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"Stanis, darling. Look what we netted this time. It's that little renegade Betan who was trying to deal
stolen arms on Pol Station. It appears he isn't an independent after all." The tan and black Rangers'
uniform looked just fine on General, too, Miles noted crazily. Now would be a wonderful time to roll up
his eyes and pass out, if only he had the trick of it. General Metzov stood equally riveted, his iron-grey
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eyes ablaze sudden unholy joy. "He's no Betan, Cavie."
12
"He's a Barrayaran. And not just any Barrayaran. We've got to get him out of sight, quickly," Metzov
went on.
"Who sent him, then?" Cavilo stared anew at Miles, her lip in a dubious curl.
"God," Metzov avowed fervently. "God has delivered him into my hand." Metzov, that cheerful, was an
unusual and alarming sight. Even Cavilo raised her brow.
Metzov glanced at Gregor for the first time. "We'll take him and his bodyguard, I suppose . . ."
Metzov slowed.
The pictures on the mark-notes didn't look much like Gregory being several years out of date, but the
emperor had appeared in enough vid-casts not dressed like this, of course. . . . Miles could almost see
Metzov thinking.The face is familiar, 1 just can't place the name. . . . Maybe he wouldn't recognize
Gregor. Maybe he wouldn'tbelieve it.
Gregor, drawn up in a dignity concealing dismay, spoke for the first time. "Is this yet another of your old
friends, Miles?"
It was the measured, cultured voice that triggered the connection. Metzov's face, reddened with
excitement, drained white. He looked around involuntarily for Illyan, Miles guessed.
"Uh, this is General Stanis Metzov," Miles explained.
"The Kyril Island Metzov?"
"Yeah."
"Oh." Gregor maintained his closed reserve, nearly expressionless.
"Where is your security, sir?" Metzov demanded of Gregor, his voice harsh with unacknowledged fear.
You're looking at it,Miles mourned.
"Not far behind, I imagine," Gregor essayed, cool. "Let Us go Our way, and they will not trouble you."
"Who is this fellow?" Cavilo tapped a boot impatiently.
"What," Miles couldn't help asking Metzov, "what are you doing here?"
Metzov went grim. "How shall a man my age, stripped of his Imperial Pension his life savings live?
Did you hope I would sit down and quietly starve? Not I."
Inopportune, to remind Metzov of his grudge, Miles realized. "This . . . looks like an improvement over
Kyril Island," Miles suggested hopefully. His mind still boggled. Metzov, working under a woman? The
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internal dynamics of this command chain must be fascinating. Stanisdarling?
Metzov did not look amused.
"Who are they?"Cavilo demanded again.
"Power. Money. Strategic leverage. More than you can imagine," Metzov answered.
"Trouble," Miles put in. "More than you can imagine."
"You are a separate matter, mutant," Metzov said.
"I beg to differ, General," said Gregor in his best Imperial tones. Feeling for footing in this floating
conversation, though concealing his confusion well.
"We must take them to theKurin's Hand at once. Out of sight," said Metzov to Cavilo. He glanced at
the arrest squad. "Out of hearing. We'll continue this in private."
They marched off, escorted by the patrol. Metzov's gaze felt like a knife blade in Miles's back, prodding
and probing. They passed through several deserted docking bays till they arrived at a major one actively
servicing a ship. The command ship, judging by the number and formality of duty guards.
"Take them to Medical for questioning," Cavilo ordered the squad as they were saluted through a
personnel hatch by the officer in charge.
"Hold on that," said Metzov. He stared around the cross-corridors, almost jittering. "Do you have a
guard who's deaf and mute?"
"Hardly!" Cavilo stared indignantly at her mysteriously agitated subordinate. "To the brig, then."
"No," said Metzov sharply. Hesitating to throw the Emperor into a cell, Miles realized. Metzov turned to
Gregor and said with perfect seriousness, "May I have your parole, sire sir?"
"What?" cried Cavilo. "Have you stripped a gear, Stanis?"
"A parole," Gregor noted gravely, "is a promise given between honorable enemies. Your honor I am
willing to assume. But are you thus declaring yourself Our enemy?" Excellent bit of weaseling, Miles
approved.
Metzov's eye fell on Miles. His lips thinned. "Perhaps not yours. But you have a poor choice of favorites.
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