Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

1.

The shuttle arrived in Vorbarr Sultana on time. Byerly looked around with interest as he disembarked: the shuttleport had been modernized further since the last time he’d been here, and everything glinted with electronic panels, glass, and polished metal. Enormous panoramic windows let in the gray morning light.

Spotting the public com booths, he decided not to waste any time. He took a booth, tossed his bag casually on the floor, and immersed himself in the question of real estate options.

His expression soon grew concerned. Even the shabbiest flat in Vorbarr Sultana’s residential district would cost almost the entirety of his pitiable funds. He checked his credit card just to be sure, but of course his account—tied to his father’s—was blocked. With a grimace, Byerly snapped the card in half and tossed it in the nearest garbage receptacle. Not that he actually had any intention of taking anything from that freak, but cleaning him out one last time would have been great.

Drumming his fingers thoughtfully over the table, he punched his cousin Donna’s name into the search. According to this, Donna, née Vorrutyer, was now married to one Roman Vorkester. The accompanying data entry informed Byerly that Vorkester belonged to a branch of his family tree which, if not the most senior, was at least fairly well-off. Judging by the gossip column articles that immediately popped up alongside, Donna was doing well.

Byerly wrote her number down on a card, picked up his bag, and abandoned the terminal, coat collar turned up.

Donna met him wrapped in a gilded dressing gown. This was the sole hint of her turbulent social life; her meticulously made-up face appeared fresh, and her hair lay against her shoulders in well-combed dark waves.

She yawned, “You could have shown up a little later,” and pointed him to the opposite couch. The maid poured them coffee and slipped out the door, obedient to her mistress’s nod.

“Glad to see you too,” Byerly said, earnestly. Though, if he were to be totally honest, he was equally glad to see the coffee.

Once they’d both savored their first sips, Donna said, “So?”

Byerly hesitated, not knowing which version to tell.

It had been a long time since they’d last seen each other, perhaps six years—Donna had still been with her first husband when she’d come to visit them on the coast. Most of Byerly’s memories of her were from childhood, and quite positive: he recalled games of hunters-in-the-jungle, reading aloud, sand castles on the beach.

Until he’d turned seven they’d all lived together on the Count’s family estate, him and Donna and Richars and little Lily. Then the old count had died, and the district had passed—not without mutual efforts to drown each other—to Pierre, whereupon everyone had quarreled and parted ways. Twelve-year-old Donna had been taken by the widowed countess to the capital to receive an education, By’s parents had left for their own little property on the coast, and Richars had remained in the district. By still regretted that Richars, obsessed at the time with hunting for war trophies, hadn’t tripped into some old Cetagandan war cache and broken his neck.

Going by Donna’s harsh gaze, imperiously squared shoulders, and the slightly disgusted set of mouth, she was much the same person she’d been at age twelve. By could still remember a then-seventeen-year-old Richars walking around with a lopsided grimace and a shiner covering half his face—and Donna never did tell anyone what he’d done to earn them . . .

“Ah. Now, that facial expression clearly indicates a review of fond family memories.” Donna gave a dry laugh. “Quit wallowing in nostalgia, By, and have a look at this.”

She handed him a letter printed on a plastic flimsy. Byerly felt a chill down the back of his neck.

A single diagonal glance was enough to get the picture. Ran off—debauched—don’t indulge . . .

By released the page with disgust, letting it fall to the table. “Drivel,” he commented, not lifting his lashes.

Donna crossed one leg over the other, and spent a while twisting her cup in her hands.

Well, By thought: there you go. Time to get up and leave. Better than dignifying—that—with an explanation.

Suddenly, Donna said, “Don’t go to Pierre.” By raised his eyes, and saw that her face had gone hard. “Without me. I’ll open an account for you, enough to rent a flat, but beyond that you’ll have to hustle for yourself—my husband is a bloody paranoid, first off, and anyway it’ll be good for you. I’ll take you to see Pierre in a few days, for breakfast. Brainwashing my dear brother is best done in private, these days his head isn’t all there. For now you’ll go with Kristof, my chauffeur. He’ll buy everything you need, and help with the lease, since your sweet face has ‘I’m a provincial oaf, rob me blind!’ written all over it. Now buzz off; I still mean to get some sleep today.” With that she rose, and By, scattered, did too.

Only when he was already at the door did he stop and look back. Kristof the driver waited outside; Donna was scribbling something into her portable com, and gave an impatient quirk of her brows at his hesitation.

“Donna, I—” By broke off. His throat squeezed shut, and it was only with a great effort that he managed to force out the rest. “I really didn’t. I never did anything like that to Lily.”

There was a long silence. Finally Donna said, “Idiot,” not unkindly.

Scarlet with shame, Byerly shot out the door.

He greeted the evening seated at one the little restaurant-diners in the old part of the city, where the rock-solid Kristof had found him a small charming flat. The neighborhood, though run-down, was considered trendy among the Vorbarr Sultana youth. Byerly sat with his back to the counter, glass in his hands, and observed the group of young people engaged in a lively chatter at the big table by the window, all to a one dressed in bizarre woolly jackets in frivolous colors. Several older men dined under the window opposite; these were more sensibly dressed, but with a calculated negligence about their person that similarly betrayed in them something of the local beau monde.

The diner had also been shown to him by Kristof. Taciturn, effectual, and unflappable, Kristof topped it all off by being handsome, tall and fair-haired with watchful gray eyes. Not for the first time, By wondered whether Donna was sleeping with him—he certainly would, in her place.

He smiled crookedly to himself, and finished off his cognac. (Who could have guessed that the aristocratic swill of the capital would turn out to be so vile!) The accusations that his father had chosen to believe were made all the more laughable by the simple fact that Byerly had always liked boys better than girls, but of course that wasn’t argument he could’ve used in his defense.

Though that did rouse a suspicion. Could those filthy allegations have come from his old classmate Karel Topoleff, who’d spent half an autumn crudely harassing him, and been equally crudely rebuffed? Anyone could have seen him out walking with Lily, seen how tenderly they cared for each other . . . Or maybe it had been one of her admirers? Who knew. It hardly mattered now, anyway.

The holovid on the wall winked with a blue splash screen, signaling the beginning of the evening news. There was a brief shot of the council chamber of the Council of Counts, then they showed the Regent. Lord Vorkosigan was collected, austere, commanding. He was smiling, speaking earnestly into the microphone, but the sound on the holovid was turned off, and By could only guess at what was being said.

In this he was aided by two gentlemen who had just sat down further along the counter. They were discussing the broadcast; By pricked up his ears.

“—probably telling them how everything’s coming up roses, and how everything’s ready for the transfer of power to Emperor Gregor after the coronation.”

“Less than a year left—what post d’you suppose Vorkosigan is going to assume after that? Will he return to the fleet?”

“Ha! Who in their right mind would let that kind of power slip out of their hands? They say Emperor Gregor’s his lapdog.”

“Suppose the young emperor gives him the boot? There are other advisors to be found in the government, after all . . .”

Just then there was an explosion of laughter at the table of the Bizarre Jackets, and Byerly’s attention was diverted. He didn’t know much about politics, and when it came to high politics—even less. In theory Lord Aral Vorkosigan was Byerly’s quasi-uncle by way of his first marriage, but neither side liked to recall that particular piece of family history. These days Vorkosigan was married to a Betan who’d given him a mutant son a few years younger than By, which was the sum total of Byerly’s knowledge about the man. That being said, he could probably count on Donna not to leave him in the dark about affairs in the capital.

One of the Jackets suddenly glanced in his direction. To hell with it all, By decided, and gave the stranger a shy smile, slightly raising his glass.

This promised to be an interesting evening.

It wasn’t that Byerly had intended, in setting out for Vorbarr Sultana, to sink to the bottom as quickly as possible. Upon examining his face in the mirror the following morning, however, he was forced to congratulate himself on outstanding achievement in that particular field.

Aside from By himself the mirror showed the partially ajar door into the bedroom, where his new friend (God, what was his name?) was currently hopping around on one foot, struggling to squeeze into his foppish too-narrow trousers. Byerly averted his gaze, meeting his own eyes in the mirror. Dark circles had set in underneath, but on the whole he didn’t look too bad, especially considering how much he’d drunk. He ran his hand over his chin, and, assured that there was still nothing whatsoever to shave, gave a sigh. His new acquaintance, meanwhile, pulled on his hideous jacket.

The lighthearted Later, darling! from the hall was lost under the sound of the water as By turned on the shower. He didn’t regret last night in the least, but he was always drawn to solitude in the mornings.

So, let’s take stock, he thought, distractedly lathering on soap. What had he achieved? A little flat in Vorbarr Sultana, for one, and becoming acquainted with an interesting crowd for another. Losing his virginity, for a third.

He snorted, and felt his backside. Who would’ve thought that everything was so . . . simple, here in the capital. Back on the coast exhibiting such tendencies could result in being persecuted, or even make one a target of attempted rape, as with Topoleff of unfond memory. Here, meanwhile, Fred (ah, that’s right, that was his name) had gone from winking to getting down to business in no time flat. At the party they’d headed to after the restaurant—where they’d downed several strong drinks and consumed several of the suspicious pastries—Fred’s hand had already been hanging constantly about By’s waist, and starting to slink even lower.

Byerly hadn’t minded, especially as by that point he’d started to experience brief lapses of reality. For example, he couldn’t remember just how they’d wound up tucked into the nook between doors where Fred’s lips had proved so insistent below his belt, or at what point in the night they had transposed themselves to By’s flat (or, more importantly, how he’d managed to find it while in such a state).

At that point the effect of the alcohol (or whatever else) must have begun to wear off, because Byerly remembered with perfect clarity how Fred had tipped him delicately into the bed, and taken it upon himself to undress him—and also how he, Byerly, had nearly torn all the buttons off of Fred’s shirt in his desire to return the favor.

That had been all right. They’d kissed and touched each other, and that had been very nice; and then there was another gap in By’s memory, and the next thing he’d known was being facedown in the pillows with a prick up his ass, listening to Fred’s quiet exhortations. Well, in general Fred had been right: it hadn’t particularly hurt, but it hadn’t been very pleasant, either. Still, afterward Fred had jerked him off, and they’d gone to bed friends.

Not bad for a first experience, By decided, and turned off the water. Next up: the substantial problem of where to go from here.

