“He’ll have been and gone by now.”
“I thought he would raise its garrison.”
“Raise and disperse, in a hundred different directions. And which squad has the Emperor? Vordarian won’t know. But with luck, that traitor will be lured into occupying Hassadar.”
“Luck?”
“A small but worthy diversion. Hassadar has no strategic value to speak of for either side. But Vordarian must divert a part of his—surely finite number of—loyal troops to hold it, deep in a hostile territory with a long guerilla tradition. We’ll get good intelligence of everything they do there, but the population will be opaque to them.
“And it’s my capital. He occupies a count’s district capital with Imperial troops—all my brother counts must pause and think about that one. Am I next? Aral probably went on to Tanery Base Shuttleport. He must open an independent line of communication with the space-based forces, if Vordarian has truly choked off Imperial Headquarters. The spacers’ choice of loyalties will be critical. I predict a severe outbreak of technical difficulties in their comm rooms, while the ship commanders scramble to figure out which is going to be the winning side.” Piotr emitted a macabre chuckle, in the shadows. “Vordarian is too young to remember Mad Emperor Yuri’s War. Too bad for him. He’s gained sufficient advantage, with his quick start, I’d loathe to grant him more.”
“How fast … did it all happen?”
“Fast. There was no hint of any trouble when I was up to the capital at noon. It must have broken out right after I left.”
A chill that had nothing to do with the rain fell between them briefly, as both remembered why Piotr had made that journey this day.
“Does the capital … have great strategic value?” Cordelia asked, changing the subject, unwilling to break open that raw issue again.
“In some wars it would. Not this one. This is not a war for territory. I wonder if Vordarian realizes that? It’s a war for loyalties, for the minds of men. No material object in it has more than a passing tactical importance. Vorbarr Sultana is a communications center, though, and communication is much. But not the only center. Collateral circulation will serve.”
We have no communications at all, thought Cordelia dully. Out here in the woods in the rain. “But if Vordarian holds the Imperial Military Headquarters right now… “
“What he holds right now, unless I miss my guess, is a very large building full of chaos. I doubt a quarter of the men are at their posts, and half of them are plotting sabotage to benefit whatever side they secretly favor. The rest are out running for cover, or trying to get their families out of town.”
“Will Captain Vorpatril be all—will Vordarian bother Lord and Lady Vorpatril, do you think?” Alys Vorpatril’s pregnancy was very close to term. When she had visited Cordelia at ImpMil—only ten days ago?—her gliding walk had become a heavy flatfooted waddle, her belly a swaying high arc. Her doctor promised her a big boy. Ivan, he was to be named. His nursery was completely equipped and fully decorated, she had groaned, shifting her stomach uncomfortably in her lap, and now would be a good time… .
Now was not a good time anymore. “Padma Vorpatril will head the list. The hunt will be up for him, all right. He and Aral are the last descendants of Prince Xav, now, if anybody’s fool enough to start up that damned succession-debate again. Or if anything does happen to Gregor.” He bit down on this last line as if he might hold back fate with his teeth. “Lady Vorpatril and the baby, too?”
“Perhaps not Alys Vorpatril. The boy, definitely.” Not exactly a separable matter, just at the moment. The wind had died down at last. Cordelia could hear the horses’ teeth tearing up plants, a steady munch-munch-munch.
“Won’t the horses show up on thermal sensors? And us, too, despite dumping our power cells. I don’t see how they can miss us for long.” Were troops up there right now, eyes in the clouds?
“Oh, all the people and beasts in these hills will show up on their thermal sensors, once they start aiming them in the right direction.”
“All? I hadn’t seen any.”
“We’ve passed about twenty little homesteads, so far tonight. All the people, and their cows, and their goats, and their red deer, and their horses, and their children. We’re straws in a haystack. Still, it will be well for us to split up soon. If we can make it to the trail at the base of Amie Pass before mid—morning, I have an idea or two.” By the time Bothari shoved her back atop Rose, the deep blackness was greying. Pre-dawn light seeped into the woods as they began to move again. Tree branches were charcoal stokes in the dripping mist. She clung to her saddle in silent misery, towed along by Bothari. Gregor actually still slept, for the first twenty minutes of the ride, openmouthed and limp and pale in Piotr’s grip.
