"So to speak," said Miles, thinking of Vordarian's fate at his mother's hands. But Lady Alys was quite correct: Illyan had always treated her as a valued, though different, member of Gregor's support team. Haroche's new and tighter professional order must have come as a bit of a shock to her. Miles went on, "Haroche is in an excellent position to persuade Gregor. He's in total control of the flow of all information to him." Though you couldn't call that a change in how things were done; it had always been that way, but when Illyan had been the sluice keeper it had somehow never bothered Miles.

Alys's dark brows twitched; she said nothing aloud to this. Beneath her speculative frown the silence grew . . . noticeable.

To break the discomfort his unguarded words had engendered, Miles said lightly, "You could go on strike. No wedding till Gregor twists Haroche's arm for you."

"If something sensible isn't done and done soon, I just might."

"I was joking," he said hastily.

"I was not." She gave him a curt nod, and cut the com.

Martin cautiously shook Miles awake shortly after dawn the next morning.

"Um . . . m'lord? You have a visitor downstairs."

"At this ungodly hour?" Miles rubbed his sleep-numbed face, and yawned. "Who?"

"Says his name's Lieutenant Vorberg. One of your ImpSec sticks again, I guess."

"Vorberg?" Miles blinked. "Here? Now? Why?"

"He wants to talk to you, so I guess you'd better ask him."

"Quite, Martin. Um . . . you didn't leave him standing on the doorstep, did you?"

"No, I put him in that big downstairs room on the east side."

"The Second Receiving Room. That's fine. Tell him I'll be down in just a minute. Make some coffee. Bring it there on a tray with two cups, and the usual trimmings. If there's any of your mother's pastries or breads left over in the kitchen, stuff 'em in a basket or something and bring them too, right? Good."

Curiosity aroused, Miles pulled on the first shirt and trousers that came to hand, and padded barefoot down two flights of the curving front staircase, then turned left and made his way through three more rooms till he came to Second Rec. Martin had pulled a cover off one chair for the guest, and left it in a white heap on the floor. Fingers of sunlight poked through the heavy curtains, leaving the shadows in which Vorberg sat somehow denser. The lieutenant was wearing undress greens, but his face was gray with a faint beard stubble. He frowned wearily at Miles.

"Good morning, Vorberg," said Miles, cautiously polite. "What brings you to Vorkosigan House so early in the day?"

"It's late in the day for me," said Vorberg. "I just came off night shift." His brows lowered.

"They found you a job, did they?"

"Yes. I'm night guard commander for the close security on the clinic."