"Oh. I had a sample."
"Only a sample? The rest of us have endured hours of it. They marched us down to the dining hall and harangued us till they were hoarse."
"How come I wasn't invited?"
"You have a reputation as a bold Barrayaran barbarian—say that six times really fast—too dangerous to let loose. Chains, huh? You were fortunate to miss class. I think they might be trying to inculcate some sort of identify-with-one's-captors syndrome in us, but are doing it wrong. Old Baron Ryoval could have eaten them all for breakfast."
Roic had heard m'lord's clone-brother Lord Mark quote the late Baron Ryoval of Jackson's Whole only once—some mutter about, And then we shall explore the interesting focusing effects of threatening your remaining eye—and had not been moved to inquire further. He'd been moved to edge away, actually, despite overtopping Lord Mark by half a meter of height. Roic only knew that the entire Durona Group, thirty-five or so cloned siblings possessing extraordinary medical talents, felt they owed their escape from Jacksonian techno-slavery to a new, free life to Lord Mark and Lord Vorkosigan. The reason for Raven's peculiar mélange of an accent, and that of every other Durona, was that they were all refugees from Jackson's Whole who'd been living for over a decade on Escobar. The reason that the infamous Baron was the late was Lord Mark. The reason Roic and Raven found themselves sitting on this roof together . . . was still unclear.
Well, Raven had been invited to the conference to give an illustrated lecture on cryorevival techniques after death from extreme trauma, which m'lord and perforce Roic had sat in on three days ago, after Raven had hinted, during a chance encounter in a hotel lift-tube, that m'lord would find special interest in the very complicated case of Patient C, a messy death by needler-grenade to the chest. It was, Raven had informed his audience, one of his earliest and most memorable cases as a young assistant surgeon. M'lord had indeed been riveted. Roic had closed his eyes. But besides that.
"Yes, but why are these idiots lecturing you?"
"Pitching their cause, I think. Rather like the past several days at the cryo-conference, really, except in reverse. And with much worse food."
"Are they suppressed by the government, or censored by the local media?"
"Not at all, apparently. They even have a site on the planetary net that tells everyone all they would want to know about their views. No one wants to know much, it appears, so they've turned to more forcible ways of getting attention. Now, robbing at gunpoint actually works. Selling at gunpoint—not so good. We all started today scared to death. But by the end, it was just dreary." Raven rubbed his nose. "They seem to plan to keep it up for days. Hence my escape attempt, but it's not going too well."
"We both got this far . . ."
"Yes, but here we are in the middle of a hundred kilometers of woods—lots more if you take a wrong turn—and even if this forest isn't stocked with people-eating predators, it would be insane to plunge off into the darkness with no shoes or gear. And all the vehicles in the parking lot are neatly locked. I just checked."
"Huh. Pity."
Raven eyed Roic in speculation. "Now, by myself I don't think I could jump someone coming out to his lightflyer and grab it after it was opened, but if we worked an ambush together . . ."
Roic took this, resignedly, as, If you jumped him and I cheered you on . . .
Raven frowned. "Except this crew doesn't seem to come or go very often. All locked down tight, making no noise. Till you came along, I was starting to wonder if I should let myself back into my room and pretend this never happened, wait for some better chance."
"I don't think I could do that," said Roic, remembering his ruined doorframe. He craned his neck to stare over the roof edge at that third darkened structure. If that was an old shoreline down there . . . "What's that other building?"
"Don't know. I haven't seen anybody go in or out."
"I'm thinking it could be a boathouse. Or a tool shed—an isolated place like this would need one—but likely a boathouse."
Raven glanced wryly at the dried lake bed, and murmured, "I've never ridden in a boat. This doesn't seem the night to start. Tools, now . . . do you think you could pry open a lightflyer? But then you'd still need the code keys to power it up. Crowbar's no use there. Except maybe to hit the owner on the head?"
"M'lord keeps boats. He has a place on a lake down in the Vorkosigan's District, back on Barrayar, couple hours from the capital by lightflyer." A thought niggled in Roic's aching head. "I say, let's go see."
Raven gave him a dubious look, but shrugged agreement.