He’d already thoroughly missed the school year, he thought a while later, as he rummaged through his kitchen cabinets in search of anything edible (or, failing that, coffee). Frankly, he didn’t want to go to school anyway; his only associations with the Marennes polytechnical college, from which he’d fled and which all west coast youth attended, were boredom and sexual harassment.

He fished a box of tea out of the depths of the cabinet, and dove in for a second pass, this time in search of a teapot.

He needed to ask Donna to write to Lily, to tell her that he was all right. His own letters were unlikely to get past the systemic blockade within his father’s mansion. Fine, he told himself. Lily would be all right; she was already sixteen, after all, and anyway it had been her who’d insisted that he leave.

Thoughtlessly, Byerly traced the edge of the cezve he’d unearthed from the cabinet, having already forgotten that the only thing he’d discovered thus far was tea, not coffee.

He felt very alone.

Judging from his sour expression, Pierre wasn’t very happy to see them. Donna was unbothered; over breakfast she and Pierre discussed the news, while Byerly ate in silence. It was mostly everything he’d already seen on the newsvid—a reception by Vor-this, another by Vor-that, a philanthropic gala, the latest session of the Council of Counts, Emperor Gregor’s coronation—but Donna described each event with such profound irony that By kept having to choke down laughter. Pierre threw him disapproving looks.

The young and asocial Count Pierre Vorrutyer was currently thirty-six years old. He had never been married; something always seemed to happen to his brides. By, for his part, felt less sympathy for Pierre than for whatever lovely young lady would eventually become his Countess. Everyone in the family knew that Pierre had a difficult character, poor health, and a total lack of talent for running the district. In light of these facts By was of the opinion that there really wasn’t any point in appearing before the man, but Donna had adamantly declared that Byerly would thank her later, and then hung up on him. Five minutes later there’d been the honk of a familiar automobile out front, the imperturbable Kristof at the wheel.

In any case, everything went all right at breakfast. It was only over coffee that things went south, when Pierre pulled a face and asked, “So tell me, how am I to take Uncle Michael’s letter?” He threw a momentary glance towards Byerly, who found himself struggling to swallow around his last bite. By carefully set down his cup on its saucer, and straightened up.

Donna emit a vaguely contemptuous sound. “You don’t mean to say you actually believed that nonsense? Uncle dear has always had an—imagination.”

Pierre drawled, “Oh, yeah?” Once again, he fixed By with a disapproving gaze. “Because I heard that it’s him who has the—imagination.” Pierre’s sharp chin inclined menacingly in By’s direction. “Michael’s always complaining that his son hangs about disreputable establishments, and doesn’t want to study.”

By could feel the heat of shame and fury creeping into his face. Pierre could hardly have a complete picture of him, given that he heard the complaints from his uncle perhaps once a year. And still he was ready to judge, ready to believe . . .

“All teenagers hang around disreputable establishments and don’t want to study.” Donna dismissed this with a wave of her hand.

Pierre frowned. “Yes, but if he really—”

Byerly stood, checking the table with his hip. The china cups clinked tragically.

“Sir,” he said, in a voice tight with fury, “they say lots of things about you, too, believe me. But permit me one question, sir.” He hesitated momentarily, filling his lungs, and then bent across the table, looming over Pierre. “Would you sleep with your sister?”

Pierre choked. Donna made an indeterminate noise.

“Think hard about that one, sir, before you pass judgement on me,” By finished almost calmly.

And walked out of the living room.

Half an hour later he received a call from Donna.

“Well, you certainly made a scene. Though I can’t say that it wasn’t effective,” she said, studying his grim expression, and By caught a note of approval in her voice. “In any event, Pierre will pay for your education, so take yourself in hand, and hit the books.”

Byerly scowled. The urge to fling the com out the window was still very strong.

He was seriously considering cutting the call when Donna added, “Lily says to tell you ‘hello.’ ”

She flashed an ironic smile, and disconnected. The com blinked over to the standard screensaver.

By stared at it until the screen went dark.

2.

Byerly did not, of course, go to school. Right from the start he was greatly demoralized by the entrance exams (the Imperial Service Academy was decidedly not the district college) and then it turned out that he had little chance of passing the medical, anyway, as the preliminary screening revealed some degree of dystrophy. This came as a considerable surprise to Byerly, since while he was, of course, skinny, he’d also never been one to turn his nose up at a meal.

There was a way out of this problem: protein shakes, hitting the gym, grueling workouts . . . at first By actually thought about doing it, so as to spite his father by exiting the Academy a proud, handsome soldier (admittedly, after Uncle Ges the Vorrutyers’ military uniform was also slightly stained, but one could always look up to great-grandfather, right?) but then Fred rematerialized beside him at dinner, and By discovered that there were more interesting things in the world.

Carousing with the Jackets (whom Byerly privately continued to think of as such) brought him many new acquaintances, and not just among the capital’s high society. During breaks in between revels the screen of his com would invariably light up with Donna (often herself the cause of the break) who would take him out to an evening at one of the Vor salons. By met a couple of charming debutantes, then their equally charming brothers (not all of whom made such pleasant acquaintances) had to be carried home from a party (he recalled the rough texture of Kristof’s uniform jacket against his cheek as the man carried him over-the-shoulder back to the car) and then had the good fortune to catch the eye of the relatively young, and very rich, widow Vorgrigorov. For half the summer Vorgrigorov whisked him away to her residence in the country, and there fed him on cheese and wine, usually directly in bed—and so By never did gain any weight.

September came, and Pierre received the disappointing news that his cousin had failed to be admitted anywhere. There was a minor scandal, during which By lost his stipend, and also became convinced that the Count really was somewhat mentally unwell. Donna looked at him with a mixture of sympathy and accusation; By remained careless, counting on his widow, but soon discovered that even the most vigorous tomatoes wither in autumn. Thus he soon found himself back at the very same restaurant where it had all started, once again sitting alone, a glass of still-vile cognac in hand.

Unfortunately, beneath the silly difficulties of his bacchanal life lay a far more serious cause for despondency: Lily didn’t write to him. Save for the greeting passed on by Donna shortly after his arrival in Vorbarr Sultana, he hadn’t had a word from her in six months. In response to his inquiries Donna gave the unchanging answer that all was well with his sister. He tried to believe that Lily was refraining from contact with him for his own good, or at least hers—after all, who knew what she was dealing with from their father, now that By was gone—but he wasn’t much good at persuading himself. He was lonely and miserable, and even the cognac failed to help.

He was just thinking about where to acquire something more substantial when Gruber sat down next to him.

They were nodding acquaintances by way of the Jackets, but Byerly had never liked Gruber; against the broader bohemian backdrop he seemed somehow simple. He probably didn’t have anything in the way of narcotics, either.

The newsvid was showing the regent again; only half a month remained until the coronation. Byerly stared at the vid screen—not that he was terribly interested, but it ought to serve as a clear enough demonstration of his opinion of Gruber.

. . . Or not. Gruber sprawled casually in a nearby chair, and said, “Heard your girlfriend dumped you, hmm?”

By raised an eyebrow, copying Gruber’s impudent look. The opening was so brazen that it distracted him from his black thoughts, which was what he needed. “Which girlfriend are you referring to?”

Gruber barked a laugh. “Ah, that’s right, you’re a playboy. Well, will you at least admit that you’ve been denied your allowance? You’ve only got one cousin who happens to be a count.” His gaze suddenly became disturbingly sharp.

By tensed. “What do you want, Gruber?” The question was blunt, which told him that the last glass of cognac had probably been in excess—normally he was capable of giving someone the shove rather more gracefully. But not when he was this drunk.

“Me?” Gruber looked like a cat who’d gotten the cream, and Byerly was liking this less and less. “Maybe it’s you who needs something. Money, say.”

“I don’t fuck for money,” grit out Byerly—through his teeth, but very clearly. He wanted to get up, but found that his legs were disinclined to cooperate.

This time Gruber’s laugh was low and insulting. “Ah, of course, what else would our golden boy be thinking of! Like I need you for that. It’s not your ass I’m interested in, kid, it’s your head. Will you listen?”

Byerly, who had just finished his review of his bodily systems and determined that said body wasn’t currently going anywhere, shot Gruber a look of disgust and let out a gloomy sigh.

As it turned out, within ten minutes it became apparent that Gruber really didn’t want anything like that from him. Still sprawling in his chair, he questioned Byerly with idle curiosity about the salons to which Donna had introduced him. After answering about a dozen stupid questions along the lines of which salon was currently the most popular, what topics of discussion were the most trendy, and where one could find the most ladies, Byerly broke into a nasty chuckle, giving Gruber a pitying look:

“What, are you looking for a Vor lady bride? Don’t get your hopes up. Vor daughters are picky these days, even I hardly get a backward glance.”

Gruber pursed his lips and made a rude noise. “Comparing apples to oranges! Here’s you, the penniless youngster, expelled with a bang from the third branch of the family, and then there’s me, a moneyed man in the prime of my life . . .”

This so amused Byerly that he didn’t even bother to think about who Gruber actually was.

The next time they met rather more purposefully; Gruber called Byerly directly, and offered to go out for drinks. By, having once again been read the riot act by Donna and thus running dry, was grateful for the invitation.

Gruber was already waiting for him when By entered the restaurant. On the table before him was a weeping decanter filled with some kind of tincture, and an enormous roast intricately garnished with herbs. Upon seeing him Gruber stuck two green onion sprouts onto his teeth in the manner of fangs, and pulled a gruesomely welcoming face. By rolled his eyes.

The conversation once again drifted to the topic of the salons held by Donna’s girlfriends. After asking whether the young Lady Vortrifani had a nice bosom, Gruber—thoughtfully tracing the countertop with the tip of his knife—asked, “And what about Lady Vorhalas? Ever visit with her?”

“Out of my league, and older than Donna by ten years besides.” Byerly shrugged, surprised. “What do you need her for? What, have you fallen in love with her?”

“Sure,” Gruber agreed, absently. “Fell for her the moment I set eyes on her at the last Winterfair Ball, not a moment of peace since. Tell you what,” his gaze grew sharp, “try and get in with her, eh? Ask her sister. I’ll owe you one.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger expressively together.

Byerly, too baffled and intrigued to refuse this dubious offer, nodded.

Things continued in this way until close to the coronation. Byerly told Gruber the goings-on in the Vor salons, and Gruber treated him to drinks. Byerly gradually went from thinking that Gruber was searching for a bride to suspecting that he was the point man for a gang of burglars, which perturbed him slightly; but for now the capital remained quiet, and managed without any burglaries.

