“What should I wear?”

“Since you'll have to play the whole entourage, something effective.” He smiled crookedly. “That red silk thing ought to be distractingly civilian enough for our Stationer hosts.”

“Only the male half, love,” she pointed out. “Suppose their security chief is a female quaddie? Are quaddies even attracted to downsiders?”

“One was, apparently,” he sighed. “Hence this mess. . . . Parts of Graf Station are null-gee, so you'll likely want trousers or leggings instead of Barrayaran-style skirts. Something you can move in.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.”

A knock sounded at the cabin door, and Armsman Roic's diffident voice, “My lord?”

“On my way, Roic.” Miles and Ekaterin exchanged places—finding himself at her chest height, he stole a pleasantly resilient hug in passing—and he exited to the courier ship's narrow corridor.

Roic wore a slightly plainer version of Miles's Vorkosigan House uniform, as befitted his liege-sworn armsman's status. “Do you want me to pack up your things now for transfer to the Barrayaran flagship, m'lord?” he asked.

“No. We're going to stay aboard the courier.”

Roic almost managed to conceal his wince. He was a young man of imposing height and intimidating breadth of shoulder, and had described his bunk above the courier ship's engineer as Sort of like sleeping in a coffin, m'lord, except for the snoring.

Miles added, “I don't care to hand off control of my movements, not to mention my air supply, to either side in this squabble just yet. The flagship's bunks aren't much bigger anyway, I assure you, Armsman.”