"About Count Piotr," he said, and stopped. His hands hooked each other, between his knees, and flexed. "I had thought to speak to the admiral. I hadn't thought to speak to you. I should have thought of you."

"Always." Now what?

"Man came up to me yesterday. In the gym. Not in uniform, no rank or nametag. He offered me Elena. Elena's life, if I would assassinate Count Piotr."

"How tempting," Cordelia choked, before she could stop herself. "What, uh, guarantees did he offer?"

"That question came to me, pretty shortly. There I would be, in deep shit, maybe executed, and who would care for a, a dead man's bastard then? I figured it for a cheat, just another cheat. I went back to look for him, been on the lookout, but I never spotted him since." He sighed. "It almost seems like a hallucination, now."

The expression on Drou's face was a study in the deepest unreassurance, but fortunately Bothari was turned away from her and did not notice. Cordelia shot her a small quelling frown.

"Have you been having hallucinations?" Cordelia asked.

"I don't think so. Just bad dreams. I try not to sleep."

"I . . . have a dilemma of my own," Cordelia said. "As you heard me tell Piotr."

"Yes, Milady."

"Had you heard about the time limit?"

"Time limit?"

"If it's not serviced, the replicator will start to fail to support Miles in less than six days. Aral argues that Miles is in no more danger than any of his staffers' families. I disagree."

"Behind his back, I've heard some say otherwise."

"Ah?"

"They say it's a cheat. The admiral's son is some sort of mutant, non-viable, while they risk whole children."

"I don't think he realizes . . . anyone says that."

"Who would repeat it to his face?"

"Very few. Maybe not even Illyan." Though Piotr probably wouldn't fail to pass it on, if he picked it up. "Dammit! No one, on either side, would hesitate to dump that replicator." She brooded, and began again. "Sergeant. Who do you work for?"

"I am oath-sworn Armsman to Count Piotr," Bothari recited the obvious. He was watching her closely now, a weird smile tugging at one corner of his mouth.

"Let me rephrase that. I know the official penalties for an armsman going AWOL are fearsome. But suppose—"

"Milady." He held up a hand; she paused in mid-breath. "Do you remember, back on the front lawn at Vorkosigan Surleau when we were loading Negri's body into the lightflyer, when my Lord Regent told me to obey your voice as his own?"

Cordelia's brows went up. "Yes . . . ?"

"He never countermanded that order."

"Sergeant," she breathed at last, "I'd never have guessed you for a barracks-lawyer."

His smile grew a millimeter tighter. "Your voice is as the voice of the Emperor himself. Technically."

"Is it, now," she whispered in delight. Her nails dug into her palms.