The growing light revealed the night’s ravages. Bothari and Esterhazy were both muddy and scuffed, beard-peppered, their brown-and-silver uniforms rumpled. Bothari, having given up his jacket to Gregor, went in shirtsleeves. The open round collar of his shirt made him look like a condemned criminal being led to the beheading-block. Piotr’s general’s dress greens had survived fairly well, but his stubbled red-eyed face above it was like a derelict’s. Cordelia felt herself a hopeless tangle, with her wet tendrils of hair, mishmash of old clothing and house slippers. It could be worse. I could still be pregnant. At least if I die, I die singly now. Was little Miles safer than she right now? Anonymous in his replicator on some shelf in Vaagen and Henri’s restricted laboratory? She could pray so, even if she couldn’t believe so. You Barrayaran bastards had better leave my boy alone.
They zigzagged up a long slope. The horses blew like bellows even though just walking: getting balky, stumbling over roots and rocks. They came to a halt at the bottom of a little hollow. Both horses and people drank from the murky stream. Esterhazy loosened girths again. He scratched under the horses’ headbands, and they butted against him, nuzzling his empty pockets for tidbits. He murmured apologies and little encouragements to them. “It’s all right, Rosie, you can rest at the end of the day. Just a few more hours.” It was more briefing than anybody had bothered to give Cordelia.
Esterhazy left the horses to Bothari and accompanied” Piotr into the woods, scrabbling up the slope. Gregor busied himself in an attempt to gather vegetation and hand-feed it to the animals. They lipped at the native Barrayaran plants and let them fall messily from their mouths, unpalatable. Gregor kept picking the wads up and offering them again, trying to shove them in around the horses’ bits.
“What’s the Count up to, do you know?” Cordelia asked Bothari.
He shrugged. “Gone to make contact with somebody. This won’t do.” A jerk of his head in no particular direction indicated their night of beating around in the brush.
Cordelia could only agree. She lay back and listened for lightflyers, but heard only the babble of water in the little stream, echoed by the gurgles of her empty stomach. She was galvanized into motion once, to keep the hungry Gregor from sampling some of the possibly-toxic plants himself.
“But the horses ate these ones,” he protested.
“No!” Cordelia shuddered, detailed visions of unfavorable biochemical and histamine reactions dancing in a molecular crack-the-whip through her head. “It’s one of the first habits you have to learn for Betan Astronomical Survey, you know. Never put strange things in your mouth till they’ve been cleared by the lab. In fact, avoid touching your eyes, mouth, and mucous membranes.”
Gregor, unconsciously compelled, promptly rubbed his nose and eyes. Cordelia sighed, and sat back down. She sucked on her tongue, thinking about that stream water and hoping Gregor wouldn’t point out her inconsistency. Gregor threw pebbles into the pools.
Fully an hour later, Esterhazy returned. “Come on.” They merely led the horses this time, sure sign of a steep climb to come. Cordelia scrambled, and scraped her hands. The horses’ haunches heaved. Over the crest, down, up again, and they came out on a muddy double trail carved through the forest.
“Where are we?” asked Cordelia.
“Aime Pass Road, Milady,” supplied Esterhazy.
“This is a road?” Cordelia muttered in dismay, staring up and down it. Piotr stood a little way off, with another old man holding the reins of a sturdy little black-and-white horse.
The horse was considerably better groomed than the old man. Its white coat was bright and its black coat shiny Its mane and tail were brushed to feather-softness. Its feet and fetlocks were wet and dark, though, and its belly flecked with fresh mud. In addition to an old cavalry saddle like Piotr’s horse’s, the pinto bore four large saddlebags, a pair in front and a pair behind, and a bedroll. The old man, as unshaven as Piotr, wore an Imperial Postal Service jacket so weatherworn its blue had turned grey. This was supplemented by odd bits of other old uniforms: a black fatigue shirt, an ancient pair of trousers from a set of dress greens, worn but well-oiled officer’s knee-high riding boots on his bent bowlegs. He also wore a non-regulation felt hat with a few dried flowers stuck in its faded print headband. He smacked his black-stained lips and stared at Cordelia. He was missing several teeth; the rest were long and yellow-brown. The old man’s gaze fell on Gregor, holding Cordelia’s hand. “So that’s him, eh? Huh. Not much.” He spat reflectively into the weeds by the side of the path.
