"It's true, though. If I had any doubts about your potential as an officer—"
Miles stiffened inwardly.
"—it was perhaps in that area. To kill a man, it helps if you can first take away his face. A neat mental trick. Handy for a soldier. I'm not sure you have the narrowness of vision required. You can't help
seeing all around. You're like your mother, you always have that clear view of the back of your own head."
"Never knew you for narrow, sir."
"Ah, but I lost the trick of it. That's why I went into politics." Lord Vorkosigan smiled, but the smile faded. "To your cost, I'm afraid."
The remark triggered a painful memory. "Sir," asked Miles hesitantly, "is that why you never made the bid for the Imperium that everyone was expecting? Because your heir was—" a vague gesture at his body silently implied the forbidden term, deformed.
Lord Vorkosigan's brows drew together. His voice dropped
suddenly to near a whisper, making Miles jump. "Who has said so?"
"Nobody," Miles replied nervously.
His father flung himself out of his chair and snapped back and
forth across the room. "Never," he hissed, "let anyone say so. It is an insult to both our honors. I gave my oath to Ezar Vorbarra on his
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deathbed to serve his grandson—and I have done so. Period. End of
argument."
Miles smiled placatingly. "I wasn't arguing."
Lord Vorkosigan looked around, and gave vent to a short chuckle.
"Sorry. You just hit my jitter trigger. Not your fault, boy." He sat back down, controlled again. "You know how I feel about the Imperium.
The witch's christening gift, accursed. Try telling them that, though. . .
." He shook his head.
"Surely Gregor can't suspect you of ambition. You've done more for him than anyone, right through Vordarian's Pretendership, the
Third Cetagandan War, the Komarr Revolt—he wouldn't even be here
today—"
Lord Vorkosigan grimaced. "Gregor is in a rather tender state of mind at the moment. Just come to full power—and by my oath, it is
real power—and itching, after sixteen years of being governed by what he refers to privately as 'the old geezers,' to try its limits. I have no wish to set myself up as a target."
"Oh, come on. Gregor's not so faithless."
"No, indeed, but he is under a great many new pressures that I can no longer protect—" he cut himself off with a fist-closing gesture.
"Just alternate plans. Which brings us, I hope, back to the original question."
Miles rubbed his face tiredly, pressing fingertips against his eyes.
"I don't know, sir."
"You could," said Lord Vorkosigan neutrally, "ask Gregor for an Imperial order."
"What, shove me into the Service by force? By the sort of political favoritism you've stood against all your life?" Miles sighed. "If I were going to get in that way, I should have done it first, before failing the tests. Now—no. No."