Ivan Vorpatril is being a distraction.

Admittedly, if anyone were to look in his direction at precisely this moment, they would probably not be able to tell that Ivan Vorpatril is being a distraction, but that has more to do with the fact that he isn't trying very hard than with his actual state of being. Also because Ivan Vorpatril is trying very, very hard to get drunk right now, which means he is more or less behaving exactly the way he always does at official functions.

It isn't really his fault, per se. Gregor's 20th birthday bash landed on a day that was already grey and depressing, a day which has only become more grey and more depressing as the hours pass, and is now turning out to be significantly drearier than usual, to the point where the vaunted birthday boy looks practically catatonic and even Ivan’s mum is fiddling with the hem of her sleeve and shooting covert glances at the clock. So Ivan has decided to cut his losses, steal a bottle of champagne, and hole up in one of the window seats until he can make a more polite get-away. And if this sort of low-profile activity happens to make him a very bad distraction, then that's just too bad for Miles.

The window seats are mostly deserted as it is still early enough in the evening for booze to be circulating out on the dance floor. Ivan secures himself the seat farthest from any canoodling couples and pours himself another glass of champagne, which, while lukewarm now, is still pretty good (thank god). He settles in with his back against the glass and his left knee jammed against the window frame and peers out in a mix of what he figures is aloof interest and vague ennui.

With the various hellos and birthday wishes dispensed with, the party guests have settled out into little clusters, organized mostly by gender and age, with Gregor’s circle (populated by wave after wave of grey-haired counts) and a knot of foreigners (who don't know any better) the only real exceptions. Conversations hum along and Ivan zones in and out, but he gathers that the popular topics are as follows:

1) the proposal before Council to have Greek recognized as an official language and the Greekies in general granted some sort of special status – which has had the amusing side effect of making every Conservative in Vorbarr Sultana apoplectic for months now;

2) up-dos and whether they will fall out of fashion before the first snow, thereby allowing the ladies of the court to actually wear hats or some such during the winter;

3) the new Polian ambassador and his family – "charming wife, charming daughter, too bad about the son" seems to be the general consensus, and amongst the more furtive, nervous-looking guest:

4) the subject of Gregor's majority and whether Vorkosigan (or anyone else, for that matter) will finally make his move tonight before it is too late.

Even just eavesdropping on this last item makes Ivan feel all dirty and political, so he downs the last of his glass of champagne – just in time to catch Lord René Vorbretten winding his way over.

"Ivan!" says René as he gets into range, lifting his own nearly-empty glass in a mock toast. Ivan manages to croak out a weak "Hey René," and shifts around so that he's spread out across the window seat as much as possible in a not-to-subtle signal for René to go away. René does not get the hint and smiles a bright, friendly smile.

"Where's your shadow tonight?"

"Hm?" Realizing only belatedly that this is probably some cryptic reference to Miles, Ivan has to laugh silently for a few minutes as visions of how Miles would react to being called his shadow dance through his head.

René, meanwhile, is making the pained, stuffy face of someone who is searching for a second witty epithet and only coming up with potentially offensive – and definitely not PC – alternatives. Ivan, out of boredom, lets him fidget for a couple of seconds longer before coming to the rescue.

"Oh, Miles? Don't know. Haven't seen him." And then, remembering that he's supposed to be a distraction, he hurriedly adds: "Recently. I haven't seen him recently, but he was following around the waiter with the puffy cheese things earlier."

René nods and flashes another wide smile, which is an irritating habit he has picked up since learning that Tatya Vorkeres and the other young Vor girls find it charming. It mostly makes Ivan want to roll his eyes.

René is just getting ready to change the topic -- to something banal like the weather, Ivan expects, which isn't politics at least, but still -- when a loud "WHOOP!" goes up from the far side of the room followed by a long, overly-loud laugh. René and Ivan exchange the uniquely Barrayaran set of glances meant to indicate a weary tolerance of foreigners. Because without looking, they both know the noise came from the corner of the room where the new Polian ambassador’s son has gathered a small crowd of the bolder, more adventurous Barrayaran young men and is holding forth on the comparative virtues of Polian women versus Barrayaran women. He's easy for Ivan to spot mostly because he is the only one having anything near a good time.

