Chapter Three
•••
Miles trailed Jin through another unlocked metal door, down some stairs into a disturbingly darkened corridor, through a utility tunnel, and into yet another building. Subliminal sounds and smells, as well as better lighting, suggested this one was occupied, and indeed, around another turn they came to what had obviously once been an employee kitchen and cafeteria. About a dozen people lingered there, some cooking, some eating. All watched in wary silence as the pair passed, except for a young woman working at an industrial-sized mixer who spotted Jin, waved a large spoon in the air, and called him to breakfast.
Jin faltered, sniffing at the aroma of baked goods wafting from her vicinity, but then smiled and shook his head. “Later, Ako! I got a guest!” Miles stared back over his shoulder as Jin drew him onward.
Along a corridor two flights up, they passed a row of doors to what formerly, Miles thought, might have been offices, but now seemed to be living quarters. Through the open ones he saw filtered daylight, and piles of personal junk variously tidy or messy, the sort of shabby, battered goods that only folks who feared they couldn’t get more would ever use, or save. The people he glimpsed seemed to be mostly dozing in bedrolls on the floor, or puttering quietly. A few residents squinted back at Miles as they passed. While they seemed a mix of ages, a disproportionate number were elderly. Maybe the able-bodied young ones, like Ako-the-cook, were out doing things?
This place was drawing power and water enough to maintain decency, if not such luxuries as lift tubes. No signs of buckets used as chamber pots, stairwells doubling as urinals, or cookfires set in wastebaskets or bathtubs. So where was the power coming from, and the sewage going to? Was someone here paying for utilities, or were they being secretly siphoned from the municipal systems? The answers, Miles thought, might be revealing, if only he had time to pursue them.
Up another floor lay a corridor with fewer doors. Jin stopped at one on the end and knocked briskly. He waited a minute, leaning his shoulders on the wall and swinging one foot, then rapped again, louder.
“Yah, yah,” a gruff voice sounded from within. “I hear you. Don’t get your undies in a knot.”
The door opened a hand-span. Miles dropped his gaze to not much higher than his own eye level, and found a seamed face scowling back at him. “What’s this?” the grumbling voice demanded sharply. “Oh, it’s you, Jin. What are you doing, bringing a stranger up here?”
“Yani and I found him last night,” said Jin. “He was lost.”
The red-rimmed eyes narrowed. “What, is that Yani’s druggie?”
Miles cleared his throat, conscious of his piratical beard stubble. “Drugged, ma’am, but not a druggie. I had an unfortunate allergic reaction to some medication, in the course of which I was robbed and stumbled into the Cryocombs. It took me quite a while to find my way out again.”
“You’re not from around here.”
“No, ma’am.”
Jin jumped in: “He wants to use your comconsole, Suze-san.”
The scowl deepened. “You can’t call out on it. It only inloads.”
This seemed unlikely to Miles, but for starters, he would take whatever he could get. It was plain this Suze really didn’t like him here. An un-trusted outsider who Saw Too Much could come to a bad end, in a secretive community. Granted, he hadn’t spotted any bully boys, but murder didn’t take muscle; slyness would do as well. “I just want to check the news, ma’am. Till I get my wallet and IDs back, I have to beg kindness from strangers.”
Suze snorted. “You find many kindly strangers where you come from?”
“I’ve always found enough.” A dozen times over, Miles’s life had been handed back to him by people he barely knew. “I figure it gives me an obligation to take my turn being one.”
“Huh,” said Suze.
“Jinni and Lucky both like him,” Jin testified in anxious aid.
Thin lips quirked. “Oh, well, if the rat and the cat both agree, who am I to argue . . . ?” After another moment, the door swung open, and Jin shooed him in.
Suze might have been any age from a hard-worn eighty to a well-preserved century. She had certainly, Miles thought, been a head taller a couple of decades back; now she would need sturdy shoes to top five feet, but instead wore flat plastic sandals that snapped her dry-skinned heels as she stepped. That head was covered with frizzed and unruly gray curls. She might have seemed younger if she’d smiled, but the frown-grooves were deeply set around her pursed mouth. Her loose trousers, shirt, and over-shirt were not a set, but being black, black, and black, they could not mis-match.
