“Hm,” Illyan said. “And yet . . . who shall I assign you to now? Which loyal officer gets his career destroyed next?” Miles thought this over. “Why don’t you assign me directly to yourself, sir?” “Thanks,” said Illyan dryly. “I didn’t mean—” Miles began to sputter protest, stopped, detecting the oblique gleam of humor in Illyan’s brown eyes. Roasting me for your sport, are you?