René must be thinking along those same lines because his smile slips, and he lets out a weary little sigh. "What I wouldn't give to be him for the night, eh?" he says.

Ivan considers this and decides that, despite the pro of not being suicidally bored, he's probably glad he isn't the Polian ambassador's son tonight. Because if he was, Miles would probably kill him.

And then Elena would kill him again, just to be sure.

---

The situation (at least as Miles recounted it earlier this evening much to Ivan's dismay and general disinterest) is something like this: The old Polian ambassador was a hard-nosed, uncompromising son of a bitch with well-known views on Barrayaran culture and society vis-à-vis its backwardness. He was loathed by the Conservatives, who saw him as blocking Barrayaran interests and far too interested in democratizing, and only just tolerated by the Progressives (and then only because of how much he frustrated the Conservatives). So when it came out, about a month earlier, that he had been consorting with the very young (and married) Lady Nina Vorstakh, pretty much every of-age, halfway political Barrayaran in the city lined up to be the one to kick him off the planet for good.

When the Polian higher-ups found out, they were understandably distressed. What with the changing of the guard that would inevitably come from Gregor's freshly obtained majority, it behooved anyone with interest in friendly (or, at least, peaceful) relations to make their political presence known to the emperor. So the Polians (and here Miles had paused to give a derisive snort) had packed the first semi-credentialed candidate on a shuttle and sent him along with little regard for how well the rest of the family would fit in.

All this, Ivan somehow manages to translate from Milesian to Barrayaran as "The new ambassador's son is a dick." Which, to be fair to Ivan, pretty much all of the court had already deduced and even if Ivan somehow had missed it, he didn't really require a half hour lecture to figure out.

Because the ambassador's son, one Jessiff Oberwitter Junior by name, had been fairly transparent in his dick-ish-ness. Since arriving in Vorbarr Sultana, he had spent his time largely getting drunk, going to parties, and harassing any Barrayaran woman who stood still for long enough. Thus, Ivan would be almost willing to admit that Oberwitter Jr. was something of a personal hero.

Almost. Except for the very important fact, that Oberwitter had made the unfortunate mistake of taking not one, or two, but three passes at Elena Bothari this week and from the vaguely maniacal gleam in Miles's and Elena's eyes as they explained, quite cautiously, that they had a plan, Ivan suspects that Oberwitter and his allies will not survive the night in one piece.

---

René hangs around until 19:30, when he catches sight of Tatya across the dance floor and decides that his time could be better spent mooning in her general direction than wallowing around with Ivan. Of course, he gives a much politer excuse as he heads off, and Ivan is too pleased to see him go to point out how painfully transparent it all is.

He's just settling into his alcove again when a female voice to his right opines, “I hope Tatya lets him win her over soon. It's like kicking a puppy every time she turns him down.”

Ivan looks up and to the right and quirks an eyebrow at Delia Koudelka. Delia meets his eyes and shrugs a little.

“Okay,” she says. “Maybe not a puppy so much as a benign stalker. But it's still sad.”

“Here, here to that,” Ivan agrees.

Delia gives him an appraising look and then twiddles her fingers in the universal sign for “Shove over.” Ivan does so, only slightly miffed at having to give up his leg-rest. Delia is, after all, at least a prettier companion than René. She dips into the vacated spot and takes a moment to rearrange her dress around her loosely crossed ankles. She's too tall to fit the low-set seat comfortably (due to the unfair growth spurts she received this past summer) but after shifting around a little, she manages to look elegant all the same. When she's satisfied, she raises her eyes to Ivan and blinks once, giving him permission to attempt a conversation.

“Atrocious party, huh?” says Ivan. It's an almost unbearably lame thing to say, and Ivan blames the fact that, out of the corner of his eye, he can see Oberwitter Junior pulling away from his audience and moving out toward the dance floor with some poor, naïve Barrayaran girl in tow.

Delia hmphs. “It isn't so bad.”

Oberwitter and the girl don't stop at the dance floor, and they don't stop when a waiter offers them hors d'oeuvres off his platter, although Oberwitter pauses mid-stride to snatch something shrimp-shaped and pop it into his mouth. They appear to be headed to the doors, which lead to the gardens, which lead (eventually) to the large guest complex where the Oberwitter's are currently residing.

