Young Miles - Lois McMaster Bujold [266]
Damn straight, Miles agreed with regret.
Metzov tapped his wrist comm. "I'll call you when I'm done."
"Very well, sir." The door sighed closed. The cell seemed suddenly very tiny indeed. Miles drew his legs up, sitting in a small defensive ball on his pallet. Metzov stood at ease, contemplating Miles for a long, satisfied moment, then settled himself comfortably on the bench opposite.
"Well, well," said Metzov, his mouth twisting. "What a turn of fate."
"I thought you'd be dining with the Emperor," said Miles.
"Commander Cavilo, being female, can get a little scattered under stress. When she calms down again, she'll see the need for my expertise in Barrayaran matters," said Metzov in measured tones.
In other words, you weren't invited. "You left the Emperor alone with her?" Gregor, watch your step!
"Gregor's no threat. I fear his upbringing has made him altogether weak."
Miles choked.
Metzov sat back, allowed his fingers to tap gently on his knee. "So tell me, Ensign Vorkosigan—if it is still Ensign Vorkosigan. There being no justice in the world, I suppose you've retained your rank and pay. What are you doing here? With him?"
Miles was tempted to confine himself to name, rank, and serial number, except Metzov knew all those already. Was Metzov an enemy, exactly? Of Barrayar, that is, not of Miles personally. Did Metzov divide the two in his own mind? "The Emperor became separated from his security. We hoped to regain contact with them via the Barrayaran consulate here." There, nothing in that that wasn't perfectly obvious.
"And where did you come from?"
"Aslund."
"Don't bother playing the idiot, Vorkosigan. I know Aslund. Who sent you there in the first place? And don't bother lying, I can cross-question the freighter captain."
"No, you can't. Cavilo killed him."
"Oh?" A flicker of surprise, suppressed. "Clever of her. He was the only witness to know where you went."
Had that been part of Cavilo's calculation, when she'd raised her nerve disrupter? Probably. And yet . . . the freighter captain was also the only corroborating witness who knew where they'd come from. Maybe Cavilo was not so formidable as she seemed at first glance.
"Again," Metzov said patiently—Miles could see he felt he had all the time in the world—"how did you come to be in the Emperor's company?"
"How do you think?" Miles countered, buying time.
"Some plot, of course." Metzov shrugged.
Miles groaned. "Oh, of course!" He uncurled in his indignation. "And what sane—or insane, for that matter—chain of conspiracy do you imagine accounts for our arrival here, alone, from Aslund? I mean, I know what it really was, I lived it, but what does it look like?" To a professional paranoid, that is. "I'd just love to hear it."
"Well . . ." Metzov was drawn out in spite of himself. "You have somehow separated the Emperor from his security. You must either be setting up an elaborate assassination, or planning to implement some form of personality-control."
"That's what just springs to mind, huh?" Miles thumped his back against the wall with a frustrated growl, and slumped.
"Or perhaps you're on some secret—and therefore dishonorable—diplomatic mission. Some sellout."
"If so, where's Gregor's security?" Miles sang. "Better watch out."
"So, my first hypothesis is proved."
"In that case, where's my security?" Miles snarled. Where, indeed?
"A Vorkosigan plot—no, perhaps not the Admiral's. He controls Gregor at home—"
"Thank you, I was about to point that out."
"A twisted plot from a twisted mind. Do you dream of making yourself emperor of Barrayar, mutant?"
"A nightmare, I assure you. Ask Gregor."
"It scarcely matters. The medical staff will squeeze out your secrets as soon as Cavilo gives the go-ahead. In a way, it's a shame fast-penta was ever invented. I'd enjoy breaking every bone in your body till you talked. Or screamed. You won't be able to hide behind your father's," he grinned briefly, "skirts, out here, Vorkosigan." He grew thoughtful. "Maybe I