Miles Errant - Lois McMaster Bujold [307]
"All still waiting."
"They must be pretty itchy themselves, by now."
"Yes," said Bothari-Jesek, and stabbed her fork so hard into a chunk of vat protein that it skittered across her plate. Itchy. Yes.
"So what have you learned this week, Mark?" the Countess asked him.
"Nothing you don't already know, I'm afraid. Doesn't Illyan pass you reports?"
"Yes, but due to the press of events I've only had time to glance at his analysts' synopses. In any case, there's only one piece of news I really want to hear."
Right. Encouraged, Mark began to detail his survey to her, including his data-triage and his growing convictions.
"You seem to have been quite thorough," she remarked.
He shrugged. "I now know roughly what ImpSec knows, if Illyan has been honest with me. But since ImpSec frankly doesn't know where Miles is, it's all futile. I swear . . ."
"Yes?" said the Countess.
"I swear Miles is still on Jackson's Whole. But I can't get Illyan to focus down. His attention is spread all over hell and gone. He has Cetagandans on the brain."
"There are sound historical reasons for that," said the Countess. "And current ones too, I'm afraid, though I'm sure Illyan has been cagey about confiding to you any of ImpSec's troubles not directly connected to Miles's situation. To say he's had a bad month would be a gross understatement." She hesitated too, for rather a long time. "Mark . . . you are, after all, Miles's clone-twin. As close as one human being can be to another. This conviction of yours has a passionate edge. You seem to know. Do you suppose . . . you really do know? On some level?"
"Do you mean, like, a psychic link?" he said. What an awful idea.
She nodded, faintly flushed. Bothari-Jesek looked appalled, and gave him a strange beseeching look, Don't you dare mess with her mind, you—!
This is the true measure of her desperation. "I'm sorry. I'm not psychic. Only psychotic." Bothari-Jesek relaxed. He slumped, then brightened slightly with an idea. "Though it might not hurt to let Illyan think that you think so."
"Illyan is too sturdy a rationalist." The Countess smiled sadly.
"The passion is only frustration, ma'am. No one will let me do anything."
"What is it that you wish to do?"
I want to run away to Beta Colony. The Countess would probably help him to.
. . . No. I am never running away again.
He took a breath, in place of a courage he did not feel. "I want to go back to Jackson's Whole and look for him. I could do as good a job as Illyan's other agents, I know I could! I tried the idea on him. He wouldn't bite. If he could, he'd like to lock me in a security cell."
"It's days like these poor Simon would sell his soul to make the world hold still for a while," the Countess admitted. "His attention isn't just spread right now, it's splintered. I have a certain sympathy for him."
"I don't. I wouldn't ask Simon Illyan for the time of day. Nor would he give it to me." Mark brooded. "Gregor would hint obliquely where I might look for a crono. You . . ." his metaphor extended itself, unbidden, "would give me a clock."
"If I had one, son, I'd give you a clock factory," the Countess sighed.
Mark chewed, swallowed, stopped, looked up. "Really?"
"R—" she began positively, then caution caught up with her. "Really what?"
"Is Lord Mark a free man? I mean, I've committed no crime within the Barrayaran Empire, have I? There being no law against stupidity. I'm not under arrest."
"No . . ."
"I could go to Jackson's Whole myself! Screw Illyan and his precious resources. If—" ah, the catch—he deflated slightly, "if I had a ticket," he ran down. His whole wealth, as far as he knew, was seventeen Imperial marks left from a twenty-five note the Countess had given him for spending money earlier in the week, now wadded up in his trouser pocket.
The Countess pushed her plate away and sat back, her face drained. "This does not strike me as a very safe idea. Speaking of stupidity."
"Bharaputra's probably got an execution contract out on you now, after what you did," Bothari-Jesek put in