Speaking of locals… Roic leaned forward again and searched out the number of the Barrayaran consulate in Northbridge. Unfortunately, the public net only supplied the public number, not the secured emergency link coded on his wristcom, presumably discarded back in the city by his captors for well-founded fear of tracers. A polite recorded voice told him to call back during office hours, or leave a message. The muted background music was a popular Barrayaran military march that gave Roic a twinge of homesickness. He was halfway through recording a succinct report on his current situation when, to his relief, he was interrupted by a live human.

Roic recognized Lieutenant Johannes, the young driver who-along with Consul Vorlynkin himself, because m'lord was, after all, m'lord-had picked them up at the shuttleport nigh on a week ago and transported them to the conference hotel. Military attache, ImpSec of sorts, and for all Roic knew, cook, gardener, and the consul's batman. He felt a dim sense of comradeship, contemplating Johannes.

"Armsman Roic!" Johannes's voice was curt and anxious. "Are you all right? Where are you?"

Roic began his summary once more; halfway through, the strained face of Consul Vorlynkin joined Johannes's image above the vid plate.

"If you follow up with the Northbridge police from your end, you'll likely know as soon and as much as we do," Roic finished.

Vorlynkin said, "Lord Auditor Vorkosigan is not with you-right?"

"We haven't spotted him here. Any sign back there?"

A too-long pause. "We aren't quite sure."

What t'hell did that mean?

"When you get free, report in to the consulate at once," Vorkynkin went on. "Should I send Johannes to coordinate with the police?"

Roic scratched his head. "If m'lord's not here, there's no point t' get in a panic about us. I'll get back with the others."

"What about me?" said Raven, either indignant or amused, it was hard to tell.

"Who is that?" said Vorlynkin sharply.

"Dr. Durona. An acquaintance from Escobar, one of the delegates," Roic replied.

Raven obligingly leaned forward into range of the vid pick-up and smiled benignly. Vorlynkin frowned back.

"M'lord would want to know he was"-safe seemed a premature claim-"with me," Roic explained.

Vorlynkin said distantly, "You know, if you people would be more forthcoming, we could do our job of supporting you much better."

The faint bitterness in the consul's voice was more reassuring to Roic than the man could possibly imagine. It sounded quite like Vorlynkin had undergone some recent dealing with m'lord, one that he was loath to transmit over an unsecured comlink.

"Yes, sir," said Roic, in a mollifying tone.

He cut the com.

"Now what?" said Raven. "Just sit here and wait for the sirens?"

"There had better not be sirens," said Roic. "Best they drop down and secure the hostages first before making any noise." That was what he'd suggested, at least.

After a longer pause, Raven said, "The Liberators didn't really act like they wanted to kill us. Just convert us."

"Panic does odd things to people."

Raven sighed. "You could stand to be more reassuring, Roic, you know?"

Huddling around the indicator lights as if at a very tiny campfire, they waited in the darkness.

?

Miles rattled the consulate's wrought-iron front gate, found it locked, and stared over it wearily. Beyond a dainty front garden sat a dinky house, overshadowed by its grander neighbors, although at least it looked well-kept. Maybe it had once been servants' quarters? Kibou-daini had never been considered strategically important enough to spend much Imperial money upon, its system being in a wormhole cul-de-sac on the far side of Escobar, well outside of Barrayar's web of influence. This consulate existed mainly to ease the occasional Barrayaran or more likely Komarran trading venture through planetary regulations, aid any members of the Imperium who found themselves in local trouble, and direct and quietly vet the even rarer Kibou traveler planning to visit the Imperium. Miles's arrival was likely the most excitement the place had endured in years. Yeah, well, it's about to get more so.

The pre-dawn chill was damp and penetrating, his legs were cramped, and his back ached. He sighed and clambered awkwardly over the gate, retrieved his cane, stumped up the short walk, and leaned on the door chime.

The porch and hall lights flicked on; a face peered through the glass, and the door opened a crack. A young man Miles didn't recognize spoke in a Kibou accent: "Sir, you'll have to come back during business hours. We open in about two more-"

Miles wedged his cane through the opening, levered it wider, put his head down, and barged in.

"Sir-!"

The minion was only saved from a shattering blast of Auditorial ire by Consul Vorklynkin strolling through an archway at the back of the hall, saying, "What is it, Yuuichi?…?Oh my God, Lord Vorkosigan!"

Showing a swift sense of self-preservation, Yuuichi fell back from between them.

Vorlynkin, tall and lean, was half-dressed in trousers, shirt, and slippers, bleary-eyed, and clutching a mug that steamed with the gentle perfume of hot green tea. Miles was so distracted by the smell that he was almost thrown off his well-rehearsed opening, but he'd had a lot of hours this past night to rehearse.

"Vorlynkin, what the hell have you done with my courier?"

Vorlynkin's spine snapped straight, unconsciously revealing a military hitch sometime in his earlier life. A look of partial, but only partial, relief lit his blue eyes. "We can answer that! My lord."

"So Jin did make it here?"

"Um, yes, sir."

The problem had occurred on Jin's way back, then. Not good… Miles had waited in growing anxiety till midnight, then pressed Ako into substitute pet care and taken matters unto his own hands, or feet. The hours it had cost him to make it here unobserved had not improved his mood. Neither had the rain.

The consul's brows drew down as he took in Miles's appearance in turn, a very far cry from Miles's cultivated gray-eminence-look of their brief meeting last week. Although the ragged, stained clothing, two-day growth of face stubble, general reek, and peculiar shoes might not be the whole of why he flinched. But, showing a keen eye that was well-placed in the diplomatic corps, he caught Miles's gaze tracking his waving mug, and added smoothly, "Do you want to come to the kitchen and sit down, my Lord Auditor? We were just having breakfast."

"Tea, yes," said Miles, relieved from his impulse to wrench the mug out of the man's hand. Gods, yes.

Vorlynkin led through the back archway, saying, "How did you get here?"

"Walked. Thirty-odd kilometers since midnight, back ways, dodging twice because I didn't want to explain myself in my current condition to the local street guards. Needless to say, this was not my original plan."

The kitchen was a modest tidy room, with a round dining table squeezed into a sort of bay overlooking the walled back garden. The windows mostly reflected the room's bright interior, but beyond, the night's damp blackness was turning to bluer shadow. The blond kid, the attache Johannes, turned from the microwave and almost dropped whatever pre-packaged bachelor fare he'd just heated. At his boss's head-jerk, he hastened to pull out a chair for the very important, if very unkempt, visitor. Miles fell into it, trying not to let his gratitude overcome his exasperation, because the latter was about all that was keeping him functional.

"Can I get you something, my lord?" asked the lieutenant solicitously.

"Tea. Also a shower, dry clothes, food, sleep, and a secured comconsole, though I'd settle for just the comconsole, but let's start with the tea." Or else he risked pillowing his head on his arms and going for the sleep first, right here. "Did you get my don't-panic message off to Barrayar, and my wife? Coded, I trust?"