Mark. Yeah. The surly little fellow that Baron Ryoval was, quite possibly, taking apart strand by strand right now. In Miles's place. His nerves stretched to the screaming point, with no release.
I've got to make time.
He finally persuaded Lilly Junior to go to sleep, wrapped up in the covers on Rowan's side of the bed. Chivalrously, he took the chair. A couple of hours into the night and he was in agony. He tried the floor. It was cold. His chest ached. He dreaded the thought of waking with a cough. He finally crept into the bed on top of the covers, and curled up facing away from her. He was intensely conscious of her body. The reverse was obviously not so. His anxiety was the more enormous for being so formless. He didn't have control of
anything
. Near morning, he at last warmed up enough to doze.
"Rowan, m'love," he muttered muzzily, nuzzling into her scented hair and wrapping himself around her warm, long body. "M'lady." A Barrayaran turn of phrase; he knew where that
milady
came from, at long last. She flinched; he recoiled. Consciousness returned. "Ak! Sorry."
Lilly Junior sat up, shaking off his ugly-little-man grasp. Grope, actually. "I am not my lady!"
"Sorry, wrong referent. I think of Rowan as milady, inside my head. She is milady, and I'm her . . ."
court fool
"knight. I really am a soldier, you know. Despite being short."
At the second knock on the door, he realized what had awakened him. "Breakfast. Quick! Into the bathroom. Rattle around in there. I swear we can keep this going another round."
For once he did not try to engage the guards in conversation leading to bribery. Lilly Junior came back out when the door closed again behind the servant. She ate slowly, dubiously, as if she doubted her right to food. He watched her, increasingly fascinated. "Here. Have this other roll. You can put sugar on it, you know."
"I'm not allowed to eat sugar."
"You should have sugar." He paused. "You should have everything. You should have friends. You should have . . . sisters. You should have education to the limits of your mind's powers, and work to challenge your spirit. Work makes you bigger. More real. You eat it up, and grow. You should have love. A knight of your own. Much taller. You should have . . . ice cream."
"I mustn't get fat. My lady is my destiny."
"Destiny! What do you know about destiny?" He rose and began to pace, zig-zagging around bed and table. "I'm a frigging
expert
on destiny. Your lady is a false destiny, and do you know how I know? She takes everything, but she doesn't give anything back.
"
Real
destiny takes everything—the last drop of blood, and strip out your veins to be sure—and gives it back doubled. Quadrupled. A thousand-fold! But you can't give halves. You have to give it all. I
know
. I
swear
. I've come back from the dead to speak the truth to you. Real destiny gives you a
mountain
of life, and puts you on top of it."
His conviction felt utterly megalomanic. He adored moments like this.
"You're insane," she said, staring at him warily.
"How would you know? You've never met a sane person in your life.
Have you?
Think about it."
Her rising interest fell. "It's no use. I'm a prisoner anyway. Where would I go?"
"Lilly Durona would take you in," he said promptly. "The Durona Group is under House Fell's protection, you know. If you could get to your grandmother, you'd be safe."
Her brows drew down just like Rowan's had, when she was knocking holes in his escape plans. "How?"
"They can't leave us in here forever. Suppose . . ." he walked behind her, gathered up her hair, and held it in a messy wad on the back of her head. "I didn't get the impression Vasa Luigi meant to keep Rowan past the point of need for secrecy. When I go, so should she. If they thought you were Rowan, I bet you could just walk right out."
"What . . . would I say?"
"As little as possible. Hello, Dr. Durona, your ride is here. Pick up your bag, and go."
"I couldn't."
"You could try. If you fail, you'll lose nothing. If you win, you'll win
everything
. And—if you got away—you could tell people where I've gone. Who took me, and when. All it takes is a few minutes of nerve, and that's free. We make it ourselves, out of ourselves. Nerve can't be taken away from you like a purse or something. Hell, why am I telling you that? You escaped the Dendarii Mercenaries on nerve and wit alone."
She looked utterly boggled. "I was doing it for my lady. I've never done anything for . . . for
myself
."
