He fell to his knees beside Suegar. A hit of hope . . . "Suegar. Hey, Suegar!"

Suegar opened his eyes to slits. No telling how much of this he was taking in, through the pain and the shock and the drugs.

"You're on your way now. We made it, made the timing. With all ease. With agility and speed. Up through the regions of the air, higher than the clouds. You had the scripture right, you did."

Suegar's lips moved. Miles bent his head closer.

" . . . wasn't really a scripture," Suegar whispered. "I knew it . . . you knew it . . . don't shit me . . ."

Miles paused, cold-stoned. Then he leaned forward again. "No, brother," he whispered. "For though we went in clothed, we have surely come out naked."

Suegar's lips puffed on a dry laugh.

Miles didn't weep until after they'd made the wormhole jump.

FOUR

FOUR

Illyan sat silent.

Miles lay back, pale and exhausted, a stupid trembling concealed in his belly making his voice shake. “Sorry. Thought I’d got over it. So much craziness has happened since then, no time to think, digest. . . .”

“Combat fatigue,” Illyan suggested.

“The combat only lasted a couple of hours.”

“Ah? I’d reckon it at six weeks, by that account.”

“Whatever. But if your Count Vorvolk wants to argue that I should have traded lives for equipment, well . . . I had maybe five minutes to make a decision, under enemy fire. If I’d had a month to study it, I’d have come to the same conclusion. And I’ll stand behind it now, in a court-martial or any goddamn arena he wants to fight me in.”

“Calm down,” Illyan advised. “I will deal with Vorvolk, and his shadow-advisors. I think . . . no, I guarantee their little plot will not intrude further on your recovery, Lieutenant Vorkosigan.” His eyes glinted. Illyan had served thirty years in Imperial Security, Miles reminded himself. Aral Vorkosigan’s Dog still had teeth.

“I’m sorry my . . . carelessness shook your confidence in me, sir,” said Miles. It was an odd wound that doubt had dealt him; Miles could feel it still, an invisible ache in his chest, slow to heal. So, trust was more of a feedback loop than he had ever realized. Was Illyan right, should he pay more attention to appearances? “I’ll try to be more intelligent in future.”

Illyan gave him an indecipherable look, his mouth set, neck oddly flushed. “So shall I, Lieutenant.”

The swish of the door, the sweep of skirts. Countess Vorkosigan was a tall woman, hair gone red-roan, with a stride that had never quite accommodated itself to Barrayaran female fashions. She wore the long rich skirts of a Vor-class matron as cheerfully as a child playing dress-up, and about as convincingly.

“M’lady,” Illyan nodded, rising.