Her quarters consisted of two rooms. An antechamber filled with much the same sort of junk storage Miles had glimpsed below-stairs might once have been the domain of some receptionist. The room beyond, a generous corner office with windows on two sides, had surely been executive territory. A rumpled bedroll lay along one inner wall; he spied the comconsole, with desk and chair, along the other. A battered table held a ewer and washbasin, damp towels, and a faint scent of soap competing with the close, old-woman air of the place. The tall storage cupboard, doors shut, might have held anything. A couple of spare swivel chairs, a couch leaking stuffing, and two armchairs, all used office furniture, suggested that Suze might not be as reclusive as she looked.
Suze gestured him to the comconsole. “It’s open.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” Miles said, sliding into the station chair. Suze and Jin watched over his shoulder. Finding the local news feeds took only moments. He selected Nexus standard English from a menu of some dozen supported local language options, half of which he could not identify. Although Barrayaran Russian was most certainly not among them, which might come in handy should he need private speech with his bodyguard—if Roic was still alive. . . .
As he’d suspected, yesterday morning’s uproar at the cryo-conference was well covered. The vid commentary, as usual, was cursory and not too informative, but the detail-supplements proved more useful; they included a complete list of the kidnapped, with pictures, and pleas from the local authorities for anyone with information to step forward. Roic and Miles were both on the list, as was Dr. Durona, unfortunately. Two different extremist organizations, neither of which Miles had previously heard of—so much for his ImpSec reports on Kibou‑daini—were claiming credit, or blame, for the kidnappings.
“That’s you!” said Jin in excitement, pointing to Miles’s face on the holovid. Miles didn’t think it a flattering shot, but apparently it was recognizable. He wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not, just now. Jin went on, “Miles Vor—vor—vorkaseegain.”
“Vor-ko-suh-g’n,” Miles corrected automatically.
“So, you were caught up in that stupid mess,” said Suze. “Galactic, are you?”
She was not as unaware of the news as Jin. Interesting. “The kidnappers seemed to be targeting off-worlders. A group of us had been assembled in the lobby for a guided tour. It was listed on the public schedule, so the snatch wasn’t necessarily an inside job.”
“You just said you were robbed.”
“So I was, right down to my shoes. But the sedative they jabbed me with as they were dragging me off was an unfortunate choice. Instead of knocking me out, it made me manic. I broke away.”
“Why didn’t you go back to the hotel?”
“Well, and then there were the hallucinations. About ten hours of them, I think.”
Suze regarded him in deep suspicion. Miles hoped it sounded too screwy a tale to have been made up.
Nine delegates taken—no, eight, subtracting Miles, although the kidnappers hadn’t confessed to losing him. The Barrayaran consulate here, tiny as it was, would surely already have reported this, though the message could not yet have arrived home. Damn. Admiral Miles Naismith, free mercenary, had never owned a home address, nor hostages to fortune. Lord Auditor Miles Vorkosigan did. He couldn’t not report in. And yet, what an interesting chance to become temporarily invisible had been handed to him. . . .
His old covert ops instincts were kicking in, and he wasn’t at all sure he wanted them. He could walk out of here and into any store or restaurant, and sooner or later find someone who would let him call and get help and a pick-up. The call would, of course, be unsecured and wide-open to anyone else looking for him, not limited to the authorities. Yet if the authorities, or at any rate, the powerful people who he suspected ran them, hadn’t drawn his negative attention night before last, he’d not hesitate to do just that. But he was hesitating now.
Suze pulled up a swivel chair and plumped down on it, watching more closely as he read on. Jin shifted from foot to foot, growing bored as Miles, frowning, sped through holoscreens of mostly non-useful data. “Hey Suze-san, you want me to bring you some cinnamon rolls? Ako was just getting them out of the oven.”
“Do they have coffee down there?” Miles asked, diverted. “Can you bring me coffee? Black?”
