Credit to Ivan, he had certainly not told her the whole story, or her condolences would have been much differently phrased. She dismissed his utter destruction with an airy wave, and went on to her own concerns. "At Gregor's request I am hostessing an intimate luncheon in the Residence's south garden tomorrow afternoon. He has asked me to invite you. He asks you to come an hour early for a personal conference. I'd take that as Requests and Requires your Attendance, rather than just invites, if I were you, on that first matter. Or so I read it between the lines, though he was all soft-voiced about it, the way he gets sometimes, you know. RSVP immediately you get this message, please." She cut the com.

Miles bent, and rested his forehead on the cool edge of the comconsole. He'd known this moment must come; it was inherent in choosing to live. Gregor was giving him the opportunity to formally apologize. They had to clear the air sooner or later. If only as Count of his District someday, Miles was going to be around Vorbarr Sultana for a long time yet. He wished he might render his apology in the old archaic belly-sticking sense. In absentia. It would be easier and less painful.

Why didn't they just leave me dead the first time?

He sighed, sat up, and punched in Lady Alys's number on the com.

CHAPTER NINE

Count Vorkosigan's armored groundcar sighed to the pavement under the east portico of the Imperial Residence. Martin looked nervously back over his shoulder toward the gates, and the gesturing guards clustered around them. "Are you sure that's going to be all right, my lord?"

"Don't worry about it," said Miles, seated beside him in the driver's compartment. "They'll have that little bit of wrought-iron straightened back up and repainted before I'm ready to be picked up again, I wager."

Martin made to pop the canopy, or at least, hunted valiantly for the control to do so in the gleaming array before him. Miles pointed. "Thanks," Martin muttered.

The canopy rose; Miles escaped with his life. "Martin . . . tell you what. While I'm engaged in here, why don't you take this barge for a practice spin around the city." He dropped the groundcar's comm link into his pocket. "I'll call you back when I need you. If you"—Miles deleted run into a—"have a problem, call me . . . no." He suspected he would shortly be praying for interruptions to his upcoming interview with Gregor, but it was cheating to prearrange them. "Call this number." He leaned over and tapped a code into the car's elaborate console. "This will get you a very competent gentleman named Tsipis, nice fellow, he'll tell you what to do."

"Yes, my lord."