Which is where Miles and Elena, Ivan suspects, are currently up to nefarious deeds. The sort they'd rather not be caught doing. The sort he's supposed to keep people from noticing.

“Are you all right?” Delia says, peering at him from under knit brows.

“What?” asks Ivan and then, “Yes, yes. Perfectly fine.”

“Really?” Delia seems unconvinced, and she leans in further, until they're nearly nose-to-nose. “Because I think that glass of yours is going to break pretty soon if you don't ease up.”

Ivan follows her eyes down to where his hand in still gripped onto his empty champagne glass. The knuckles are out on the far side of white now and are starting to turn a waxy yellow colour around the edges. The veins are standing out stark and purple against his skin. Sheepishly, Ivan looks up again, just in time to see Oberwitter and his Barrayaran conquest heading out of doors.

With an effort, he shifts his attention back to Delia and says, “I really don't want to do this, but I have to go.”

Delia leans back, arms across her chest, and looks amused. “Why?” she asks.

“To keep Miles from causing an international incident.”

Her eyebrows rise up in way that is not exactly surprise. “What?” she says, “Again?”

---

When Miles was ten, just a little short of eleven, he'd accidentally gotten into a fight with the son of the then Marilacan president. "Accidentally" was the story that he, Ivan, Elena and (after a long afternoon of pleading and cajoling) Gregor had settled on to tell the adults. In reality, Miles had gone looking for that fight -- frustrated and angry and tired of the way the Marilacan kid kept staring at him and pointing. He'd been looking (or so he explains later, in private) to teach the kid that he wasn't some helplessly frail, freaky mutant. Instead, he got his nose bashed in, his jaw broken, three fractures to his right arm, and a month confined to the Residence to think about what he'd done.

Ivan was one of the few visitors Miles was allowed during that time (mostly due because his mother's frequent business with Lady Vorkosigan made it hard to keep him away), and they would sit in the Vorkosigan's wing with a mostly-ignored game of Tacti-Go laid out between them, and Miles would sulk while Ivan reminded him what an idiot he was for picking a fight with anyone, ever.

Of course, the flip side of all this was that the Marilacan president spent most of the rest of his visit apologizing profusely to any Barrayaran who happened to be in the room long enough, and the president's son was given such a thorough chewing out by his father that he never even dared to glance in Miles's direction ever again. Ivan has always suspected that this might have been Miles's plan all along.

Which didn't stop him from giving the kid a black eye about a week later, on Miles's behalf, but still.

---

Ivan whips through the garden as fast as he can manage without drawing undue suspicion from the guards on patrol. This is both an easy and difficult task. Difficult because the entire purpose of these guards is to look out for individuals who, like Ivan right now, are being a bit too dodgy, a bit too close to the Imperial Presence. It's easy because the poor schmucks on garden patrol will seize on any excuse to assume that you are not a dodgy person, so they do not have to take you into custody and thereby sacrifice the remainder of their evening to filling out paperwork.

Also, Ivan's had years of practice at this. So, he moves fast but every now and then he stops to sniff a flower or examine the nametag on one of the showcase imports. The combined effect is that of a bored Vor lordling, taking a turn around the garden to clear his head.

A quick short-cut through the pink rockrose shrubs and the Escobarran chokeberry later, he comes screeching to a halt in front of the guest complex. The grey-haired, sour-faced guard at the garden entrance gives him the sort of pointedly detached stare of a pleb trying to decide whether he wants to stop a Vor from doing whatever it is this particular Vor wants to do. Then, he turns his attention back to the garden, staring out straight ahead of him and ignoring Ivan completely. Ivan huffs a little "thank god" and charges into the building.

He takes the stairs and on the way up, he makes a rough estimate of how much time he has before Oberwitter arrives (a minute, maybe a minute and a half) and how many favours Elena and Miles will owe him after this (roughly, a hundred million billion).

The door to the ambassador's quarters is locked when he arrives, so he presses the chime and waits and waits and waits. When he's about ready to snap and pound on the door, there a scuffling sound, and the door slides back to reveal a figure about half Ivan's height.

"Dammit, Miles," Ivan barks, "if I get in trouble for this, I am to--"

He breaks off when the person -- definitely Miles's height but on second glance, definitely female as well -- tilts her head to the side. She looks about eleven years-old and is wearing a surprisingly utilitarian white nightgown that stops at her ankles. Two pink-socked feet peak out from under the hem.