Jin wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know how anybody can stand to drink that stuff.”
“It’s a taste you acquire when you’re older. Rather like an interest in girls.”
Suze made a noise in her throat that might have been either a laugh, or phlegm.
Jin’s nose wrinkled further, but he bobbed a sort of nod with his whole body, and trotted off.
“Two coffees!” Suze called after him. He waved an acknowledging hand as he thumped out the door.
Miles turned in his chair and looked after him—the boy was out of earshot already. “Nice kid, that.”
“Yah.”
“Good of you to take him in. What do you know about him?” Prime the pump, my Lord Auditor. “He told me his father was dead and his mother was frozen, making him an orphan of sorts, I suppose. I’d think his mother would have been too young for long-term cryo-sequestration. Usually at that age it’s only used as a last-ditch emergency procedure to hold people till they can be treated.” As Miles had once been. He couldn’t even add, To my cost, because despite the imperfections of his revival, his life and everything in it for the past decade had been its grant. And a gift of the kindness of strangers, don’t forget them. The Durona Group being about as strange as they came.
Suze’s snort this time had a decidedly editorial tone. She looked him over and evidently came to some decision in his favor, for she went on: “Jin’s father was killed in a construction accident. He didn’t have a cryo-contract or cryo-insurance, so he was denied treatment till it was too late, though I expect things were happening brutally fast at the time.”
Miles nodded. Emergency cryo-treatment was either fast or useless, giving a new meaning to the phrase, the quick or the dead. There was little point in reviving a body when the mind was irretrievable; you might as well just clone the victim and start over.
“Jin’s mother went a little crazy after that. Launched a campaign for freezing as a universal public right, and went after the corps’ grave-robbery as well. She became quite the spokeswoman, a few years back. Lawsuits, protests. Then one of her rallies went violent—they never did figure out who was to blame, though I have my own suspicions—and she was arrested. They rammed though an allegation of mental illness—not quite a charge of criminally insane, because that would have had to meet stricter standards—and some kindly friend of the court offered to fund her freezing till her cure could be discovered.”
Miles’s teeth tightened. “That chilled the opposition, did it?”
“You could say.”
“Didn’t her relatives protest? Or anybody?”
“Her campaign group was broken up by the expenses of it all. Her relatives were embarrassed by her—put at risk of losing their own jobs, don’t you know. I expect they were secretly glad when she was shut up.” Suze eyed him. “You don’t seem especially shocked.”
Miles shrugged. “I’ve seen a fair number of worlds, met a lot of people. Encountered a variety of systems. I’ve seen worse. Granted, Jackson’s Whole, which is run by what are in effect high-tech warlords and their thugs, has a certain refreshing straightforwardness about its corruption. They don’t have to pretend their evil is good in order to sell it to voters.”
“Let me tell you, young man—the dirty little secret of democracy is that just because you get a vote, doesn’t mean you get your choice.” She sighed. “Though up till twenty, thirty years ago, it wasn’t so bad, here. There were hundreds and hundreds of cryocorps, all run by different people with different ideas, so their vote-bags offset each other. Then some of them grew big enough to start gobbling up the others. Not because it was good for Kibou, or for their cryo-patrons, or for anyone but their top men in the grip of their greed, but just because they could. Nowadays it’s down to half a dozen big corps that control most everything, plus a few scattered holdouts too small to matter.”
“Jin called you Suze the Secretary,” said Miles slowly. “What are you secretary of?”
Her lined face, briefly animated by her anger, grew more closed. “This place, once. It was a closely-held family corp, and I was executive secretary to our chief. Then we were bought out—swallowed up and stripped. Not because the buyer wanted us, but because they wanted to eliminate us.”
“Who bought it out? WhiteChrys, by chance?”
Suze shook her head. “No, Shinkawa Perpetual. WhiteChrys got them later, though.” A twisted smile suggested she thought this justice was cosmic, if a little too late.
“But how did you end up living in this shell?”
“A lot of us lost our jobs then, you know. No golden tram rides to retirement for mere employees. We had to go somewhere.” She hesitated. “Other folks drifted in later.”
