Illyan's cheerful air had vanished altogether; he sat tensely. Lady Alys watched his profile in concern, and took his hand; he squeezed hers in turn.
"What I need to know," Miles finished, "is if you remember anything, anything at all, about the time that sample was brought in, during the thwarting of that last Komarran fling."
Illyan rubbed his forehead. "It's . . . pretty blank. I remember Ser Galen's plot, of course, and that initial horrific fuss over discovering the existence of Lord Mark. The Countess was very upset, in her most Betan style. Drove your father to distraction. I remember your report from Earth. A masterpiece of its literary genre. That Sector Four adventure where you smashed both your arms was . . . right after that, right?"
"Yes. But surely someone must have reported on the prokaryote to you. I can see why you might not have risked inspecting it in person."
"I'm sure someone did." Illyan's right hand released Lady Alys's, and clenched into a fist. "They doubtless gave me all the details. And I doubtless put them where I always put the details. But there's nothing left now."
Lady Alys frowned irritatedly at Miles, as if it were somehow all his fault.
"Who ought to have given you that report?" Miles pushed on.
"General Diamant, I suppose. Komarran Affairs chief before Allegre, you remember him? Died just two years after he retired, the poor sod. Miles, I really can't . . . I would surely have been reminded before this, if it were in here!" He clutched his head in frustration. Lady Alys recaptured his hand, and stroked it soothingly.
"Does your friend Captain Galeni have any ideas?" Illyan went on more calmly. "He might have some inside track. It was his fathers plot, after all."
Miles smiled unhappily.
Illyan's eyes narrowed. "You know he's going to turn up on your short list, as soon as it's generated."
"Yes."
"Did you tell Haroche?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It would have been redundant. Duv will be checked along with everyone else. And . . . I've done him enough bad turns lately."
"Aren't you . . . prejudging your data—my Lord Auditor?"
"Yow know Galeni."
"Not so well as you do."
"Just so. I'm not judging data at all, here. I'm judging the man's character. Motivations, if you like."
"Hm," said Illyan. "Just watch your own motivations there, old son."
"Yes, yes, I know. I not only have to be impartial, I have to appear so. You taught me that one," he added rather nastily. "In a way I'm not likely to forget."
"I did? When?"
"Never mind." He pressed the bridge of his nose. He was not only exhausted, he was getting a fatigue headache. It was time to quit for the night, or he'd be unable to function properly on the next round.
"All right," he sighed. "Last thing. Do you remember, at any time in the last four months, anyone ever giving you a small brown capsule to swallow?"
"No."
"There's two missing. He might have taken one himself at the same time, right along with you." Whoever he was.
"No." Illyan sounded more certain than usual. "I haven't taken any medication in the past thirty years except what my personal physician gives me with his own hands."
Miles recalled Haroche's more-than-one-man theory. "It might even have been your own physician. It's the small brown capsule I'm trying to track."
Illyan shook his head.
Miles levered himself up, and made polite farewells, and staggered off to bed.
He woke in the mid-afternoon, and spent a futile half-hour trying to return to sleep, while his mind worried his new problems. He gave up, rose, and checked in with Haroche by comconsole; the systems analysis team had not yet offered their report. A call to Weddell in the ImpSec clinic labs elicited mostly snarls at the interruption, but also a promise of more information soon. Soon, but not yet.
His restless prowling around his room was interrupted in turn by a call from a very bleary Ivan, who reported the original biocontainer box had been duly examined and returned by Forensics, and could he for God's sakes give the damn thing to somebody else and go off-duty and go to bed now? Miles flinched guiltily, glad Ivan could not detect sleep on his breath over a comconsole, and ordered him to return the box to the guardianship of the Evidence Rooms, and take the rest of the day off.
He was just stepping into the bath when his comconsole chimed again. This time it was Dr. Chenko, from the Imperial Military Hospital's veterans clinic.
"Lord Vorkosigan." Chenko ducked his head in cheery greetings. "My apologies for taking so long. These micro-engineering challenges always prove a little more complex in the execution than the planning. But we've worked up a device small enough to insert under your skull to, we hope safely, trigger your seizures, and we're finally ready to test it on you. If it works properly, we can go ahead with the final calibrations and schedule surgery to install it."
"Oh," said Miles. "Good work." Bad timing.
"When can you come in? Tomorrow?"
Haroche might call with the systems team's report at any time, and when that happened, Miles suspected, things would start to move very quickly. And . . . somewhere in Vorbarr Sultana was a very clever ImpSec-trained man who had made Miles his special target. Did Chenko's experimental gizmo use any protein circuits, and what had happened to that missing capsule? The thought of people he didn't know very well installing devices he didn't understand into his brain gave him cold chills, just now. "I … probably not tomorrow. I'll have to get back to you on scheduling, Doctor."
Chenko looked disappointed. "Have you had any more episodes since the one we forced in the lab?"
"Not so far."
"Hm. Well, I'd advise you not to wait too long, my lord."
"I understand. I'll do my best."
"And avoid stress," Chenko added as an afterthought, as Miles reached for the disconnect.
"Thank you, Doctor," Miles growled at the empty vid plate.
He was halfway through his shower when he suddenly recalled that this was the night of Laisa's party. His attendance had been just short of Imperially commanded; and his duties, it appeared, were going to permit. At the very least, it would be well to seize the chance beforehand to get in an interim report to Gregor. All he needed was to dredge up a dance partner.
He dressed carefully, and called Delia Koudelka.
"Hi," he greeted her blondness. At least he didn't get a crick in his neck looking up, over a comconsole. "What are you doing tonight?"
"I'm . . . rather busy," she responded politely. "Why do you ask?"
"Oh." Damn. His own fault, for waiting till the last minute, and just assuming . . .
"Or—this doesn't have anything to do with your Imperial Auditor thing, does it?" she added in worry.
A vision of a splendid opportunity to abuse his new powers danced in his head, briefly. Regretfully, he pushed it aside. "No. Just a Miles-thing."
"Sorry," she said, sounding sincere.
"Um … is Martya in?"
"She's busy tonight too, I'm afraid."
"And Olivia?"
"Her, too."
"Ah. Well, thanks anyway."
"Whatever for?" She cut the com.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Miles's verbal report to Gregor made them both late for the party; Gregor had dozens of questions, most of which Miles could not yet answer. He chewed on his lip in frustration as they paused in the shadowed vestibule opening onto one of the Imperial Residence s smaller reception rooms. It was already bright and crowded with people. In the chamber next to it, visible through arched doors thrown open, a small orchestra was tuning up.