chamber. The bright yellow of the collar tabs on his dark green dress uniform marked a rank she had not seen before, and with a shock she identified it as the color for a vice-admiral. Knowing what he was, she knew at once who he was, and studied him with grave interest.
Vorrutyer, that was his name. Co-commander of the Barrayaran armada, along with Crown Prince Serg Vorbarra. She supposed he was the one who did the real work; she'd heard he was slated to be the Barrayarans' next Minister of War. So that was what a rising star looked like.
In a way he was a little like Vorkosigan, a bit taller, about the same weight but less of it in bone and muscle and more of it in fat. He had dark hair too, curlier than Vorkosigan's and with less grey in it, was a similar age, and rather more handsome. His eyes were quite different, a deep velvet brown fringed by long black lashes, by far the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen in a man's face. They triggered a small subliminal wailing deep in her mind, crying, you thought you had faced fear earlier today, but you were mistaken; here is the real thing, fear without exhilaration or hope; which was strange, for they ought to have attracted her. She broke eye contact, telling herself firmly the unease and instant dislike were mere nerves, and waited.
'Identify yourself, Betan,' he growled. It gave her a disjointed sense of deja-vu.
She fought for equilibrium, giving him a snappy salute and saying smartly, 'Captain Cordelia Naismith, Betan Expeditionary. We are a military party. Combatants.' This private joke of course passed by him.
'Hah. Strip her, and turn her about.'
He stepped back, watching. The two grinning soldiers guarding her obeyed. I don't like the way this is starting out … She forced her face to blandness, holding on to all her secret sources of serenity. Calm. Calm. This one wants to rattle you. You can see it in his eyes, his hungry eyes. Calm.
'A little old, but she'll do. I'll send for her later.'
The guard shoved the pajamas back at her. She dressed slowly, to annoy them, like a striptease in reverse, with precise controlled motions of the sort suitable for a Japanese tea ceremony. One growled, and the other shoved her roughly in the back toward her cell. She smiled sourly at her success, thinking, well, at least I have that much control over my destiny. Should I award myself points if I can goad them into beating me up?
They bundled her into a bare metal room, and left her. She continued the ploy, for her own thin amusement, by kneeling gracefully on the floor with the same sort of movements, right toe crossed correctly over the left, hands resting motionless upon her thighs. The touch reminded her of the patch on her left leg that was devoid of all sensation, heat, cold, pain, pressure, legacy of her last encounter with the armies of Barrayar. She half—closed her eyes and let her mind drift, hoping to give her captors an unsettling impression of deep and possibly dangerous psychic meditations. Pretend aggression was better than nothing.
After an hour or so of stillness, by which time her unaccustomed muscles were protesting the kneeling position most painfully, the guard returned.
'Admiral wants you,' he said laconically. 'Come along.' She had a guard at each elbow again for the trip through the ship. One grinned and undressed her with his eyes. The other looked at her with pity, far more disturbing. She began to wonder just how much her time with Vorkosigan had led her to discount the risks of capture. They came to officer's country, and stopped before an oval metal door in a row of identical ones. The grinning guard knocked, and was bidden to enter.
This admiral's quarters were very different from her austere cabin aboard the
He walked slyly around her as she stood silent, watching her gaze travel around the room. 'A step up from that cell, eh?' he probed.
For the guards' benefit she replied, 'Looks like a whore's boudoir.'
The grinning guard choked, and the other one laughed outright, but cut it off quickly at a glare from Vorrutyer. Didn't think it was that funny, she puzzled. Some of the details of the decor began to penetrate, and she realized she'd spoken more truly than she knew. What an extremely odd little statuette in that corner, for instance. Although it had a certain redeeming artistic merit, she supposed. 'One with very unusual customers,' she added.
'Buckle her in,' ordered Vorrutyer, 'and return to your posts. I'll call you when I'm done.'
She was placed on her back across his wide, non-regulation bed, arms and legs stretched to the four corners and tautly attached by soft bracelets to short chains, attached in turn to the bedframe. Simple, chilling, quite beyond her strength to break.
The guard who pitied whispered to her under his breath as he buckled a wrist strap, hidden almost inaudibly in a sigh, 'Sorry.'
'It's all right,' she breathed back. Their eyes passed over each other, hiding the secret transaction from the watching Vorrutyer.
'Ha. That's what you think now,' murmured the other through his grin, fastening the other strap.
'Shut up,' muttered the first, and shot him a fierce look. An unclean silence filled the room until the guards withdrew.
'Looks like a permanent installation,' she observed to Vorrutyer, horribly fascinated. It was like a sick joke come to life. 'What do you do when you can't catch Betans? Call for volunteers?'
A frown appeared between his eyes briefly, then smoothed. 'Keep it up,' he encouraged. 'It amuses me. It will make the ultimate denouement so much more piquant.'
He loosened his uniform collar, poured himself a glass of wine from a very non-regulation portable bar in one corner, and seated himself on the bed beside her with the chatty air of a man visiting a sick friend. He looked her over minutely, beautiful brown eyes liquid with anticipation.
She tried to string herself along; maybe he's only a rapist. It might be possible to handle a simple rapist. Such direct, childlike souls, hardly offensive at all. Even vileness has a relative range …
'I don't know any military secrets worth a thing,' she fenced. 'This isn't really worth your time.'
'I didn't think you did,' he replied easily. 'Although you will undoubtedly insist on telling me everything you know over the next few weeks. Quite tedious, I'm not in the least interested. If I want your information, my medical staff can have it out of you in a trice.' He sipped his wine. 'Although it's curious you should bring up the subject— perhaps I will send you to sickbay, later today.'
Her stomach knotted. Fool, she shrieked silently at herself, did you just blow a chance of ducking interrogation? But no, it had to be standard operating procedure—he's just working you over. Subtle. Calm …
He drank again. 'Do you know, I think I shall enjoy having an older woman for a change. The young ones may look pretty, but they're too easy. No sport. I can tell already, you're going to be great sport. A very great fall requires a very great height, to fall from, not so?'
She sighed, and gazed up at the ceiling. 'Well, I'm sure it will be educational.' She tried to remember how she'd occupied her mind during sex with her old lover, in the bad times before she'd finally shed him. This might well be no worse …
Vorrutyer, smiling, put his wine down on a bedside table and took from its drawer a small knife, sharp as an old-fashioned scalpel, with a jeweled handle that glittered before his hand eclipsed it. Rather desultorily, he began slicing away at the orange pajamas, peeling them away from her like the skin of a fruit.
'Isn't that government property?' she inquired, but was sorry she'd spoken, for a tremble made the word 'property' squeaky. It was like throwing a tidbit to a hungry dog, likely to make him jump higher.
He chuckled, pleased. 'Oops.' Deliberately, he let the knife slip. It sliced half an inch into her thigh. He watched her face avidly for her reaction. It was in the area without sensation; she could not even feel the wet trickle of blood that welled from the wound. His eyes narrowed in disappointment. She even kept from glancing down. She wished she'd studied more about trance states.
'I'm not going to rape you today,' he offered conversationally, 'if that's what you've been thinking.'
'It had crossed my mind. I can't imagine what suggested it.'
'There's scarcely time,' he explained. 'Today is but the, as it were, hors d'ouevre of the banquet, or a simple clear soup, very pristine. All the complicated things will be saved for dessert, in a few weeks.'
'I never eat dessert. Weight, you know.'
He chuckled again. 'You are a delight.' He put the knife down and took another sip of wine. 'You know, officers always delegate their work. Now, I am an aficionado of Earth history. My favorite century is the