“Executive secretary, huh? I guess you would know where all the bodies were buried.”
She cast him a sharp look—what, frightened? This tough, haggish creature? But before Miles could pursue this line further, Jin banged back in, bearing a laden tray. It held—besides the promised rolls, redolent of cinnamon, a carton of milk, and two mismatched cups—an entire insulated carafe of coffee. Miles, proud of his restraint, did not fall on it rabidly, but waited for his hostess to serve him.
She dismayed him with delay by shuffling to her tall cupboard and returning with an unlabeled square glass bottle. She poured a . . . shot, Miles fancied, into her own cup, and, after a pause, raised her brows at Miles. “Want any freshener?”
“Er, no thanks. Just coffee.” It sluiced down his throat, tonic enough all on its own. Jin sat back on the other swivel chair, contentedly munching rolls and swiveling with a steady squeak-squeak-squeak that made Suze wince and take a long swallow of her doctored drink.
Her scowl returned, contemplating Miles. He wasn’t sure what he’d said to wind her up, just when he’d thought he was winning her favor. Clearly, she wasn’t merely someone lucky enough to have salvaged a working comconsole, but a leader of sorts in this odd secret community.
“Jin can take you to Ayako’s Cafe,” she said suddenly. “You can call your friends to come get you from there.”
Jin sat up and protested, “But I haven’t shown him how Gyre flies, yet!”
“He can’t stay here, Jin.”
Jin wilted.
It was plain Suze liked Miles even less as a kidnapped conference delegate than as a mere lost tourist with a weakness for recreational hallucinogens. He decided to try another lure. “I came to that conference to learn about Kibou-daini’s cryo-law and science, but actually ended up being hand-fed some very slick pitches for various cryocorps franchises. After four days of it, a lot of the delegates were ready to sign contracts on the spot. In a way, the extremists’ attack was a fortunate misfortune. I was sent here by my employer to make a complete report on your cryonics system, but it seems I was missing some rather large pieces.”
“Then you’d best be on your way to hunt for them, hadn’t you?”
And what kind of piece are you? To be sure, Puzzle. “Actually, now the conference is over, my time is my own. But I could use another day of rest from yesterday’s ordeal, if Jin is willing. Although I do need to report in to one fellow. Jin, if I gave you directions, do you think you could hand-carry a letter across town for me, and give it to a man?”
Jin perked up. “Sure! Uh . . . maybe. What part of town?”
“East side.”
“Um . . . yah, I could do that.”
Miles decided to ignore the faint tinge of doubt in his voice. “Where are we now, by the way?”
“South side,” said Jin.
“Go yourself,” said Suze. “I’ll give you the tube-tram fare. Just don’t come back.”
“And when the police ask me where I’ve been, what shall I tell them?”
Her face grew grimmer. “Tell them you were lost.”
“I could—if it were worth my while.”
The snort this time was savage. “If we had money for bribes, would we be here?”
“You mistake my meaning, ma’am. My coin is information. Although, you know, you’re the second person on Kibou who’s tried to bribe me. Is this some sort of local custom?”
Her mouth worked. “Who was the first?”
“WhiteChrys.”
“Impressive.”
“It impressed me, although not in the way they intended. Small gifts are for selling things. Large gifts are for hiding things. It made me very, very curious.”
“So did you take your large gift, Vorkosigan-san?”
He did not bother correcting it to Vorkosigan-sama, or possibly -dono; at least she had the pronunciation right. “At that level, a scornful no is not only shortsighted, but potentially dangerous. I think a day or two of rest here might be good for my health.”
“And how do I know that letter to your friend won’t bring more trouble down on us?”
“It won’t if I say not. I outrank him.”
Her lips twisted. “Yah, you have that swagger, don’t you?”
And Suze had undoubtedly seen a lot of upper management swagger in her time. Miles wondered if her bosses had realized how closely they were observed.
Jin had been following this exchange with anxious squeakings of his chair. “I could take his letter, Suze! I don’t mind a bit.”
