Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [301]
"Right now, my lord?" said the man mildly. His hand danced over a keypad array to one side.
"Yes. Now. Please."
"You are cleared." He vanished.
The vid plate remained dark, but the audio transmitted a melodious chime. It chimed for quite a long time. Mark began to panic. What if—but then it stopped. There was a mysterious clanking sound, and Gregor's voice said, "Yes?" in a bleary tone. No visuals.
"It's me. Mark Vorkosigan. Lord Mark."
"Yeah?"
"You told me to call you."
"Yes, but it's . . ." a short pause, "five in the bleeding morning, Mark!"
"Oh. Were you asleep?" he caroled frantically. He leaned forward and beat his head gently on the hard cool plastic of the desk. Timing. My timing.
"God, you sound just like Miles when you say that," muttered the Emperor. The vid plate activated; Gregor's image came up as he turned on a light. He was in some sort of bedroom, dim in the background, and was wearing nothing but loose black silky pajama pants. He peered at Mark, as if making sure he wasn't talking to a ghost. But the corpus was too corpulant to be anyone but Mark. The Emperor heaved an oxygenating sigh and blinked himself to focus. "What do you need?"
How wonderfully succinct. If he answered in full, it could take him the next six hours.
"I need to be in on ImpSec's search for Miles. Illyan won't let me. You can override him."
Gregor sat still for a minute, then barked a brief laugh. He swiped a hand through sleep-bent black hair. "Have you asked him?"
"Yes. Just now. He turned me down."
"Mm, well . . . it's his job to be cautious for me. So that my judgment may remain untrammeled."
"In your untrammeled judgment, sir. Sire. Let me in!"
Gregor studied him thoughtfully, rubbing his face. "Yes . . ." he drawled slowly after a moment. "Let's . . . see what happens." His eyes were not bleary now.
"Can you call Illyan right now, sire?"
"What is this, pent-up demand? The dam breaks?"
I am poured out like water . . . where did that quote come from? It sounded like something of the Countess's. "He's still up. Please. Sire. And have him call me back at this console to confirm. I'll wait."
"Very well," Gregor's lips twisted up in a peculiar smile, "Lord Mark."
"Thank you, sire. Uh . . . good night."
"Good morning." Gregor cut the comm.
Mark waited. The seconds ticked by, stretched out of all recognition. His hangover was starting, but he was still slightly drunk. The worst of both worlds. He had started to doze when the comconsole chimed at last, and he nearly spasmed out of his chair.
He slapped urgently at the controls. "Yes. Sir?"
Illyan's saturnine face appeared over the vid plate. "Lord Mark." He gave Mark the barest nod. "If you come to ImpSec headquarters at the beginning of normal business hours tomorrow morning, you will be permitted to review the files we discussed."
"Thank you, sir," said Mark sincerely.
"That's two-and-one-half hours from now," Illyan mentioned with, Mark thought, an understandable hint of sadism. Illyan hadn't slept either.
"I'll be there."
Illyan acknowledged this with a shiver of his eyelids, and vanished.
Damnation through good works, or grace alone? Mark meditated on Gregor's grace. He knew. He knew it before I did. Lord Mark Vorkosigan was a real person.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
The level light of dawn turned the night's lingering mist to gold, a smoky autumnal haze that gave the city of Vorbarr Sultana an almost magical air. The Imperial Security Headquarters building stood windowless, foursquare against the light, a vast utilitarian concrete block with enormous gates and doors certainly designed to diminish any human supplicant fool enough to approach it. In his case, a redundant effect, Mark decided.
"What awful architecture," he said to Pym, beside him, chauffeuring him in the Count's groundcar.
"Ugliest building in town," the armsman agreed cheerfully. "It dates back to Mad Emperor Yuri's Imperial architect, Lord Dono Vorrutyer. An uncle to the later vice-admiral. He managed to get up five major structures