Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [138]
"Yes, sir."
"I cannot change Dorca's law. . . ." said Gregor slowly. Count Vorkosigan, who had begun to look uneasy, relaxed again. "It saved Barrayar."
The Emperor paused a long time, awash in bafflement. Miles knew just how he felt. Miles let him stew a few moments more, until the silence was stretched taut with expectation, and Gregor was starting to get that desperate glazed look Miles recognized from his candidacy orals, of a man caught without the answer. Now.
"The Emperor's Own Dendarii Mercenaries," Miles said suggestively.
"What?"
"Why not?" Miles straightened, and turned his hands palm-out. "I'd be delighted to give them to you. Declare them a Crown Troop. It's been done."
"With horse cavalry!" said Count Vorkosigan. But his face was suddenly much lighter.
"Whatever he does with them will be a legal fiction anyway, since they are beyond his reach." Miles bowed apologetically to Gregor. "He may as well arrange it to his own maximum convenience."
"Whose maximum convenience?" inquired Count Vorhalas dryly.
"You were thinking of this as a private declaration, I trust," said Count Vorkosigan.
"Well, yes—I'm afraid most of the mercenaries would be, uh, rather disturbed to hear they'd been drafted into the Barrayaran Imperial Service. But why not put them in Captain Illyan's department? Their status would have to remain covert then. Let him figure out something useful to do with 'em. A free mercenary fleet secretly owned by Barrayaran Imperial Security."
Gregor looked suddenly more reconciled; indeed, intrigued. "That might be practical. . . ."
Count Vorkosigan's teeth glinted in a white flash of a grin, instantly suppressed. "Simon," he murmured, "will be overjoyed."
"Really?" said Gregor dubiously.
"You have my personal guarantee." Count Vorkosigan sketched a bow, sitting.
Vorhalas snorted, and eyed Miles. "You're too bloody clever for your own good, you know, boy?"
"Exactly, sir," said Miles agreeably, in a mild hysteria of relief, feeling lighter by 3000 soldiers and God knew how many tons of equipment. He had done it—the last piece glued back in its place. . . .
". . . dare play the fool with me," muttered Vorhalas. He raised his voice to Count Vorkosigan. "That only answers half my question, Aral."
Count Vorkosigan studied his fingernails, eyes alight. "True, we can't leave him running around loose. I, too, shudder to think what accidents he might commit next. He should doubtless be confined to an institution, where he would be forced to labor all day long under many watchful eyes." He paused thoughtfully. "May I suggest the Imperial Service Academy?"
Miles looked up, mouth open in an idiocy of sudden hope. All his calculations had been concentrated on wriggling out from under Vorloupulous's law. He'd scarcely dared even to dream of life afterwards, let alone such reward as this . . .
His father lowered his voice to him. "Assuming it's not beneath you—Admiral Naismith. I never did get to congratulate you on your promotion."
Miles reddened. "It was all just fakery, sir. You know that."
"All?"
"Well—mostly."
"Ah, you grow subtle, even with me . . . But you have tasted command. Can you go back to subordination? Demotions are a bitter meat to swallow." An old irony played around his mouth.
"You were demoted, after Komarr, sir. . . ."
"Broken back to captain, yes."
One corner of Miles's mouth twisted up. "I have a bionic stomach now, that can digest anything. I can handle it."
Count Vorhalas raised skeptical brows. "What sort of ensign do you think he will make, Admiral Vorkosigan?"
"I think he will make a terrible ensign," said Count Vorkosigan frankly. "But if he can avoid being strangled by his harried superiors for—er—excessive initiative, I think he might be a fine General Staff officer someday."
Vorhalas nodded reluctant agreement. Miles's eyes blazed up like bonfires, in reflection to his father's.
* * *
After two days of testimony and behind-the-scenes maneuvering, the Council vote was unanimous for acquittal. For one thing, Gregor