"Who’s Miles?" she asks.

“Augh!” Ivan says, smacking his forehead with the palm of his right hand. “Forgot about you.”

The ambassador's daughter nods understandingly. “Most people do.”

Ivan ignores this. “Have you seen two people? Girl with brown hair? Psychopath about your height?” He gestures with his hand just above his stomach for emphasis.

Something like enlightenment floods the girl's features. “Ah,” she says. “That was Miles?” When Ivan nods frantically, she gives an answering nod. “I saw them. They went into my brother's room about twenty minutes ago. I think they forgot about me too.”

Ivan suppresses a growl. It is so like Miles, he thinks, to come up with a plan that would probably astound any general or tactician but which is foiled by an eleven-year-old who isn't even trying. Ivan doesn't say this out loud, of course; instead, he asks, “Are they still here?”

Now, the girl frowns at him, in an eerily contemplative way. “I wonder,” she says, “what my father would think if he knew your friends were here? Or that you were here, for that matter.”

“What?” Ivan shouts, remembering at the last moment where he is and precisely how bad it would be for ImpSec to come storming in right now. He manages to cut off his outburst, so it comes out more as a strangled “Raaag?” than a “What?”

She leans forward, one hand coming up to brace against the metal doorframe as if literally seizing on the idea that has obviously just popped into her head. Her eyes have gone large and almost feverishly excited, and Ivan has a horrifying moment when he wonders if the reason he mistook her for Miles to begin with might not have been just because of the height thing.

“I suggest a deal,” she says in a rapid, hushed voice. “If you sneak me into the party, I will just forget that anyone came by tonight. All right?”

Ivan thinks, but does not say: “You seriously want to be snuck into an Imperial party?” He does not say this only because he is busy saying, “Are you blackmailing me? You're eleven!”

“I'm smart for my age,” she replies.

Ivan sighs and rolls his eyes. “Right,” he says. “Of course you are.”

---

Once, as children, Ivan and Miles put a stink bomb in the bed of one of the particularly grumpy and impatient stablehands at the Residence. It was basically just a pouch of rotten eggs and bad milk, stolen from the Residence kitchens and slipped under the man's floorboards, but it had been surprisingly effective nonetheless.

It had been Miles's idea, of course, as pretty much everything always was. That was the arrangement between the two of them, unspoken but very real nonetheless: Miles thought and Ivan did. When it came to stealing pastries from the kitchens before a banquet, Miles would be able to devise the best way in and out, the most convincing lies and diversion; it was Ivan who could actually run fast enough or reach high enough to pull off the plans, however.

They made a good team, Ivan thinks, although since the age of thirteen neither would be willing to admit it.

---

Her name is Ashlyn and then a whole bunch of extraneous middle names that Ivan forgets on the spot. As they walk back out into the garden and across the grounds, she keeps up a constant stream of chatter about how she likes Barrayar (she guesses) and about her friends back on Pol and why protectionist tariffs are a poor idea for all parties, not just Pol.

It isn't until the guest complex is nearly out of sight that she stops and frowns at him.

“Aren't we going the wrong way?” she asks.

Ivan shakes his head. “It'll be easier to get you in if we go in through the back.”

She frowns again, but her feet (pink socks now encased in blocky brown shoes) start moving again.

“You know your way around,” she observes.

Ivan snorts and stares straight ahead. “I've spent way too much time here.”

They reach the east wing where most of the actual work at the Residence takes place. It's the least decorative building in the complex, packed wall-to-wall with meeting rooms, kitchens, staff offices, and the emperor's personal library (as opposed to the official library in Vorhartung Castle). It's the latter that they sneak in by, sauntering past the two guards on duty who Ivan has a sneaking suspicion he should recognize. They both nod as he passes, and the younger of the two grins for a moment before slipping back into standard issue neutrality.

The library itself is warm. Ivan hadn't actually noticed how cold he was until he steps inside and experiences a full body flush of warmth all at once. The library is also poorly lit with the overhead lights shut off and only the occasional desk lamp or comm screen turned on. It's like the whole room is attempting to be as inconspicuous as possible – and a moment later, when something shuffles in a corner and a pale face looks up from the comconsole he had been reading, Ivan realizes why.

