The guard stared around wildly. He pointed abruptly at Droushnakovi, still holding the whimpering Gregor. “Her.”
“I never!” said Drou indignantly. Her clutch tightened.
Vorkosigan’s teeth closed. “Well, I don’t need fast-penta to know that one of you is lying. No time now. Commander, arrest them both. We’ll sort it out later.” Vorkosigan’s eyes anxiously scanned the northern horizon. “You,” he pointed to another ImpSec man, “assemble every piece of transport you can find. We evacuate immediately. You,” this to one of Piotr’s armsmen, “go warn them in the village. Kou, grab the files, take a plasma arc and finish melting down that comconsole, and get back to me.”
Koudelka, with one anguished look back over his shoulder at Droushnakovi, stumped off toward the house. Drou stood stiffly, stunned and angry and frightened, the cold wind fluttering her skirts. Her brows drew down at Vorkosigan. She scarcely noticed Koudelka’s departure.
“You going to Hassadar first?” said Piotr to his son in a strange mild tone.
“Right.”
Hassadar, the Vorkosigan’s District capital: Imperial troops were quartered there. A loyal garrison?
“Not planning to hold it, I trust,” said Piotr.
“Of course not. Hassadar,” Vorkosigan’s wolf-grin winked on and off, “shall be my first gift to Commodore Vordarian.”
Piotr nodded, as if satisfied. Cordelia’s head spun. Despite Negri’s surprise, neither Piotr nor Aral seemed at all panicked. No wasted motion; no wasted words.
“You,” said Aral to Piotr in an undertone, “take the boy.” Piotr nodded. “Meet us—no. Don’t tell even me where. You contact us.”
“Right.”
“Take Cordelia.”
Piotr’s mouth opened; it closed saying only, “Ah.”
“And Sergeant Bothari. For Cordelia. Drou being—temporarily—off duty.”
“I must have Esterhazy, then,” said Piotr.
“I’ll want the rest of your men,” said Aral.
“Right.” Piotr took his Armsman Esterhazy aside, and spoke to him in low tones; Esterhazy departed upslope at a dead run. Men were scattering in every direction, as their orders proliferated down their command chain. Piotr called another liveried retainer to him, and told him to take his groundcar and start driving west.
“How far, m’lord?”
“As far as your ingenuity can take you. Then escape if you can, and rejoin m’lord Regent, eh?”
The man nodded, and galloped off like Esterhazy.
“Sergeant, you will obey Lady Vorkosigan’s voice as my own,” Aral told Bothari.
“Always, my lord.”
“I want that lightflyer.” Piotr nodded to Negri’s damaged vehicle, which, while no longer smoking, did not look very airworthy to Cordelia. Not nearly ready for wild flight, jinking or diving to evade determined enemies … It’s in about as good a shape for this as I am, she feared. “And Negri,” Piotr continued.
“He would appreciate that,” said Aral.
“I am certain of it.” Piotr nodded shortly, and turned to the first-aid squad. “Leave off, boys, it’s no damn good by now.” He directed them instead to load the body into the lightflyer.
Aral turned to Cordelia last, at last, for the first time. “Dear Captain …” The same sere expression had been fixed on his face since Negri had fallen out of the lightflyer.
“Aral, was this a surprise to anyone but me?”
“I didn’t want to worry you with it, when you were so sick.” His lips thinned. “We’d found Vordarian was conspiring, at HQ and elsewhere. Illyan’s investigation was inspired. Top security people must have that sort of intuition, I suppose. But to convict a man of Vordarian’s magnitude and connections of treason, we needed the hardest of evidence. The Council of Counts as a body is highly intolerant of central Imperial interference with their members. We couldn’t take a mere vaporplot before them. “But Negri called me last night with the word he had his evidence in hand, enough to move on at last. He needed an Imperial order from me to arrest a ruling District Count. I was supposed to go up to Vorbarr Sultana tonight and oversee the operation. Clearly, Vordarian was warned. His original move wasn’t planned for another month, preferably right after my successful assassination.” “But—”
“Go, now.” He pushed her toward the lightflyer. “Vordarian’s troops will be here in minutes. You must get away. No matter what else he holds, he can’t make himself secure while Gregor stays free,”
“Aral—” Her voice came out a stupid squeak; she swallowed what felt like freeze—dried chunks of spit. She wanted to gabble a thousand questions, ten thousand protests. “Take care.”