Rather to his own surprise, he wound up attending the coronation. Pierre, having spent all autumn as a recluse, suddenly developed an inexplicable desire to show off his family’s greatness; Byerly, dressed in his Vorrutyer house uniform, stood at Pierre’s back throughout the ceremony and had an excellent view.

The young emperor was even more good-looking in person than in the holovids, and beside him the Lord Regent—a large, graying man—struck an imposing figure. The air thrummed with nervous energy, peaking at last after building for months ahead of the coronation. Byerly recalled the many varied predictions voiced in the Vor salons. The Lord Regent would not cede the throne. The Lord Regent would declare a military coup. Emperor Gregor would be shot during the ceremony, like that one president from ancient Earth . . .

But no, By thought, watching the crowd, it couldn’t be that easy. His vision suddenly changed, rather like looking at a three-dimensional work of art—at first glance you might see only a mishmash of colors, and then something would shift, and you’d see a butterfly, or an elephant. He noticed that besides the guardsmen in the crowd there were also, here and there, a number of very expressionless, very ordinary, yet markedly focused individuals. Of course: ImpSec.

As if in answer to his thoughts, a thin man in parade red-and-blues with Horus eyes on the collar briefly appeared from behind a pillar. He cast an oddly vague gaze across the chamber, and exchanged barely-perceptible nods with the Lord Regent.

It was only a moment later that Byerly realized he’d just seen Simon Illyan himself.

At the reception he was approached by Richars. They’d last seen each other at Winterfair, at a family gathering at the mansion on the west coast, just a couple months before By had been kicked out. Since then he’d managed to avoid Richars in the capital, but this time there was nowhere to retreat. He gave his cousin a glum look.

“Well met, Byerly!” declaimed Richars, peering at him with a taxidermist’s curiosity. “You’ve changed! Grown up, have you?”

By took the opportunity to return the once-over. Richars was just over thirty; his Service uniform fit him perfectly, and captain’s tabs glinted on his collar. Richars served on the General Staff, and was, by the looks of things, doing well.

“Hello, cousin.” Byerly didn’t bother feigning a smile. “I see congratulations are in order?” He nodded towards Richars’s collar.

Richars burst into laughter. “Ah, you’re behind the times, my little By! My promotion was over half year ago.” He moved slightly nearer, dropping his voice to a confidential tone. “Around the same time you were kicked out of the house, in fact. What happened there, lad?”

Richars’s tendency to contort himself into the image of a sweet uncle drove By up the wall.

“It just turned out that way,” he said, gently baring his teeth.

“Ah. And what, you’ve not heard from the family in all this time? Even about the wedding?” Richars smiled sympathetically.

By’s heart went cold. Very slowly, he asked, “What wedding?”

“But, my dear boy!” His cousin nearly made a splash with his hands. “Lily’s wedding!”

By stared at Richars in disbelief, frozen. What . . . ?

“Hm.” Richars frowned, looking genuinely puzzled. “They didn’t even tell you? Lily was married off in the beginning of spring, to a charming rich Vor from the South Continent. Barely a month after your . . . departure. I heard they’re doing well. Well enough that you’ll soon have a nephew! Speaking of which, By . . .” Richars leaned in to speak directly into Byerly’s ear; Byerly was rigid. “If you really did fuck your sister, maybe it won’t be your nephew, eh?”

Blind rage swept over By. He couldn’t remember swinging, but it didn’t matter—Richars easily caught the fist aimed at his jaw.

“Now, now—starting a fight at the Emperor’s coronation, that’s a bad idea,” Richars hissed, squeezing his fingers around By’s wrist until the skin went white. “Keep yourself in line, boy.”

Releasing his wrist, Richars stepped away, gave him a mocking nod, and vanished into the crowd.

By stared furiously after him.

Some day, he thought, he was definitely going to kill him.

Having apparently spotted the trouble from the across the buffet, Donna came over to join him.

“If you let it get to you every time something slithers off Richars’s vile tongue, you’ll find yourself in the madhouse,” she told him. “In keeping with the finest traditions of our family. Here, have a drink.”

Byerly took a mindless gulp of what she handed him. The sparkling wine tasted sour in his mouth.

“Our Richars,” Donna went on, “has started putting on airs, ever since he joined the war hawks. The war party, don’t you know! Well, the higher our dear cousin climbs, the farther he’ll have to fall. And I have no doubt,” her eyes flashed, “that eventually he will slip in his own shit, and fall.”

“Donna,” Byerly interrupted, a faint tremor in his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me? About Lily?”

He looked up at her; Donna bit her lip.

“You all knew, didn’t you? You, Pierre, Richars—everyone knew, but nobody told me anything!”

“Pierre spits on everything from the top of a tall belfry, this included, believe me. As for you . . .” She was momentarily silent. “Lily herself asked me not to tell you. To conceal it as long as possible.”

“But why?!” A nearby group of ladies startled, and By realized that he was shouting. He took a step back.

Donna grimaced. “I’d recommend that you ask her yourself, but I’m afraid it’s already late in the night on the South Continent. And I doubt her husband would appreciate it.”

Byerly flinched.

“Why,” he demanded quietly, with muleheaded obstinacy, “why did they marry her off? She’s only sixteen!”

Now it was Donna’s eyes that blazed with anger. “Perhaps to cover up this whole revolting scandal. To save her reputation. Agh!” A sharp wave of her hand. “You wouldn’t understand. You, like any man, can spoil as many chickens as you like, and the worst thing that will ever happen to you is being forced to marry used goods. For a Vor woman, reputation is everything. Your father was delighted when Richars found him an out . . . Try spending less time thinking about yourself, why don’t you! The world doesn’t revolve around you, By!”

She turned sharply on her heel, and left him. Byerly, twisting his empty glass mindlessly in his hands, was left to contemplate what he’d heard.

He could understand all of it, except for one thing. Why hadn’t Lily told him?

Why hadn’t she told him anything?

3.

Byerly hit the bottle, and was only forced to resurface from drowning his sorrows a week later, when he simultaneously ran out of food, money, and alcohol.

The discovery was distinctly unpleasant. By sat for a while in the first available chair in the kitchen, then stood and went to the window. On the other side of the glass—which could really use a wash—was an indistinguishable twilight, either early pre-winter morning or oncoming night.

The kitchen reeked stupefyingly of coffee; he’d spilled it while digging around in the cabinets in search of alcohol. Byerly’s gaze dropped to his little automatic coffeemaker, one of the first things he’d bought in the capital, and he licked his dry lips.

A couple of hours later he was back at the kitchen table, grimacing as he reviewed his triumphs over the past several days. Throw a tantrum at Donna, check. Cease looking human, check. Make three attempts to call his sister, only to run headlong into the answering machine each time—check . . .

His teaspoon tinked against the saucer as he set it down. He’d washed up and made himself reasonably fresh, but his hands still shook. His stomach gave a traitorous rumble.

Listening closely to the moans of his body, he decided to begin his return to life by addressing the most pressing needs first.

On the way to his much-favored restaurant By tried Gruber’s com several times, but Gruber didn’t answer. He wasn’t to be found at the establishment itself, either.

A problem was brewing. Byerly spent about ten minutes trying to persuade the barman to put the meal on his tab, but the barman—most unexpectedly—produced an already rather impressive bill for drinks from earlier in the week, still unpaid. Byerly couldn’t remember coming to the diner to drink, but the barman’s sour expression in response to his clarifying questions confirmed his worst fears. In particular, it turned out Gruber hadn’t fallen off the radar without reason: rather, it was because the last time they’d drunk together By had flown into a rage, and slugged him across the face.

By wanted to complain that he didn’t remember that, either, but thought better of it.

He could’ve called Fred, but a careful inquiry with the barman confirmed that he’d managed to quarrel with the Jackets, too. That left a couple Vor friends from Donna’s circle, but the thought of having to endure their questioning about the row with Richars made him wilt.

Two options left: call Donna, or call Pierre.

He was just mulling over the question of which option repulsed him more when a young man he’d never met approached the counter.

“Excuse me.” The guy’s smile was soft and a little shy. “I was just sitting over there, and couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. My apologies if I’m intruding, but”—he dropped his gaze, then looked back up, clear gray eyes meeting By’s—“perhaps you’d permit me to treat you?”

Over the course of the next hour Byerly learned that the young man was named Karl Schweiger, and had only recently moved to Vorbarr Sultana—his slight northern accent had yet to dissipate after several months in the city. He was twenty, though he looked about seventeen: elegant, slender, with soft ashy hair and clear pale skin. Apparently he’d moved into the neighborhood only a week ago, just in time to catch Byerly’s bender.

“I’m usually better-behaved,” Byerly told him, with a pained smile. Dessert was just being served. “I was just—having some personal difficulties.”

“Oh-h,” drew out Karl, but didn’t pry. Byerly appreciated his tact, and changed the subject, inquiring whether it was the Imperial Service Academy that brought a young provincial to the capital.

“Oh, no,” Karl laughed. “I have no interest in military accolades. I program com systems, and dare to hope that I’ve attained certain heights in the field.”

The color of Karl’s credit card soon persuaded Byerly that the young man really did earn a good living. Towards the end of lunch they were almost friends, so By offered his services as a guide to the neighborhood, and they went out for a stroll, only to be driven into another bar by the starting snow.

Karl laughed, his cheeks gone pink from the cold. They downed hot wine and went out again, and wandered the neighborhood until it grew dark, alternating between the streets and warming up in the local bars and cafes.

After dinner Karl invited By over for a glass or two, and By didn’t decline—after all, the only thing waiting for him at home was a spectacular mess.

Karl’s flat proved to be on one of the neighboring side streets, not far from Byerly’s own home. It was slightly smaller, with more modern furnishings; after their long walk Byerly particularly appreciated the charms of the deep ergonomic chair with its subtle massage mode. And when Karl brought him a glass of cognac, well, life became truly heavenly.

So as to return the courtesy, Byerly continued to ask questions about Karl’s job. Karl blossomed immediately in response, and began to chatter. Alas, of his speeches By understood little, saturated as they were with technical terms; Karl then picked up his com-tablet and came to sit on By’s armrest, the better to demonstrate his beautiful, full-color three-dimensional models, of which By understood even less.

