“The
“Must remain, for the moment, in Komarr orbit and communications quarantine. My apologies to your troops, but they’ll have to tough it out.”
“You’ll cover the costs for this mess?”
Illyan grimaced. “Alas, yes.”
“And … and look
“Oh, yes,” he breathed.
“Then I’ll go.” Her voice was faint, her face pale.
“Thank you,” said Illyan quietly. “My fast courier will be at your disposal as quickly as you can make ready to depart.” His eye fell reluctantly on Mark. He had been avoiding looking at Mark for the whole last half of this interview. “How many personal guards do you wish?” he asked Bothari-Jesek. “I’ll make it clear to them that they are under your command till they see you safe to the Count.”
“I don’t want any, but I suppose I have to sleep sometime. Two,” Bothari-Jesek decided.
And so he was officially made a prisoner of the Barrayaran Imperial government, Mark thought.
Bothari-Jesek rose and motioned Mark to his feet. “Come on. I want to get a few personal items from the
“Good. Captain Quinn, please remain.”
“Yes, sir.”
Illyan stood, to see Bothari-Jesek out. “Tell Aral and Cordelia,” he began, and paused. Time stretched.
“I will,” said Bothari-Jesek quietly. Mutely, Illyan nodded.
The door seals hissed open for her stride. She didn’t even look back to see if Mark was following. He had to break into a run every five steps to keep up.
His cabin aboard the ImpSec fast courier proved to be even tinier and more cell-like than the one he’d occupied aboard the
On the last day his body switched strategies, and he became violently ill. He managed to keep this fact secret until the trip downside in the personnel shuttle, where it was mistaken for zero-gravity and motion sickness by a surprisingly sympathetic ImpSec guard, who apparently suffered from some such slight weakness himself. The man promptly and cheerfully slapped an anti-nausea patch from the med kit on the wall onto the side of Mark’s neck.
The patch also had some sedative power. Mark’s heart rate slowed, an effect which lasted till they landed and transferred to a sealed ground-car. A guard and a driver took the front compartment, and Mark sat across from Bothari-Jesek in the rear compartment for the last leg of his nightmare journey, from the military shuttleport outside the capital into the heart of Vorbarr Sultana. The center of the Barrayaran Empire.
It wasn’t until he found himself having something resembling an asthma attack that Bothari-Jesek looked up from her own glum self-absorption and noticed.
“What the hell’s the matter with you?” She leaned forward and took his pulse, which was racing. He was clammy all over.
“Sick,” he gasped, and then at her irritated I-could-have-figured-that-out-for-myself look, admitted, “Scared.” He thought he’d been as frightened as a human being could be, under Bharaputran fire, but that was as nothing compared to this slow, trapped terror, this drawn-out suffocating helplessness to affect his destiny.
“What do you have to be afraid of?” she asked scornfully. “Nobody’s going to hurt you.”
“Captain, they’re going to kill me.”
“Who? Lord Aral and Lady Cordelia? Hardly. If for any reason we fail to get Miles back, you could be the next Count Vorkosigan. Surely you’ve figured on that.”
At this point he satisfied a long-held curiosity. When he passed out, his breathing did indeed begin again automatically. He blinked away black fog, and fended off Bothari-Jesek’s alarmed attempt to loosen his clothes and check his tongue to be sure he hadn’t swallowed it. She had pocketed a couple of anti-nausea patches from the shuttle medkit, just in case, and she held one uncertainly. He motioned urgently for her to apply it. It helped.
“Who do you think these people are?” she demanded angrily, when his breathing grew less irregular.
“I don’t know. But they’re sure as hell going to be pissed at me.”
The worst was the knowledge that it need not have been this bad. Any time before the Jackson’s Whole debacle he could in theory have walked right in and said hello. But he’d wanted to meet Barrayar on his own terms. Like trying to storm heaven. His attempt to make it better had made it infinitely worse.
She sat back and regarded him with slow bemusement. “You really are scared to death, aren’t you?” she said, in a tone of revelation that made him want to howl. “Mark, Lord Aral and Lady Cordelia are going to give you the benefit of every doubt. I know they will. But you have to do your part.”
“What is my part?”
“I’m … not sure,” she admitted.
“Thanks. You’re such a help.”
And then they were there. The ground-car swung through a set of gates and into the narrow grounds of a huge stone residence. It was the pre-electric Time-of-Isolation design that gave it such an air of fabulous age, Mark decided. The architecture he’d seen like it in London all dated back well over a millenium, though this pile was only a hundred and fifty standard years old. Vorkosigan House.
The canopy swung up, and he struggled out of the ground-car after Bothari-Jesek. This time she waited for him. She grasped him firmly by the upper arm, either worried he would collapse or fearing he would bolt. They stepped through a pleasantly-hued sunlight into the cool dimness of a large entry foyer paved in black and white stone and featuring a remarkable wide curving staircase. How many times had Miles stepped across this threshold?
Bothari-Jesek seemed an agent of some evil fairy, which had snatched away the beloved Miles and replaced him with this pallid, pudgy changeling. He choked down an hysterical giggle as the sardonic mocker in the back of his brain called out,
Chapter Twelve
They were met in the entry hall by a pair of liveried servants wearing Vorkosigan brown and silver. In a high Vor household even the staff played soldier. One of them directed Bothari-Jesek away to the right. Mark could have wept. She despised him, but at least she was familiar. Stripped of all support and feeling more utterly alone than when locked in the darkness of his cabin, he turned to follow the other manservant through a short arched hallway and a set of doors on the left.
He had memorized the layout of Vorkosigan House under Galen’s tutelage, long ago, so he knew they were entering a room dubbed the First Parlor, an antechamber to the great library that ran from the front of the house to the back. By the standards of Vorkosigan House’s public rooms he supposed it was relatively intimate, though its high ceiling seemed to lend it a cool, disapproving austerity. His consciousness of the architectural detail was instantly obliterated when he saw the woman sitting on a padded sofa, quietly awaiting him.
She was tall, neither thin nor stout, a sort of middle-aged solid in build. Red hair streaked with natural gray wound in a complex knot on the back of her head, leaving her face free to make its own statement of cheekbone, line of jaw, and clear grey eye. Her posture was contained, poised rather than resting. She wore a soft silky beige blouse, a hand-embroidered sash that he suddenly realized matched the pattern on his own stolen one, and a calf- length tan skirt and buskins. No jewelry. He had expected something more ostentatious, elaborate, intimidating, the formal icon of Countess Vorkosigan from the vids of reviewing stands and receptions. Or was her sense of power so fully encompassed that she didn’t need to wear it, she
