“No,” agreed Cordelia.
“Sergeant Bothari doesn’t waste energy feeling … sorry, for the enemy, either.”
“No. Do you?”
“I feel sick.”
“You kill two total strangers, and expect to feel jolly?”
“Bothari does.”
“Yes. Bothari enjoyed it. But Bothari is not, even by Barrayaran standards, a sane man. Do you aspire to be a monster?”
“You call him that!”
“Oh, but he’s my monster. My good dog.” She always had trouble explaining Bothari, sometimes even to herself. Cordelia wondered if Droushnakovi knew the Earth-historical origin of the term, scapegoat. The sacrificial animal that was released yearly into the wilderness, to carry the sins of its community away … Bothari was surely her beast of burden; she saw clearly what he did for her. She was less certain what she did for him, except that he seemed to find it desperately important. “I, for one, am glad you are heartsick. Two pathological killers in my service would be an excess. Treasure that nausea, Drou.”
She shook her head. “I think maybe I’m in the wrong trade.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Think what a monstrous thing an army of Botharis would be. Any community’s arm of force—military, police, security—needs people in it who can do the necessary evil, and yet not be made evil by it. To do only the necessary, and no more. To constantly question the assumptions, to stop the slide into atrocity.”
“The way that security colonel quashed that obscene corporal.”
“Yes. Or the way that lieutenant questioned the colonel … I wish we might have saved him,” Cordelia sighed.
Drou frowned deeply, into her lap.
“Kou thought you were angry with him,” said Cordelia.
“Kou?” Droushnakovi looked up dimly. “Oh, yes, he was just in here. Did he want something?”
Cordelia smiled. “Just like Kou, to imagine all your unhappiness must center on him.” Her smile faded. “I’m going to send him with Lady Vorpatril, to try and smuggle her and the baby out. We’ll go our separate ways as soon as she’s able to walk.”
Drou’s face grew worried. “He’ll be in terrible danger. Vordarian’s people will be rabid over losing her and the young lord tonight.”
Yes, there was still a Lord Vorpatril to disturb Vordarian’s genealogical calculations, wasn’t there? Insane system, that made an infant seem a mortal danger to a grown man. “There’s no safety for anybody, till this vile war is ended. Tell me. Do you still love Kou? I know you’re over your initial starry-eyed infatuation. You see his faults. Egocentric, and with a bug in his brain about his injuries, and terribly worried about his masculinity. But he’s not stupid. There’s hope for him. He has an interesting life ahead of him, in the Regents service.” Assuming they all lived through the next forty-eight hours. A passionate desire to live was a good thing to instill in her agents, Cordelia thought. “Do you want him?”
“I’m … bound to him, now. I don’t know how to explain … I gave him my virginity. Who else would have me? I’d be ashamed—”
“Forget that! After we bring off this raid, you’re going to be covered in so much glory, men will be lining up for the status of courting you. You’ll have your pick. In Aral’s household, you’ll have a chance to meet the best. What do you want? A general? An Imperial minister? A Vor lordling? An off-world ambassador? Your only problem will be choosing, since Barrayaran custom stingily only allows you one husband at a time. A clumsy young lieutenant hasn’t got a prayer of competing with all those polished seniors.”
Droushnakovi smiled, a bit skeptically, at Cordelia’s painted vision. “Who says Kou won’t be a general himself someday?” she said softly. She sighed, her brow creasing. “Yes. I still want him. But … I guess I’m afraid he’ll hurt me again.”
Cordelia thought that one over. “Probably. Aral and I hurt each other all the time.”
“Oh, not you two, Milady! You seem so, so perfect.”
“Think, Drou. Can you imagine what mental state Aral is in right this minute, because of my actions? I can. I do.”
“Oh.”
“But pain … seems to me an insufficient reason not to embrace life. Being dead is quite painless. Pain, like time, is going to come on regardless. Question is, what glorious moments can you win from life in addition to the pain?”
“I’m not sure I follow that, Milady. But … I have a picture, in my head, Of me and Kou, on a beach, all alone. It’s so warm. And when he looks at me, he sees me, really sees me, and loves me. …”
Cordelia pursed her lips. “Yeah … that’ll do. Come with me.”