More cognac was drunk. Upon opening yet another programming masterwork Karl swayed in his seat, and, laughing, slid into Byerly’s lap.

Those gray eyes were were trimmed with fair eyelashes. This close, By could see the faint smattering of freckles across Karl’s white skin. His lips were slick, neither thin nor plump, and it seemed to By perfectly natural to lean in and taste them.

As always when he was drunk, the reality of what was happening arrived on a delay. Only when he was already kissing Karl did it occur to him that it was very likely he was about to be punched—but Karl defied his expectations, and responded readily to the kiss, twining his arms around By’s neck.

The tablet slid somewhere off to the side, but they paid it no heed. Byerly was far too occupied with the feeling of another’s weight across his lap. Like with a girl, but . . . better. A heady feeling washed over him, and a moment later it came to him that the feeling was power.

Karl’s clothes were quickly discarded; By had never had any issues with coordination, even while drunk. That made things better still: Karl was now sitting in his lap face to face, and By could stroke and caress his lithe and yielding body. Schweiger moaned, pressing into By’s rough touch, and tried to undo his pants. When his efforts met with success, it was Byerly’s turn to groan. Karl took both their cocks in his fist and threw back his head, biting his lip; his fingers seemed to know what By liked better than By did himself.

For a while after that Byerly still tried to maintain control, pulling the impassioned Schweiger closer and kissing his laughing lips. But at some point Karl’s hand disappeared, and then he was lifting himself up—

Byerly moaned low, feeling his cock slide in between Karl’s slick buttocks, the head slipping effortlessly inside. It felt so tight, so sweet . . . By grasped at Karl’s shoulders, and slowly, insistently, lowered him onto himself.

The sharp exhalation he let out through his teeth mingled with Karl’s long, strangled moan. For a moment they were both still, By’s fingers digging into white skin, Karl’s forehead resting against his own; then they started to move. Carefully, in unison, in answer to each other, and it was so good and it just kept getting better and better . . .

They must have both lost their heads, surrendering to feverish, greedy thrusts that brought them rapidly to completion. By came back to himself with his cheek pressed against Karl’s shoulder; Karl lay on top of him in the same relaxed pose. Black circles drifted before By’s eyes, and he could still feel the aftershocks of the pleasure he’d just survived ringing throughout his body.

“Shower,” Karl mumbled, “then bed.”

Soft cool lips touched his cheek, and By realized that his own lips were spread in a foolish grin.

It turned out to be exactly what By needed. Byerly ate, slept, fucked with Karl, and watched him work. Karl was gentle, cheerful, and unimposing; and it wasn’t that Byerly was in love, no, but . . . he managed to almost not think about Lily; about how she must have had the child, by now.

A couple weeks later Karl proudly reported that he’d been entrusted with some incredibly high-responsibility project fixing internal com systems, and that going forward they’d only see each other in the evenings, but By could move in with him, if he wanted. By, already used to falling asleep next to Karl following a round of good sex, wasn’t about to refuse.

Another week went by in this way, though subjectively it seemed to By like a year. Time flowed slowly, absent tasks to catch against, and Byerly—spending entire days in his much-loved deep armchair with a com tablet—kept well out of its way. He read the ancient epic The Odyssey, and felt happy.

On the very day when By happened to be finishing the last page, the melodic jingle of the security system alerted him of its owner’s return. By stretched, anticipating an excellent next stage to the evening, but when Karl appeared in the door he was pale and rumpled. He gave By a silent look, eyes glinting feverishly, and took to pulling off his frost-rimed scarf. His hands, red from the cold, didn’t seem to want to obey him.

By tensed. “What happened?” he asked.

He came up to Karl and helped his lover out of the scarf. He would’ve done the same with his coat, but Karl jerked suddenly back, pulling free of his grasp.

“I have to run, By,” he whispered. “They’re coming after me.”

He threw himself into collecting his things, haphazard, grabbing one thing after another. By froze, then followed after him.

“Who’s coming after you? Karl, stop and tell me what’s going on.”

Karl ignored him. Swinging by the bedroom, he threw his com-links into a bag, then flung it aside with a moan. By caught him by the hands.

“Karl!” By gave him a slight shake. “Tell me what happened, and I’ll help you.”

“Help—? Oh, but that’s right, your cousin’s a count!” For an instant Karl’s face lit with desperate hope, but it went out again just as fast. “No. Even a count won’t save me from them.”

Suddenly he grabbed By’s hands, and looked pleadingly into his face.

“It was a bad job, By. I realized right away, but I kept doing it, anyway. I hacked the internal network of the Imperial Treasury.” His eyes were huge; for that matter, by this point so were By’s. “ImpSec caught the break-in. They don’t know yet exactly who pulled it off, but it’s just a matter of time. I have to get off planet. Come with me, By!” His lips trembled. “We’ll run to Jackson’s Whole—the client gave me a generous advance payment—please, By!”

Byerly swallowed. Karl had cleaned out the Imperial Treasury? And he wanted to run?

He took a deep breath.

“Listen, Karl,” he said, in his most calming tone. “If you turn yourself in and tell the truth, it won’t be so bad. After all, the real responsibility lies with the client! But if you run—that would be treason. Treason against the Imperium. They won’t forgive you for that.”

“No! You’re Vor, you don’t understand . . .” Karl emit a hysterical laugh, twisting away again. “Nothing would happen to you, to a Vorrutyer. Me, they’ll send to the mines.”

He resumed packing. Byerly watched him with worry. He wasn’t going to join Karl in his flight, of course, but to just let him go . . . ? There was no question that to do so would make him complicit. How far was he willing to go, for the sake of what they’d shared?

For some reason, By found himself recalling the young Emperor, good-looking and tense, the way he’d been when By had seen him at the coronation.

“Karl—” his voice failed him without warning, and he cleared his throat. “You can’t go. I’ll tie you up, if I have to.”

Karl froze, bent over his bag. Then he turned; his gaze seemed to pierce right through Byerly, straight into his heart.

“No, By,” Karl whispered, pleading. “Don’t give me up to them. For the sake of everything we had.”

As calmly as he could, By said, “You don’t understand. The Imperial Treasury is—pensions for veterans. It’s free medicine, it’s food for orphans. If you turn yourself in now, there’s still a chance to fix all of this. ImpSec will figure out who ordered it, get the money back. You mustn’t run.”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Karl’s voice faded. He bent even lower over his bag.

By, seized by hope, stepped closer. Karl shrugged his shoulders, turned—

And Byerly saw the muzzle aimed his chest.

There wasn’t, of course, time to do anything about it. There was a white flash; the room swayed, and then tilted on its axis. Belatedly, By realized he was on the floor. Theoretically he was lying on top of soft carpet, but he could hardly feel it. All he could do was watch as Karl came over to him and lowered himself to his knees, then reached over to check Byerly’s pulse.

Still watching By’s face, he pulled out his com-link, and said into it: “It’s over.”

The door hissed open, and a few seconds later By saw somebody’s boots. Then an unexpectedly familiar voice spoke overhead.

“Not bad, all things considered,” Gruber said. “But indecisive, and his reaction was bloody useless.”

“That’s easily fixed!” Karl replied cheerfully.

By was picked up and moved into a chair. Gruber entered his field of vision, loading some kind of ampule into a hypospray.

Horrified, By wondered, Are they going to question me? Kill me? But there was no pain after the hypospray touched his inner elbow; instead he felt a rush of energy, and his body began to sting—the stun was starting to wear off.

Karl leaned over him, carefully touching his face. By flinched away. Better to look at Gruber, than at—the traitor.

Gruber gave him a sympathetic smirk, and that was when By finally noticed the thing that he’d failed to notice from the beginning of today’s encounter.

Gruber was dressed in the dark green uniform of the Service, with silver Horus-eyes on the collar.

Chapter Text

1.

Later Byerly was able to look back on it all and laugh. How he’d wanted to beat up Gruber! How he’d shouted at them both! How guiltily Karl had smiled, with hidden amusement in his eyes . . .

As it turned out, Karl, whose name was actually Antoine, had a fiancée. Checking Byerly was to be his last assignment of this type. This news cut Byerly unexpectedly deep: he expended all of his willpower on concealing his hurt, and thus took the rest in with relative equanimity.

Gruber offered him a job with ImpSec, which was flattering. Of course, Byerly understood that internal affairs were nothing like honorable military intelligence, or the naïve spy adventures of the fictional James Vorbond; internal affairs were a dirty business. But it was suddenly clear to him that his coming to the capital, his unwillingness to enter the Academy, his wandering—all of it was just an attempt to run away from himself. From the pain of everything that had happened back home.

And that maybe Gruber was giving him a better chance than the one offered by Donna and Pierre.

He agreed. Gruber explained the task, which was, with the benefit of hindsight, obvious in any case: Byerly was to provide information from among Vor circles of middle rank. Thanks to Donna, Pierre, and his own last name, there were many doors open to him that were impassible to a prole—even one who’d managed to climb the social ladder.

The assignment was simple, but in practice proved to be fascinating. Prone since childhood to people-watching, By listened, watched, and remembered; occasionally, on Gruber’s orders, he would drop a topic or two into conversation, and analyze the results.

It wasn’t as though he’d never been aware of the complexity of Barrayaran social structure, but only now did he manage to get a good look at the many variable layers which permeated society. Political parties, social movements, trade unions, communities of interest, circles of family and friends . . . He discovered that the officer class, these days comprised of more than sixty percent proles, offered a rather active resistance to the Vor institution; that the old leader of the Isolationist Party genuinely believed that they ought to blow up Barrayar’s only wormhole; and that the true levers of influence upon the Vor were, oddly enough, largely in the hands of women, who always knew who ought to be married to whom.

In the meantime, the political landscape had changed—though some insisted that nothing had changed at all. Barely a month after Lord Vorkosigan laid down his powers as regent, Prime Minister Vortala handed in his resignation, and by Imperial edict Vorkosigan took his post.

The public reaction was entirely predictable: many said that Vorkosigan had pressured Vortala, or even the Emperor himself. Byerly, however, had just recently encountered the former prime minister at an official function, and seen with his own eyes that Vortala truly wasn’t well. Byerly didn’t know how old Vortala was, but he wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that the geezer had been born prior to the Cetagandan invasion.

