Cavilo watched this performance with an expression of thwarted

fury. " Damn you," she muttered.

Miles shrugged, palms out, as if to say, What would you have of

me? "Are you and your survivors about ready to move out?"

"Right after this idiot charade. I have to abandon six ships, too damaged to jump."

"Sensible of you. If the Vervani don't catch on to you soon, the Cetagandans, when they realize they can't get at you themselves, will probably tell them the ugly truth. You shouldn't linger in these parts."

"I don't intend to. If I never see this place again it will be too soon.

That goes double for you, mutant. If not for you . . ." She shook her head bitterly.

"By the way," Miles added, "the Dendarii have now been paid three times for this operation. Once by our original contractors the

Aslunders, once by the Barrayarans, and once by the grateful Vervani.

Each agreed to cover all our expenses in full. Leaves a very tidy

profit."

She actually hissed. "You better pray we never meet again."

"Goodbye, then."

They entered the chamber to collect their honors. Would Cavilo

have the iron nerve to accept hers on behalf of the Rangers her

twisted plots had destroyed? Yes, it turned out. Miles gagged quietly.

The first medal I ever won, Miles thought as the station commandant pinned his on him with embarrassingly fulsome praise,

and I can't even wear it at home. The medal, the uniform, and Admiral Naismith himself must soon return to the closet. Forever?

The life of Ensign Vorkosigan was not too attractive, by comparison.

And yet . . . the mechanics of soldiering were the same, from side to side. If there was any difference between himself and Cavilo, it must be in what they chose to serve. And how they chose to serve it. Not all

paths, but one path. . . .

* * *

When Miles arrived back on Barrayar for home leave, a few weeks

later, Gregor invited him for lunch at the Imperial Residence. They

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sat at a wrought-iron table in the North Gardens, which were famous for having been designed by Emperor Ezar, Gregor's grandfather. In

summer the spot would be deeply shaded; now it was laced with light filtering through young leaves, rippling in the soft airs of spring. The guards did their guarding out of sight, the servants waited out of

earshot unless Gregor touched his pager. Replete with the first three courses, Miles sipped scalding coffee and plotted an assault on a

second pastry, which cowered across the table linen under a thick

camouflage of cream. Or would that overmatch his forces? This had it all over the contract-slave rations they'd once divided, not to mention Cavilo's doggie chews.