Lois Bujold - Barrayar

Cordelia snapped awake, to discover that the movement that had roused her was Gregor, sitting up beside her and rubbing his eyes in bleary disorientation. Light streamed in through two dirty windows on either side of the wooden front door. The shack, or cabin—two of the walls were made of whole logs stacked up—was only a single room. In the grey stone fireplace at one end a kettle and a covered pot sat on a grating over a bed of glowing coals. Cordelia reminded herself again that wood represented poverty, not wealth, here. They must have passed ten million trees yesterday.

She sat up, and gasped from the pain in her muscles. She straightened her legs. The bed was a rope net strung on a frame and supporting first a straw-stuffed mattress, then a feather-stuffed one. She and Gregor were warm, at least, in their nest. The air of the room was dusty-smelling, tinged with a pleasant edge of wood smoke.

Booted footsteps sounded on the boards of the porch outside, and Cordelia grasped Gregor’s arm in sudden panic. She couldn’t run—that black iron fireplace poker would make a pretty poor weapon against a stunner or nerve disruptor—but the steps were Bothari’s. He slipped through the door along with a puff of outside air. His crudely sewn tan cloth jacket must be a borrowing from Kly, judging from the way his bony wrists stuck out beyond the turned-down sleeve cuffs. He’d pass for a hillman easily, as long as he kept his urban-accented mouth shut.

He nodded at them. “Milady. Sire.” He knelt by the fireplace, glanced under the pot lid, and tested the kettle’s temperature by cupping a big hand a few centimeters above it. “There’s groats, and syrup,” he said. “Hot water. Herb tea. Dried fruit. No butter.”

“What’s happening?” Cordelia rubbed her face awake, and swung her legs overboard, planning a stumble toward that herb tea.

“Not much. The Major rested his horse a while, and left before light, to keep his schedule. It’s been real quiet, since.”

“Did you get any sleep yet?”

“Couple of hours, I think.”

The tea had to wait while Cordelia escorted the Emperor downslope to Kly’s outhouse. Gregor wrinkled his nose, and eyed the adult-sized seat nervously. Back on the cabin porch Cordelia supervised hand and face washing over a dented metal basin.

The view from the porch, once she’d toweled her face dry and vision clear, was stunning. Half of Vorkosigan’s District seemed spread out below, the brown foothills, the green-and-yellow-specked peopled plains beyond. “Is that our lake?” Cordelia nodded to a glint of silver in the hills, near the limits of her vision.

“I think so,” said Bothari, squinting.

So far, to have come this fast on foot. So fearfully near, in a lightflyer … Well, at least you could see whatever was coming.

The hot groats and syrup, served on a cracked white plate, tasted wonderful. Cordelia guzzled herb tea, and realized she’d become dangerously dehydrated. She tried to encourage Gregor to drink, but he didn’t like the astringent taste of the tea. Bothari looked almost suffused with shame, that he couldn’t produce milk out of the air at his Emperor’s direct request. Cordelia solved the dilemma by sweetening the tea with syrup, rendering it acceptable.

By the time they finished breakfast, washed up the few utensils and dishes, and flung the bit of wash water over the porch rail, the porch had warmed enough in the morning sun to make sitting tolerable.

“Why don’t you take over the bed, Sergeant. I’ll keep watch. Ah … did Kly have any suggestions what we should do, if somebody hostile drops down on us here before he gets back? It kind of looks like we’ve run out of places to run to.”

“Not quite, Milady. There’s a set of caves, up in that patch of woods in back. An old guerilla cache. Kly took me back last night to see the entrance.”

Cordelia sighed. “Right. Get some sleep, Sergeant, we’ll surely need you later.”

She sat in the sun. in one of the wooden chairs, resting her body if not her mind. Her eyes and ears strained for the whine of a distant lightflyer or heavy aircar. She tied Gregor’s feet up with makeshift rag shoes, and he wandered about examining things. She accompanied him on a visit to the shed to see the horses. The Sergeant’s beast was still very lame, and Rose was moving as little as possible, but they had fodder in a rick and water from a little stream that ran across the end of their enclosure. Kly’s other horse, a lean and fit-looking sorrel, seemed to tolerate the equine invasion, only nipping when Rose edged too close to its side of the hayrick.

Cordelia and Gregor sat on the porch steps as the sun passed zenith, comfortably warm now. The only sound in the vast vale besides a breeze in the branches was Bothari’s snores, resonating through the cabin walls. Deciding this was as relaxed as they were likely to get, Cordelia at last dared quiz Gregor on his view—her only eyewitness report—of the coup in the capital. It wasn’t much help; Gregor’s five-year-old eyes saw the what well enough, it was the whys that escaped him. On a higher level, she had the same problem, Cordelia admitted ruefully to herself.

“The soldiers came. The colonel told Mama and me to come with him. One of our liveried men came in. The colonel shot him.”

“Stunner, or nerve disruptor?”

“Nerve disruptor. Blue fire. He fell down. They took us to the Marble Courtyard. They had aircars. Then Captain Negri ran in, with some men. A soldier grabbed me, and Mama grabbed me back, and that’s what happened to my shoe. It came off in her hand. I should have … fastened it tighter, in the morning. Then Captain Negri shot the soldier who was carrying me, and some soldiers shot Captain Negri—”

“Plasma arc? Is that when he got that horrible burn?” Cordelia asked. She tried to keep her tone very calm.

Gregor nodded mutely. “Some soldiers took Mama, those other ones, not Negri’s ones. Captain Negri picked me up and ran. We went through the tunnels, under the Residence, and came out in a garage. We went in the lightflyer. They shot at us. Captain Negri kept telling me to shut up, to be quiet. We flew and flew, and he kept yelling at me to be quiet, but I was. And then we landed by the lake.” Gregor was trembling again.

“Mm.” Kareen spun in vivid detail in Cordelia’s head, despite the simplicity of Gregor’s account. That serene face, wrenched into screaming rage and terror as they tore the son she’d borne the Barrayaran hard way from her grip, leaving … nothing but a shoe, of all their precarious life and illusory possessions. So Vordarian’s troops had Kareen. As hostage? Victim? Alive or dead?

“Do you think Mama’s all right?”

“Sure.” Cordelia shifted uncomfortably. “She’s a very valuable lady. They won’t hurt her.” Till it becomes expedient for them to do so.

“She was crying.”

“Yes.” She could feel that same knot in her own belly. The mental flash she’d shied from all day yesterday burst in her brain. Boots, kicking open a secured laboratory door. Kicking over desks, tables. No faces, just boots. Gun butts sweeping delicate glassware and computerized monitors from benches into a tangled smash on the floor. A uterine replicator rudely jerked open, its sterile seals slashed, its contents dumped pell-mell wetly on the tiles … no need even for the traditional murderous swing by the heels of infant head against the nearest concrete wall, Miles was so little the boots could just step on him and smash him to jam… . She drew in her breath.

Miles is all right. Anonymous, just like us. We are very small, and very quiet, and safe. Shut up, keep quiet, kid. She hugged Gregor tightly. “My little boy is in the capital, too, same as your Mama. And you’re with me. We’ll look out for each other. You bet.”