Whatever the reason, the most important post in the government was assumed by the former regent. There were several other rearrangements, causing some to grumble that Vorkosigan was packing the government with his own people. The changes were particularly apparent in the Council of Counts, where the split between factions became still more pronounced; some joined the Centrist coalition, while others relinquished neutrality in favor of aligning themselves with the Conservatives. The war hawks party attracted more and more Vor.

To find out what was so great about these hawks, By made a great personal sacrifice: he feigned a reconciliation with Richars. The setting was the reception held by Count Vorsmythe; Richars was drunk, and therefore shamelessly chatty. From his long-winded speeches By gathered that the war hawks were opposed to the supposed bloating of ImpSec, and suspected Vorkosigan—whom they termed Ezar’s henchman—of plotting to resurrect the Ministry of Political Education. Put more simply, the members of the war party weren’t satisfied with the current leadership, and wanted control for themselves.

Byerly continued to receive his assignments from Gruber. Unlike By, who was a civilian informant, Gruber was a government agent, working under deep cover to coordinate the agent network within Vorbarr Sultana’s bohemian scene. His habits remained unchanged after revealing his true identity to By; they still met at the restaurant, or occasionally went over to By’s for a glass or two. On such occasions By usually received his new assignment or was debriefed about the last one, always under the standard cover of talking about nothing much.

He didn’t mind. To him, it still seemed as though he was playing a particularly engaging game.

This illusion fractured the following spring, when By’s training began in earnest. He and a couple of other informants with whom he would be working were taken to ImpSec’s training facility late in the evening, Byerly under the cover of attending a nearby party. When the silent taxi driver drove him right past the party to a crumbling abandoned residence hall, Byerly could only groan in disappointment.

The interior of the main building was less of a wreck than the outside suggested, but neither was there any whiff of a party. Reveille was at six in the morning, the military rations served for breakfast did more to suppress the appetite than to rouse it, and the coffee was, frankly, shit. During the first half of the day they received lectures on psychology and sociology in a stuffy, half-lit office; Byerly kept nodding off, and couldn’t manage to follow the thread.

Then there was a brief break for lunch—more food than at breakfast, but in terms of taste and appearance it differed little from the gray porridge Byerly had already encountered. After the break came practical training, during which they practiced dubious methods of psychological attack and defense on each other under the watchful eye of a lecturer with the stripes of a Service medic. The ImpSec man nodded, frowned, and scribbled things on his tablet.

When at last they were shown back to their rooms at six o’clock, Byerly felt like he’d been wrung out like a dishrag. He therefore ignored the strident recommendation that they remain in their rooms to rest ahead of the evening’s educational film, stuck his head out the door, and—after a brief look around—slipped out into the hall. He had the unabating impression that he could smell coffee—normal, good coffee. His exhausted subconscious rendered for him a break room populated by a stunted potted palm and his own longed-for coffee machine, and Byerly set out in search of that dream with body and soul.

He did indeed find a small break room around the corner, but no palms or coffee machines appeared to be in evidence: just more of the same ugly brown walls and plastic tables. The aroma, however, was no illusion. Chatting to the morning lecturer by the window was a thin man of perhaps forty—average height, cropped reddish hair, dressed in civvies that did nothing to conceal his military bearing. In his hand was a steaming mug of coffee.

Byerly gave an inward groan. Or perhaps he made the sound out loud, because both heads turned towards him, and the bright, watchful eyes of the mug’s owner met Byerly’s own. The man had an odd, almost absent-minded gaze . . .

Byerly recognized him instantly, for all that he’d only seen him once from afar at the coronation, and that time Illyan had been in uniform. As he stared, the gaze of the Chief of ImpSec changed—perhaps he’d retrieved who Byerly was from his chip, or else simply appraised his novice agent’s disheveled and exhausted appearance.

Whatever it was, what happened next was unthinkable. The corner of Illyan’s mouth twitched, and rose by perhaps two millimeters.

Then the Chief turned back to his conversation.

Byerly couldn’t have said how he found himself back around around the corner. He pressed himself against the wall, and licked his too-dry lips.

For some reason, his heart was beating like mad.

Only now, after seeing Simon Illyan, did it finally hit him: he really was going to work for ImpSec.

Not that Byerly hadn’t ever considered who stood at the top of the Imperial Security Service pyramid, but prior to the run-in at the training facility Illyan had been to him more of a mythical figure than a real one. Which made it all the more stunning to have seen him in such mundane circumstances—in civvies, with coffee, with a smile hidden in the very corners of his mouth. A smile that had revealed to Byerly a terrible secret: Simon Illyan was human, too.

Byerly spent his remaining day of training fiendishly focused, and apparently made an impression on the Service medic. This time when marking Byerly’s results the man didn’t frown, but rather nodded approvingly.

Back home Byerly paced from corner to corner, fighting temptation. Did he have the right to dig for information about his superiors? Ah, hell—was he an agent or not?!

He booted up the com, and dove into the search results. Photos blinked across the screen. Illyan half-hidden behind a pillar at the Emperor’s Birthday party, impeccable in his red-and-blues, though judging by his concentrated expression he didn’t care. Illyan at the Winterfair Ball at the palace, four years ago—here he was fully visible, walking along the wall with a hand to his earpiece. A snapshot from the yearbook of a military college . . . Byerly spent the longest staring at this last. Finally he decided that age had increased Illyan’s charm; a face that had looked plain and puppyish in youth had been rendered strong-willed by wrinkles and prominent cheekbones, and the streaks of gray quite suited his light brown hair.

Simon Illyan was fifty, and at this point had headed Imperial Security for seventeen years. According to his public data entry, he’d finished military college before becoming one of a group of volunteers sent, at Emperor Ezar’s command, to the planet Illyrica to receive experimental eidetic memory chip implants. The sole survivor out of the lot, Illyan had first served as a personal assistant to Emperor Ezar, then been seconded to Commodore Vorkosigan for the duration of the Escobaran campaign. After the death of Emperor Ezar Illyan had received the rank of commander, and been transferred into the role of personal aide to Captain Negri, then Chief of ImpSec. Illyan had been responsible for the Regent’s personal security, but soon after that had come the Pretendership—Negri had died, and the Regent had appointed Illyan his Chief of ImpSec. A lightning-fast, unimaginable career for a traditional prole, even one with an eidetic memory chip in his head.

Yet for seventeen years Illyan had managed, clearly confirming his extraordinary abilities. Over the years he had, like Negri, become a sort of legend. This was facilitated in large part by the powers of an Emperor’s Voice, his right to report directly to Emperor Gregor, and Illyan’s refusal to accept a promotion—he, like Negri, remained a captain, though in essence his post corresponded to that of a vice admiral.

And this was the person Byerly had run into in a shabby break room at the ImpSec training base, and apparently amused with his appearance and thirsty gaze.

Thoughtfully touching his heated cheekbone, By spent a while longer scrolling through the search results. Curiosity killed the cat . . . All remaining photographs of Captain Illyan had been taken in the line of duty. Not a single civilian outing, not even a walk or a trip to the store.

Apparently, Chief of ImpSec Simon Illyan didn’t have a personal life—or else was concealing it masterfully.

The next time he met with Gruber, Byerly got lucky: he’d earned the honor of being invited over to Gruber’s. Of course, the little flat at the edge of the historical quarter wasn’t Gruber’s real home, but it had an air of being lived-in, and was even well-cared for, quite unexpectedly for a bachelor.

Gruber offered Byerly a drink. By was momentarily wary, then saw the reason: the desire to initiate a heart-to-heart chat was written plainly across Gruber’s face.

“So,” Gruber grinned, “half a year now you’ve now been making yourself useful to the motherland, son.” He gave an expressive wave of his glass. “As a handler, my duties periodically include checking in to make sure that all’s well with the inner lives of my young—and not so young—friends. So feel free to dump whatever’s been building up in there all this time out on me. Don’t worry, this flat is entirely free of bugs.”

Byerly, slightly thrown, smiled back. Oh, he had questions, all right. Specifically, one big question. Ever since his encounter at the ImpSec training facility he’d had a goal—gathering information, rumors, speculation, anything he could find about the Chief of ImpSec. The results had been . . . rather stunning.

“Tell me,” he said, “is it true that Illyan sleeps in a special closet where he plugs his chip into an outlet?” He kept his face perfectly straight as he repeated the joke he’d heard at the salons. There was also a political continuation: as the jokers would have it, the closet in question was located in the bedroom of Prime Minister Vorkosigan.

Gruber, apparently already familiar with this particular piece of folk art, made a face. “It was a serious question, By.”

“I’m quite serious.” Byerly shrugged his shoulders. “See, I’ve noticed that jokes concerning the Chief of ImpSec have recently taken on a rather singular character. Namely, they all seem concern Illyan’s particular devotion to the former regent.”

“And you’ve grown up enough to want to draw your own conclusions, is that it?” Gruber emit a grunt. “All right. I’ll tell you everything that’s worth knowing about Chief Illyan. Maybe it’ll actually do some good, eh?”

Setting his glass aside on his armrest, Gruber stretched, with pleasure and a great deal of cracking.

“As you are no doubt aware,” he began in instructive tones, “Illyan received an Illyrican eidetic memory chip at Emperor Ezar’s command, and served for several years as a trusted secretary to the emperor. After that, he headed personal security for the Lord Regent. In the year of Vordarian’s Pretendership, Negri was killed, and Lord Regent Vorkosigan saved the young Emperor Gregor and retreated to Tannery Base, where it quickly became apparent that the whole system would need to be rebuilt from the ground up. Illyan, by then already Negri’s second-in-command, had just managed to escape the capital when Lord Vorkosigan dumped all of ImpSec’s problems on his shoulders.” Gruber’s lips twitched with amusement. “No room to be choosy in a wartime situation, right?”

“You forgot to mention the Escobaran War.” Byerly chewed his lip, brows drawing together. “Rumor has it that there’s something between Illyan and Lord Vorkosigan.”

Gruber guffawed, loudly and with feeling. His hand slapped the armrest repeatedly. Once he wound down, he shot Byerly a slightly pitying look.

“You know what joke they tell inside ImpSec? One day, Negri comes up with the idea of establishing a special brothel for particularly important officers. The Emperor nods—good idea, let’s get cracking. Provide such-and-such women to ImpSec’s senior officers, and such-and-such women to the Ministry of Political Education, and these third ones to the palace guard. And for my secretary Illyan, says the Emperor—for my secretary Illyan, find a broad who’s both deaf and dumb. But wait, even a deaf and dumb woman can write down a state secret, and we can’t go around chopping off hands anymore, not in these enlightened days! So, Negri, get this down: for Illyan, provide a sheep.”