With painful caution, they lowered themselves from the roof and tiptoed down the far stairs. They made a straight line for the cover of the trees, then circled to come out on the shore side of the low building. The effect of the sticks, rocks, and debris on Roic's bare feet made him reluctantly agree with Raven's negative view of any longer walk in the woods.
The window glass was unbreakable, the entry facing the ex-lake padlocked, but it gave way to the same method Roic had used on his room door. Raven winced at the rending crunch; they both froze, listening hard, but no outcry came. They edged inside.
The outer door opened onto an office; the door beyond was, thanks be, unlocked. Roic swung it open upon a garagelike space. Also very dark, but—could one smell boats? The scent of wood and oil and old bilge and dried waterweed was quite unmistakable, and strangely happy, like preserved summer. As his eyes adjusted, Roic could just make out half a dozen kayak-or-canoe shapes slung from the ceiling, and a couple of wider hulls up on sturdy cradles. Workbench on the far side of the room, mostly cleared away. Raven started for it, hands held out before him in wariness of head-cracking pillars or other shadowy obstacles, but Roic whispered him back.
"Come over here. This big power boat—help me get the cover off."
"Roic, even if we could haul it out the doors, the lake is dry."
"That's not it. Just help, all right?"
The hull was maybe five meters long and half that wide, and a stretched plastic cover protected a large open cockpit. The fastenings parted reluctantly, and Roic dragged the cover aside and climbed in. Raven followed in curiosity.
Roic felt his way to the controls, just behind a windshield, and opened what proved—yes!—to be a small vid plate cover. Now, if this comlink was independently powered, as it bloody well should be—Roic's fumbling fingers found the on-switch at last, and green and amber lights threw back the pools of darkness.
"Hey!" said Raven, in a hearteningly impressed tone—most Duronas daunted Roic. "Did you know that would be there?"
"I had a guess. If this place rented out boats to its customers, it would've had to keep something to go rescue them in. Comlink is a pretty standard built-in for pleasure boats this size, along with the depth-finder and nav links and so on."
The emergency channel was easy to find. Within minutes, Roic had talked his way back through the system to the Northbridge police. His years as a street guard gave him a good idea of just what to say to smoothly reach the folks with clout, and the boat's navigation aid provided a precise location. He reported, briefly, his experiences and Raven's to the startled but pleased Northbridge detective officer in charge of the—by now highly publicized, Roic sensed in his tone—kidnapping case. To Roic's intense worry, it seemed no one had found Lord Vorkosigan yet. As the Northbridge police scrambled, Roic closed the link and leaned back.
"Now what?" asked Raven.
"Now we wait."
"For rescue? Do you think we ought to do something for the others?"
"Lying low's better. No point in stirring up anything if our captors aren't going to miss us for a while yet. Let the Kibou fellows do their job, and hope they get here first." Roic recalled some of m'lord's cautionary lectures on local liability, a concern that m'lord himself seemed to take to heart only intermittently.
Speaking of locals . . . Roic leaned forward again and searched out the number of the Barrayaran consulate in Northbridge.
Unfortunately, the public net only supplied the public number, not the secured emergency link coded on his wristcom, presumably discarded back in the city by his captors for well-founded fear of tracers. A polite recorded voice told him to call back during office hours, or leave a message. The muted background music was a popular Barrayaran military march that gave Roic a twinge of homesickness. He was halfway through recording a succinct report on his current situation when, to his relief, he was interrupted by a live human.
Roic recognized Lieutenant Johannes, the young driver who—along with Consul Vorlynkin himself, because m'lord was, after all, m'lord—had picked them up at the shuttleport nigh on a week ago and transported them to the conference hotel. Military attaché, ImpSec of sorts, and for all Roic knew, cook, gardener, and the consul's batman. He felt a dim sense of comradeship, contemplating Johannes.
"Armsman Roic!" Johannes's voice was curt and anxious. "Are you all right? Where are you?"
Roic began his summary once more; halfway through, the strained face of Consul Vorlynkin joined Johannes's image above the vid plate.
"If you follow up with the Northbridge police from your end, you'll likely know as soon and as much as we do," Roic finished.
