Miles rattled the consulate's wrought-iron front gate, found it locked, and stared over it wearily.  Beyond a dainty front garden sat a dinky house, overshadowed by its grander neighbors, although at least it looked well-kept.  Maybe it had once been servants' quarters?  Kibou-daini had never been considered strategically important enough to spend much Imperial money upon, its system being in a wormhole cul-de-sac on the far side of Escobar, well outside of Barrayar's web of influence.  This consulate existed mainly to ease the occasional Barrayaran or more likely Komarran trading venture through planetary regulations, aid any members of the Imperium who found themselves in local trouble, and direct and quietly vet the even rarer Kibou traveler planning to visit the Imperium.  Miles's arrival was likely the most excitement the place had endured in years.  Yeah, well, it's about to get more so.

The pre-dawn chill was damp and penetrating, his legs were cramped, and his back ached.  He sighed and clambered awkwardly over the gate, retrieved his cane, stumped up the short walk, and leaned on the door chime.

The porch and hall lights flicked on; a face peered through the glass, and the door opened a crack.  A young man Miles didn't recognize spoke in a Kibou accent: "Sir, you'll have to come back during business hours.  We open in about two more—"

Miles wedged his cane through the opening, levered it wider, put his head down, and barged in.

"Sir—!"

The minion was only saved from a shattering blast of Auditorial ire by Consul Vorklynkin strolling through an archway at the back of the hall, saying, "What is it, Yuuichi?   . . . Oh my God, Lord Vorkosigan!"

Showing a swift sense of self-preservation, Yuuichi fell back from between them.

Vorlynkin, tall and lean, was half dressed in trousers, shirt, and slippers, bleary-eyed, and clutching a mug that steamed with the gentle perfume of hot green tea.  Miles was so distracted by the smell that he was almost thrown off his well-rehearsed opening, but he'd had a lot of hours this past night to rehearse.

"Vorlynkin, what the hell have you done with my courier?"

Vorlynkin's spine snapped straight, unconsciously revealing a military hitch sometime in his earlier life.  A look of partial, but only partial, relief lit his blue eyes.  "We can answer that!  My lord."

"So Jin did make it here?"

"Um, yes, sir."

The problem had occurred on Jin's way back, then.  Not good . . .  Miles had waited in growing anxiety till midnight, then pressed Ako into substitute pet care and taken matters unto his own hands, or feet.  The hours it had cost him to make it here unobserved had not improved his mood.  Neither had the rain.