Reluctantly but firmly, Miles seated himself at his comconsole the next day and rang up the Imperial Military Hospital's veterans treatment division, and scheduled a preliminary examination for the diagnosis of his seizures. ImpMil was the most logical place to go; they had as much experience with cryo-revival cases as anybody else on Barrayar, and they had immediate and privileged access to all his medical records, classified or not. His Dendarii Fleet surgeons notes alone should save weeks of repetitive horsing around. Sooner or later, Ivan would remember his threats to drag Miles bodily to the clinic of his choice, or worse, rat about Miles's foot-dragging to Gregor. This spiked Ivan's guns.

Mission accomplished, Miles sighed, pushed back from his comconsole, and rose for an aimless ramble around the echoing corridors and chambers of Vorkosigan House. It wasn't that he missed Ivan's company, exactly, it was just that … he missed company, even Ivan's. Vorkosigan House wasn't meant to be this quiet. It had been designed to host a full-time roaring circus, with its complement of guardsmen and staff, maids and grooms and gardeners, hurrying couriers and languid courtiers, Vor visitors trailing their retinues, children . . . with the successive Counts Vorkosigan as ringmasters, the hubs around which the whole great gaudy wheel turned. Counts and Countesses Vorkosigan. The party had been at its height in his great-grandparents' day, Miles supposed, just before the end of the Time of Isolation. He paused before a window overlooking the curving drive, and pictured horses and carriages pulling up below, officers and ladies disembarking with a glitter of swords and a swirl of fabrics.

Running the Dendarii Mercenaries had been something like that, at least the roaring-circus aspect. Miles wondered if the Dendarii Fleet would outlast its founder by as long as Vorkosigan House had outlasted the first Count, eleven generations ago. And if it would be knocked down and completely rebuilt as often. Strange to think he might have created something so organic and live that it would continue in his absence, without him to prop and push. . . . the way children went on living, without any further act of will on the parents' part.

Quinn was surely his worthy successor. He ought to give up any pretense of his return to the Dendarii and just promote her to Admiral, period. Or would personnel assignments now be Haroche s job? Miles would have trusted Illyan to handle Quinn. But did Haroche have the insight, the imagination required? He sighed unease.

His peregrinations brought him to the second-floor succession of rooms with the best view of the back garden, that had been his formidable grandfather's lair for the last years of the old man's life. Miles's father and mother had not chosen to move into them after the old Count's death, instead retaining their own extensive chambers on the floor above. But they'd had the old Count's rooms refurbished as a sort of Imperial-grade guest suite: bedroom, private bath, sitting room, and study. Even Ivan, a connoisseur of comfort, had not had the nerve to claim the elegantly appointed space on his recent sojourn. He'd taken instead a small bedroom down the hall from Miles, though that might have been for convenience in keeping an eye on his erratic cousin. Staring around the silent chambers, Miles was seized an inspiration.

"Kidnapping?" murmured General Haroche, eyeing Miles over Illyan's comconsole desk the following morning.

Miles smiled blandly. "Hardly that, sir. An invitation to Illyan to enjoy the hospitality of Vorkosigan House during his convalescence, offered by me in my fathers name and place. I've no doubt he would approve."

"Admiral Avakli's team has not yet ruled out sabotage of the chip, though I find I'm drifting more and more to the natural explanation myself. But given that uncertainty, er, Vorkosigan House really secure enough? Compared to ImpSec HQ?"

"If Illyan's chip was sabotaged, it may well have happened in ImpSec environs; that's where Illyan mostly was, after all. ImpSec is demonstrably no protection. And, ah … if Vorkosigan House is not securable by ImpSec, it will certainly be news to the former Lord Regent. I might even call it a major scandal."

Haroche bared his teeth. "Point taken, my Lord Auditor." He glanced at Ruibal, seated beside Miles. "And how does this removal look in your medical opinion, Dr. Ruibal? A good idea, or a bad one?"

"Mm . . . more good than bad, I think," said the pudgy neurologist. "Illyan is physically ready to return to normal light activity—that does not include work, of course. A little extra distance between him and his office might help prevent arguments about that."

Haroche s brows rose. He had apparently not considered this awkward possibility before.

Dr. Ruibal added, "Let him take medical leave, rest and relax, do a little reading or whatever . . . keeping a log of any further problems. I can give him his daily examination there as well as here, certainly."

"Further problems," Miles noted Ruibal's turn of phrase. "What are his current problems? How is he shaping up, now?"

"Well, he's physically fine, if understandably fatigued. Motor reflexes normal. But his short-term memory, to put it plainly, is shot to hell at present. His scores on cognitive tasks that involve short-term memory—and most of them do—are all well below his norms. His former norms, of course, were extraordinary. It's too early to tell if this will be a permanent condition, or if his brain will retrain itself over time. Or if some kind of medical intervention will be required. Or, God help me, what form that intervention might take. My prescription is for a couple of weeks of rest and varied activity, and then we'll see."

Thus buying time for Ruibal to scramble for solutions. "It sounds reasonable to me," Miles said.

Haroche nodded agreement. "On your head be it, then, Lord Vorkosigan."

After another personal call on Avakli in his lab, Miles trooped over to the ImpSec clinic to pitch the invitation to Illyan. There he found an unexpected ally in his self-appointed mission of persuasion in Lady Alys, visiting Illyan again. She was impeccably turned out as usual, today in something dark red and Vorishly feminine, i.e., expensive.

"But it's a splendid notion," she said, as Illyan began to hesitantly demur. "Very right and proper of you, Miles. Cordelia would approve."

"Do you think so?" said Illyan.

"Yes, indeed."

"And the suite has windows," Miles pointed out helpfully. "Lots and lots of windows. That's what I always missed most, whenever I was stuck in here."

Illyan glanced around his blank-walled patient room. "Windows, eh? Not that they are necessarily an advantage. You were done in when Evon Vorhalas fired that gas grenade through your parents' bedroom window. I can remember that night. . . ." His hand twitched; he frowned. "It's like a dream."

The incident had occurred slightly over thirty years ago. "That's why all the windows in Vorkosigan House were subsequently force-screened," Miles said. "No problem now. Its pretty quiet there at present, but I have this new cook."

"Ivan mentioned your new cook," Illyan admitted. "At length."

"Yes," said Lady Alys, a faintly calculating look crossing her fine features—was she regretting that the days of horse, cattle, and serf raids upon neighboring lords' property were gone forever? "And it will be ever so much more convenient—and comfortable—for people to visit you there than in this dreadful depressing place, Simon."

"Hm," said Illyan. He smiled briefly at her, looking thoughtful. "That's true. Well, Miles . . . yes. Thank you. I accept."

"Excellent," said Lady Alys. "Do you need any help? Would you care to use my car?"