He felt like crying, strung up to the point of pure nervous collapse. This was the sort of all-out exalted eloquence he usually reserved for persuading people to
risk
their lives, not save them. He leaned across to whisper demonically in her ear. "Do it for yourself. The universe will be around to collect its cut later."
After breakfast, he tried to help her fix her hair Rowan-fashion. He was terrible at hair. Since Rowan was too, the final result was quite convincing, he fancied. They survived the delivery and removal of lunch.
He knew it wasn't dinner when they didn't knock before entering.
There were three guards, and a man in House livery. Two of the guards took him, wordlessly, and fastened his hands in front of him. He was grateful for that small favor. Behind his back would have been excruciating, after the first half-hour. They prodded him into the hall. No sign of Vasa and Lotus. Out looking for their lost clone, he hoped? He glanced back over his shoulder.
"Dr. Durona," the House man nodded at Lilly Junior. "I am to be your driver. Where to?"
She brushed a loose wisp of hair from her eyes, picked up Rowan's bag, stepped forward, and said, "Home."
"Rowan," Miles said. She turned.
"Take all, for it will all be taken back in time. That's a grave truth." He moistened dry lips. "Kiss me goodbye?"
She tilted her head, wheeled, bent. Pressed her lips to his, briefly. Followed the driver.
Well, it was enough to impress the guards. "How'd you rate that?" one inquired, amiably amused, as he was led in the opposite direction.
"I'm an acquired taste," he informed them smugly.
"Cut the chat," sighed the senior man.
He made two attempted breaks on the way to the groundcar; after the second, the biggest guard simply slung him over his shoulder, head-down, and threatened to drop him if he wriggled. They'd used enough force tackling him the second time that Miles didn't think he was joking. They bundled him into the back of the vehicle between two of them.
"Where are you taking me?"
"To a transfer point," one said.
"What transfer point?"
"That's all you need to know."
He kept up a steady stream of commentary, bribes, threats, insults, and at last, invective, but they never rose to the bait again. He wondered if any of them could be the man who'd killed him. No. No one involved in that mess at the surgical facility could be so calm about it all. These guys had been far away, that day. His voice went hoarse. It was a long ride. Groundcars were hardly used outside the cities, the roads were so bad. And they were far outside any city. It was past dusk when they pulled over beside a lonely intersection.
They handed him off to two humorless, flat-faced men in red and black House livery, who were waiting patiently as oxen. Ryoval's colors. These men fastened his hands behind his back, and his ankles too, before slinging him into the back of a lightflyer. It rose silently into darkness.
Looks like Vasa Luigi got his price.
Rowan, if she'd made it, must send anyone looking for him to Bharaputra's. Where Miles would not be. Not that he was so sure Vasa Luigi wouldn't just cheerfully sic them right on to Ryoval.
But if Ryoval's location was easy to find, they would have found it by now.
By God. I could be the first ImpSec agent on-site.
He'd have to be sure and point that out, in his report to Illyan. He had looked forward to making posthumous reports to Illyan. Now he wondered if he was going to live long enough.
"I hate to be the one to tell you this, Baron," said the technician, "but your torture victim appears to be having a wonderful time."
Gorge grinned around the tube gagging his mouth as Baron Ryoval walked around him and stared. Admiring his amazing stomach, perhaps.
"There are a number of possible psychological defenses in these situations," Ryoval said. "Split personalities and identification with the captor included. I expected Naismith to work through them all, eventually, but—so soon?"
"I didn't believe it either, sir, so I took a series of brain scans. The results were unusual."
"If his personality is indeed splitting, it should show up on the scan."
"
Something
shows up on the scan. He seems to be shielding portions of his mind from our stimuli, and his surface responses certainly suggest a split, but . . . the pattern is abnormally abnormal, if that makes sense, sir."
"Not really." Ryoval pursed his lips with interest. "I'll take a look at them."
"Whatever is going on, he's not faking it. That I am sure of."
"So impossibly fast . . ." murmured Ryoval. "When do you think he snapped? How could I have missed it?"
"I'm not sure. Early. The first day—maybe the first hour. But if he keeps it up, he's going to be very elusive, to bring much force to bear upon. He can keep . . . changing shifts."