Miles opened a hand to Suze, half persuasion, half plea. “Think it through. You lose no secrecy you haven’t lost already”—he cut the unless you propose to have me murdered—no point in planting suggestions—“and you gain my gratitude.”
“And what’s that worth?”
On Barrayar, quite a lot. But they were not, as Roic had several times pointed out, on Barrayar. “I’ll think of something.”
Her eyebrows signaled severe skepticism. But she spoke instead to Jin: “Didn’t Yani tell you to leave him out there? See what trouble comes of good deeds, Jin!” Miles wasn’t sure if this counted for a yea or a nay, but she heaved a sigh and went on, “Take Vorkosigan-san down to the storerooms and find him something to write with. And on.”
Jin shot eagerly to his feet. Miles made his thanks and followed him out before Suze could change her mind.
Jin watched, shifting from foot to foot, as Miles-san, as he’d decided to think of him, because that last name was a jaw-breaker, sorted through the few half-empty boxes of notepaper on the shelf in the storeroom. It was mostly the kind that old ladies used for writing formal thank-you notes, decorated with flowers and such, though Jin eyed one that bore puppies with a certain covetousness. With a quirk of his eyebrows, the little man made his selection, then turned to testing pens from the box of assorted discards. He found two that worked, stuck them in his pocket, and looked around.
“This place looks like a junk shop. Or the attic of Vorkosigan House . . .”
“Whenever anybody has findings that they don’t want, they bring them down here for anybody to use,” Jin explained. “Or else when . . . um.” When they go downstairs to Tenbury for the last time, but he couldn’t say that. He wasn’t sure he was even supposed to know that.
Miles-san’s gaze caught. “Ah! Shoes!” He limped over to the pile. Jin tagged along, and helpfully also began sorting. The galactic’s feet were a little smaller than his own, but then, Jin had had to find replacement shoes here just a month ago, when his toes had pushed through his last pair like spring shoots through soil. The ladies’ fancy shoes were all useless even to most of the ladies here, and tended to accumulate, but Miles found a pair of sport shoes that fit at last. They were a girly flowered print, but he didn’t seem to notice as he shoved them on and fastened the straps. “That’s better. Now I can move.” He turned, scanning the stores more closely. “Huh. Canes!”
He went to the collection leaning in a corner and picked though it, passing up some sturdy medical ones with multiple rubber feet, and others that were too long. He made his final choice by sweeping them around like swords and thwacking them against the wall, so that Jin wasn’t sure if he was looking for a prop or a weapon. But just in case it was the former, Jin led him back to his rooftop home by the inside route, up the emergency stairs and out the exchanger tower door.
Miles-san took over the table and chair, set out his paper, and frowned, face intent. Then he bent and began scratching with the pen, with occasional long, thoughtful pauses. Jin had cleaned out the chickens’ boxes, counted the chicks just in case any had found the parapet again, and brushed Lucky before the man finished writing, sealed the note, and looked up, squinting around.
“Do you have a clean, sharp knife? Or pin, or needle?”
“I’ll look.” Jin eventually found a little scalpel in the half-a-medicine-kit he’d once collected, and handed it over. Miles-san eyed it, shrugged, and to Jin’s alarm poked his thumb with the sharp end. After squeezing out a drop of blood, he bent and pressed it over the flap, leaving a clear thumbprint across the line, which he then circled and initialed.
“Yah, wow,” said Jin. “Why’d you do that?”
“DNA. Thumbprint’s as good a mark as my grandfather’s seal-dagger. Better. They didn’t do DNA scans in his day. After all, one couldn’t expect the attaché to bestir himself for just any anonymous note off the street.”
He then proceeded to give Jin a rather complicated set of directions for after he’d reached the east side, which he made Jin recite back; the result made him sigh, and bend again to write the man’s name and address on the outside of the envelope after all. “I expect you’ll get there one way or another. Don’t give this into the hand of anyone but Lieutenant Johannes or Consul Vorlynkin, mind. It’s very private.”
