Miles snickers, which causes him pain, but then so does breathing.

"How was surgery?"

"Much like the legs, but about twenty times as tedious - all those bone fragments, ugh. Now I have the unparalleled joy of sitting around waiting to see if the new marrow's going to settle into the synthetics all right. That part was less of a concern last time around, on account of there were fewer bones being replaced and none of them had been pulped prior to surgery."

"At least you've kept your sense of humour," says Illyan. "But I do hope you're not going to turn this into a habit - returning from your mission assignments on a stretcher."

"Hey, this is what, the second time? Wait for the third before you call it a pattern. Anyway, I have a finite number of bones in my body. I'll be harder to lay out once I've replaced them all."

"Speaking of your missions..."

"What? You have my reports," he says warily. He can't imagine what Illyan could so urgently have to say about his missions right now, but he doesn't expect he'll like it, whatever it is.

"Your reports, as usual, are masterpieces of understatement and misdirection." He sounds almost proud.

"Hey, anybody might read those," says Miles. "You never know."

"Mm," says Illyan.

Miles sighs. "So what's the problem?"

"Money," he says. "In particular, accountability for same."

Miles blinks up at him in honest and slightly pained bewilderment. "Don't you like my work?"

"Apart from your injuries, the results of your latest mission are highly satisfactory..."

"They'd fucking well better be!" he says indignantly.

"...and," he continues after a brief pause to see if Miles is done cursing, "I have no specific complaints about your conduct on Earth, besides a general despair that you will ever go six consecutive months without finding it necessary to creatively interpret or outright disobey an order. No, these charges date to the Dagoola mission."

"Charges?" blinks Miles, feeling very lost and mildly alarmed.

"I've always considered what the Emperor spends on you and your Dendarii to be worth it from the internal security perspective alone, disregarding the many other benefits. A permanent post of some kind, particularly in the capital, would serve as a standing invitation for miscellaneous plots. Such as the one currently targeting your father."

"Eh...?"

"Imperial Accounting has got hold of a theory that certain of your more incredible expenses should not, in fact, be... credited. Certain parties are pushing the peculation angle, and seem inclined to head all the way to a very publicly embarrassing court-martial if not stopped. I, of course, would prefer to stop them. To do that, I must know where all that disappearing cash disappeared off to. I do not relish the thought of being blindsided again - or had you forgotten the time I spent a month in my own prison because of you?"

"That wasn't my fault," he protests. "It was a plot against Dad!"

"Just so," Illyan agrees. "This business is more of the same. But more cleverly arranged - they have Count Vorvolk in Accounting convinced that he pursues a noble goal by digging this up, and his personal loyalty is... unquestioned. Attempts to subtly divert him will only increase his tenacity. He must be handled with exquisite care, whether he's mistaken or.. not."

"Not...?" Realization dawns on him rather like a bucket of cold water to the face, an unpleasant and sobering shock. The reason Illyan is here, now, is so he can catch Miles post-surgery in a state of maximum drugged, pained confusion, as a substitute for the fast-penta to which Miles has a known idiosyncratic reaction. "Fuck you, Simon! Why not break out the lead-lined rubber hoses, while you're at it!"

"Are you offering me amnesty?" he breathes.