Piotr lets out a breath that's almost a snort, his expression doubtful. Attempts, right. He can't imagine those must have been successful. Perhaps, at least, somebody in this man's family has some sense.

"Whatever pity granted you by your family is not extended to you here," Piotr says bluntly, thoroughly unmoved. He's practically radiating that trademark Vorkosigan intensity, wearing it like a full-body force shield. "I don't tolerate interlopers in my camp, nor do I have the resources to. You didn't come here of your own accord, but if you insist on staying, you will make yourself useful." His eyes fall on the wrinkled bit of apple still in the man's hand. "In whatever way you can."