shut against the guards in the corridor, surging forward. A stunner charge buzzed into the walls, then three blue bolts in rapid succession from Droushnakovi took out the last of Vordarian’s men.
“Grab him,” Cordelia yelled to Bothari. Vordarian, shaking, his left hand clamped around his half-severed right wrist, was in poor condition to resist, though he kicked and shouted. His blood ran the color of Kareen’s robe. Bothari locked Vordarian’s head in a firm grip, nerve disruptor pressed to his skull.
“Out of here,” snarled Cordelia, and kicked the door back open. “To the Emperor’s chamber.” To Miles. Vordarian’s other guards, preparing to fire, held back at the sight of their master.
“Back off!” Bothari roared, and they fell away from the door. Cordelia grabbed Droushnakovi by the arm, and they stepped over Kareen’s body. Her ivory limbs lay muddled in the red fabric, abstractly beautiful forms even in death. The women kept Bothari and Vordarian between themselves and Vordarian’s troops, and retreated down the corridor. “Pull that plasma arc out of my holster and start firing,” Bothari savagely directed Cordelia. Yes; Bothari had managed to retrieve it in the melee, probably why his body count hadn’t been higher.
“You can’t set fire to the Residence,” Drou gasped in horror.
A fortune in antiquities and Barrayaran historical artifacts were housed in this wing alone, no doubt. Cordelia grinned wildly, grabbed the weapon, and fired back down the corridor. Wooden furniture, wooden parquetry, and age-dry tapestries roared into flame as the beam’s searing fingers touched them.
Burn, you. Burn for Kareen. Pile a death-offering to match her courage and agony, blazing higher and higher– As they reached the door of the old Emperor’s bedchamber, she fired the hallway in the opposite direction for good measure. THAT for what you’ve done to me, and to my boy—the flames should hold back pursuit for a few minutes. She felt as though her body were floating, light as air. Is this how Bothari feels, when he kills? Droushnakovi went for the wall panel to the secret ladder. She was functioning steadily now, as if her hands belonged to a different body than her tear-ravaged face. Cordelia dropped the sword on the bed and raced straight for the huge old carved oak wardrobe that stood against the near wall, and flung its doors wide. Green and amber lights glowed in the dim recesses of the center shelf. God, don’t let it be another decoy… . Cordelia wrapped her arms around the canister and lifted it out into the light. The right weight, this time, heavy with fluids; the right readouts, the right numbers. The right one.
Thank you, Kareen. I didn’t mean to kill you. Surely she was mad. She didn’t feel anything, no grief or remorse, though her heart was racing and her breath came in gasps. A shocky combat-high, that immortal rush that made men charge machine guns. So this was what the war-addicts came for.
Vordarian was still struggling against Bothari’s grip, swearing horribly. “You won’t escape!” He stopped bucking, and tried to catch Cordelia’s eyes. He took a deep breath. “Think, Lady Vorkosigan. You’ll never make it. You must have me for a shield, but you can’t carry me stunned. Conscious, I’ll fight you every meter of the way. My men will be all over you, out there.” His head jerked toward the window. “Stun us all and take you prisoner.” His voice went persuasive. “Surrender now, and you’ll save your lives. That one’s life, too, if it means so much to you.” He nodded to the replicator Cordelia held in her arms. Her steps were heavier than Alys Vorpatril’s, now.
“I never gave orders for that fool Vorhalas to kill Vorkosigan’s heir,” Vordarian continued desperately into her silence. Blood leaked rapidly between his fingers. “It was only his father, with his fatal progressive policies, who threatened Barrayar. Your son might have inherited the Countship from Piotr with my goodwill. Piotr should never have been divided from his party of true allegiance. It’s a crime, what Lord Aral has put Piotr through—”
So. It was you. Even at the very beginning. Blood loss and shock were making a jerky parody of Vordarian’s usual smooth delivery of political argument. It was as if he sensed he could talk his way out of retribution, if only he hit on the right key words. Somehow, Cordelia doubted he would. Vordarian was not gaudily evil like Vorrutyer had been, not personally degraded like Serg; yet evil had flowed from him nonetheless, not from his vices, but from his virtues: the courage of his conservative convictions, his passion for Kareen. Cordelia’s head ached, vilely.
