodyguard on duty at all times during his galactic travels,
after all.
It was about four kilometers from ImpSec HQ to Vorkosigan House, both
centrally located in the Old Town.
I do believe I ll walk home
.
He turned the last corner onto the street Vorkosigan House faced just as the
gray afternoon darkened into drizzle, and congratulated himself on his timing.
Four kilometers in... well, maybe it wasn t the fastest time he d ever done,
but at least he wasn t gasping for breath as he would have been six months
ago.
The brisk walk had been a... nonevent. The streets of the central capital were
thick with afternoon traffic and clogged with pedestrians, who hurried past on
their various businesses, sparing barely a glance for the striding little man
in military dress. No long stares, no rude gestures or comments, not even one
covert old hex sign against mutation. Had getting rid of his uneven limp, leg
braces, and most of the crookedness in his back made that much difference? Or
was the difference in the Barrayarans?
Three old-style mansions had once shared the city block. For security reasons
the one on this end had been bought up by the
Imperium during the period Miles s father had been Regent, and now housed some
minor bureaucratic offices. The one on the other end, more dilapidated and
with bad drains, had been torn down and replaced only by a little park. In
their day, a century and a half ago, the great houses must have loomed
magnificently over the horse-drawn carriages and riders clopping past. Now
they were overshadowed by taller modern buildings across the street.
Vorkosigan House sat in the center, set off from the street by a narrow green
strip of lawn and garden in the loop of the semicircular drive. A stone wall
topped with black wrought-iron spikes surrounded it all. The four stories of
great gray stone blocks, in two main wings plus some extra odd architectural
bits, rose in a vast archaic mass. All it needed was window slits and a moat.
And a few bats and ravens, for decoration
. Earth-descended bats were rare on Barrayar, as there were not enough earth-
descended insects for them to eat, and the native creatures incorrectly called
bugs were usually toxic when ingested. A force screen just inside the wall
provided the real protection, and eliminated the romantic possibility of bats.
A concrete kiosk beside the gate housed the gate guards; in the heyday of the
Regency three full platoons of ImpSec guards had traded shifts around the
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clock, in posts all around the building and for several blocks beyond,
watching the important government men hurry in and out.
Now there was one lone gate guard, a young ImpSec corporal who poked his head
out the open door at the sound of Miles s steps, emerged, and saluted him. A
new man, no one Miles recognized.
"Good afternoon, Lieutenant Vorkosigan," the young man said. "I was expecting
you. They brought your valise a couple of hours ago. I scanned it and
everything; it s ready to go in."
"Thank you, Corporal." Gravely, Miles returned his salute. "Been any
excitement around here lately?"
"Not really, sir. Not since the Count and Countess left. About the most action
we ve had was the night a feral cat somehow got past the scanner beams and ran
into the tangle-field. I never knew cats could make such a racket. She
apparently thought she was about to be killed and eaten."
Miles s eye took in an empty sandwich wrapper on the floor, shoved against the
far wall, and a small saucer of milk. A flicker of light from the banks of vid
displays for the perimeter monitors in the kiosks second tiny room cast a
chilly glow through the narrow doorway. "And, er... was she? Killed, I mean."
"Oh, no, sir. Fortunately."
"Good." He retrieved his valise, after an awkward scramble with the guard as
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