“Might do in time,” asserted Piotr. “If he gets time.”
“I’ll see what I can do, Gen’ral.” Piotr grinned, as if at some private joke. “You have any rations on you?”
“ ’Course.” The old man smirked, and turned to rummage in one of his saddlebags. He came up with a package of raisins in a discarded plastic flimsy, some little cakes of brownish crystals wrapped in leaves, and what looked like a handful of strips of leather, again in a twist made of a used plastic flimsy. Cordelia caught a heading, Update of Postal Regluations C6.77a, modified 6/17. File Immediately In Permanent Files.
Piotr looked the stores over judiciously. “Dried goat?” He nodded toward the leathery mess. “Mostly,” said the old man.
“We’ll take half. And the raisins. Save the maple sugar for the children.” Piotr popped one cube in his mouth, though. “I’ll find you in maybe three days, maybe a week. You remember the drill from Yuri’s War, eh?”
“Oh, yes,” drawled the old man.
“Sergeant.” Piotr waved Bothari to him. “You go with the Major, here. Take her, and the boy. He’ll take you to ground. Lie low till I come get you.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Bothari intoned flatly. Only his flickering eyes betrayed his uneasiness.
“What we got here, Gen’ral?” inquired the old man, looking up at Bothari. “New one?”
“A city boy,” said Piotr. “Belongs to my son. Doesn’t talk much. He’s good at throats, though. He’ll do.”
“Aye? Good.”
Piotr was moving a lot more slowly. He waited for Esterhazy to give him a leg up on his horse. He settled into his saddle with a sigh, his back temporarily curved in an uncharacteristic slump. “Damn, but I’m getting old for this sort of thing.”
Thoughtfully, the man Piotr had called the Major reached into a side pocket and pulled out a leather pouch. “Want my gum-leaf, Gen’ral? A better chew than goat, if not as long-lasting.”
Piotr brightened. “Ah. I would be most grateful. But not your whole pouch, man.” Piotr dug among the pressed dried leaves that filled the container, and crumbled himself off a generous half, which he stuffed in his breast pocket. He put a wad in his cheek, and returned the pouch with a sincere salute. Gum-leaf was a mild stimulant; Cordelia had never seen Piotr chew it in Vorbarr Sultana.
“Take care of m’lords horses,” called Esterhazy rather desperately to Bothari. “They’re not machines, remember.
Bothari grunted something noncommittal, as the Count and Esterhazy headed their animals back down the trail. They were out of sight in a few moments. A profound quiet descended.
Chapter Twelve
The Major put Gregor, comfortably padded by the bedroll and saddlebags, up behind him. Cordelia faced one more climb onto that torture-device for humans and horses called a saddle. She would never have made it without Bothari. The Major took her reins this time, and Rose and his horse walked side by side with a lot less jerking of the bridle. Bothari dropped back, trailing watchfully.
“So,” said the old man after a time, with a sideways look at her, “you’re the new Lady Vorkosigan.”
Cordelia, rumpled and filthy, smiled back desperately. “Yes. Ah, Count Piotr didn’t mention your name, Major … ?”
“Amor Klyeuvi, Milady. But folks up here just call me Kly.”
“And, uh … what are you?” Besides some mountain kobold Piotr had conjured out of the ground.
He smiled, an expression more repellent than attractive given the state of his teeth. “I’m the Imperial Mail, Milady. I ride the circuit through these hills, out of Vorkosigan Surleau, every ten days. Been at it for eighteen years. There are grown kids up here with kids of their own who never knew me as anything but Kly the Mail.”
“I thought mail went to these parts by lightflyer.”
“They’re phasing them in. But the flyers don’t go to every house, just to these central drop—points. No courtesy to it, anymore.” He spat disgust and gum-leaf. “But if the General’ll hold ’em off another two years here, I’ll make my last twenty, and be a triple-twenty-years Service man. I retired with my double-twenty, see.”
“From what branch, Major Klyuevi?”
