[ Why does Richie have to be so goddamned sharp? Things would be a hell of a lot easier if he were a moron. A loudmouth isn't a problem if he's dim, after all. But this son of a bitch has to have sharp wits on top of his wittiness. Sharp eyes.

Fuck.

He considers spinning a yarn. What could he say, though? What the hell, this is insane, this isn't my memory, but Richie's not going to buy that. No one with half a brain would buy that. What are you talking about, I can't shoot, what insane thing are you remembering - pretending that the Byerly back there was an illusion - convince Richie that he's crazy...But, hell. If the past weeks have taught him anything, it's that home is dead and lies are meaningless and he has no damn idea what he's doing anyway. So what's the point of pretending? And, well -

Well, he knows that Richie helped Prior. And that he has his own brand of honor. So maybe he owes the man something more than evasiveness and cruelty.

So he runs a hand through his hair, and sighs, and lets go of some of it. Some small measure of his careful control that manifests as oily condescension. Speaks in a voice that's a few shades less arch, less sneering. ]

That's the Emperor of Barrayar. And that's Alys Vorpatril, his social secretary. [ That title is given with enough emphasis that it's clear that that is no empty title. ] Neither of them are wasting their time on giving marksmanship lessons.