“Not really,” said the Count, ”… yes.”

A thoroughly mixed reply and probably true.

“Will you ever forgive the Bharaputrans for shooting the wrong Admiral Naismith?”

“Probably not.” The Count’s tone was equable, unoffended.

“If it had been reversed—if that Bharaputran had aimed one short guy to the left—would ImpSec be hunting my cryo-chamber now?” Would Miles even have dumped Trooper Phillipi, to put Mark in her place?

“Since Miles would in that case be ImpSec in the area—I fancy the answer is yes,” murmured the Count. “As I had never met you, my own interest would probably have been a little … academic. Your mother would have pushed all the same, though,” he added thoughtfully.

“Let us by all means be honest with each other,” Mark said bitterly.

“We cannot possibly build anything that will last on any other basis,” said the Count dryly. Mark flushed, and grunted assent.

The trail ran first along a stream, then cut up over a rise through what was almost a gully or wash, paved with loose and sliding rock. Thankfully it then ran level for a time, branching and re-branching through the trees. A few little horse jumps made of cut logs and brush were set up deliberately here and there; the trails ran around as well as over them, optionally. Why was he certain Miles chose to ride over them? He had to admit, there was something primevally restful about the woods, with its patterns of sun and shade, tall Earth trees and native and imported brush creating an illusion of endless privacy. One could imagine that the whole planet was such a people-less wilderness, if one didn’t know anything about terraforming. They turned onto a wider double track, where they could walk side by side.

The Count moistened his lips. “About that cryo-chamber.”

Mark’s head came up like the horse’s had, sensing sugar. ImpSec wasn’t talking to him, the Count hadn’t been talking to him; driven half-crazy by the information vacuum, he’d finally broken down and badgered the Countess, though it made him feel ill to do so. But even she could only report negatives. ImpSec now knew over four hundred places the cryo-chamber was not. It was a start. Four hundred down, the rest of the universe to go … it was impossible, useless, futile—

“ImpSec has found it.” The Count rubbed his face.

“What!” Mark stopped short. “They got it back? Hot damn! It’s over! Where did they—why didn’t you—” He bit off his words as it came to him that there was probably a very good reason the Count hadn’t told him at once. And he wasn’t sure he wanted to hear it. The Count’s face was bleak.

“It was empty.”

“Oh.” What a stupid thing to say, Oh. Mark felt incredibly stupid, just now. “How—I don’t understand.” Of all the scenarios he’d pictured, he’d never pictured that. Empty? “Where?”

“The ImpSec agent found it in the sales inventory of a medical supply company in the Hegen Hub. Cleaned and re-conditioned.”

“Are they sure it’s the right one?”

“If the identifications Captain Quinn and the Dendarii gave us are correct, it is. The agent, who is one of our brighter boys, simply quietly purchased it. It’s being shipped back by fast courier to ImpSec headquarters on Komarr for a thorough forensic analysis right now. Not that, apparently, there is much to analyze.”

“But it’s a lead, a break at last! The supply company must have records—ImpSec should be able to trace it back to—to—” To what?

“Yes, and no. The record trail breaks one step back from the supply company. The independent carrier they bought it from appears to be guilty of receiving stolen property.”

“From Jackson’s Whole? Surely that narrows down the search area!”

“Mm. One must remember that the Hegen Hub is a hub. The possibility that the cryo-chamber was routed into the Cetagandan Empire from Jackson’s Whole, and back out again via the Hegen Hub, is … remote but real.”

“No. The timing.”

“The timing would be tight, hut possible. Illyan has calculated it. The timing limits the search area to a mere … nine planets, seventeen stations, and all the ships en route between them.” The Count grimaced. “I almost wish I was sure we were dealing with a Cetagandan plot. The Ghem-lords at least I could trust to know or guess the value of the package. The nightmare that makes me despair is that the cryo-chamber somehow fell into the hands of some Jacksonian petty thief, who simply dumped the contents in order to re-sell the equipment. We would have paid a ransom … a dozen times the value of the cryo-chamber for the dead body alone. For Miles preserved and potentially revivable—whatever they asked. It drives me mad to think that Miles is rotting somewhere by mistake.”

Mark pressed his hands to his forehead, which was throbbing. His neck was so tight it felt like a piece of solid wood. “No … it’s crazy, it’s too crazy. We have both ends of the rope now, we’re only missing the middle. It has to be connectable. Norwood—Norwood was loyal to Admiral Naismith. And smart. I met him, briefly. Of course, he hadn’t planned to be killed, but he wouldn’t have sent the cryo-chamber into danger, or off at random.” Was he so sure? Norwood had expected to be able to pick up the cryo-chamber from its destination within a day at most. If it had arrived … wherever … with some sort of cryptic hold-till-called-for note attached, and then no one had called for it … “Was it re-conditioned before or after the Hub supply company purchased it?”

“Before.”

“Then there has to be some sort of medical facility hidden in the gap somewhere. Maybe a cryo-facility. Maybe … maybe Miles was shifted into somebody’s permanent storage banks.” Unidentified, and destitute? On Escobar such a charity might be possible, but on Jackson’s Whole? A most forlorn hope.

“I pray so. There are only a finite number of such facilities. It’s checkable. ImpSec is on it now. Yet only the … frozen dead require that much expertise. The mere mechanics of cleaning an emptied chamber could be done by any ship’s sickbay. Or engineering section. An unmarked grave could be harder to locate. Or maybe no grave, just disintegrated like garbage… .” The Count stared off into the trees.

Mark bet he wasn’t seeing trees. Mark bet he was seeing the same vision Mark was, a frozen little body, chest blown out—you wouldn’t even need a hand-tractor to lift it—shoved carelessly, mindlessly, into some disposal unit. Would they even wonder who the little man had been? Or would it just be a repellent thing to them? Who was them, dammit?

And how long had the Count’s mind been running on this same wheel of thought, and how the devil was it that he could still walk and talk at the same time? “How long have you known this?”

“The report came in yesterday afternoon. So you see … it becomes measurably more important that I know where you stand. In relation to Barrayar.” He started again up the trail, then took a side branch that narrowed and began to rise steeply through an area of taller trees and thinner brush.

Mark toiled on his heels. “Nobody in their right mind would stand in relation to Barrayar. They would run in relation to Barrayar. Away.”

The Count grinned over his shoulder. “You’ve been talking too much to Cordelia, I fear.”

“Yes, well, she’s about the only person here who will talk to me.” He caught up with the Count, who had slowed.

The Count grimaced painfully. “That’s been true.” He paced up the steep stony trail. “I’m sorry.” After a few more steps he added, with a flash of dark humor, “I wonder if the risks I used to take did this to my father. He is nobly avenged, if so.” More darkness than humor, Mark gauged. “But it’s more than ever necessary … to know …”

The Count stopped and sat down abruptly by the side of the trail, his back to a tree. “That’s strange,” he murmured. His face, which had been flushed and moist with the hill-climb and the morning’s growing warmth, was suddenly pale and moist.