"A lift tube? We've never—" He bit his tongue. "Where?"
"You could put it in the back hallway next to the plumbing stack, without disrupting the internal architecture."
"So you could. Very well. Find a builder. Do it."
"I'll look into it tomorrow, then. Thank you, sir." Her brows rose, behind his back.
Count Piotr, evidently with the same idea in mind of encouraging her, was studiously cordial to Dr. Henri over lunch, New Man though Henri clearly was. Henri, following Cordelia's advice, hit it off well with Piotr in turn. Piotr told Henri all about the new foal, born in his stables over the back ridge. The creature was a genetically certified pureblood that Piotr called a
quarter horse,
though it looked like an entire horse to Cordelia. The stud-colt had been imported at great cost as a frozen embryo from Earth, and implanted in a grade mare, the gestation supervised anxiously by Piotr. The biologically trained Henri expressed technical interest, and after lunch was done Piotr carried him off for a personal inspection of the big beasts.
Cordelia begged off. "I think I'd like to rest a bit. You can go, Drou. Sergeant Bothari will stay with me." In fact, Cordelia was worried about Bothari. He hadn't eaten a single bite of lunch, nor said a word for over an hour.
Doubtful, but madly interested in the horses, Drou allowed herself to be persuaded. The three trudged off up the hill. Cordelia watched them away, then turned her face back to catch Bothari watching her again. He gave her a strange approving nod.
"Thank you, Milady."
"Ahem. Yes. I wondered if you felt ill."
"No . . . yes. I don't know. I wanted . . . I've wanted to talk to you, Milady. For—for some weeks. But there never seemed to be a good time. Lately it's been getting worse. I can't wait anymore. I'd hoped today . . ."
"Seize the moment." The housekeeper was rattling about in Piotr's kitchen. "Would you care to take a walk, or something?"
"Please, Milady."
They walked together, around the old stone house. The pavilion on the crest of the hill, overlooking the lake, would be a great place to sit and talk, but Cordelia felt too full and pregnant to make the climb. She led left, instead, on the path parallel to the slope, till they came to what appeared to be a little walled garden.
The Vorkosigan family plot was crowded with an odd assortment of graves, of core family, distant relatives, retainers of special merit. The cemetery had originally been part of the ruined fort complex, the oldest graves of guards and officers going back centuries. The Vorkosigan intrusion dated only from the atomic destruction of the old district capital of Vorkosigan Vashnoi during the Cetagandan invasion. The dead had been melted down with the living there, then›eight generations of family history obliterated. It was interesting to note the clusters of more recent dates, and key them to their current events: the Cetagandan invasion, Mad Yuri's War. Aral's mother's grave dated exactly to the start of Yuri's War. A space was reserved beside her for Piotr, and had been for thirty-three years. She waited patiently for her husband.
And men accuse us women of being slow.
Her eldest son, Aral's brother, lay buried at her other hand.
"Let's sit over there." She nodded toward a stone bench set round with small orange flowers, and shaded by an Earth-import oak at least a century old. "These people are all good listeners, now. And they don't pass on gossip."
Cordelia sat on the warm stone, and studied Bothari. He sat as far from her as the bench permitted. The lines on his face were deep-cut today, harsh despite the muting of the afternoon light by the warm autumn haze. One hand, wrapped around the rough stone edge of the bench, flexed arrhythmically. His breathing was too careful.
Cordelia softened her voice. "So, what's the trouble, Sergeant? You seem a little . . . stretched, today. Is it something about Elena?"
He breathed a humorless laugh. "
Stretched
. Yes. I guess so. It's not about the baby . . . it's . . . well, not directly." His eyes met hers squarely for almost the first time today. "You remember Escobar, milady. You were there. Right?"
"Right."
This man is in pain,
Cordelia realized. What sort of pain?
"I can't remember Escobar."
"So I understand. I believe your military therapists went to a great deal of trouble to make sure you did not remember Escobar."
"Oh yes."
"I don't approve of Barrayaran notions of therapy. Particularly when colored by political expediency."
"I've come to realize that, Milady." Cautious hope flickered in his eyes.
"How did they work it? Burn out selected neurons? Chemical erasure?"
