Dismays me."
"Sir," said Miles gently.
The old man looked up quickly. "Not your fault, boy, not your fault.
You were caught in the wheels of change and chance just like the rest of us. It was pure chance, that the assassin chose that particular
poison to try and kill your father. He wasn't even aiming for your
mother. You've done well despite it. We—we just expected too much
of you, that's all. Let no one say you have not done well."
"Thank you, sir."
The silence lengthened unbearably. The room was growing warm.
Miles's head ached from lack of sleep, and he felt nauseated from the combination of hunger and medications. He clambered awkwardly to
his feet. "If you'll excuse me, sir . . ."
The old man waved a hand in dismissal. "Yes, you must have things to do . . ." He paused again, and looked at Miles quizzically. "What are you going to do now? It seems very strange to me. We have always
been Vor, the warriors, even when war changed with the rest of it . . ."
He looked so shrunken, down in his chair. Miles pulled himself
together into a semblance of cheerfulness. "Well, you know, there's always the other aristocratic line to fall back on. If I can't be a Service grunt, I'll be a town clown. I plan to be a famous epicure and lover of women. More fun than soldiering any day."
His grandfather fell in with his humor. "Yes, I always envied the breed—go to, boy . . ." He smiled, but Miles felt it was as forced as his own. It was a lie anyway—"drone" was a swear word in the old man's vocabulary. Miles collected Bothari and made his own escape.
* * *
Miles sat hunched in a battered armchair in a small private parlor
overlooking the street side of the great old mansion, feet up, eyes closed. It was a seldom used room; there was a good chance of being left alone to brood in peace. He had never come to a more complete
halt, a drained blankness numb even to pain. So much passion
expended for nothing—a lifetime of nothing stretching endlessly into the future—because of a split second's stupid, angry selfconsciousness. . . .
There was a throat-clearing noise behind him, and a diffident
voice; "In, Miles."
His eyes flicked open, and he felt suddenly a little less like a
wounded animal hiding in its hole. "Elena! I gather you came up from
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Vorkosigan Surleau with Mother last night. Come on in."
She perched near him on the arm of another chair. "Yes, she
knows what a treat it is for me to come to the capital. I almost feel like she's my mother, sometimes."