"Isn't it obvious?" Haroche's hands opened. "Illyan terminated you, very abruptly. Destroyed your career."

"Illyan helped create me. He had a right to destroy me." Under the circumstances—of which Haroche was fully apprised by now, Miles could see it in his eyes—almost an obligation.

"He terminated you for falsifying your reports. A documented fact that I would also like to formally register, my Lord Auditor." Haroche glanced at Ivan, who remained wonderfully bland, a defensive response he'd spent a lifetime perfecting.

"One report. Once. And Gregor already knows all about it." Miles could almost feel the ground shifting under his feet. How had he ever classified this man as thickheaded? He was losing his momentum almost as fast as he'd gained it. But he tightened his jaw against all temptation to defend, explain, protest, apologize, or otherwise be diverted from his goal.

"I don't trust you, Lord Vorkosigan."

"Well, you're stuck with me. I can't be removed except by the Emperor's own Voice which appointed me, or a three-quarters vote of impeachment by the Council of Counts and the Council of Ministers in full joint session assembled, something I don't think you can arrange."

"Then it would likely be useless for me to go to Gregor and request a different Auditor for this case."

"You can try."

"Ha. That answers that. And even if you were guilty . . . I'm starting to wonder if I could do anything about it. The Emperor is the only appeal, and you appear to already have him sewn up. Would attempting to take you out be career suicide?"

"Well … if our positions were reversed, I wouldn't give up till I'd nailed you to the wall with the biggest spikes available." Miles added after a moment, "But if, after I go in to see Illyan, some sort of second shot occurs . . . you can bet I'll be measuring its trajectory with utmost care."

Haroche vented a long sigh. "This is premature. I'll be more relieved than anyone if the medics bring in a diagnosis of natural causes. It would short-circuit a world of trouble."

Miles grimaced reluctant agreement. "You've got that right, General."

They regarded each other with a certain steady reserve. In all, Miles thought he felt more relieved than unnerved. Haroche had certainly been as blunt as Miles could have desired about clearing the air. Maybe he could work with this man after all.

Haroche's study of Miles hung up on the magpie collection of military baubles on his tunic. His voice went unexpectedly plaintive. "Vorkosigan, tell me—is that really a Cetagandan Order of Merit?"

"Yeah."

"And the rest of it?"

"I didn't clean out my fathers desk drawer, if that's what you're asking. Everything here is accounted for, in my classified files. You may be one of the few men on the planet who doesn't have to take my word for it."

"Hm." Haroche's brows quirked. "Well, my Lord Auditor, carry on. But I'll be watching you."

"Good. Watch closely." Miles rapped the black glass, and rose. Ivan scrambled up behind him.

In the corridor on their way downstairs to the HQ clinic, Ivan murmured, "I've never seen a general tap-dance sitting down, before."

"It feels like a minuet in a minefield, to me," Miles admitted.

"Watching you become the little Admiral at him was worth the price of admission, though."

"What?" He almost stumbled.

"Wasn't it on purpose? You're acting just like you do when you play Admiral Naismith, except without the Betan accent. Full tilt forward, no inhibitions, innocent bystanders scramble for their lives. I suppose you'll say terror is good for me, clears the arteries or something."

Were Admiral Naismith's decorations acting as some kind of magic talisman for him? Miles didn't even want to try to digest the implications of this right now. Instead he said lightly, "Do you consider yourself an innocent bystander?"

"God knows I try to be," sighed Ivan.

The air of the clinic, which along with the forensic laboratories occupied a whole floor of ImpSec HQ, was thick with familiar odors too, Miles thought as he entered: unpleasant medical ones. He'd spent all too many hours in here himself, over the years, from his very first visit with incipient pneumonia from hypothermia, to his most recent physical exam, the one that had returned him to the ill-fated duty of rescuing Lieutenant Vorberg. The smell of the place gave him the shivers.

All the four private rooms save one had been cleared of other patients, and stood dark and empty and open. A green-uniformed guard stood stolid duty outside the one closed door.

An ImpSec colonel with medical tags on his tunic popped up breathlessly at Miles s elbow as he entered. "My Lord Auditor. I'm Dr. Ruibal. How may I serve you?" Ruibal was a short, round-faced man with furry eyebrows, pinched together now in one crooked line of worry.

"Tell me about Illyan. No, take me to Illyan. We'll talk after."

"This way, my lord." The doctor gestured the guard aside, and led Miles into the windowless room.

Illyan lay faceup on the bed, half-covered by a sheet, his wrists and ankles bound with what the medics dubbed "soft restraints." He breathed heavily. Was he sedated? His eyes were open, glazed and unfocused. Heavy beard stubble shadowed his normally clean face. The warm room smelled of dried sweat, and worse organics. Miles had spent a week forcing his way in here, using some of the most extreme methods he'd ever dared attempt. Now all he wanted to do was turn tail and run out again.

"Why is this man naked?" he asked the colonel. "Is he incontinent?"

"No," said Ruibal. "Procedures."

Miles didn't see any tubes, probes, or machines. "What procedures?"

"Well, none at present. But he isn't easy to handle. Getting him in and out of clothes as well as the other . . . presents problems for my staff."

Indeed. The guard, now hovering inside the door, sported a maroon-purple black eye. And Ruibal's own mouth was bruised, his lower lip split. "I … see."

He forced himself nearer, and half-knelt by Illyan s head. "Simon?" he said uncertainly.

Illyan s face turned toward him. The glazed eyes flickered, focused. Lit with recognition. "Miles! Miles. Thank God you're here." His voice cracked with urgency. "Lord Vorvane's wife and children—did you get them out alive? Commodore Rivek at Sector Four is going frantic."

Miles recognized the mission. It was about five years old. He moistened his lips. "Yeah. It was all taken care of. We got them out, all right and tight." He'd been awarded a gold star for that one. It hung third from the left in its row on him now.

"Good. Good." Illyan sighed, lay back; his eyes closed. His stubbled lips moved. His eyes opened and lit, again, with recognition. "Miles! Thank God you're here." His hands moved, and came up short against their restraints. "What is this? Get me out of this."

"Simon. What day is this?"

"It's the Emperor's Birthday tomorrow. Or is it today? You're dressed for it … I have to be there."

"No," said Miles. "The Emperor's Birthday was weeks ago. Your memory chip is malfunctioning. You have to stay in here till they figure out what's wrong, and fix it."

"Oh." Four minutes later, Illyan turned his head back to Miles; his lips rippled in startlement. "Miles, what the hell are you doing here? I sent you to Tau Ceti. Why can't you ever obey an order?"

"Simon, your memory chip is malfunctioning."

Illyan hesitated. "What day is it? Where am I?"

Miles repeated the information.

"Dear God," whispered Illyan. "Now, that's a bitch." He lay listlessly, looking dismayed.

Five minutes later, Illyan looked up at him and said, "Miles! What the hell are you doing here?"

Shit. He had to stand up, and turn around for a minute. I don't know how much of this I can take. He became aware that Dr. Ruibal was watching him closely.