"No . . . they used drugs, but nothing was destroyed. They tell me. The doctors called it suppression-therapy. We just called it hell. Every day we went to hell, till we didn't want to go there anymore." Bothari shifted in his seat, his brow wrinkling. "Trying to remember—to talk about Escobar at all—gives me these headaches. Sounds stupid, doesn't it? Big man like me whining about headaches like some old woman. Certain special parts, memories, they give me these really bad headaches that make red rings around everything I see, and I start vomiting. When I stop trying to think about it, the pain goes away. Simple."
Cordelia swallowed. "I see. I'm sorry. I knew it was bad, but I didn't know it was . . . that bad."
"The worst part is the dreams. I dream of . . . it . . . and if I wake up too slowly, I remember the dream. I remember too much, all at once, and my head—all I can do is roll over and cry, until I can start thinking about something else. Count Piotr's other armsmen—they think I'm crazy, they think I'm stupid, they don't know what I'm doing in there with them.
I
don't know what I'm doing in there with them." He rubbed his big hands over his burr-scalp in a harried swipe. "To be a count's sworn Armsman—it's an honor. Only twenty places to fill. They take the best, they take the bloody heroes, the men with medals, the twenty-year men with perfect records. If what I did—at Escobar—was so bad, why did the Admiral make Count Piotr make a place for me? And if I was such a bloody hero, why did they take away my memory of it?" His breath was coming faster, whistling through his long yellow teeth.
"How much pain are you in now? Trying to talk about this?"
"Some. More to come." He stared at her, frowning deeply. "I've got to talk about this. To you. It's driving me . . ."
She took a calming breath, trying to listen with her whole mind, body, and soul. And carefully. So carefully. "Go on."
"I have . . . four pictures . . . in my head, from Escobar. Four pictures, and I cannot explain them. To myself. A few minutes, out of—three months? Four? They all of them bother me, but one bothers me the most. You're in it," he added abruptly, and stared at the ground. Both hands clenched the bench now, white-knuckled.
"I see. Go on."
"One—the least-bad one—it was an argument. Prince Serg was there, and Admiral Vorrutyer, Lord Vorkosigan, and Admiral Rulf Vorhalas. And I was there. Except I didn't have any clothes on."
"Are you sure this isn't a dream?"
"No. I'm not sure. Admiral Vorrutyer said . . . something very insulting, to Lord Vorkosigan. He had Lord Vorkosigan backed up against the wall. Prince Serg laughed. Then Vorrutyer kissed him, full on the mouth, and Vorhalas tried to knock Vorrutyer's head off, but Lord Vorkosigan wouldn't let him. And I don't remember after that."
"Um . . . yeah," said Cordelia. "I wasn't there for that part, but I know there was some really weird stuff going on in the high command at that point, as Vorrutyer and Serg pushed their limits. So it's probably a true memory. I could ask Aral, if you wish."
"No! No. That one doesn't feel as important, anyway. As the others."
"Tell me about the others, then."
His voice fell to a whisper. "I remember Elena. So pretty. I only have two pictures in my head, of Elena. One, I remember Vorrutyer making me . . . no, I don't want to talk about that one." He stopped for a full minute, rocking gently, forward and back. "The other . . . we were in my cabin. She and I. She was my wife. . . ." His voice faltered. "She wasn't my wife, was she." It wasn't even a question.
"No. But you know that."
"But I remember
believing
she was." His hands pressed his forehead, and rubbed his neck, hard and futilely.
"She was a prisoner of war," said Cordelia. "Her beauty drew Vorrutyer's and Serg's attention, and they made a project of tormenting her, for no reason—not for her military intelligence, not even for political terrorism—just for their gratification. She was raped. But you know that, too. On some level."
"Yes," he whispered.
"Taking away her contraceptive implant and allowing—or compelling—you to impregnate her was part of their idea of sadism. The first part. They did not, thank God, live long enough to get to the second part."
His legs had drawn up, his long arms wrapped around them in a tight, tight ball. His breathing was fast and shallow, panting. His face was freezer-burn white, sheened with cold sweat.
"Do I have red rings around me now?" Cordelia asked curiously.
"It's all . . . kind of pink."
"And the last picture?"
"Oh, Milady." He swallowed. "Whatever it was . . . I know it must be very close to whatever it is they most don't want me to remember." He swallowed again. Cordelia began to understand why he hadn't touched his lunch.
