Roic stiffened.  An attempt to bribe an Imperial Auditor could warrant the death penalty, on Barrayar.  But we're not on Barrayar, more's the pity.  "Er . . . and this is a good thing?"

"Where there's smoke, there's fire, they say."  M'lord continued cheerfully keying in whatever he was composing for Imperial Eyes Only.  "Or maybe mirrors.  Mind you, it was a subtle and elegant bribe.  I'm almost glad I'm not dealing with idiots, here.  Oh, Laisa, you were right, you were right.  However did your cute Komarran nose know?"

"What did you say?" asked Roic anxiously.

"That's right, you were never in a galactic mercenary outfit.  Or covert ops.  They both have tested policies for bribes.  Back in my old fleet, the rule was accept everything, register it with Command, and go do exactly what you were going to do anyway.  Covert ops was similar—accept and follow up as far as the string leads.  Because strings run two ways, you know.  Play it out, pull it in . . . see what's on the other end . . . Hah!"  He finished his entries with a flourish,

"What kind of bribe?" Roic pressed.  "Or—should I not know?"  Please, don't make me work in t' damned dark!

"Some very interesting stock options in the Shiragiku-sha—the White Chrysanthemum Cryonics Corporation, in full.  WhiteChrys is the company in process of establishing a franchise on Komarr, you know.  I could get in on the ground floor at a very favorable rate, it seems.  In fact, they would lend me the money at no interest, to be paid back after my value doubles.  Because what could be better for them than to boast a local stockholder with my insanely high connections?  Though I am not, curiously enough, offered voting stock.  The votes are reserved for their sub-zero patrons."

Of all the brain-bending twists of democracy Roic had encountered, even worse than the secondary market in Komarran planetary voting shares, it was Kibou-daini's custom of votes by the dead that most made his head hurt.  Proxies, naturally—left in the hands of the cryocorps that shepherded their frozen charges into an unknown and curiously receding future.  Because if you were going to trust a company with your death and next life, your vote was a small thing in comparison.

"It had doubtless," m'lord had remarked crisply, upon first learning this fact, "seemed a good idea at the time."  Two, three hundred years ago, when New Hope's strange burial customs, as Roic could not help thinking of them, were just beginning to gain popularity.

"Heh," muttered m'lord, and sent his message on its coded and circuitous way.

Roic knew that Heh.  It gave him cold chills.

And so to bed, to rise and face the last day of the conference, which had gone, as near as Roic could tell, as no one had expected, not even m'twisty lord.

And now, oh God, he'd gone and lost the little maniac . . .