The girl rose obediently. Cordelia led her back in to the hall, forcefully arranged Kou at one end of the sofa, sat Drou down on the other, and plopped down between them. “Drou, Kou has a few things to say to you. Since you apparently speak different languages, he’s asked me to be his interpreter.”
Kou made an embarrassed negative motion over Cordelia’s head.
“That hand signal means, I’d rather blow up the rest of my life than look like a fool for five minutes. Ignore it,” Cordelia said. “Now, let me see. Who begins?”
There was a short silence. “Did I mention I’m also playing the parts of both your parents? I think I shall begin by being Kou’s Ma. Well, son, and have you met any nice girls yet? You’re almost twenty-six, you know. I saw that vid,” she added in her own voice as Kou choked. “I have her style, eh? And her content. And Kou says, Yes, Ma, there’s this gorgeous girl. Young, tall, smart– and Kou’s Ma says, Tee hee! And hires me, your friendly neighborhood go-between. And I go to your father, Drou, and say, there’s this young man. Imperial lieutenant, personal secretary to the Lord Regent, war hero, slated for the inside track at Imperial HQ—and he says, Say no more! We’ll take him. Tee—hee. And—”
“I think he’ll have more to say than that!” interrupted Kou.
Cordelia turned to Droushnakovi. “What Kou just said was, he thinks your family won’t like him ’cause he’s a crip.”
“No!” said Drou indignantly. “That’s not so—”
Cordelia held up a restraining hand. “As your go-between, Kou, let me tell you. When one’s only lovely daughter points and says firmly, Da, I want that one, a prudent Da responds only, Yes, dear. I admit, the three large brothers may be harder to convince. Make her cry, and you could have a serious problem in the back alley. By which I presume you haven’t complained to them yet, Drou?”
She stifled an involuntary giggle. “No!”
Kou looked as if this was a new and daunting thought.
“See,” said Cordelia, “you can still evade fraternal retribution, Kou, if you scramble.” She turned to Drou. “I know he’s been a lout, but I promise you, he’s a trainable lout.”
“I said I was sorry,” said Kou, sounding stung.
Drou stiffened.
“Yes. Repeatedly,” she said coldly.
“And there we come to the heart of the matter,” Cordelia said slowly, seriously. “What Kou actually means, Drou, is that he isn’t a bit sorry. The moment was wonderful, you were wonderful, and he wants to do it again. And again and again, with nobody but you, forever, socially approved and uninterrupted. Is that right, Kou?”
Kou looked stunned. “Well—yes!”
Drou blinked. “But… that’s what I wanted you to say!”
“It was?” He peered over Cordelia’s head.
This go-between system may have some real merits. But also its limits. Cordelia rose from between them, and glanced at her chrono. The humor drained from her spirit. “You have a little time yet. You can say a lot in a little time, if you stick to words of one syllable.”
Chapter Eighteen
Pre-dawn in the alleys of the caravanserai was not so pitchy-black as night in the mountains. The foggy night sky reflected back a faint amber glow from the surrounding city. The faces of her friends were grey blurs, like the very earliest of ancient photographs; Cordelia tried not to think, Li
ke the faces of the dead.
Lady Vorpatril, cleaned and fed and rested a few hours, was still none too steady, but she could walk on her own. The housewoman had contributed some surprisingly sober clothes for her, a calf-length grey skirt and sweaters against the cold. Koudelka had exchanged all his military gear for loose trousers, old shoes, and a jacket to replace the one that had suffered from its emergency obstetrical use. He carried baby Lord Ivan, now makeshift-diapered and warmly wrapped, completing the picture of a timid little family trying to make it out of town to the wife’s parents in the country before the fighting started. Cordelia had seen hundreds of refugees just like them, in passing, on her way into Vorbarr Sultana.
Koudelka inspected his little group, ending with a frowning look at the swordstick in his hand. Even when seen as a mere cane, the satin wood, polished steel ferrule, and inlaid grip did not look very middle-class. Koudelka sighed. “Drou, can you hide this somehow? It’s conspicuous as hell with this outfit, and more of a hindrance than a help when I’m trying to carry this baby.”
Droushnakovi nodded, and knelt and wrapped the stick in a shirt, and stuffed it into the satchel. Cordelia remembered what had happened the last time Kou had carried that stick down to the caravanserai, and stared nervously into the shadows. “How likely are we to be jumped by someone, at this hour? We don’t look rich, certainly.”