“Oh shit, sorry,” he says, trying to backpedal out of the room without being really obvious about it and nearly crashing into the girl as a result. She gives him a little shove in the back and tries to peer around him to see who he's talking to.

“Don't worry,” says Gregor Vorbarra, flicking the console off with one hand. “I expect I would have been discovered soon anyway.”

“Probably. Mum's certainly looking by now,” Ivan says, still half-attempting a backwards escape. “Hiding from anything in particular?”

Gregor heaves a sigh. “A controversial bill, the possibility of a coup, Greek extremists, and three eligible Vor ladies. I can't honestly remember which one it was, particularly.”

The girl, Ashlyn (whatever), has stopped fidgeting behind him and has gone very quiet now. So quiet that Ivan glances over his shoulder, just to make sure she's still there. She is, and her eyes are large and wide, her mouth hanging open a little. Ivan glances back at Gregor who raises his eyebrows in polite curiosity.

“Uh, right,” says Ivan, wobbling over to the side so that Gregor and the girl have a clear view of each other. The girl makes an abortive attempt to grab Ivan’s jacket and keep him in place, but he manages to slip out of reach just in time and sweep his right arm up in a sort of “ta-dah!” motion. “Gregor Vorbarra, may I present Ashlyn something-or-other Oberwitter?”

“Pleased to meet you,” Gregor says, sounding – as usual – surprisingly sincere.

Ashlyn just stares for a second or two before, all at once it seems, realizing what is happening and ducking into the clumsy curtsy of someone who has clearly grown up in a democracy and never had occasion to learn to do them properly.

“My pleasure,” she mumbles, staring at her shoes and then adds, “Happy birthday, Your Excellency.”

“She wanted me to take her into the party. Is that okay?” blurts Ivan, suddenly realizing that official permission on this kind of thing could be very handy. After all, who is going to argue that she can't come if Gregor has personally invited her?

Gregor looks amused at this – at least, the corners of his mouth turn vaguely upward – and he tilts his head to one side, considering first Ashlyn (who is edging over to hide behind Ivan again) and then Ivan (who stands a little straighter and tries to look trustworthy). Finally, he shrugs. “It's fine by me, although I'm not sure how much that will be worth if your mother catches you.”

Ivan nods hurriedly. He has known Gregor for a very long time – his whole life, in fact – and so he can tell that there's something more coming and that it is probably not a something he will like very much. So he grabs at Ashlyn's hand and tries to shuffle to the door before Gregor has time to ask whatever question he's mulling over.

They don't make it because as soon as Ivan's fingers get a hold on Ashlyn's skinny wrist, Gregor leans forward in his chair and asks, “What exactly is Miles up to?”

Ivan groans. He doesn't have to ask how Gregor knew that Miles is up to something for two reasons. First, because Gregor always knows these things and second, because Gregor knows Miles. “Don't ask that, please,” he says, making his best put-upon face. “There's no way you'll like the answer, so it's better if you just don't ask.”

Gregor acknowledges this by leaning back in his chair again. “And I probably couldn't do anything to rein him in even if I knew?”

“It's about Elena,” Ivan says.

This time, it is Gregor's turn to look put-upon.

---

Ivan estimates that Miles has been in love with Elena since they were ten. It's this insane, all-consuming, stupid, crazy sort of love, which pretty much everyone except Elena herself is aware of. (Actually, Ivan would be pretty willing to bet that Elena has noticed too, but that's mostly because it's almost impossible not to.)

Miles has done a lot of stupid things as a result of plans to win her over in the past few years, including breaking both his legs and nearly catching hypothermia twice. The problem is that they grew up, comfortable in the knowledge that Elena was the reasonable one. The one who would steer them away from their more dangerous and fool-hardy ideas.

But when Elena is not privy to these ideas – or, worse, when she knows and agrees anyway – Miles gets into trouble. Because Miles dreams way too big, way beyond what he, or really anyone, could hope to achieve. His expectations of everyone are so damn high.

And when reality falls short, as it inevitably does, Ivan's the one who has to piggyback him (with his legs done up in make-shift splints) all the way home.

