"Ah, there you are, Miles. Where did you say you'd gone? Oh, ImpMil, that was it. Sorry. Yes. Lady Alys has asked me to be her escort at a concert she wishes to attend this evening."

"A concert? I didn't know you had an interest in concerts. Where?"

"The Vorbarr Sultana Company Hall. I don't know if I have an interest in concerts or not. For all the times I've run security on that building for Gregor, when he attended, I never once had a chance to sit down and watch and listen to the show myself. Maybe I'll find out why all those pretty people like your aunt go there."

"To be pretty for each other, I suppose," said Miles. "Though that's probably not the only reason seats are sold out two years in advance. The Vorbarr Sultana Company is supposed to the best on Barrayar."

A concert, how unexpected. Illyan's first appearance in public since his breakdown would certainly have an interesting effect on the capital's rumor mills. He looked as sharp as he ever did, when he troubled to clean up and play the Imperial officer; the surgical scratch was almost healed, and with his thinning hair combed over the bare patch, hardly noticeable unless you knew what to look for. It was not even obvious that the new vague uncertainty in his eyes was different from the abstracted inward look he used to get when accessing his chip. But if it had been sabotage, some kind of attack . . . would somebody want to try again? Miles could imagine a depressed Illyan courting assassination, but it seemed unfair to take Miles's only aunt down with him.

"So . . . what are you doing for security, Simon?"

"Well, Miles . . . that's ImpSec's problem tonight. I think I'll leave it to them." An odd smile played around Illyan's lips. "Ah. Here she is."

The sound of Lady Alys's purring groundcar came from the porte cochere that sheltered the front door: the whine of the canopy lifting, the driver's tread, then Lady Alys's quick steps. Miles opened the door for his smiling aunt. Tonight she was wearing something beige, with subdued glitters winking from the fall of fabric, and very Vorish.

"Hello, Miles dear." She patted him on the shoulder, in passing; better than the regulation auntish peck on the cheek, Miles supposed. At least she didn't pat him on the head. "Simon."

Illyan rose, and bowed over her hand. "Milady."

Well . . . Lady Alys probably wouldn't let him wander off and get lost. Miles stepped back as she swept out bearing her prize, who seemed pleased enough to be captured. Illyan was a guest, not under house arrest, for heaven's sake. "Um . . . be careful," he called after them.

Illyan waved jauntily, then paused. "Wait. There was something . . . I forgot."

Alys waited. "Yes, Simon?"