“Some would kill you for your clothes,” said Bothari glumly, “with winter coming on. But it’s safer than usual. Vordarian’s troops have been sweeping the quarter for ’volunteers,’ to help dig those bomb shelters in the city parks.”
“I never thought I’d approve of slave labor,” Cordelia groaned.
“It’s nonsense anyway,” Koudelka said. “Tearing up the parks. Even if completed they wouldn’t shelter enough people. But it looks impressive, and it sets up Lord Vorkosigan as a threat, in people’s minds.”
“Besides,” Bothari lifted his jacket to reveal the silvered gleam of his nerve disruptor, “this time I’ve got the right weapon.”
This was it, then. Cordelia embraced Alys Vorpatril, who hugged her back, murmuring, “God help you, Cordelia. And God rot Vidal Vordarian in hell.”
“Go safely. See you back at Tanery Base, eh?” Cordelia glanced at Koudelka. “Live, and so confound our enemies.”
“We’ll tr—we will, Milady,” said Koudelka. Gravely, he saluted Droushnakovi. There was no irony in the military courtesy, though perhaps a last tinge of envy. She returned him a slow nod of understanding. Neither chose to confuse the moment with further words. The two groups parted in the clammy darkness. Drou watched over her shoulder till Koudelka and Lady Vorpatril turned out of sight, then picked up the pace.
They passed from black alleys to lit streets, from deserted darkness to occasional other human forms, hurrying about early winter morning business. Everybody seemed to cross streets to avoid everybody else, and Cordelia felt a little less noticeable. She stiffened inwardly when a municipal guard groundcar drove slowly past them, but it did not stop.
They paused, across the street, to be certain their target building had been unlocked for the morning. The structure was multi-storied, in the utilitarian style of the building boom that had come on the heels of Ezar Vorbarra’s ascent to power and stability thirty-plus years ago. It was commercial, not governmental; they crossed the lobby, entered the lift tubes, and descended unimpeded.
Drou began seriously looking over her shoulder when they reached the sub-basement. “Now we look out of place.” Bothari kept watch as she bent and forced a lock to a utility tunnel. She led them down it, taking two cross-turns. The passage was clearly used frequently, as the lights remained on. Cordelia’s ears strained for footsteps not their own.
An access cover was bolted to the floor. Droushnakovi loosened it quickly. “Hang and drop. It’s not much more than two meters. It’ll likely be wet.”
Cordelia slid into the dark circle, landing with a splash. She lit her hand-light. The water, slick and black and shimmering, came to her booted ankles in the synthacrete tube. It was icy cold. Bothari followed. Drou knelt on his shoulders, to coax the cover back into place, then splashed down beside her. “There’s about half a kilometer of this storm sewer. Come on,” she whispered. This close to their goal, Cordelia needed no urging to hurry.
At the half-kilometer, they climbed into a darkened orifice high on the curving wall that led to a much older and smaller tunnel, made of time-blackened brick. Knees and backs bent, they shuffled along. It must be particularly painful for Bothari, Cordelia reflected. Drou slowed, and began tapping on the tunnel’s roof with the steel ferrule of Koudelka’s stick. When the ticks became hollow tocks, she stopped. “Here. It’s meant to swing downward.
Watch it.” She released the sheath, and slid the blade carefully between a line of slimy bricks. A click, and the false-brick-lined panel flopped down, nearly cracking her head. She returned the sword to its casing. “Up.” She pulled herself through.
They followed to find themselves in another ancient drain, even narrower. It sloped more steeply upward. They crouched along, their clothes brushing the sides and picking up damp stains. Drou rose suddenly, and clambered out over a pile of broken bricks into a dark, pillared chamber.
“What is this place?” whispered Cordelia. “Too big for a tunnel …”
“The old stables,” Drou whispered back. “We’re under the Residence grounds, now.”
“It doesn’t sound so secret to me. Surely they must appear in old drawings and elevations. People—Security—must know this is here.” Cordelia stared into the dim, musty recesses, past pale arches picked out by their wavering hand-lights.