"So can I," stated Ryoval coldly.
The pressure in his stomach was growing into pain. Howl prodded anxiously, but Gorge would not give way. It was still his turn. The Other listened attentively. The fourth one always listened, when Baron Ryoval was present. Rarely slept, almost never spoke.
"I didn't expect him to reach this stage of disintegration for months. It throws off my time-table," the Baron complained.
Yes, Baron. Aren't we fascinating? Don't we intrigue you?
"I must consider how best to re-focus him," Ryoval mused. "Bring him to my quarters later. I'll see what a little quiet conversation and a few experiments will yield, in the way of new directions."
Beneath his flattened affect, the Other shivered in anticipation.
Two guards delivered him/them to Baron Ryoval's pleasant living room. There were no windows, though a large holovid display took up most of one wall, presently running a view of some tropical beach. But Ryoval's quarters were surely underground. Nobody would break through windows here.
His skin was still patchy. The techs had sprayed the raw areas with some kind of coating, to keep him from oozing on Ryoval's fine furniture, and dressed the other wounds with plastic bandage, so they wouldn't break open and bleed and stain.
"Think this'll do any good?" the tech with the sprayer had asked.
"Probably not," his comrade had sighed. "I suppose I'd better go ahead and put a cleaning crew on call. Wish he'd put down a tarp or something."
The guards sat him now in a low, wide chair. It was just a chair, no spikes or razors or impalements. His hands were fastened behind him, which meant he could not settle back. He spread his knees and sat uncomfortably upright, panting.
The senior guard asked Ryoval, "Do you wish us to secure him, sir?"
Ryoval raised an eyebrow. "Can he stand up without help?"
"Not readily, from that position."
Ryoval's lips crooked up in amused contempt, as he gazed down at his prisoner. "Ah, we're getting there. Slowly. Leave us. I'll call you. Don't interrupt. It may become noisy."
"Your soundproofing is very effective, sir." The flat-faced guards saluted and withdrew. There was something wrong with those guards. When not following orders, they tended to just sit, or stand, wordless and blank. Constructed that way, no doubt.
Gorge and Grunt and Howl and the Other stared around with interest, wondering whose turn it was going to be next.
You just had your turn, said Howl to Gorge. It'll be me.
Don't bet on it, said Grunt. Could be me.
If it weren't for Gorge, said the Other, grimly, I'd take my turn right now. Now I have to wait.
You've never taken a turn,
said Gorge curiously. But the Other was silent again.
"Let's watch a show," said Ryoval, and touched a remote. The tropic display changed to a life-sized vid recording of one of Grunt's sessions with the . . . creatures, from the bordello. Grunt watched himself with great interest and delight, from all these new angles. Gorge's work was gradually threatening to put many interesting events out of sight, below his equator.
"I am thinking of sending a copy of this to the Dendarii mercenary fleet," Ryoval murmured, watching him. "Imagine all your senior staff officers, viewing this. I think it would fetch a few to me, no?"
No.
Ryoval was lying. His presence here was still secret, or he wouldn't
be
present here. And Ryoval could be in no rush to give that secret away. The Other muttered dryly,
Send a copy to Simon Illyan, why don't you, and see what that fetches you.
But Illyan belonged to Lord Mark, and Mark wasn't here, and anyway, the Other never, ever, ever spoke aloud.
"Imagine that pretty bodyguard of yours, joining you here . . ." Ryoval went on, in detail. Grunt was perfectly willing to imagine some parts of it, though other parts offended even him.
Howl?
Not me! said Howl. That's not my job.
We'll just have to make a new recruit,
they all said. He could make a thousand of them, at need. He was an army, flowing like water, parting around obstacles, impossible to destroy with any one cut.
The vid display changed to one of Howl's finest moments, the one which had given him his name. Shortly after he'd been chemically skinned, the techs had painted sticky stuff on him that made him itch unbearably. The techs hadn't had to touch him. He'd almost killed himself. They'd given him a transfusion afterwards, to replace the blood lost in the raking wounds.