Gruber cracked up again, but Byerly only grimaced—the joke didn’t strike him as funny.

“Anyway, Vorrutyer . . . keep on listening, but use your head about what you accept as truth.” Gruber grew serious, tapping a crooked finger to his forehead. “Illyan, for all intents and purposes, is married to the job. No one’s ever seen him with anyone, woman or man.”

“But that’s a horrible way to live,” muttered By.

“Maybe so,” Gruber shook his head, “but what’s it to you?”

Byerly held his peace.

2.

Byerly saw Simon Illyan a couple times after that, always in official settings: on holovid at an ambassadorial reception, though the camera didn’t linger on him for long, and at a session of the Council of Counts, which By had to deploy all manner of tricks to force Pierre to get him into.

The session was dedicated to Aral Vorkosigan’s assumption of his rightful place as Count Vorkosigan on the Council of Counts. Alas, for the past two weeks the whole world had been discussing two sorrowful events concerning the Prime Minister’s family: the death of Piotr Vorkosigan, and Miles Vorkosigan’s failure to pass the Imperial Service Academy entrance exams. It was said that the old man had been unable to bear the public disgrace of his mutant grandson; Byerly, for his part, already knew that the physical defects of Aral Vorkosigan’s son had been caused by a soltoxin attack on the regent and his wife. The Betan Lady Vorkosigan—now Countess—had been the first on Barrayar to use a uterine replicator to birth a Vor lord. Now, seventeen years later, the practice wasn’t exactly ubiquitous, but many did use them. By found himself dwelling on his sister; as far as he knew from Donna, Lily had carried her child herself.

Pulling himself out of thoughts about his sister (in all this time she still hadn’t called even once) By cast his gaze downward. He’d been given a seat in the very back row of the gallery, but he didn’t mind—it gave him an excellent view of Illyan, who stood off to the side, almost behind the benches of counts. The ImpSec Chief was watching Vorkosigan.

Try as he might, Byerly failed to discover anything new during the session regarding possible relations between the former regent and the Chief of ImpSec. Still, there were some spoils: he was nearly sure that he’d determined where all those rumors concerning Simon Illyan’s personal loyalties were coming from.

Oddly enough, in this he was aided by Richars.

When next he met with Gruber at the beginning of October, By already had a whole parcel of data regarding the goings-on in the war hawks party. Well, if mental reports could be considered a parcel; naturally, Byerly didn’t trust paper.

“I’m almost certain it’s Count Vordrozda’s circle who are behind the rumors about Illyan and Vorkosigan,” he told Gruber, as soon as they sat down. “Richars likes to talk when he’s drunk. That lot hate Vorkosigan, though they’re obliged to court him for the time being.”

Gruber, seeming unusually grave and preoccupied, inclined his head. “The Vorkosigans . . . have enough on their plate.” He gave a frustrated sigh, and fell silent, seemingly thinking over whether to share his information with By. Finally he gave a wave of his hand: “The admiral’s son left for Beta Colony, and then apparently disappeared. Worries me, that whole mess . . . You keep an eye on your cousin and his gang, all right? And if you dig something up,” his gaze became serious, almost hard, “call right away.”

Byerly nodded.

Planting the idea of introducing him to Vordrozda in Richars’s mind took him some time. To achieve this Byerly spent a great deal of time enlightening his cousin as to how much he, too, wanted to be a soldier, and to join the scintillating society of the war hawks. Since Richars was, as a rule, already drunk when such conversations occurred, he was usually well-disposed to buying what By was selling.

The gatherings at Vordrozda’s home were comprised primarily of middle-aged officers, all much like Richars. Upon finally finding himself at a small, friends-only dinner, By felt somewhat out of his depth, though the glances he kept receiving from Vordrozda’s friends—half-curious, half-mocking—were hardly a new experience.

At the table, wine was poured by the barrel. Once in the smoking room they moved on to cognac; some time later Byerly found himself quite thoroughly occupied by a conversation with officers Vorklayn and Schmidt, talking over each other as they shared their reminiscences of the Imperial Academy. By listened respectfully.

Sprawling across the comfortable chairs in the opposite corner was the master of the house himself, surrounded by a few close guests. By occasionally felt Vordrozda’s slightly odd gaze; trying to guess what that look might mean continually caused him to break out in sweat, fearing that he’d been discovered.

When at last they finally said their farewells and climbed into Richars’s car, By felt thoroughly drained. His cousin, meanwhile, was suspiciously energetic.

“Well done, my boy,” Richars gave a pleased laugh, clapping By on the shoulder as the car started off. “Even better than I expected.”

By jolted, turning querulously towards him. “What are you on about?”

“Well, you see . . . I’ve every reason to suppose that our friend Count Vordrozda has a predilection for lovely young boys such as yourself. And you don’t mind that sort of thing these days, isn’t that right?” Richars’s smile became a leer. “Now, don’t deny it, everyone knows that you’re a little whore in the company of those town clowns. I’m offering you something a little better, my boy. Vordrozda has a great deal to offer to us both. So make an effort, won’t you?”

Looking into his eyes, Byerly realized that Richars had once again set him up. Presumably he’d brought Byerly to Vordrozda with clear aims in mind, all to his own benefit—and By had bought it, thinking it was him who’d managed to play Richars . . .

He wanted very badly to drive his fist into that sneering face, to wipe off that smirk and make Richars shut up. He’d already tensed up to do it when the idea struck him, freezing him in place.

This was an opportunity.

Edward Vordrozda, Count of Lorimel, was filthy rich and related to all of the most significant Vor houses in one way or another. He was now over forty, his lean face slightly marred by the unpleasant smile permanently glued there, and a retired colonel, with some sway in the Council of Counts. Ten years ago he might have been counted among the more moderate conservatives, but a year ago he’d unexpectedly sided with the war hawks, the party that had originally been represented primarily by military non-Vor. The Count was also a widower, and had two sons and a daughter. Both sons were in the military, while the young daughter still lived in the district; in the capital he was therefore left to his own devices.

All this By was able to glean via public, and not so public, sources. Alas, regarding the aspects of Vordrozda’s personality at which Richars had hinted there was little—or, more precisely, virtually nothing. It was said that on rare occasions the Count visited an upper-class leisure establishment, but Byerly had no contacts there, and for some reason he couldn’t get ahold of Gruber.

Well, then. The only thing for it was to rely on luck, and find out for himself. Just now he thought of Karl-Antoine with gratitude; at least he had an example to follow.

The day after the dinner party he went, in finest Vor tradition, to visit Vordrozda.

The Count received him in a small drawing room, which might have been modest were it not for the two paintings by famous artists from the previous century hanging between the tall windows.

Once they say down, By purred, “I’ve come to thank you, Count Vordrozda, for so kindly receiving me yesterday.”

“No need. I was happy to render a friendly service upon your dear cousin Richars.” Vordrozda’s reply was dry.

“Oh, but it wasn’t just Richars upon whom you rendered a service, sir. Please, allow me to explain.” By leaned slightly forward. “You see, ever since I came to the capital, I’ve wanted to be in the company of such shining officers as gather at your home. I dream of becoming a soldier myself, but for the second year in a row I’ve been unable to get into the Academy!” He hung his head. “The doctors on the committee seem to be in agreement—they’re not satisfied with my physical state. Even Pierre’s influence can’t help me.”

Vordrozda grunted. It was a rather skeptical sound. “The Count-your-cousin favors you?”

Byerly affected an expression of the utmost humility. “Pierre does a great deal for me, but alas, in this even he is powerless.”

“I understand your difficulty.” The Count’s fingers drummed a brief rhythm on the armrest of his chair.

“I would do anything to get in,” Byerly whispered, and licked his lips. Now or never . . . !

Vordrozda snorted. He cast an assessing look over Byerly, and shook his head. “Come clean, young man. Was it Richars who convinced you that I might be seduced by an angelic smile and a tight ass?”

Byerly recoiled slightly.

“Ah—no, of course not, sir,” he mumbled, genuinely thrown. His plan was falling apart.

“Of course not,” Vordrozda repeated, satisfied. “Dear Richars thinks he knows so much about me.”

He was about to get the boot, By thought. But Vordrozda merely leaned forward, studying his face.

“I’ve heard that your cousin Count Pierre doesn’t much care for your cousin Richars. You, on the other hand . . .”

Uncertain where this was going, Byerly gave a careful nod. Vordrozda leaned back in his chair with a victorious smile.

“In that case,” he said, “Richars ought to properly thanked for—making the introductions. A collaboration between the two of us could prove mutually beneficial.”

By finally caught on: Vordrozda needed Pierre! Or, more precisely, he needed Pierre’s support in the Council of Counts. Which Richars, who’d spent the last ten years on poor terms with his cousin, evidently couldn’t provide to Vordrozda.

Byerly pulled himself together at once. “No doubt about it, sir.” One last push, come on! “But—don’t you think our cooperation could be not just mutually beneficial, but pleasurable, too?” And he threw Vordrozda a starkly eloquent look.

Vordrozda burst into laughter.

And then beckoned him over.

On getting home By lay down on the couch in his living room, stuck his hands behind his head, and thought: Well, there you have it. I’ve become a whore for the greater glory of the Imperium. The thought, terribly loaded with pathos, made him snort; he got up, and went to the kitchen for coffee.

Things hadn’t gone half badly, though Vordrozda hadn’t turned out to be an overly attentive lover. By had sucked him off right there in the living room, whereupon the Count had given him an encouraging pat on the cheek and sent him home. But the emotionally perceptive By hadn’t sensed any gloating in the gesture, and the Count’s indifference had even been replaced by a mild sense of affection.

Either way, Byerly wasn’t about to stop there. Turning on his com tablet, he took to sifting information in search of hints as to how he might properly gain Vordrozda’s confidence.

He couldn’t have said what it was that he was so desperate to achieve, even to himself. Did he want to impress Gruber with how well he’d carried out his assignment? To head off a possible conspiracy against the former regent? To learn the real basis of the rumors regarding Vorkosigan and Simon Illyan?

On autopilot, he skipped over an entire page. Then he frowned, and went back to read it all the way through.

3.