“Yes, but this is the cellar of the old old stables. Not Dorcas, but Dorca’s great—uncle’s. He kept over three hundred horses. They burned down in a spectacular fire about two hundred years ago, and instead of rebuilding on the site, they knocked them flat and put up the new old stables on the east side, downwind. Those got converted to staff apartments in Dorca’s day. Most of the hostages are being kept over there now.” Drou marched firmly forward, as if sure of her ground. “We’re to the north of the main Residence now, under the gardens Ezar designed. Ezar apparently found this old cellar and arranged this passage with Negri, thirty years ago. A bolt-hole that even their own Security didn’t know about. Trusting, eh?”
“Thank you, Ezar,” Cordelia murmured wryly.
“Once we’re out of Ezar’s passage, the real risk starts,” the girl commented.
Yes, they could still pull out now, retrace their steps and no one the wiser. Why have these people so blithely handed me the right to risk their lives? God, I hate command. Something skittered in the shadows, and somewhere, water dripped.
“Here,” said Droushnakovi, shining her light on a pile of boxes. “Ezar’s cache. Clothes, weapons, money—Captain Negri had me add some women’s and boy’s clothes to it just last year, at the time of the Escobar invasion. He was keyed up for trouble about it, but the riots never reached here. My clothes should only be a little big for you.”
They discarded their beslimed street clothes. Droushnakovi shook out clean dresses, suitable for senior Residence womenservants too superior for menial’s uniforms; the girl had worn them for just such service. Bothari unbundled his black fatigue uniform again from the satchel, and donned it, adding correct Imperial Security insignia. From a distance he made a proper guard, though he was perhaps a little too rumpled to pass inspection up close. As Drou had promised, a complete array of weapons lay fully charged in sealed cases. Cordelia chose a fresh stunner, as did Drou; their eyes met. “No hesitation this time, eh?” Cordelia murmured. Drou nodded grimly. Bothari took one of each, stunner, nerve disruptor, and plasma arc. Cordelia trusted he wouldn’t clank when he walked.
“You can’t fire that thing indoors,” Droushnakovi objected to the plasma arc.
“You never know,” shrugged Bothari.
After a moment’s thought, Cordelia added the swordstick, tig
htening a loop of her belt around its grip. A serious weapon it wasn’t, but it had proved an unexpectedly useful tool on this trip. For luck. Then from the last depths of the satchel, Cordelia pulled what she privately considered to be the most potent weapon of all.
“A shoe?” said Droushnakovi blankly.
“Gregor’s shoe. For when we make contact with Kareen. I rather fancy she still has the other.” Cordelia nested it deeply in the inner pocket of one of Drou’s Vorbarra—crested boleros, worn over Cordelia’s dress to complete the picture of an inner Residence worker.
When their preparations were as complete as possible, Drou led them again into narrowing darkness. “Now we’re under the Residence itself,” she whispered, turning sideways. “We go up this ladder, between the walls. It was added after, there’s not much space.”
This proved an understatement. Cordelia sucked in her breath and climbed after her, sandwiched flat between two walls, trying not to accidently touch or thump. The ladder was made, naturally, of wood. Her head throbbed with exhaustion and adrenaline. She mentally measured the width. Getting the uterine replicator back down this ladder was going to be a bitch. She told herself sternly to think positively, then decided that was positive. Why am I doing this? I could be back at Tanery Base with Aral right now, letting these Barrayarans kill each other all day long, if it is their pleasure. …
Above her, Drou stepped aside onto some sort of tiny ledge, a mere board. When Cordelia came up beside her, she gestured “stop” and extinguished her hand-light. Drou touched some silent latch mechanism, and a wall panel swung outward before them. Clearly, everything had been kept well oiled right up to Ezar’s death.
They looked out into the old Emperors bedchamber. They had expected it to be empty. Drou’s mouth opened in a voiceless O of dismay and horror.
Ezar’s huge old carved wooden bed, the one he’d for-God’s-sake died in, was occupied. A shaded light, dimmed to an orange glow, cast highlight and shadow across two bare-torsoed, sleeping forms. Even in this foreshortened view, Cordelia instantly recognized the dish-face and moustache of Vidal Vordarian. He sprawled across four—fifths of the bed, his heavy arm flung possessively across Princess Kareen. Her dark hair was tumbled on the pillow. She slept in a tight, tiny ball in the upper corner of the bed, facing outward, white arms clutched to her chest, nearly in danger of falling out.
Barrayar b-2 Page 29