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to deal with that sort of horror ..."
"Women shouldn't be in combat," said Vorkosigan, grimly glum.
"Neither should men, in my opinion. Why did your people try to cover up her
memories? Did you order it?"
"No, it was the surgeon's idea. He felt sorry for her." His face was tense and
his eyes, distant.
"It was the damnedest thing. I didn't understand it at the time. I do now, I
think. When Vorrutyer was done with her-and he outdid himself on her, even by
his standards-she was catatonic. I-it was too late for her, but that's when
I decided to kill him, if it happened again, and to hell with the Emperor's
script. First Vorrutyer, then the Prince, then myself. Should have left
Vorhalas in the clear . . .
"Anyway, Bothari-begged the body from him, so to speak. Took her off to his
own cabin. Vorrutyer assumed, to continue torturing her, presumably in
imitation of his sweet self. He was flattered, and left them alone. Bothari
fuzzed his monitors, somehow. Nobody had the foggiest idea what he was doing
in there, every minute of his off duty time. But he came to me with this list
of medical supplies he wanted me to sneak to him. Anesthetic salves, some
things for treatment of shock, really a well-thought-out list. He was good at
first aid, from his combat experience. It occurred to me then that he wasn't
torturing her, he just wanted Vorrutyer to think so. He was insane, not
stupid. He was in love, in some weird way, and had the mother-wit not to let
Vorrutyer guess."
"That doesn't sound altogether insane, under the circumstances," she
commented, remembering the plans Vorrutyer had had for Vorkosigan.
"No, but the way he went about it-I caught a glimpse or two." Vorkosigan blew
out his breath. "He took care of her in his cabin-fed her, dressed her, washed
her-all the while keeping up this whispered dialogue. He supplied both
halves. He had apparently worked out this elaborate fantasy in which she was
in love with him, married in fact- a normal sane happy couple. Why shouldn't a
madman dream of being sane? It must have terrified the hell out of her during
her periods of consciousness."
"Lord. I feel almost as sorry for him as I do for her."
"Not quite. He slept with her, too, and I have every reason to believe he
didn't limit that marriage fantasy thing to just words. I can see why, I
suppose. Can you imagine Bothari getting within a hundred kilometers of such a
girl under any normal circumstances?"
"Mm, hardly. The Escobarans fielded their best against you."
"But that, I believe, is what he chose to try and remember from Escobar.
It must have taken incredible strength of will. He was in therapy for months."
"Whew," breathed Cordelia, haunted by the visions his words conjured. She was
glad she would have a few hours to settle before seeing Bothari again.
"Let's go get that drink now, all right?"
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Summer was waning when Vorkosigan proposed a trip to Bonsanklar. They were
about half packed on the morning selected when Cordelia looked out of their
front bedroom window, and said in a constricted voice, "Aral? A flyer just
landed out front and there are six armed men getting out of it. They're
spreading out all over your property."
Vorkosigan, instantly alert, came to her side to look, then relaxed. "It's all
right. Those are Count Vortala's men. He must be coming to visit my father.
I'm surprised he found time to break away from the capital just now. I
heard the Emperor's been keeping him jumping."
A few minutes later a second flyer landed beside the first, and Cordelia had
her first view of Barrayar's new Prime Minister. Prince Serg's description of
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him as a wrinkled clown was an exaggeration, but a just one; he was a lean
man, shrunken with age but still moving briskly. He carried a stick, but from
the way he swung it around Cordelia guessed it was an affectation. Clipped
white hair fringed a bald and liver-spotted head that shone in the sunshine as
he and a pair of aides, or bodyguards, Cordelia was not sure which, passed
under her line of sight to the front door.
The two Counts were standing chatting in the front hall as Cordelia and
Vorkosigan came down the stairs, the General saying, "Ah, here he comes now."
Vortala looked them over with a bright and penetrating twinkle. "Aral, my boy.
Good to see you looking so well. And is this your Betan Penthesileia?
Congratulations on a remarkable capture. Milady." He bent over her hand and
kissed it with a sort of manic savoir faire.
Cordelia blinked at this description of herself, but managed a "How do you do,
sir?" in return. Vortala met her eyes calculatingly.
"Nice that you could get away for a visit, sir," said Vorkosigan. "My wife and
I," the phrase was emphasized in his mouth, like a sip of wine with a superior
bouquet, "very nearly missed you. I'm promised to take her to the ocean
today."
"Just so ... This isn't a social call, as it happens. I'm playing messenger
boy for my master. And my time is unfortunately tight."
Vorkosigan gave a nod. "I'll leave you gentlemen to it, then."
"Ha. Don't try to weasel off on me, boy. The message is for you."
Vorkosigan looked wary. "I didn't think the Emperor and I had anything further
to say to each other. I thought I made that clear when I resigned."
"Yes, well, he was perfectly content to have you out of the capital while
that dirty work on the Ministry of Political Education was in progress. But I
am charged to inform you," he gave a little bow, "that you are requested and
required to attend him. This afternoon. Your wife, too," he added as an
afterthought.
"Why?" asked Vorkosigan bluntly. "Frankly, Ezar Vorbarra was not in my plans
for the day-or any other day."
Vortala grew serious. "He's run out of time to wait for you to get bored in
the country. He's dying, Aral."
Vorkosigan blew out his breath. "He's been dying for the last eleven months.
Can't he die a little longer?"
Vortala chuckled. "Five months," he corrected absently, then frowned
speculation at Vorkosigan. "Hm. Well, it has been very convenient for him.
He's flushed more rats out of the wainscotting in the last five months than
the past twenty years. You could practically mark the shakedowns in the
Ministries by his medical bulletins. One week: condition very grave. Next [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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