"Not exactly. Even in his more lucid moments, it comes out sounding pretty garbled. But I've been getting the damnedest unpleasant feeling that the problem is half in me. Because I don't know the background, I can't decipher what may be perfectly clear statements. I have figured out you were never a bloody courier."

"No. Covert ops." A sunbeam was creeping over his chair arm, making the coffee in the thin cup perched there glow red.

"High level covert ops," said Vorberg, watching him in the shadows and light beams.

"The highest."

"I don't quite know why he discharged you—"

"Ah." Miles smiled bleakly. "I really must tell you, someday. It's true about the needle grenade. Just not complete."

"Part of the time he doesn't seem to know he discharged you. But part of the time he does. And he still asks for you, even then."

"Have you ever reported this directly to General Haroche?"

"Yes. Twice."

"What did he say?"

"Thank you, Lieutenant Vorberg."

"I see."

"I don't."

"Well . . . neither do I, completely. But now I think I can find out. Ah . . . I think perhaps this conversation had better not have taken place."

Vorberg's eyes narrowed. "Oh?"

"That conversation we had on the steps outside the Residence will do instead, if anyone inquires."

"Ho. And just what are you to the Dendarii Mercenaries, Vorkosigan?"

"Nothing, now."

"Well . . . you covert ops fellows were always the worst bunch of weasels I ever met, so I don't know even now if I trust you, but if you're being straight with me . . . I'm glad for the sake of the Vor that you haven't just abandoned your father's liegeman. There's not many of us left who care enough to, enough to . . . I don't know how to say it."

"Who care enough to make Vor real," suggested Miles.

"Yes," said Vorberg gratefully. "That's right."

"Damn straight, Vorberg."

An hour later, Miles strode through the graying morning to the side portal of ImpSec HQ. Clouds were blowing in from the east, chilling the promise of the early sun; he could smell rain in the air. The granite gargoyles looked blank and surly in the shadowless light. The building above them rose big and closed and blocky. And ugly.

Haroche's first concern had been to place guards with the highest security clearances around Illyan. Not a word about doctors with the highest clearances, or medtechs, or, God forbid, the best experts possible, cleared or not. He wasn't treating Illyan so much as a patient as a prisoner. A prisoner of his own organization—did Illyan appreciate the irony? Miles suspected not.