“To whom, Simon? Not to me. Who else gets a vote?”

“Security,” Illyan growled.

“You are Security. I’ll thank you to take responsibility for your own emotional responses, and not try to shift them onto some vague abstraction. Or get off the line and let me talk to Captain Security, then.”

“All right. It’s unacceptable to me.”

“In a word—tough.”

“I request you to desist.”

“I refuse. If you want to stop me, ultimately, you’ll have to generate an order for Mark’s and my arrest.”

“I will speak to the Count,” said Illyan stiffly, with the air of a man driven to a last resort.

“He’s much too ill. And I’ve spoken with him already.”

Illyan swallowed his bluff without gagging, much. “I don’t know what you think this unauthorized venture can do, besides muddy the waters, maybe risk lives, and cost you a small fortune.”

“Well, that’s just the point, Simon. I don’t know what Mark will be able to do. And neither do you. The trouble with ImpSec is that you’ve had no competition lately. You take your monopoly for granted. A bit of hustle will be good for you.”

Illyan sat with his teeth clenched for a short time. “You put House Vorkosigan at triple risk, with this,” he said at last. “You are endangering your last possible back-up.”

“I am aware. And I choose the risk.”

“Do you have that right?”

“I have more right than you.”

“The government is in the biggest uproar behind closed doors that I’ve seen in years,” said Illyan. “The Centrist Coalition is scrambling to find a man to replace Aral. And so are three other parties.”

“Excellent. I hope one of them may succeed before Aral gets back on his feet, or I’ll never get him to retire.”

“Is that what you see in this?” Illyan demanded. “A chance to end your husband’s career? Is this loyal, milady?”

“I see a chance to get him out of Vorbarr Sultana alive,” she said icily, “an end I have often despaired of, over the years. You pick your loyalties, I’ll pick mine.”

“Who is capable of succeeding him?” asked Illyan plaintively.

“A number of men. Racozy, Vorhalas, or Sendorf, to name three. If not, there was something terribly wrong with Aral’s leadership. One mark of a great man is the legacy of men he leaves behind him, to whom he’s passed on his skills. If you think Aral so small as to have stifled all possible others around him, spreading smallness like a plague, then perhaps Barrayar is better off without him.”

“You know I don’t think that!”

“Good. Then your argument annihilates itself.”

“You tie me in knots.” Illyan rubbed his neck. “Milady,” he said at last, “I didn’t want to have to say this to you. But have you considered the possible dangers of letting Lord Mark get to Lord Miles before anyone else?”

She leaned back in her chair, smiling, her fingers lightly drumming. “No, Simon. What dangers are you thinking of?”

“The temptation to promote himself,” Illyan bit out.

“Murder Miles. Say what you damn mean.” Her eyes glinted dangerously. “So you’ll just have to make sure your people get to Miles first. Won’t you. I’ve no objection.”

“Damn it, Cordelia,” he cried, harried, “you realize, that if they get into trouble, the first thing they’re going to do is cry to ImpSec for rescue!”

The Countess grinned. “You live to serve, I believe you fellows say in your oath. Don’t you?”

“We’ll see,” snapped Illyan, and cut the comm.

“What’s he going to do?” asked Mark anxiously.

“At a guess, go over my head. Since I’ve already cut him out with Aral, that leaves only one choice. I don’t think I’ll bother getting up. I expect I’ll get another call here shortly.”

Distracted, Mark and Bothari-Jesek attempted to carry on with the ship specs. Mark jumped when the comm chimed again.

An anonymous young man appeared, nodded to the Countess, stated, “Lady Vorkosigan. Emperor Gregor,” and vanished. Gregor’s face appeared in his place, looking bemused.

“Good morning, Lady Cordelia. You really ought not to stir up poor Simon that way, you know.”

“He deserved it,” she said equably. “I admit, he has far too much on his mind at the moment. Suppressed panic turns him into a prick every time, it’s what he does instead of running in circles screaming. A way of coping, I suppose.”

“While others of us cope by becoming over-analytical,” Gregor murmured. The Countess’s lip twitched, and Mark suddenly thought he knew who might shave the barber.

“His security concerns are legitimate,” Gregor continued. “Is this Jackson’s Whole venture wise?”

“A question that can only be answered by empirical testing. So to speak. I grant you, Simon argues sincerely. But—how do you consider Barrayar’s concerns will best be served, Sire? That’s the question you must answer.”

“I’m divided in mind.”

“Are you divided in heart?” Her question was a challenge. She opened her hands, half-placation, half-pleading. “One way or another, you’re going to be dealing with Lord Mark Vorkosigan for a long time to come. This excursion, if it does nothing else, will test the validity of all doubts. If they are not tested, they will always remain with you, an unanswered itch. And that’s not fair to Mark.”

“How very scientific,” he breathed. They regarded each other with equal dryness.

“I thought it might appeal to you.”

“Is Lord Mark with you?”

“Yes,” the Countess gestured him to her side.

Mark entered the range of the vid pick-up. “Sire.”

“So, Lord Mark.” Gregor studied him gravely. “It seems your mother wants me to give you enough rope to hang yourself.”

Mark swallowed. “Yes, Sire.”

“Or save yourself …” Gregor nodded. “So be it. Good luck and good hunting.”

“Thank you, Sire.”

Gregor smiled and cut the comm.

They did not hear from Illyan again.

In the afternoon, the Countess took Mark with her to the Imperial Military Hospital on her daily visit to her husband. Mark had made that journey in her company twice before, since the Count’s collapse. He didn’t much care for it. For one thing, the place smelled entirely too much like the clinics that had helped make a torment of his Jacksonian youth; he found himself remembering details of early surgeries and treatments that he thought he’d altogether forgotten. For another, the Count himself still terrified Mark. Even laid low, his personality was as powerful as his life was precarious, and Mark wasn’t sure which teetering aspect scared him more.

His feet slowed to a halt in the hospital corridor outside the Prime Minister’s guarded room, and he stood in indecisive misery. The Countess glanced back, and stopped. “Yes?”

“I … really don’t want to go in there.”

She frowned thoughtfully. “I won’t force you. But I’ll predict you a prediction.”

“Say on, oh seeress.”

“You will never regret having done so. But you may deeply regret not having done so.”

Mark digested that. “All right,” he said faintly, and followed her.

They tiptoed in quietly on the deep carpeting. The drapes were open on a wide view of the Vorbarr Sultana city-scape, sweeping down to the ancient buildings and the river that bisected the capital’s heart. It was a cloudy, chilly, rainy afternoon, and grey and white mists swirled around the tops of the highest modern towers. The Count’s face was turned to the silver light. He looked abstracted, bored, and ill, his face puffy and greenish, only partly a reflection of the light and the green uniform pajamas that reminded all forcibly of his patient-status. He was peppered with monitor pads, and had an oxygen tube to his nostrils.

“Ah.” His head turned at their entry, and he smiled. He keyed up a light at his bedside, which cast a warmer pool of illumination that nonetheless failed to improve his color. “Dear Captain. Mark.” The Countess bent to his bedside, and they exchanged a longer-than-formal kiss. The Countess swung herself up on the end of his bed and perched there cross-legged, arranging her long skirt. Casually, she began to rub his bare feet, and he sighed contentedly.