"So what do you think of Haroche's appointment for security for Gregor's wedding?" Miles asked casually.

"Who did he appoint?" asked Illyan.

"Who would be your first pick?"

"Colonel Vortala, I think. He knows the capital scene well as any man I have."

"Ah," said Miles. Alys, rising to take her leave, winced, Illyan frowned suddenly, his eyes narrowing, but he added nothing more. Faintly defiant, he waved Miles back to his seat and saw Lady Alys out to her car with courtly punctilio.

Miles stood and stretched, more tired than the day's accomplishments could justify. This is going to be strange.

The new, if still rather quiet, household routine was quickly established. Miles and Illyan arose when they chose, and might or might not cross paths in the kitchen in the morning, cadging breakfast, though they met more normally for Ma Kosti's lunches and dinners. Miles went out daily to ImpMil, the vast Imperial Service hospital complex, on the other side of the river gorge which bisected the Old Town. The first day they kept him waiting in the corridors, like any other veteran seeking treatment; he casually dropped mention of his new status as an acting Imperial Auditor, and that didn't happen again. Well, Gregor's choke-chain had to be good for something.

Duv Galeni came the second evening. Illyan's new residency in the old Count's chambers seemed to catch Galeni by surprise; he tried to excuse himself from dinner, but Miles wouldn't let him. The Komarran-born officer was stiff and uncomfortable, dining with his formidable former chief; all that history weighing on his mind, Miles supposed. Galeni diplomatically pretended not to notice Illyan's frequent lapses of memory and attention, and swiftly picked up Miles's technique of sprinkling little reminder-remarks through his conversation, to help Illyan stay on track, or at least maintain the illusion he was doing so.

Lady Alys visited often, as promised, though the pace of her life was picking up as the Emperors betrothal ceremony approached; she'd laid on not one but two new social secretaries in her office in the Residence. Ivan dropped by, always just in time to be invited for a meal. A half-dozen aging military acquaintances of Illyan's generation stopped to say hello to him; they, too, quickly learned to turn up around tea time. Their number included ImpSec's Komarran Affairs section-chief Guy Allegre, but happily the man had the wit not to let Illyan agitate himself trying to talk shop.

The courtesy-guard ImpSec had provided on the absent Viceroy of Sergyar's residence was increased from one man per shift to a more serious three, with the unfortunate side effect of blocking Corporal Kosti's private box lunches; but he routinely dropped by to visit in the kitchen after his shift, so Miles supposed he was in no danger of starving. Vorkosigan House s grocery bills were becoming nicely impressive, though they still had a long way to go to equal the Count's former households.

Miles called Admiral Avakli daily, for an update on his team's progress. Avakli was scientifically guarded in his comments, but Miles was able to construe that they were making steady progress at least in the elimination of negative hypotheses. Miles did not lean on Avakli for more definitive statements. This was one case where they really couldn't afford hurried mistakes, in either direction. And there was no need for haste. Whatever harm was going to be done, had been done, and there was no way Miles, Avakli, or anyone else could undo it now.

The medical breakthrough Miles was itching for came on the sixth day, but not from Avakli's team. The ImpMil cryonicist and neurologist who had teamed up to tackle his case at last managed to trigger one of Miles's seizures in their lab.

Miles came up out of the all-too-familiar colored confetti and blackness to find himself still lying on the examination table, head clamped in a scanner half the size of the room, body wired every which way. The three med techs stationed around him had perhaps been forced to keep him from spasming off the table, but more likely to keep the monitors correctly adjusted. Colonel Dr. Chenko, the neurologist, and Captain Dr. D'Guise, the cryonicist, were bouncing up and down and chortling, loudly pointing out fascinating readouts to each other. It was apparently the best show since the cycle-riding bear had come to the Hassadar Fair and spooked the horses. Miles groaned, but it did not gain any immediate attention; the monitors were apparently much more engrossing.

The doctors didn't really start talking to him, instead of each other, until he was dressed again and awaited in Dr. Chenko s office. Even his Imperial Auditor's status didn't rush them this time. Chenko, a fit and energetic middle-aged man who seemed a walking advertisement for the medical profession, came in at last, assortment of data disks in his hand; his initial air of pleased excitement had by this time subsided to mere smugness.

"We know what's happening with you, Lord Vorkosigan," he announced, seating himself at his comconsole. "As we'd guessed, the mechanism of your seizures was idiosyncratic. But we have it now!"

"Wonderful," said Miles flatly. "What is it?"

Undaunted by his tone, Chenko plugged the data disks into his comconsole, and made the holovid display models and graphs to illustrate his points as he talked. "Apparently, after your cryonic revival, your brain began generating an unusually high level of neurotransmitters. These build up over time in their neural reservoirs to a quite abnormal level of engorgement, as you see here, so. There's a layover view of a normal reservoir, by way of contrast, d'you see the difference? Then something happens to trigger some unusually heavy brain activity—stress or excitement of some kind, say—and the reservoirs cascade-release all at once. That's this spike in this graph, here. This shuts down your normal neural functions temporarily, and incidentally accounts for the hallucinatory effects you report. After a minute or two, your neurotransmitter reservoirs empty out to normal—actually, below-normal—levels. Thus the few minutes of unconsciousness that follow. Then equilibrium begins to reassert itself, and you return to consciousness, though in a somewhat fatigued mode. And the cycle begins again. It is an entirely biochemical, rather than phase-electrical, form of epilepsy. Quite fascinating and unique. Dr. D'Guise wants to write it up for the ImpMil Medical Journal—your patient-anonymity will be protected, of course."

Miles digested the news of his upcoming place in medical history in silence. "So," he said at last. "What can you do about it?"

"Mm. The cause is global, spread throughout large parts of your brain. Though perhaps fortunately, it's concentrated in the frontal lobes rather than the brain stem, so the seizures don't kill you outright. It does not obviously lend itself to surgical treatments."

Nobody chops up my brain, you yo-ho. "I'm glad to hear it. What treatment does it lend itself to?"

"Ah." Dr. Chenko hesitated. Actually, he fell silent. "Ah. Hm," he added after a time.

Miles waited, clutching his fragile patience. Dr. Chenko's medical creativity would surely not be enhanced by having an Imperial Auditor launch himself over the comconsole and attempt to strangle him. Miles also wasn't sure if his Auditor's legal immunity extended to personal assault.

"One approach for phase-electrical epileptic defects," said Dr. Chenko after a time, "is to install a destabilization chip in the subjects brain. When a seizure begins to occur, the biochip senses it and generates a counter-surge of electrical impulses to dephase the offending brain-wave feedback pattern. Sort of a surge-suppressor in reverse. Not a cure, exactly, but it alleviates the major symptoms."

"I'm . . . not so sure I trust biochips," Miles mentioned. "Particularly neural ones."