---

The party is exactly as Ivan left it when they finally make it in. Ashlyn, now mostly recovered from her unexpected audience with the emperor, flits about, exclaiming about chandeliers and dresses. “It looks exactly like it does in vids,” she says at one point before nearly colliding with a waiter. Ivan trudges behind like a particularly negligent babysitter.

He keeps an eye out for Miles as well but can't find him (or Elena, for that matter) in any of the little circles of party-goers. After about fifteen minutes of eyeballing the crowd, the thought crosses Ivan's mind that maybe, just maybe, Elena has been swept off her feet by Miles's attempts to avenge her honour and as a result, they might have buggered off together to get up to yet more mischief (albeit, this time, the kind that Ivan can fully endorse).

This seems like a rational explanation and as time passes, and Miles and Elena continue to be missing, Ivan eventually can't see any other alternatives, so he thinks good for you, coz and maybe now you'll shut up for more than three seconds in a row and goes back to being bored out of his mind by the party.

Ashlyn's asymmetrical orbit around the party collides with Team Koudelka before long, and Delia catches Ivan's eyes over her sisters' heads, as they bend down to chat with Ashlyn and smiles.

“International incident averted?” she asks.

Ivan smiles back. “Yeah, I think so.”

At 20:30, when Miles and Elena are still nowhere to be found, Ivan starts to worry again. This is irritating largely because Ivan has now, officially, spent more time worrying tonight than he has about anything in the last three months.

Ashlyn's initial excitement over being at a real, live adult party has almost worn off now, and she's started to yawn almost as frequently as she asks Ivan to dance the next song with her (which he did once but then René came over and made a stupid, unfunny joke about his new girlfriend, so he has since restricted himself to keeping Ashlyn as out-of-sight as possible).

At 20:45, he notices her watching him with a perplexed expression.

“It's not as fun as in vids, is it?” he asks.

“No,” she says, frowning. “Well, yes, you're right. It isn't. But that's not what I was thinking about.”

“Then what?”

She scrunches up her face in disbelief and makes a wide gesture that takes in the whole ballroom. “You really haven't noticed, have you? Something is going on.”

To his credit, yes, Ivan has noticed. Shortly before his ill-fated dance with Ashlyn, he'd spotted Aral Vorkosigan leaving the party then returning several minutes later, only to leave again followed by every well-placed Vor count and high-ranking officer in a five metre radius. Some of the latter had been trickling back in over the last half-hour, but most immediately left again or would pull someone over to whisper in his ear and then the other man would rush out.

Clearly, something political is going on, and Ivan's well-trained response to all things political was to determinedly pretend he didn't know what was going on.

This would have taken too much effort to explain to Ashlyn Oberwitter, however, so Ivan just says, “So?”

“So,” Ashlyn says in the mixed exasperated/eager tones of a child who gets to explain something very important to an adult, “my brother is still missing. And so are your friends.”

“Oh,” Ivan says before the full implications of this sink in. After the full implications sink in, he amends his statement: “Oh, shit.” He has a sudden vision of Miles undergoing some sort of Vor Bore inquisition and laying the blame for whatever insane-slash-stupid thing he's done squarely on Ivan and his inability to be a decent distraction.

Somewhere in the midst of trying to decide if being a bad distraction could be construed as treason, Ashlyn grabs him by the wrist and drags him out the door.

---

They sprint across the garden, making it back to the guest complex in a much shorter time than Ivan would have thought possible. Along the way, Ivan asks, “Wait, why are we going back to your room?” and Ashlyn points out, half breathlessly and stumbling occasionally as she tries to keep up with Ivan's much longer legs, that unless he wants to go ask Aral Vorkosigan what's happening, they are basically on their own.

“We know your friends were in my family's rooms,” she says. “Whatever happened, happened there.”

“If they killed your brother, am I an accessory to murder?” Ivan asks.

“I think you'd be my hero, actually,” Ashlyn says, but she says it a way that sounds forced and awkward and grim. And Ivan decides that maybe it would be better not to speculate about who might be dead until they know for sure.

There are fewer guards around the guest complex as they rush in and up the stairs. Likely, they've been sucked into whatever mess Miles has made and are now being forced to report to Lord Aral's impromptu council meeting. Their night, which started off so boring and routine, has taken an unfortunate turn toward the political, and rather than a shift change and a warm bed to look forward to, they now have a night of paperwork and long, boring Vorish speeches ahead of them.

