His hands flexed on the chair arms. He found himself suddenly thinking of that jump-pilot he'd ordered Sergeant Bothari to question, on his very first encounter with the Dendarii and his destiny, thirteen years ago. It bothered him extremely that he could not now remember the man's name, though he had spoken, hypocritically, at his funeral. They'd desperately needed the pilots access-codes, to save lives. And Bothari had got them, through the roughest of ready means, and they had saved lives, Miles supposed. Though not the jump-pilot's.

His first military career had begun with a human sacrifice. Maybe another one was required for its renewal. He'd sacrificed friends enough before, God knew, led them into one bloody good cause or another but not led them back out. And they hadn't all been volunteers.

I want, I want . . . Had Haroche read the naked longing in his face? Yes, of course; Miles had seen the knowledge in Haroche's smug eyes, in the easy certainty of his smile, in his casually tented hands reflected darkly in the black glass. Powerful hands, that could give or withhold so much at will. He sees me, oh yes. Miles's eyes narrowed, and his sore lips parted. His breath puffed on the chill air of the tiny room, as if he'd just been rabbit-punched in the stomach.

Oh, God. This isn't just a job offer. This is a bribe. Lucas Haroche had just tried to bribe an Imperial Auditor.

Tried? Or succeeded?

We'll get back to that.

And what a bribe. What a sweet bribe. Could Miles even prove it was a bribe, and not sincere admiration?

I'm sure. Oh, I'm sure. Lucas Haroche, you subtle son of a bitch, I underestimated you from Day One. So much for Miles's vaunted character judgment.

He should not have underestimated Haroche. Haroche was just as much Illyan's handpicked man as Miles was. Illyan liked weasels. But Illyan had a knack for keeping them under control. Haroche s bland, controlled, former-noncom style was a mask for a razor-sharp mind. Haroche, too, got results, any way he could, or he would not have risen to head of Domestic Affairs, not under Illyan.

Haroche would not have dared to float his suggestion unless he was sure of Miles. And why not? With access to all of Illyan's files, he'd had ample opportunity to study Admiral Naismith's career from end to end. Especially this end. Haroche knew what a fellow weasel the little Admiral was. He could confidently predict Miles would sacrifice everything up to and including his integrity to keep Naismith, because he'd already done it once. No virgins here.

His captaincy. His captaincy. Haroche certainly had no trouble figuring out where my on-switch was located. But Haroche was a loyal weasel, Miles would swear, loyal to Gregor and the Imperium, a true brother in arms. If money meant anything to the man, Miles had seen no hint of it. His passion was his ImpSec service, like Illyan himself, like Miles too. The work he had taken over from Illyan.

Miles's breath stopped; for a moment, he felt as frozen as any cryo-corpse.

No. The work Haroche had taken away from Illyan.

Oh.

Miles bent double in his chair, and began to swear, softly and horribly. He was dizzy with fury and shame, but mostly with fury. I'm blind, blind, blind! Motive! What's an elephant got to do around here, to advance and be recognized?

It was Haroche, Haroche all the time, had to be. Haroche who'd blown out Illyan's brains, in order to steal his job.

Of course the comconsole records were all beautifully choreographed. Haroche had all of Illyan's override codes, lots of time to play, and a decade's knowledge of the ImpSec HQ internal system. Miles shot out of his chair, and began to pace, practically running from side to side in the tiny room, slapping his palm into the wall hard enough to sting at every second turn. This elephant was very like a snake, all right.

It's Haroche, dammit, I know it is.

Oh, yeah? Prove it, Imperial Auditor-boy.

All the physical evidence had gone up in smoke, and all the documentation was entirely under Haroche's control. Miles had a hell of a lot less on Haroche than Haroche had on Galeni.

He couldn't just accuse the man out of thin air; he'd be counter-accused of God-knew-what, hysteria at the very least. An Imperial Auditor had power, but so did the Chief of ImpSec. He'd get one chance only, then Haroche would turn on him. Real strange things could start to happen to me. Untraceable things. In fact, the moment he failed to come back with an acceptance of Haroche's fantastic bribe, Haroche would know Miles knew. There's not much time.

Motivation. Judgment. Proof. Smoke.

He flung himself to the floor and lay glaring at the ceiling; his clenched fists pounded, once, on the worn and frayed carpet.

But . . . suppose he played along with Haroche. Took his bribe and lay in wait, to get him later, at some better opportunity. Miles could have the Dendarii and justice.

Yes!

Haroche and Miles would belong to each other, for a time, or Haroche could be lulled into thinking so. … Belatedly, it occurred to Miles that if this was a bribe, Haroche's oily flattery of him back in Illyan's office, all that You and Illyan were such a great team, was pure horseshit. Haroche was not in love with Admiral Naismith. And how long would it be till Haroche arranged Miles's "accidental" death, and no cryo-revival this time? An ImpSec field agent's life was a gamble anyway. Honor among thieves, hah. It would be a fascinating race, to see who could get the other first. Death, the traditional reward of treason, on a slow fuse, burning from the middle toward both ends. What a life we'd lead, for a little while. Highly stimulating.

A knock at the door derailed his thoughts, crashingly. He flinched in place, on his back on the floor, hyper-reactive. "Who is it?" he gasped.

"Miles?" came his mother's low alto, vibrant with concern. "Are you all right in there?"

"You're not having one of your seizures, are you?" Illyan's voice seconded the Countess.

"No … no. I'm all right."

"What are you doing?" the Countess asked. "We heard a lot of footsteps, and a thump through the ceiling. …"

He fought to keep his words even. "Just . . . wrestling with temptation."

Illyan's voice came back, amused. "Who's winning?"

Miles's eye followed the cracks in the plaster, overhead. His voice came out high and light, on a sigh: "I think . . . I'm going for the best two falls out of three."

Illyan laughed. "Right. See you later."

"I'll be down soon, I think."

Their footsteps receded, voices muted and gone.

Lucas Haroche, I believe I hate you.

But suppose Miles could know in advance that Haroche was going to play straight with him. It was possible. Suppose the offer had been only and exactly what it had seemed, no knife to the back later? What answer then? What answer ever?

Haroche had Admiral Naismith figured, all right, forward and back. Naismith would cry Yes!, and try to weasel out of the deal after. But Haroche didn't know Lord Vorkosigan. How could he? Practically no one did, not even Miles. I just met the man myself. He'd known a boy by that name, long ago, confused and passionate and army-mad. Properly, that boy had been left behind by Admiral Naismith, striking out for his larger identity, his wider world. But this new Lord Vorkosigan was someone else altogether, and Miles scarcely dared guess his future.

Miles was abruptly weary, sick to death of the noise inside his own head. Haroche the puppet-master had him running in circles, trying to bite himself in the back. What if he didn't play Haroche's dizzying game? What if he just . . . stopped? What other game was there?