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protect that order."
"Yes, yes, right and proper, I know," said Miles impatiently. "But you can't owe everything to him and nothing to her!"
Count Vorkosigan looked disturbed, and began again. "I owe him my life, Miles. And your mother's. In a very real sense, everything I've been and done for Barrayar in the last eighteen years is owed to him.
And I owe him your life, twice over, since then, and so my sanity—
what there is of it, as your mother would say. If he chooses to call in that debt, there's no bottom to it." He rubbed his lips introspectively.
"Also—it won't hurt to emphasize this anyway—I'd much prefer to avoid any kind of scandal in my household at the moment. My
adversaries are always groping for a handle on me, some lever to
move me. I beg you will not let yourself become one."
And what the hell is going on in the government this week? Miles
wondered anew. Not that anybody's likely to tell me. Lord Miles
Naismith Vorkosigan. Occupation: security risk. Hobbies: falling off walls, disappointing sick old men to death, making girls cry . . . He longed to patch things up with Elena, at least. But the only thing he could think of that might put her imagination-generated terrors to
rest would be actually finding that blasted grave, and as near as he could figure, it had to be on Escobar, mixed in with those of the six or seven thousand war dead left behind so long ago.
Between opening his mouth, and speaking, the plan possessed him.
The result was that he forgot what he'd been about to say, and sat with his mouth open a moment. Count Vorkosigan raised his eyebrows in
courteous inquiry. What Miles finally said instead was, "Has anyone heard from Grandmother Naismith lately?"
Count Vorkosigan's eyes narrowed. "Curious that you should
mention her. Your mother has spoken of her quite frequently in the
last few days."
"Makes sense, under the circumstances. Although Grandmother's
such a healthy old bird—all Betans expect to live to be 120, I guess.
They think it's one of their civil rights."
Miles's Betan grandmother, seven wormhole jumps and three
weeks' travel time away by the most direct route—via Escobar. A
carefully chosen commercial passenger liner might well include a
layover at Escobar. Time for a little tourism—time for a little
research. It could be done subtly enough, even with Bothari hanging over his shoulder. What could be more natural than for a boy
interested in military history to make a pilgrimage to the cemeteries of his Emperor's soldiers, maybe even burn a death offering? "Sir," he began, "do you suppose I could—"
And, "Son," Count Vorkosigan began at the same moment, "How would you like to deputize for your mother—"
"I beg your pardon," and "Go ahead, sir."
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