"Oh, Alys did a good job of laying the groundwork. Laisa's parents' feelings are naturally mixed, of course. As those Toscanes, they are understandably excited by the prospect of gaining more influence, both for themselves and their company, and, to their credit, for Komarr generally."
"They're mistaken there, if that's what they think. Gregor's too conscious of the need to appear even-handed to do too many open favors for his wife's relations."
"So I gently let them know. They're not without wit, I am happy to say. Their excitement was dampened by a genuine concern for their daughters safety and personal happiness, though they are certainly as puzzled how this is to be achieved as any other set of parents." She smiled dryly at him.
Was that to his address? Unquestionably. "So . . . how is Father? How did he take … all this?" A shrug of Miles s shoulder in no particular direction indicated his new civilian life.
She cleared her throat. "Mixed feelings, mixed reactions. He gave me all sorts of logically conflicting assurances for you, which I think I shall simply boil down to: you have his support. Always."
"I knew that. That wasn't the question, exactly. Was he … very disappointed?"
She shrugged in turn. "We all know how hard you worked for what you had achieved, and in the face of what odds."
She evades the answer, dammit.
She added, "He was more worried about what would happen to you afterwards, left at loose ends." One long finger tapped his chain of office. "This was very clever of Gregor, I must say. The boy's growing quite gratifyingly subtle, in his maturity."
"Wait'll Simon explains to you what load I'm expected to tow with this damned chain."
Her brow rose, but she did not press him. He reflected for a moment upon Countess Vorkosigan's cool maternal style, in contrast to the hands-on attempted arrangements of Lady Alys versus—and it was versus—
Ivan. On the whole, he found the Countess's quiet respect a hell of a lot more daunting than any overt interference could possibly have been. One found oneself wishing to be worthy of it. The Countess played the disinterested observer almost convincingly, a style Gregor had no doubt learned from her.
Martin stuck his face around the door frame, his expression awed as he took in the Countess. "My lord? Um, your car's ready and all. . . ."
The Countess waved Miles away. "If you need to go, go along. I'll tackle Simon next."
"It's going to be my job to prod his former"—he disliked the taste of that former—"department, it seems. Haroche has been slow to get into gear on this problem. Though I don't suppose I can fault ImpSec for refusing to reason in advance of its data."
"Why not? They have before, often enough."
"Now, now: Don't be snide. Milady Mother." Miles bowed himself out, very Vorishly.
She called after him, "I'm glad to find you here, anyway."
"Where else?"
She hesitated, then admitted wryly, "I bet Aral that you would choose the little Admiral."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Miles haunted Haroche's office for the rest of that day, rechecking everything ImpSec had done since last night, and monitoring the new orders flying out. He devoured the detailed log of Illyan's locations and movements for the past three months, till he was cross-eyed and beginning to be afraid he'd miss something. Haroche patiently endured his nervous kibitzing. It would be weeks before anything could come back from the galactic inquiries. Haroche was concentrating mainly on the Jackson's Whole connection, their one physical lead, which exactly suited Miles's theories, or prejudices.
Any side-branch Haroche missed, Miles pointed out, and Haroche promptly mended the oversight. By the end of the afternoon there seemed nothing more to do with Jackson's Whole short of Miles going there in person, an idea that occurred independently to Haroche.
"You do seem to have had an extraordinary amount of experience dealing with the Jacksonian Houses," Haroche observed.
"Mm," said Miles neutrally, concealing the pull of the idea on his own imagination. Returning to Jackson's Whole in his new persona of an Imperial Auditor, with all the Barrayaran Imperial warships he cared to requisition as backup, made a delightful little power-fantasy. "No," he said vaguely, "I don't think so." The answer is here, inside ImpSec. I just wish I knew how to phrase the question.
Restless and frustrated, Miles left Jackson's Whole to the agents assigned there, and Haroche to himself for a while, and set off for a rambling tour of the building. He'd thought he'd memorized ImpSec HQ, but there were nooks and crannies he'd never penetrated before, whole departments he'd never needed-to-know. Well, he certainly had the run of the place now.
He poked into a couple of such offices at random, thoroughly alarming their inhabitants, then decided to make his tour systematic. He would inspect every department from the top floor down, not excepting Physical Plant and Food Service.
He left behind a trail of disruption and dismay, as every department head frantically searched his conscience for a reason why the Imperial Auditor might be visiting him. Ha. Guilty, every one of 'em, Miles thought dryly. Several made a point of explaining their budgetary expenditures in what Miles felt was excessive detail, though one blurted out a wholly unasked-for defense of his recent galactic vacation. Watching these normally closemouthed men babble in panic was highly entertaining, Miles had to admit. He led them on with lots of well-timed neutral noises, like "Um," and "Hm?", but it seemed to bring him no closer to formulating his right question.
Enough of the departments ran on Barrayar's whole 26.7-hour diurnal cycle that Miles could have continued his tour all night, but in the late evening he broke it off. ImpSec was a big building. Care, not speed, was called for now.
Miles woke the next morning to find Vorkosigan House full of the unaccustomed bustle of his mother's retainers. They were reordering the place: whisking away the furniture covers, efficiently taking over care of his houseguest, Illyan, and blocking his path with inquiries of what they might do for him, m'lord, as he attempted to wander the place half-dressed, thinking and drinking his morning coffee. It was the way it should be, but . . . still he was inspired to go off to work early. As long as he was being official, or officious, about it all, Miles decided to begin with a personal report to Gregor at the Imperial Residence, in his best Auditor's style. Besides, Gregor might have an idea. Miles felt particularly empty of ideas just now.
His Auditor's style melted rapidly into his usual style, once he reached Gregor's office and they were alone. They sat in the comfortable chairs overlooking the garden window, and Miles put his feet up on the low table and scowled at his boots.
"Anything new?" inquired Gregor, leaning back in his own chair.
"Not so far. What has Haroche told you?"
Gregor rattled off a tolerably complete precis of the midnight meeting, and of the orders and inquiries Haroche's office had disgorged under Miles's eye yesterday. "He said Illyan was awfully quiet at your briefing," Gregor added. "I gather Haroche believes that Illyan's a lot more damaged than he lets on."
"Mm. Illyan thinks he is too. I'm not sure he's damaged so much as he is out of practice. It's like he's forgotten how to pay attention. The inside of his head . . . must be a strange world for him right now. I think Lady Alys could probably give you better observations than Haroche on that score."
"So what have you done?"
Miles grimaced. "Nothing. I'm stuck twiddling my thumbs till the galactic reports start coming back. I've been poking through closets at ImpSec HQ, playing Inspector General. It provides some amusement, while I wait. And wait."