“We’d never proved you were behind Evon Vorhalas,” Cordelia said quietly. “Thank you for the information.”
That shut him up, for a moment. His eyes shifted uneasily to the door, soon to burst inward, ignited by the inferno behind it.
“Dead, I’m no use to you as a hostage,” he said, drawing himself up in dignity.
“’You’re no use to me at all, Emperor Vidal,” said Cordelia frankly. “There are at least five thousand casualties in this war so far. Now that Kareen is dead, how long will you keep fighting?”
“Forever,” he snarled whitely. “I will avenge her—avenge them all—”
Wrong answer, Cordelia thought, with a curious lightheaded sadness. “Bothari.” He was at her side instantly. “Pick up that sword.” He did so. She set the replicator on the floor and laid her hand briefly atop his, wrapped around the hilt. “Bothari, execute this man for me, please.” Her tone sounded weirdly serene in her own ears, as if she’d just asked Bothari to pass the butter. Murder didn’t really require hysterics.
“Yes, Milady,” Bothari intoned, and lifted the blade. His eyes gleamed with joy.
“What?” yelped Vordarian in astonishment. “You’re a Betan! You can’t do—”
The flashing stroke cut off his words, his head, and his life. It was really extremely neat, despite the last spurts of blood from the stump of his neck. Vorkosigan should have loaned Bothari’s services the day they’d executed Carl Vorhalas. All that upper body strength, combined with that extraordinary steel … the bemused gyration of her thought snapped back to near-reality as Bothari fell to his knees with the body, dropping the swordstick and clutching his head. He screamed. It was as if Vordarian’s death cry had been forced out of Bothari’s throat.
She dropped beside him, suddenly afraid again, though she’d been numb to fear, white-out overloaded, ever since Kareen had grabbed for the nerve disruptor and triggered all this chaos. Keyed by similar stimuli, Bothari was having the forbidden flashback, Cordelia guessed, to the mutinous throat-cutting that the Barrayaran high command had decreed he must forget. She cursed herself for not forseeing this possibility. Would it kill him?
“This door is hot as hell,” Droushnakovi, white and shaken, reported from beside it. “Milady, we have to get out of here now.”
Bothari was gasping raggedly, hands still pressed to his head, yet even as she watched his breathing grew marginally less disrupted. She left him, to crawl blindly over the floor. She needed something, something moisture- proof… .
There, at the bottom of the wardrobe, was a sturdy plastic bag containing several pairs of Kareen’s shoes, no doubt hastily transported by some maidservant when Vordarian had Imperially decreed Kareen move in with him. Cordelia emptied out the shoes, stumbled back around the bed, and collected Vordarian’s head from the place where it had rolled to a stop. It was heavy, but not so heavy as the uterine replicator. She pulled the drawstrings tight.
“Drou. You’re in the best shape. Carry the replicator. Start down. Don’t drop it.” If she dropped Vordarian, Cordelia decided, it would scarcely do him further harm.
Droushnakovi nodded and grabbed up both the replicator and the abandoned swordstick. Cordelia wasn’t sure if she retrieved the latter for its newly acquired historical value, or from some fractured sense of obligation for one of Kou’s possessions. Cordelia coaxed Bothari to his feet. Cool air was rushing up out of the panel opening, drawn by the fire beyond the door. It would make a neat flue, till the burning wall crashed in and blocked the entry. Vordarian’s people were going to have a very puzzling time, poking through the embers and wondering where they’d gone.
The descent was nightmarish, in the compressed space, with Bothari whimpering below her feet. She could carry the bag neither beside nor in front of her, so had to balance it on one shoulder and go one—handed, palm slapping down the rungs and her wrist aching.
Once on the level, she prodded the weeping Bothari ruthlessly forward, and wouldn’t let him stop till they came again to Ezar’s cache in the ancient stable cellar.
“Is he all right?” Droushnakovi asked nervously, as Bothari sat down with his head between his knees.
“He has a headache,” said Cordelia. “It may take a while to pass off.”
Droushnakovi asked even more diffidently, “Are you all right, Milady?”
Cordelia couldn’t help it; she laughed. She choked down the hysteria as Drou began to look really scared. “No.”
