What God means you to do, Miles's theist mother claimed, could be deduced from the talents He gave you. The academic honors, Miles had amassed by sheer brute work. But the war games, outwitting his opponents, staying one step ahead—a necessity, true, he had no margin for error—the war games had been an unholy joy. War had been no game here once, not so long ago. It might be so again. What you did best, that was what was wanted from you. God seemed to be lined up with the Emperor on that point, at least, if no other.

Miles had sworn his officer's oath to the Emperor less than two weeks ago, puffed with pride at his achievement. In his secret mind he had imagined himself keeping that oath through blazing battle, enemy torture, what-have-you, even while sharing cynical cracks afterwards with Ivan about archaic dress swords and the sort of people who insisted on wearing them.

But in the dark of subtler temptations, those which hurt without heroism for consolation, he foresaw, the Emperor would no longer be the symbol of Barrayar in his heart.

Peace to you, small lady, he thought to Raina. You've won a twisted poor modern knight, to wear your favor on his sleeve. But it's a twisted poor world we were both born into, that rejects us without mercy and ejects us without consultation. At least I won't just tilt at windmills for you. I'll send in sappers to mine the twirling suckers, and blast them into the sky. . . .

He knew who he served now. And why he could not quit. And why he must not fail.

TWO

“Are you feeling better?” said Illyan cautiously.

“Somewhat,” Miles replied carefully, and waited. He could outwait Illyan now, oh yes.

The security chief pulled up a chair and settled himself by Miles’s bedside, regarded Miles, and pursed his lips. “My . . . apologies, Lord Vorkosigan, for doubting your word.”

“You owe me that,” Miles agreed.

“Yes. Nevertheless,” Illyan frowned into the middle distance. “I wonder, Miles, if you’ve ever realized the extent that, in your position as your father’s son, it is not only necessary to be honest, but to appear so.”

“As my father’s son—no,” said Miles flatly.

Illyan snorted involuntarily. “Ha. Perhaps not.” His fingers drummed. “Be that as it may, Count Vorvolk has seized on two discrepancies in your mercenary covert ops reports. Wild cost overruns in what should have been the simplest of tasks, personnel pickups. I realize Dagoola blew up on you, but what about the first time?”

“The first time what?”

“They’re looking again at the pick-up you made from Jackson’s Whole. Their theory being that your successfully-concealed initial peculation there tempted you to larger efforts at Dagoola.”

“That was almost two years ago!” Miles protested.

“They’re reaching,” Illyan agreed. “They’re looking hard. They want to nail you to the wall in public if they possibly can. I am, as it were, trying to confiscate the hammer. Dammit,” he added irritably, “don’t look at me like that. There’s nothing personal in it. If you were anyone else’s son the matter would not have arisen—you know it, I know it, and they know it. Financial oversight audits by untouchable Vor bores are not my idea of an amusement. My one hope is to tire him out and make him go away. So give.”