Lois Bujold - Barrayar

“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.

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.