“You, too.” A last light flared in his eyes, but his face was already distant, lost to the driving internal rhythm of tactical calculation. No time.
Aral went to take Gregor from Drou’s arms, whispering something to her; reluctantly, she released the boy to him. They piled into the lightflyer, Bothari at the controls, Cordelia jammed into the back beside Negri’s corpse, Gregor dumped into her lap. The boy made no noise at all, but only shivered. His eyes were wide and shocky, turned up to hers. Her arms encircled him automatically. He did not cling back, but wrapped his arms around his own torso. Negri, lolling, feared nothing now, and she almost envied him.
“Did you see what happened to your mother, Gregor?” Cordelia murmured to him.
“The soldiers took her.” His voice was thin and flat. The overloaded lightflyer hiccoughed into the air, and Bothari aimed it generally upslope, wavering only meters from the ground. It whined and moaned and rattled. Cordelia did, too, internally. She twisted around to stare back through the distorted canopy for a look—a last look?—at Aral, who had turned away and was double-timing toward the driveway where his soldiers were assembling a motley collection of vehicles, personal and governmental. Why aren’t we taking one of those?
“When you clear the second ridge—if you can—turn right, Sergeant,” Piotr directed Bothari. “Follow the creek.”
Branches slashed at the canopy, as Bothari flew less than a meter above the trickling water and sharp rocks.
“Land in that little space there and kill the power,” ordered Piotr. “Everyone, strip off any powered items you may be carrying.” He divested his chrono and a comm link. Cordelia shed her chrono.
Bothari, easing the flyer down beside the creek beneath some Earth—import trees that had only half—shed their leaves, asked, “Does that include weapons, m’lord?”
“Especially weapons, Sergeant. The charge unit on a stunner shows up on a scanner like a torch. A plasma arc power cell lights it up like a bloody bonfire.”
Bothari fished two of each from his person, plus other useful gear; a hand-tractor, his comm link, his chrono, some kind of small medical diagnostic device. “My knife, too, m’lord?”
“Vibra-knife?”
“No, just steel.”
“Keep that.” Piotr hunched over the lightflyer’s controls and began re-programming the automatic pilot. “Everyone out. Sergeant, jam the canopy half-open.”
Bothari managed this task with a pebble crammed forcibly into the canopy’s seating—groove, then whirled at a sound from the undergrowth.
“It’s me,” came Armsman Esterhazy’s breathless voice. Esterhazy, age forty, a mere stripling beside some of Piotr’s other grizzled veterans, kept himself in top shape; he’d been hustling indeed, to get so puffed. “I have them, my lord.”
The “them” in question turned out to be four of Piotr’s horses, tied together by lines attached to the metal bars in their mouths the Barrayarans called “bits.” Cordelia thought it a very small control surface for such a large piece of transport. The big beasts twitched and stamped and shook their jingling heads, red nostrils round and flaring, ominous bulky shapes in the vegetation.
Piotr finished re-programming the autopilot. “Bothari, here,” he said. Together, they manhandled Negri’s corpse back to the pilot’s seat and strapped it i
n. Bothari powered the lightflyer up and jumped out. It lurched into the air, nearly crashing into a tree, and lumbered back over the ridge. Piotr, standing watching it rise, muttered under his breath, “Salute him for me, Negri.”
“Where are you sending him?” Cordelia asked. Valhalla?
“Bottom of the lake,” said Piotr, with some satisfaction. “That will puzzle them.”
“Won’t whoever follows trace it? Hoist it back out?”
“Eventually. But it should go down in the two-hundred-meter-deep section. It will take them time. And they won’t know at first when it went down, nor how many bodies are missing from it. They’ll have to search that whole section of the lake bottom, to be sure that Gregor isn’t stuck in it. And negative evidence is never quite conclusive, eh? They won’t know, even then. Mount up, troops, we’re on our way.” He headed purposefully toward his animals.
Cordelia trailed doubtfully. Horses. Would one call them slaves, symbionts, or commensals? The one toward which Esterhazy aimed her stood five feet high at the top. He stuck its lines into her hands and turned away. Its saddle was at the level of her chin, and how was she supposed to levitate up there? The horse looked much larger, at this range, than when idling around decoratively at a distance in its pasture. The brown fur-covered skin of its shoulder shuddered suddenly. Oh, God, they’ve given me a defective one, it’s going into convulsions—a small mew escaped her.