By the beginning of winter Byerly was thoroughly integrated into Vordrozda’s circle. No, the Count wasn’t in any hurry to demonstrate By as his favorite, and in public he remained aloof, preferring to confer with General Vorsteel and Admiral Hessman. Still Byerly had achieved something: Vordrozda, seemingly pleased with Pierre’s support (oh, the amount of bullshit By had had to feed to his cousin to obtain that!) and perhaps susceptible to flattery after all, had slowly permitted By to get close. Close enough that they’d finally moved on from blow jobs in the living room to bedroom entertainments—but afterward the Count still invariably stood, threw on his robe, and kicked Byerly out. This greatly impeded By’s plans to sniff something out, and for the time being he was forced to content himself with observing as Vordrozda—quite legally, if none too prettily—consolidated his power.

Matters in the capital, meanwhile, had built to a breaking point. Rumors from Tau Verde had it that the son of Count Vorkosigan, who had either disappeared or been taken from Beta, had taken a radical approach to the problem of failing the Academy entrance exams, and was now amassing a mercenary fleet.

The highest echelons of Vorbarr Sultana society erupted into a roil. All eyes turned to Aral Vorkosigan. Vorkosigan maintained his calm, but his political position took a blow, as did the position of the entire Centrist party, impacted by the secret sessions of the Council of Counts concerning the burning question of Lord Vorkosigan’s independent initiative. ImpSec scrambled in effort to find out what was actually going on out there, in space, but had yet to produce intelligible results.

On the last evening of the week of Winterfair By caught Vordrozda in an exceptionally good mood. They hadn’t been alone together since the holidays had begun, and By could only guess at what had brought this about.

He dropped to the floor beside Vordrozda’s chair, and said, “You’re joyful, my lord. Has something good happened?”

“Oh, more than good.” Vordrozda barked a laugh, accompanied by a fond tug on By’s cheek.

“You’ve won the lottery?” By joked, testing the waters.

“Better,” chuckled Vordrozda, and pointed By to the bedroom. “And today you’re going to congratulate me very well.”

Byerly didn’t manage to find out the reason behind the Count’s cheer that evening, but towards the end of January yet another event shook the capital: Vordrozda laid an official charge against Lord Vorkosigan. The seventeen-year-old Miles was accused of breaking Vorloupulous’s Law.

Byerly despaired: everything happening in Vordrozda’s political life continued to be out of his reach. The Count was demonstrably an old hand, and in no hurry to share his secrets with the boy in his bed, the way conspirators always did in detective holofilms.

All By had so far were suspicions. He had observed that lately Vordrozda met more often with Admiral Hessman; his guess was that it was Hessman who supplied the Count with information on the General Staff, or even with secret reports from military intelligence. Taking into account all the factors, the charge put forward by Vordrozda was extremely—extremely—brave. That could only mean that the Count, who was far from stupid, ultimately relied on real evidence.

By could imagine what had pushed the seventeen-year-old brat to do it; Vor honor, seasoned with a complete lack of brains. The only thing he couldn’t understand was how the kid had managed to gather a fleet—the little lord possessed neither the necessary knowledge nor the even more necessary resources. Taken together with Vordrozda’s suspicious behavior By was prepared to believe just about anything, from a total hoax featuring falsified intelligence reports to Vorkosigan having been set up to fail his entrance exams and subsequently goaded.

Whatever the truth, his conjectures remained only that: conjectures. Despondent, By even tried to call Gruber to ask for advice, but Gruber didn’t show up for the meeting.

At which point Byerly gave up, and decided to go all in.

February proved tense, for By as much as the rest of the capital. ImpSec, unsparing towards its own, gnawed fresh reports out of its agents; its efforts had already enabled the hearing to be moved twice. Byerly imagined Illyan—tense, concentrated, ruthless—at the center of a gargantuan intergalactic web of agents, spies, and informants, and felt his own heart still. He, too, was a part of that web: a small, almost invisible knot.

Not that he’d been of any use insofar. Gruber continued to not show; Byerly submitted his reports via prearranged dead drop, but received no orders in return. He had some idea as to why—one could blink and miss the length of time that he’d been an informant. He’d yet to earn ImpSec’s trust, and any information that he produced couldn’t be relied upon to be entirely accurate.

It drove By to frustration. He was so close to Vordrozda—he could be useful! The thought spurred him to push harder, and Vordrozda, seemingly more relaxed now that he’d put forward his accusation, chose to allow it.

Finally, there came a night when By finally got what he wanted: the Count permitted him to stay the night.

It was late evening. They lay in bed, By pretending to sleep while really feverishly trying to think of how he could get Vordrozda talking. Vordrozda dozed, sated and satisfied, for once not in a hurry to leap out of bed and put on his robe. His hand rested easily across By’s hip.

The idyll was broken by the buzz of the Count’s com. Byerly perked up, though only internally; outwardly he continued to pretend to deep sleep.

He could practically feel Vordrozda’s eyes boring into the back of his head—clearly, Vordrozda was trying to decide whether it was worth kicking him out and calling back, or whether he could talk as-is. Byerly prayed to every deity that he knew, and perhaps that helped: the bed creaked, there was a rustle of the robe being picked up, and finally the click of the door.

With bated breath, Byerly waited for several moments to pass. Then, very quietly, he got up. The door was slightly ajar; his heart beat in his throat as he pulled it ever so slightly wider, perhaps a centimeter at most. Mouth dry, he pressed his face to the crack.

As in the bedroom, the lights in the study were off, save for the small lamp over the armchair. From his place at the door Byerly could see the side of an enormous writing desk, Vordrozda seated half-turned against it. Glowing before the Count was the com, projecting video for the call. The image was skewed from this angle; squinting, Byerly recognized Hessman.

“I’ve done everything we agreed,” Hessman was saying. “Dimir leaves for Beta Colony at dawn, together with my man and that halfwit Vorpatril. The Imperial order goes with them.”

Vordrozda was stern: “Everything is proceeding according to plan?”

“Yes, yes. Now hold up your end of the bargain, and rid of me of this pest.”

“Don’t worry, Admiral.” By could hear Vordrozda’s smile. “You’re already free of him. I’ve succeeded in persuading the Emperor. At six o’clock tomorrow morning Illyan will be behind bars on suspicion of involvement in the conspiracy. The resulting tumult should serve nicely to divert attention from our friends’ departure. Happy?”

Hessman tripped over himself to give thanks. By, feeling suddenly cold, stepped away from the door and lay back down on the bed.

When Vordrozda returned, By feigned being roused, and—noting that the robe had regained its rightful place upon the Count—made as if to head home. Vordrozda made no effort to stop him.

Too riled up to take a taxi, By started for Gruber’s on foot—all he had to do to get there was take a slight right towards the river after leaving the enclave of expensive mansions where Vordrozda lived. He was already half-way to his destination when his com buzzed with an incoming call.

It put him immediately on his guard. The time was half past midnight, though the windows of the mansion outside which he’d stopped—he thought it might have been the home of Vorsteel—still glowed bright in the dark.

The com number was unfamiliar. Bracing himself internally, Byerly pressed Accept—

—and jolted as the unfurled holoscreen filled with his sister’s face. “Lily!”

“By!” She forced a smile, then broke into a sudden sob. “I can’t keep on like this, By. I’m so sorry!”

“What? Poppet, what is it?” Casting a wild look around, Byerly stepped into a rose-covered niche in the fence surrounding the mansion, at one time probably an additional entrance. “Lily, what happened?”

“It’s—it’s all my fault.” She took a ragged breath, trying to regain her self-control, but even over the low-quality vid By could see that her tears only came faster. “It wasn’t my husband who kept me from contacting you, it was me.”

Stunned, By whispered, “But—why, Lily?”

“Because I was scared!” This was nearly a shout. “Scared that I’d tell you the truth, and you’d try to kill him, but instead he would kill you!”

By’s chest went cold. “Hush, sweetheart. Calmly, now, let’s start simple. What, exactly, is the truth?”

Lily burst into sobs. Through the tears, she moaned, “It was Richars, it was all Richars! He was the one who wrote father that letter. He—he seduced me, By. At Winterfair. The child—it’s his!” Byerly jerked as if he’d been struck. “My child, By. He’s always in the hospital, always sick, because—it’s because—” she was choking on her sobs, “because he’s a mutant!”

By stared unseeing at her image. Everything suddenly clicked into place, forming a single image, a single mosaic. Richars had debauched his sister, and then, upon realizing that the act hadn’t been without consequences, found an elegant means of blaming it all on By. He’d even found Lily a husband, just out of the goodness of his heart.

By growled. Lily wrung her hands: “Please forgive me, By! Please!”

He took a deep breath, and said, as gently as he could, “Calm down, poppet. None of this is your fault, and your child isn’t a mutant. Have a glass of milk and go to bed, that always used to help you.” He smiled at her, aware how crooked it must have looked. “I promise you, Richars will pay for everything that he did.”

“By, no! You can’t! He’s stronger and cleverer than you are!” She started forward, horrified. “He’ll destroy you!”

By bared his teeth. “We’ll see,” he said, “we’ll see”—and, with a tender bow towards his sister, cut the com.

Furiously straightening his cuffs, Byerly tried to think of where Richars might be now, then felt a chill. He still had important evidence to deliver about Hessman and Vordrozda. He needed to report in before haring off on a personal matter.

Gritting his teeth, he went back out into the street and decisively resumed his route—but just then the gates of Vorsteel’s mansion swung open, and a drunken crowd in thrown-on overcoats spilled out on top of him.

“Ah, By!” A smiling Richars materialized before him. “You’re a bit late joining us, we’re already decamping from this fine house in favor of the Belle-Rouge casino. Come, you can ride in my taxi . . .”

Through the red haze that settled over his vision By saw that the noisy group really was loading into the nearby cars, which pulled away one by one. He bared his teeth, and made such a unequivocally negative gesture at the last remaining cab that the driver raised his eyebrows and stepped on the gas, roaring off down the road.

Richars cried, “Hey, wait!” rather belatedly. He was already thoroughly drunk; Byerly construed that as lucky, and—swinging roundhouse like Gruber had taught him—drove his fist into Richars’s face.

Richars staggered and nearly sat down on the cobbles, but somehow managed to retain his balance. “Have you lost your mind, you whelp?!”

“No, that would be you,” snarled By. “You vile son of a bitch, I’m going to kill you for what you did to Lily!”

“Oh, did your slag of a sister finally tell you the truth?” Richars roared with laughter, head thrown back. “And after I tried so hard to convince her that it’d be better for you if she left well enough alone!”