“Imperial Rangers.” He watched slyly for her reaction; she rewarded him with impressed raised brows. “I was a throat-cutter, not a tech. ’S why I could never go higher than major. Got my start at age fourteen, in these mountains, running rings around the Cetagandans with the General and Ezar. Never did get back to school after that. Just training courses. The Service passed me by, in time.”
“Not entirely, it seems,” said Cordelia, staring around the apparently unpeopled wilderness.
“No …” His breath became a purse-lipped sigh, as he glanced back over his shoulder at Gregor in meditative unease.
“Did Piotr tell you what happened yesterday afternoon?”
“No. I left the lake day-before-yesterday morning. Missed all the excitement. I expect the news will catch up with me before noon.”
“Is … anything else likely to catch up with us by then?”
“We’ll just have to see.” He added more hesitantly, “You’ll have to get out of those clothes, Milady. The name VORKOSIGAN, A., in big block letters over your jacket-pocket isn’t any too anonymous.”
Cordelia glanced down at Aral’s black fatigue shirt, quelled.
“My lord’s livery sticks out like a flag, too,” Kly added, looking back at Bothari. “But you’ll pass well enough, in the right clothes. I’ll see what I can do, in a bit here.”
Cordelia sagged, her belly aching in anticipation of rest. Refuge. But at what price to those who gave her refuge? “Will helping us put you in danger?”
His tufted grey brow rose. “Belike.” His tone did not invite further comment on the topic.
She had to bring her tired mind back on-line somehow, if she was to be asset and not hazard to everyone around her. “That gum-leaf of yours. Does it work anything like coffee?”
“Oh, better than coffee, Milady.”
“Can I try some?” Shyness lowered her voice; it might be too intimate a request.
His cheeks creased in a dry grin. “Only backcountry sticks like me chew gum-leaf, Milady. Pretty Vor ladies from the capital wouldn’t be caught dead with it in their pearly teeth.”
“I’m not pretty, I’m not a lady, and I’m not from the capital. And I’d kill for coffee right now. I’ll try it.”
He let his reins drop to his steadily plodding horse’s neck, rummaged in his blue-grey jacket pocket, and pulled out his pouch. He broke off a chunk, in none-too-clean fingers, and leaned across.
She regarded it a doubtful moment, dark and leafy in her palm. Never put strange organics in
your mouth till they’ve been cleared by the lab. She lapped it up. The wad was made self-sticking by a bit of maple syrup, but after her saliva washed away the first startling sweetness, the flavor was pleasantly bitter and astringent. It seemed to peel away the night’s film coating her teeth, a real improvement. She straightened.
Kly regarded her with bemusement. “So what are you, off-worlder not-a-lady?”
“I was an astrocartographer. Then a Survey captain. Then a soldier, then a POW, then a refugee. And then I was a wife, and then I was a mother. I don’t know what I’m going to be next,” she answered honestly, around the gum-leaf. Pray not widow.
“Mother? I’d heard you were pregnant, but … didn’t you lose your baby to the soltoxin?” He eyed her waist in confusion.
“Not yet. He still has a fighting chance. Though it seems a little uneven, to match him against all of Barrayar just yet… . He was born prematurely. By surgical section.” (She decided not to try to explain the uterine replicator.) “He’s at the Imperial Military Hospital. In Vorbarr Sultana. Which for all I know has just been captured by Vordarian’s rebel forces …” She shivered. Vaagen’s lab was classified, nothing to draw anyone’s attention. Miles was all right, all right, all right, and one crack in that thin shell of conviction would hatch out hysteria… . Aral, now, Aral could take care of himself if anyone could. So how had he been so caught-out, eh, eh? No question, ImpSec was riddled with treason. They couldn’t trust anyone around here, and where was Illyan? Trapped in Vorbarr Sultana? Or was he Vordarian’s quisling? No … Cut off, more likely. Like Kareen. Like Padma and Alys Vorpatril. Life racing death …
“No one will bother the hospital,” said Kly, watching her face.
“I—yes. Right.”
“Why did you come to Barrayar, off-worlder?”
“I wanted to have children.” A humorless laugh puffed from her lips. “Do you have any children, Kly the Mail?”
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