Bothari had climbed atop his, somehow. He at least was not overpowered by the size of the animal. Given his height he made the full-sized beast look like a pony. City-bred, Bothari was no horseman, and seemed all knees and elbows despite what cavalry training Piotr had managed to inflict on him in the months of his service. But he was clearly in control of his mount, however awkward and rough his motions.
“You’re point-man, Sergeant,” Piotr told him. “I want us strung out to the limit of mutual visibility. No bunching up. Start up the trails for the flat rock—you know the place—and wait for us.”
Bothari jerked his horse’s head around and kicked at its sides, and clattered off up the woodland path at the seat-thumping pace called a canter.
Supposedly-creaky Piotr swung up into his saddle in one fluid motion; Esterhazy handed Gregor up to him, and Piotr held the boy in front of him. Gregor had actually seemed to cheer up at the sight of the horses, Cordelia could not imagine why. Piotr appeared to do nothing at all, but his horse arranged itself neatly ready to start up the trail—telepathy, Cordelia decided wildly. They’ve mutated into telepaths here and never told me … or maybe it was the horse that was telepathic.
“Come on, woman, you’re next,” Piotr snapped impatiently.
Desperately, Cordelia stuck her foot through the whatchamacallit, foot-holder, stirrup, grabbed, and heaved. The saddle slid slowly around the horse’s belly, and Cordelia with it, till she was clinging underneath among a forest of horse legs. She fell to the ground with a thump, and scrambled out of the way. The horse twisted its neck around and peered at her, in a dismay much milder than her own, then stuck its rubbery lips to the ground and began nibbling up weeds.
“Oh, God,” Piotr groaned in exasperation.
Esterhazy dismounted again, and hurried to her elbow to help her up. “Milady. Are you all right? Sorry, that was my fault, should have re-checked, uh—haven’t you ever ridden before?”
“Never,” Cordelia confessed. He hastily pulled off the saddle, straightened it back around, and fastened it more tightly. “Maybe I can walk. Or run.” Or slit my wrists. Aral, why did you send me off with these madmen?
“It’s not that hard, Milady,” Esterhazy promised her. “Your horse will follow the others. Rose is the gentlest mare in the stables. Doesn’t she have a sweet face?”
Malevolent brown eyes with purple centers ignored Cordelia. “I can’t.” Her breath caught in a sob, the first of this ungodly day.
Piotr glanced at the sky, and back over his shoulder. “Useless Betan frill,” he snarled at her. “Don’t tell me you’ve never ridden astride.” His teeth bared. “Just pretend it’s my son.”
“Here, give me your knee,” said Esterhazy after an anxious look at the Count, cupping his hands.
Take the whole damned leg. She was shaking with anger and fear. She glared at Piotr, and grabbed again at the saddle. Somehow, Esterhazy managed to boost her aboard. She clung like grim death, deciding after one glance not to look down.
Esterhazy tossed her reins to Piotr, who caught them with an easy wrist-flick and took her horse in tow. The trail became a kaleidoscope of trees, rocks, sucking mud puddles, whipping branches, all whirling and bumping past. Her belly began to ache, her new scar twinging. If that bleeding starts again inside … They went on, and on, and on.
They bumped down at last from a canter to a walk. She blinked, red-faced and wheezing and dizzy-sick. They had climbed, somehow, to a clearing overlooking the lake, having circled behind the broad shallow inlet that lay to the left of the Vorkosigan property. As her vision cleared, she could make out the little green patch in the general red-brown background that was the sloping lawn of the old stone house. Across the water lay the tiny village.
Bothari was there before them, waiting, hunkered down in the scrub out of sight, his blowing horse tied to a tree. He rose silently, and approached them, to stare worriedly at Cordelia. She half-fell, half-slid, off into his arms.
“You go too fast for her, m’lord. She’s still sick.”
Piotr snorted. “She’ll be a lot sicker if Vordarian’s squads overtake us.”
