Aral Alexander in potentia vanished, to be replaced by the head and shoulders of the Tau Cetan passenger liner's captain. Miles and Ekaterin had dined at his table some two or three times on this leg of their tour. The man favored Miles with a tense smile and nod. “Lord Vorkosigan.”

“Yes, Captain? What can I do for you?”

“A ship identifying itself as a Barrayaran Imperial courier has hailed us and is requesting permission to match velocities and lock on. Apparently, they have an urgent message for you.”

Miles's brows rose, and his stomach sank. This was not, in his experience, the way the Imperium delivered good news. On his shoulder, Ekaterin's hand tightened. “Certainly, Captain. Put them through.”

The captain's dark Tau Cetan features vanished, to be replaced after a moment by a man in Barrayaran Imperial undress greens with lieutenant's tabs and Sector IV pins on his collar. Visions surged through Miles's mind of the Emperor assassinated, Vorkosigan House burned to the ground with the replicators inside, or, even more hideously likely, his father suffering a fatal stroke—he dreaded the day some stiff-faced messenger would begin by addressing him, Count Vorkosigan, sir?

The lieutenant saluted him. “Lord Auditor Vorkosigan? I'm Lieutenant Smolyani of the courier ship Kestrel . I have a message to hand-deliver to you, recorded under the Emperor's personal seal, after which I am ordered to take you aboard.”

“We're not at war, are we? Nobody's died?”

Lieutenant Smolyani ducked his head. “Not so far as I've heard, sir.” Miles's heart rate eased; behind him, Ekaterin let out her breath. The lieutenant went on, “But, apparently, a Komarran trade fleet has been impounded at some place called Graf Station, Union of Free Habitats. It's listed as an independent system, out near the edge of Sector V. My clear-code flight orders are to take you there with all safe speed, and to wait on your convenience thereafter.” He smiled a bit grimly. “I hope it's not a war, sir, because they only seem to be sending us.”