By went white, and swung again. This time he aimed for the chin—but Richars batted his hand away with surprising sobriety, and seized him by the lapels.

“You’d be better off not yipping at me!” Richars barked, giving him a harsh shake. “Or have you forgotten what I do to puppies?”

By laughed in his face. “Oh, I’ll yip! This time it’s me who’s going to drown you, Richars, you and Vordrozda, and all your war hawks with you—you’re all going to sit in cages in the Great Square and starve!”

Richars’s gaze on him changed; it became apparent that his cousin knew something. By jerked towards him, causing Richars’s fingers to release his lapels, but Richars was still faster—he lunged, and clocked Byerly in the jaw so hard that there was a crack and a flash, and Byerly sank briefly into oblivion.

He came to on the same cold cobblestone pavement, only for some reason he was now face-down. His hands were handcuffed behind his back, the street washed in strobing blue flashes from a spinning beacon.

Somewhere above him Richars was saying, “Take him away, old boy, and keep him under arrest for a day or two. It’ll be good for him, and Count Pierre will be pleased if our cousin finally pulls himself together . . . just keep it quiet, all right?”

“Certainly, Lord Richars. It’s my pleasure to lend a hand to someone who has done so much for me.”

“And will again,” promised Richars. “Oh, and—don’t believe a word this one says, or let him contact anyone. My dear cousin has an active imagination, he’ll tell you the Prime Minister himself is his errand boy if he thinks it’ll get him out.”

“Have no fear, my lord.” Steps scuffed against the pavement. Byerly was yanked roughly to his feet, and any plan he might have had to resist went to pieces—he passed back out.

The next time he woke on a hard prison bench. The cells to either side of his own were empty, and no one came when he shouted.

After a couple of hours of this he went hoarse; his head was splitting, and one of his front teeth was loose. Byerly sat down on the floor, slumped wearily against the bars, and watched a pink ray of dawn crawl across the opposite wall, its color gradually changing to white.

Somewhere in the distance, the town hall bell struck six o’clock.

When he finally managed to reach Gruber, it was, of course, too late. The precinct released him after a day; the retribution By cold-bloodedly promised the duty officer caused the latter to lose some of his insolence, his head drawing into his shoulders.

After listening to Byerly’s tale, Gruber shook his head. His expression was deeply frustrated.

“You bloody idiot, Vorrutyer,” he said, bluntly. “There’s nothing to be done now that Illyan’s been imprisoned . . . well, there are still trusted people in ImpSec. Come back this evening, we’ll take down your testimony, maybe it’ll be useful for something. In the meantime—go home, and keep your head down!”

Byerly thoroughly failed to take this on board. He went to Richars’s house, only to find that his cousin had left in a hurry for the district, attending to some urgent matter. Of course: the moment that things got too hot Richars turned tail and ran.

Grim as a stormcloud, Byerly took a cab back to Gruber’s. There he was awaited by an unassuming officer in civvies and an even more nondescript medtech, both seated at the wide dining room table. The medtech had a box with a hypospray and ampoules laid out before him, and the officer had a data cube for recording.

In theory, Byerly knew how fast-penta worked—they’d covered it in that same ImpSec training course. In practice, though . . .

Five seconds after the medtech removed the hypospray from his inner elbow Byerly’s head was light as a balloon. The world around him became comfortable and kind, and everyone in it wonderful. A blissful smile spread across his face. The officer glanced at the medtech, who nodded.

The first few questions were simple—Calibration and verification, remembered By, and laughed in delight.

Then the officer adjusted something on the holocube, and got down to business. “How long have you held entrance to the home of Count Vordrozda?”

“Half a year, maybe a little longer . . .” Byerly was upset that he couldn’t give a more specific answer, and began to count the months out loud, but was interrupted.

“How did you meet Count Vordrozda?

“Richars introduced me. I spent ages convincing Richars to introduce me, you see. I really wanted to get in with Vordrozda’s circle, because I wanted to know whether they were really saying all those nasty things about Illyan—I really needed to find out whether it’s true that Count Vorkosigan and Captain Illyan are sleeping together, because I saw Captain Illyan last spring at the training base, and he smiled at me, and I thought . . .”

“Enough,” the officer said, halting this stream of effusion. His eyebrows had climbed high up his forehead. “What is your current relationship with Count Vordrozda?”

“I’m sleeping with him,” Byerly admitted plainly. “Though I can’t say I care for it. The Count is a bad lover. I wonder whether Captain Illyan is a good lover . . . ?”

There was a strange sound from the windowsill where Gruber was sitting, and Byerly became distracted. Turning to look, he discovered that Gruber had covered his face with his hand, and his shoulders were shaking.

Byerly opened his mouth to ask whether he was all right, but was once again interrupted:

“When you repeated for us the conversation between Count Vordrozda and Admiral Hessman, were you acting on someone’s orders?”

“No! I just wanted to keep Captain Illyan from being arrested. I would’ve saved him, and he would have noticed me, and . . .”

“Enough.” The officer rolled his eyes. “Repeat precisely everything that you heard, and the circumstances in which you heard it.”

Byerly did. They asked him several more clarifying questions, after which the officer packed the data cube carefully away in its armored box, the medtech administered the antagonist, and they left.

By crawled listlessly over to the armchair, and remained there in silence, utterly mortified.

Gruber hopped down from the windowsill, and—with a look at By such as a tired parent might direct towards their very dear, but utterly hopeless, imbecile son—brought him some cognac.

Byerly spent the next three weeks in a state of unremitting frustration. To keep from rousing suspicion he was given approval to continue his contact with Vordrozda, but firmly forbidden from acting on his own initiative. And of course, should he glean any further information, he was to Think with your head, this time, instead of your ass. What could he say, Gruber’s style was direct and inimitable.

Unable to leave the city, his thirst for revenge against Richars soon moved into a colder phase. Byerly suspected that the bastard was simply waiting to see who won out. Alas, Vordrozda’s victory grew increasingly unillusory: the Count had gone so far as to replace the charge of breaking Vorloupulous’s Law with one of intent to usurp the Imperium.

For all that, there was something in encouraging to be found in these twilit days. Lily now called every day, and her child was soon discharged from the hospital and returned to his mother. The boy really did have certain congenital defects, but modern medicine was quite capable of resolving these quickly and without any additional fuss.

The hearings in the Council of Counts were scheduled for the beginning of March, and now there was nobody who might hustle to delay them—ImpSec, in its decapitated state, had become noticeably more sluggish.

Vordrozda rejoiced; not in public, not yet, but By knew. He’d seen with his own eyes how the Count kept gleefully writing and rewriting his final denunciation.

Not long after that it became known that Lord Vorpatril, too, had disappeared—the Imperial fast courier with him aboard had failed to report back after entering the Beta–Tau Verde jump point. Everything was going to hell. Illyan was still stuck in solitary confinement somewhere deep beneath ImpSec HQ; Prime Minister Vorkosigan continued to hold up admirably, but By could imagine what it cost him.

March arrived. By couldn’t get into Vorhartung Castle for each day of the hearings, but managed to make it into the last one, again with the aid of Pierre. The previous day Byerly hadn’t denied himself the pleasure of informing Pierre, in a kindred sort of way, just how much of an idiot Vordrozda held him to be. Not that the voice of Count Vorrutyer would make a difference, but it felt good to inflict even a small nastiness upon Vordrozda.

Once again, By was seated high up in the gallery. The chamber was full to bursting; Byerly listened glumly to the charges as they were spoken, and to the quiet hum of the crowd. This continued for almost an hour until he realized, from Vordrozda’s rising tones, that the matter was nearing its end.

“If Lord Vorkosigan is so innocent, why is he not here?” demanded Vordrozda. He cast a triumphant gaze around the chamber, head raised.

That’s it, Byerly thought. Prime Minister Vorkosigan was doomed. As was his son.

And then the doors flew open.

A week later, once the matter was settled—Miles Vorkosigan had proved his innocence, and Vordrozda and Hessman had gotten what was coming to them—a nondescript groundcar came to collect Byerly as he whiled the evening away at home.

Sitting between two silent escorts inside the tinted cabin, By counted the turns and grew increasingly certain of the horrifying hypothesis that he was being taken to ImpSec HQ.

This was soon proved correct. He was led through the evening twilight to a nondescript side entrance, whereafter the process of being scanned in and registered at the checkpoint took almost a half an hour. Throughout all of it, nobody deigned to answer his questions about where he was being taken.

Accepting his fate, By ceased asking, and switched to waiting to be told to change into an orange jumpsuit. Instead he was collected by a new escort, this one a young lieutenant, and taken via a complex route to a waiting room outside an unmarked office.

The lieutenant disappeared within, then came back out and invited By to enter.

By went in. Sitting behind a wide desk with a built-in comconsole and various other devices was Simon Illyan. In his hands he held—By broke into a cold sweat—the data cube. That very same data cube!

Not knowing what to do—Byerly didn’t know how to salute, and in any case didn’t have the right to do so—he gave a brief bow, and then froze, staring at the floor. The carpet was badly worn through at the precise spot where he was standing.

“Vorrutyer,” Illyan said, apparently satisfied with his inspection.

He’s going to kick me out, Byerly thought. He’s going to arrest me—assassinate me . . .

“I am obligated to tell you two things.” Illyan leaned slightly forward, spinning the ignominious cube in his hands. “First: upon finding yourself in possession of information of import to the Imperium, you acted in an absolutely unacceptable fashion, solely on the basis of your personal feelings. Second: the information you provided aided us in assembling material evidence for this case. Good work, for a newbie.”

By stood like a deer in the headlights, slowly processing what he’d just heard. Illyan watched him in silence, either waiting for an answer or simply showing a scientific interest. Finally he set aside the cube (Oh, God, thought Byerly, with horror and shame) and leaned back in his chair.

“You are being assigned the rank of IS-1. Gruber will brief you on the rest. Dismissed.”

Dismissed. Byerly’s gaze caught on Illyan’s. He was about to leave this place, and who knew when he’d see it again?

He drew a short breath, and took a step forward, which brought him up short against the sharp edge of the desk. Just then he couldn’t care less.

Illyan had studied the data on the cube. He knew everything. Nothing to lose but your head!

By bent across the table, and looked Illyan in the eyes. Then he kissed him.

And felt Illyan smile.