“I’ll manage,” gasped Cordelia, bent over. “In a minute. Just. Give me. A minute.” The breeze, chilling down as the autumn sun slanted toward evening, lapped her hot skin. The sky had greyed over to a solid shadowless milk-color. Gradually, she was able to straighten against the abdominal pain. Esterhazy arrived at the clearing, bringing up the rear at a less hectic pace.
Bothari nodded to the distant green patch. “There they are.”
Piotr squinted; Cordelia stared. A couple of flyers were landing on the lawn. Not Aral’s equipment. Men boiled out of them like black ants in their military fatigues, maybe one or two bright flecks of maroon and gold among them, and a few spots of officer’s dark green. Great. Our friends and our enemies are all wearing the same uniforms. What do we do, shoot them all and let God sort them out?
Piotr looked sour indeed. Were they smashing his home, down there, tearing the place apart looking for the refugees?
“Won’t they be able to tell, when they count the horses missing from the stable, where we’ve gone and how?” asked Cordelia.
“I let them all out, Milady,” said Esterhazy. “At least they’ll all have a chance, that way. I don’t know how many we’ll get back.”
“Most of them will hang around, I’m afraid,” said Piotr. “Hoping for their grain. I wish they had the sense to scatter. God knows what viciousness those vandals will come up with, if they’re cheated of all their other prey.”
A trio of flyers was landing around the perimeter of the little village. Armed men disembarked, and vanished among the houses.
“I hope Zai warned them all in time,” muttered Esterhazy.
“Why would they bother those poor people?” asked Cordelia. “What do they want there?”
“Us, Milady,” said Esterhazy grimly. At her confused look he went on, “Us armsmen. Our families. They’re on a hostage-hunt down there.”
Esterhazy had a wife and two children in the capital, Cordelia recalled. And what was happening to them right now? Had anyone passed them a warning? Esterhazy looked like he was wondering that, too.
“No doubt Vordarian will play the hostage game,” said Piotr. “He’s in for it now. He must win, or die.”
Sergeant Bothari’s narrow jaw worked, as he stared through the murky air. Had anyone remembered to warn Mistress Hysopi?
“They’ll be starting their air-search shortly,” said Piotr. “Time to get under cover. I’ll go first. Sergeant, lead her.” He turn
ed his horse and vanished into the undergrowth, following a path so faint Cordelia could not have recognized it as one. It took Bothari and Esterhazy together to lift her back aboard her transport. Piotr chose a walk for the pace, not for her sake, Cordelia suspected, but for his sweat-darkened animals. After that first hideous gallop, a walk was like a reprieve. At first.
They rode among trees and scrub, along a ravine, over a ridge, the horses’ hooves scraping over stone. Her ears strained for the whine of flyers overhead. When one came, Bothari led her on a wild and head-spinning slide down into a ravine, where they dismounted and cowered under a rock ledge for minutes, until the whine faded. Getting back out of the ravine was even more difficult. They had to lead the horses up, Bothari practically seeming to hoist his along the precarious scrubby slope.
It grew darker, and colder, and windier. Two hours became three, four, five, and the smoky darkness turned pitchy. They bunched up with the horses nose to tail, trying not to lose Piotr. It began to rain, a sad black drizzle that made Cordelia’s saddle even slipperier.
Around midnight they came to a clearing, hardly less black than the shadows, and Piotr at last called a halt. Cordelia sat against a tree, stunned with exhaustion, nerve-strung, holding Gregor. Bothari split a ration bar he’d been carrying in his pocket, their only food, between Cordelia and Gregor. With Bothari’s uniform jacket wrapped around him, Gregor finally overcame the chill enough to sleep. Cordelia’s legs went pins and needles, beneath him, but at least he was a lump of warmth.
Where was Aral, by now? For that matter, where were they? Cordelia hoped Piotr knew. They could not have made more than five kilometers an hour at most, with all that up and down and switch-back doubling. Did Piotr really imagine they were going to elude their pursuers this way?
Piotr, who had sat for a while under his own tree a few meters off, got up and went into the scrub to piss, then came back to peer at Gregor in the dimness. “Is he asleep?”
“Yes. Amazingly.”
“Mm. Youth,” Piotr grunted. Envy?
His tone was not so hostile as earlier, and Cordelia ventured, “Do you suppose Aral is in Hassadar by now?” She could not quite bring herself to say, Do you suppose he ever made it to Hassadar?
Barrayar b-2 Page 18