Needless to say, Ivan sort of sympathizes.

Ashlyn keys them into her family's quarters. Inside looks like pretty much every other room in the Residence so even though Ivan has never spent much time in this particular building, he knows that the floor plan, right to left, goes something like: office, bedroom, bathroom, bedroom, bedroom, salon.

“Jess?” Ashlyn shouts, shucking her shoes just inside the door. “Are you here?”

There's a clatter from the second bedroom on the left and a half-hushed swear word. Ashlyn takes off in a blur of pink socks, and Ivan jogs along behind so that he's peering over her shoulder when she throws open the bedroom door and comes face-to-face with a shaking stunner and two very panicked looking teenager. Ivan and Ashlyn both freeze and so do the teenagers.

The room is obviously Oberwitter Jr.'s, judging by the piles of male clothing at the foot of the bed. Two canisters of red paint are also lying on the floor, near the feet of the boy who is not holding the stunner, and “Freedom!!!! Liberation!!!!” has been sprayed onto the wall in streaky, smearing lines.

“Pame, Damon,” hisses the teenager with the paint canisters. His voice is anxious and wavering. Ivan's, admittedly rusty, Greek translates this to something like “Let's get out of here.”

His partner grips his stunner a little harder and grimaces. “Shut up,” he growls in a thick, Greek accent, not taking his eyes off Ivan. “You two,” he says, “don't move.”

Ivan ignores this and pushes his way between Ashlyn and the stunner. “Hey,” he says, raising his hands in front of his chest in a hopefully reassuring gesture. “Relax. Do we look threatening? We are definitely not threatening.”

“Shut up,” the guy growls. His jaw is clenched so hard that the bones near his ears are popping out against the skin.

“Damon,” the other guy says again, taking steps toward his partner and reaching out to grab his shoulder. Ivan watches as, almost in slow-mo, the guy's foot comes down on one of the two paint canisters, which rolls out from underneath the sole of his shoe, sending him stumbling back to land hard on the bed.

At which point, something explodes in a flash of light and smoke that smells vaguely of onions and old yogurt. The stunner goes off, but the bolt goes wide and ends up striking the top right corner of the room, rather than Ivan's face. Ashlyn screams and covers her face with her hands. The teenager on the bed stumbles off it, coughing and gagging. Eventually, he falls to the floor, tears streaming down his face. Ivan takes the opportunity to step forward, wrench the stunner away, and slam his elbow into the remaining guy's nose.

“You okay?” Ivan asks as the smoke clears, glancing over his shoulder at Ashlyn. She looks out from between her fingers and nods mutely.

The closet door creaks open, and Miles and Elena's heads peek out. They take in the scene with wide eyes.

“Ta-dah?” Miles says weakly, and Elena bops him lightly on the head with her fist.

---

Ivan sometimes asks himself how Miles manages to drag him into these things over and over and over again. He's pretty sure he knows the answer. He just really doesn't like it.

---

“A bomb, Miles?” Aral Vorkosigan asks later when the two Greek teenagers have been hauled off for questioning, and Ashlyn Oberwitter has been reunited with her distressed, but grateful, parents.

“It wasn't a real bomb,” replies Miles in the small voice of someone already resigned to his punishment. Elena stares determinedly at her shoes. Ivan mostly shuffles in his chair and waits for them to get around to his idiocy, since that always seems to be a favourite topic with Miles's dad.

Count Vordrozda, seated to Gregor's left, snorts. “That's hardly the point.”

Vorkosigan shoots him an unreadable look over Gregor's head and interlocks his fingers in front of his chest. “What is the point then, my lord?” he asks

“The point,” says Count Vordrozda, “is that your son and his friends have been running freely around the residence all night, planting bombs – whether fake or real – without being stopped once by a member of Captain Illyan's security team.” A number of the other lords and officers present nod along to this. Vordrozda leans forward into the table separating the adults (plus Gregor) from Miles, Elena, and Ivan and directs his next comment straight to Gregor. “Perhaps this is why Greek militants were able to slip, undetected, into your home on tonight of all nights, sire.”