"Do you want to go on?
Can
you go on?"
"I must go on. Milady. Captain Naismith. Because I remember you. Remember seeing you. Stretched out on Vorrutyer's bed, all your clothes cut away, naked. You were bleeding. I was looking up your . . . What I want to know. Must know." His arms were wrapped around his head, now, tilted toward her on his knees, his face hollow, haunted, hungry.
His blood pressure must be fantastically high, to drive that monstrous migraine. If they went too far, pressed this through to the last truth, might he be in danger of a stroke? An incredible piece of psychoengineering, to program his own body to punish him for his forbidden thoughts . . .
"Did I rape
you,
Milady?"
"Huh?
No!
" She sat bolt upright, fiercely indignant. They had taken
that
knowledge away from him? They'd
dared
take that away from him?
He began to cry, if that's what that ragged breathing, tight-screwed face, and tears leaking from his eyes meant. Equal parts agony and joy. "Oh. Thank God." And, "Are you
sure
. . . ?"
"Vorrutyer ordered you to. You refused. Out of your own will, without hope of rescue or reward. It got you in a hell of a lot of trouble, for a little while." She longed to tell him the rest, but the state he was in now was so terrifying, it was impossible to guess the consequences. "How long have you been remembering this? Wondering this?"
"Since I first saw you again. This summer. When you came to marry Lord Vorkosigan."
"You've been walking around for over
six months,
with this in your head, not daring to ask—?"
"Yes, Milady."
She sat back, horrified, her breath trickling out between pursed lips. "Next time, don't wait so long."
Swallowing hard, he stumbled to his feet, a big hand waving in a desperate wait-for-me gesture. He swung his legs over the low stone wall, and found some bushes. Anxiously, she listened to him dry-vomiting his empty stomach for several minutes. An extremely bad attack, she judged, but finally the violent paroxysms slowed, then stopped. He returned, wiping his lips, looking very white and not much better, except for his eyes. A little life flickered in those eyes now, a half-suppressed light of overwhelming relief.
The light faded, as he sat in thought. He rubbed his palms on his trouser knees, and stared at his boots. "But I'm not less a rapist, just because
you
were not my victim."
"That is correct."
"I can't . . . trust myself. How can you trust me? . . . Do you know what's better than sex?"
She wondered if she could take one more sharp turn in this conversation without running off screaming.
You encouraged him to uncork, now you're stuck with it.
"Go on."
"Killing. It feels even better, afterwards. It shouldn't be . . . such a pleasure. Lord Vorkosigan doesn't kill like that." His eyes were narrowed, brows creased, but he was uncurled from his ball of agony; he must be speaking generally, Vorrutyer no longer on his mind.
"It's a release of rage, I'd guess," said Cordelia cautiously. "How did you get so much rage, balled up inside of you? The density is palpable. People can sense it."
His hand curled, in front of his solar plexus. "It goes back a long way. But I don't feel angry, most of the time. It snaps out suddenly."
"Even Bothari fears Bothari," she murmured in wonder.
"Yet you don't. You're less afraid even than Lord Vorkosigan."
"I see you as bound up with him, somehow. And he's my own heart. How can I fear my own heart?"
"Milady. A bargain."
"Hm?"
"You tell me . . . when it's all right. To kill. And then I'll know."
"I can't—look, suppose I'm not there? When that sort of thing lands on you, there's not usually time to stop and analyze. You have to be allowed self-defense, but you also have to be able to discern when you're really being attacked." She sat up, eyes widening in sudden insight. "That's why your uniform is so important to you, isn't it? It tells you when it's all right. When you can't tell yourself. All those rigid routines you keep to, they're to tell you you're all right, on track."
"Yes. I'm sworn to the defense of House Vorkosigan, now. So
that's
all right." He nodded, apparently reassured. By what, for God's sake?
"You're asking me to be your conscience. Make your judgments for you. But you are a whole man. I've seen you make right choices, under the most absolute stress."
His hands pressed to his skull again, his narrow jaw clenching, and he grated out, "But I can't
remember
them. Can't remember how I did it."
"Oh." She felt very small. "Well . . . whatever you think I can do for you, you've got a blood-right to it. We owe you, Aral and I. We remember why, even if you can't."