Jin promised this, and went to find his box of coins, fishing out enough for the tube-tram fare, both ways. It didn’t leave much.
“Is that your whole bank?” Miles-san asked, peering over his shoulder. Jin nodded. “Well, if you make my delivery, you’ll get it back.”
Jin wasn’t sure how much store to set by this, but he nodded anyway. In turn he gave Miles-san a set of instructions should any animal emergencies arise while he was gone, which made the man blink a little. But he recited them back flawlessly. Jin tucked the letter inside his shirt, cast one last doubtful look over his shoulder, and descended the ladder.
Jin was nervous on the tube-tram, afraid people were looking at him, but no one seized him by the arm and dragged him to Security. He almost lost himself in the big transfer station downtown, the east side routes being unfamiliar to him, but he kept his eyes rigidly on the wall maps and made an effort to not look panicked. Helpful people could be as dangerous to him as suspicious ones. He found the right tube and the right stop at last.
A six-block walk, without too many turns, brought him to his destination. The neighborhood was full not of tidy apartment buildings of the sort he’d grown up in, but of forbiddingly fine houses in walled gardens. Several bore shiny brass plaques beside their gates labeling them as planetary embassies—Escobar’s was an especially large and impressive mansion. The Barrayaran Consulate, thankfully also clearly labeled, was not so intimidating by contrast—quite a small house, really, set close to the street so Jin didn’t have time to get scared going up the walk. No uniformed guards, and the decorative iron gate was so low Jin might have hopped over it, if it hadn’t been left invitingly open. Jin gulped and pressed the buzzer.
The door was opened by a blond man in shirtsleeves, his slim green trousers held up by braces. He looked rumpled and tired and in need of a depilatory. He stared at Jin with lowered brows. “No solicitors or beggars,” he said unencouragingly.
He had the same rumbly accent as Miles-san, and Jin realized to his dismay that not all Barrayarans were short. This man was very tall. “Please, sir, I’m a messenger. I have a letter for Lieutenant Johannes or Consul Vor, um, Vorlynkin.” From Miles-san’s brief description of the lieutenant, Jin thought this might be him, but did lieutenants answer doors? Further, Jin thought with some outrage, Miles-san had called him a nice kid, not a scary grownup. Though he supposed lieutenants had to be grownups.
“I’m Johannes.”
Jin reached inside his shirt; the man tensed, but eased again when Jin drew out the letter. “From Miles-san—from Mr. Vorkosigan.” Jin was careful with the pronunciation.
“Shit!”
Jin flinched. Lieutenant Johannes then terrified him further by grabbing his arm, dragging him into the front hall, and slamming the door shut. He snatched the letter, held it up to the light, then tore it open, pausing only to shout up the stairway, “Stefin!”
He began running his eyes down the neat, tightly-written lines. “Alive, oh thank God! We’re saved!”
A second grownup, somewhat older and even taller than the first, clattered down the stairs. He was dressed like any Northbridge businessman right down to the hakama-like trousers, except that his wide-sleeved haori coat hung open, and he looked as squinty-eyed and tired as the lieutenant. “What, Trev?”
“Look at this! A letter from Lord Vorkosigan—he’s free!”
The second man looked over his shoulder, and echoed, “Thank God! But why didn’t he call in?” Then, after a moment more, “What? What?”
The lieutenant turned the letter over and they both read on. “Is he insane?”
The older man cast Jin a very narrow look, stirring up all Jin’s worst fears. Policemen loomed in his imagination.
“Is this real?” the older man demanded.
Jin bent, picked up the fallen envelope, and held it out mutely. He swallowed and managed, “He said you’d like the thumbprint. He said it would be just like his grandfather’s seal.”
“Is that blood?”
“Um, yah . . . ?”
The older man handed the envelope to the lieutenant. “Take that downstairs and check it.”
“Yes, sir.” Trev-san disappeared through the doorway at the back of the hall. After a moment, Jin heard a door slam, and feet thumping down some other stairs.