Gregor's lips press together slightly, but otherwise he hardly reacts.

“Oh, for the love of –” mutters Captain Koudelka. “First, they were hardly militants. Their master plan seems to have been nothing more than a quick graffiti job, and secondly, these kids,” and here he waves his hand at Miles who opens his mouth to interject something until Elena elbows him sharply in the ribs. He gives her a wounded look but shuts up as Koudelka continues, “They've practically lived here their entire lives. Of course no one stopped them.”

“I still say it shows a stunning lack of care where his Excellency’s well-being is considered,” says Vordrozda, his eyes pined on Vorkosigan.

“Perhaps,” Vorkosigan replies calmly, “but that is not a matter to discuss in front of our present company.” Then he turns his head and looks straight at Ivan, in a way that makes Ivan want to run screaming and hop on the first flight to Escobar. But he moves on quickly, turning that same look on Elena and then Miles. “My lords,” he says finally, “since, as Count Vordrozda has pointed out, this is not the most pressing issue of the evening, would I have your permission to deal with my son and his friends privately?”

There's a general murmur of agreement to this proposal. Vordrozda, however, makes a face that indicates that this is not at all what he had in mind.

“I'm not certain that is the best –” he begins before Count Vorpaltas cuts him off.

“Oh, give it a rest, Vordrozda,” he says. “It was a prank. Stupid, childish and poorly thought through, perhaps, but a prank nonetheless.” He grins at Miles from beneath his moustache. “I see no reason to make a fuss over the matter.”

Elena lets out a long breath and shots a “thank goodness” glance at Miles.

“Thank you,” Vorkosigan says, nodding at Vorpaltas. Then he fixes his gaze on the three of them again and says, very quietly, “You three may go back to the party and wait. I will talk to you later.”

Somehow, around the lump that suddenly forms in his throat, Ivan manages to squeak out a yessir. Miles and Elena snap out slightly more confident “Yes sirs!” and then they are all hurried out of the room while the adults (and poor, poor Gregor) get down to more serious business.

“Oh, thank god,” Elena sighs as soon as the door swishes shut. “I thought we were going to get court-martialed or something.”

Miles shakes his head. “Not while the Conservatives can use the security foul-up to embarrass my father,” he says and then hisses, “Damn! This was stupid. Why didn't anyone tell me this was stupid?”

“Uh,” says Ivan, raising his hand. “I'm pretty sure I did. Several times. Remember? 'We have a plan,' you said. And I said, 'Oh god no.' And then I said, 'Couldn't you just let Bothari deal with the jerk?' And then you said, 'We don't want him killed, Ivan.' I'm pretty sure that counts as telling you you're being stupid.”

“Hmph,” says Miles, noncommittally.

“Remind me to listen to you more, Ivan,” says Elena and then she shakes her finger at Miles and says, “And remind me not to listen to you ever, ever again. We went through all of that trouble, your father is going to kill us, and we didn't even teach that jerk a lesson.”

And Miles smiles. “Oh, I don't know,” he says. “I heard that when the guards were combing the grounds for more Greeks, they found Oberwitter being very inappropriate with Lady Vorotyni in the garden. I'm sure his parents will be more than happy to teach him the requisite lesson.” He grins up at Elena. “See? These things work out.”

---

Things do, mostly, work out. The party wraps up without much of a commotion or, for that matter, the majority of the party guests cluing in to the other events of the night. Later that month, the Greek bill gets voted down in Council as a resounding denunciation of two stupid teenagers, carrying out a stupid prank. Miles, Ivan, and Elena – arguably equally stupid teenagers – get lectured at length about responsibility and good sense, but eventually the whole thing becomes a funny story that Miles's father's friends will joke about in weeks ahead. “Hey, Vorkosigan,” they will say, “remember that time your son accidentally foiled a terrorist plot?”

Near the end of the month, Ivan receives a handwritten letter from Ashlyn Oberwitter. It reads:

Dear Lord Ivan Vorpatril,
I was not able to thank you in person so allow me to thank you now.
You were most patient and courageous. I believe I owe you my life.
Yours,
A. Oberwitter

Which, as letters go, is about the nicest one Ivan has ever received. Of course, he promptly hides it in his desk and never tells anyone he received it, but it's the thought that counts.