“Excuse me, sir, are you the consul?” Jin had gained the vague notion that a consul was something like an ambassador, but smaller. Rather like his house, really. “Because Miles-san said, only give his letter to the lieutenant or Consul Vorlynkin.” He managed to get that last name out without stumbling over his tongue, this time. Jin would have expected an ambassador proper to be stouter and older, but this man was lean and not as old as Miles-san, or at least, he didn’t have any gray in his brown hair.
“I’m Vorlynkin.” His stare at Jin intensified. His eyes were very blue, like a hot summer sky. “Where did you see Lord Auditor Vorkosigan?”
“I, um, met him last night. He’d been lost in the Cryocombs. He said.”
“Is he all right?”
The answer seemed more complicated than the question, but Jin decided to skip all that and just reassure him: “He’s much better this morning. I gave him eggs.”
Vorlynkin blinked, and looked at the letter some more. “If this wasn’t a letter in his own hand—if this isn’t a letter in his own hand—I’d have you under fast-penta so . . . eh. Where did you see him?”
“Um, where I live.”
“And where’s that?”
He was in trouble now, between Suze and this alarming stranger. He was never supposed to talk to strangers, or tell anyone about the facility, he’d been told that often enough. He wondered if he could bolt back out the door and down the walk before the consul could grab him. “Um, my place . . . ?”
“What . . .” To his surprise, Vorlynkin did not pursue this, but turned the letter over again. “What did he seem to be about?”
“Um . . . he asked a lot of questions.” Jin thought a moment, and offered, “He’s not kidnapped anymore, you know.”
“But why send a child as a courier . . . ?” Vorlynkin muttered. Jin wasn’t sure if the question was addressed to him, so did not attempt to volunteer an answer. It didn’t seem the time to explain about almost twelve, either. He was beginning to think that the less he said, the safer he would be.
The other fellow—Lieutenant Johannes, Trev-san, whatever—stumped back into to the entry hall, waving the envelope at his boss. “This part’s real. Now what, sir?”
“We still have to find his armsman just the same—he seems to think Roic was taken. No change there with respect to the locals. I suppose we have to do exactly what this says. But send a holo of the letter to ImpSec Galactic Affairs on Komarr, priority, scrambled.”
The lieutenant looked hopeful. “Maybe they’ll have an order. Some other order. One that makes more sense.”
“Not for some days. And think who they’d have to go to for an override.” The two men looked at each other in mysterious perturbation. “We’re still on our own, here.”
Jin diffidently cleared his throat. “Miles-san said I was to bring back a reply.”
“Yes,” said the consul. “Wait there.” He pointed to a spindly chair against the wall, one of a pair flanking a little bureau with silk flowers atop it, and a mirror above. Both men thumped downstairs again.
Jin sat. Only the firmness and brevity of that Yes gave him the courage not to run away while he had this chance. However doubtful they were of Jin, they seemed to take Miles-san’s letter seriously, which was a relief.
He was left alone for a long time. He got up once, to peer into the rooms flanking the entry hall. One was a sort of living room, very fancy; the other was more severe and officelike. No sign of pets, not even a bird in a cage or a cat. He was glad he hadn’t gone poking around searching for any when another man emerged from the back hall, looked at him in surprise, and said, “May I help you?”
This fellow spoke in a normal Kibou accent, at least. Jin shook his head vigorously. “Lieutenant Johannes is seeing to, um, it. Me.”
The ease with which Jin spun off the lieutenant’s name seemed to reassure the man. “Oh,” he said, and wandered into the office, to sit at the comconsole and begin some sort of work there. Jin stayed in his seat after that.
After a great deal more time, Vorlynkin came back. He held another sealed envelope in his hand, plain and businesslike, much bulkier than the one Jin had delivered.
“Do you think you can give this back into the hand of Lord Vorkosigan—only?”
Jin stood up. “I got this far.”
“So you did.” With visible reluctance, the consul handed the envelope over. Jin stuffed it into his shirt once more, and lost no time in escaping.
I didn’t understand any of that. Jin looked back apprehensively as he passed out the iron gate once more. But he was glad Miles-san seemed to have some friends. Of a sort.