Vorlynkin said, "Lord Auditor Vorkosigan is not with you—right?"
"We haven't spotted him here. Any sign back there?"
A too-long pause. "We aren't quite sure."
What t'hell did that mean?
"When you get free, report in to the consulate at once," Vorkynkin went on. "Should I send Johannes to coordinate with the police?"
Roic scratched his head. "If m'lord's not here, there's no point t' get in a panic about us. I'll get back with the others."
"What about me?" said Raven, either indignant or amused, it was hard to tell.
"Who is that?" said Vorlynkin sharply.
"Dr. Durona. An acquaintance from Escobar, one of the delegates," Roic replied.
Raven obligingly leaned forward into range of the vid pick-up and smiled benignly. Vorlynkin frowned back.
"M'lord would want to know he was"—safe seemed a premature claim—"with me," Roic explained.
Vorlynkin said distantly, "You know, if you people would be more forthcoming, we could do our job of supporting you much better."
The faint bitterness in the consul's voice was more reassuring to Roic than the man could possibly imagine. It sounded quite like Vorlynkin had undergone some recent dealing with m'lord, one that he was loath to transmit over an unsecured comlink.
"Yes, sir," said Roic, in a mollifying tone.
He cut the com.
"Now what?" said Raven. "Just sit here and wait for the sirens?"
"There had better not be sirens," said Roic. "Best they drop down and secure the hostages first before making any noise." That was what he'd suggested, at least.
After a longer pause, Raven said, "The Liberators didn't really act like they wanted to kill us. Just convert us."
"Panic does odd things to people."
Raven sighed. "You could stand to be more reassuring, Roic, you know?"
Huddling around the indicator lights as if at a very tiny campfire, they waited in the darkness.
Miles rattled the consulate's wrought-iron front gate, found it locked, and stared over it wearily. Beyond a dainty front garden sat a dinky house, overshadowed by its grander neighbors, although at least it looked well-kept. Maybe it had once been servants' quarters? Kibou-daini had never been considered strategically important enough to spend much Imperial money upon, its system being in a wormhole cul-de-sac on the far side of Escobar, well outside of Barrayar's web of influence. This consulate existed mainly to ease the occasional Barrayaran or more likely Komarran trading venture through planetary regulations, aid any members of the Imperium who found themselves in local trouble, and direct and quietly vet the even rarer Kibou traveler planning to visit the Imperium. Miles's arrival was likely the most excitement the place had endured in years. Yeah, well, it's about to get more so.
The pre-dawn chill was damp and penetrating, his legs were cramped, and his back ached. He sighed and clambered awkwardly over the gate, retrieved his cane, stumped up the short walk, and leaned on the door chime.
The porch and hall lights flicked on; a face peered through the glass, and the door opened a crack. A young man Miles didn't recognize spoke in a Kibou accent: "Sir, you'll have to come back during business hours. We open in about two more—"
Miles wedged his cane through the opening, levered it wider, put his head down, and barged in.
"Sir—!"
The minion was only saved from a shattering blast of Auditorial ire by Consul Vorklynkin strolling through an archway at the back of the hall, saying, "What is it, Yuuichi? . . . Oh my God, Lord Vorkosigan!"
Showing a swift sense of self-preservation, Yuuichi fell back from between them.
Vorlynkin, tall and lean, was half-dressed in trousers, shirt, and slippers, bleary-eyed, and clutching a mug that steamed with the gentle perfume of hot green tea. Miles was so distracted by the smell that he was almost thrown off his well-rehearsed opening, but he'd had a lot of hours this past night to rehearse.
"Vorlynkin, what the hell have you done with my courier?"
Vorlynkin's spine snapped straight, unconsciously revealing a military hitch sometime in his earlier life. A look of partial, but only partial, relief lit his blue eyes. "We can answer that! My lord."
"So Jin did make it here?"
"Um, yes, sir."
The problem had occurred on Jin's way back, then. Not good . . . Miles had waited in growing anxiety till midnight, then pressed Ako into substitute pet care and taken matters unto his own hands, or feet. The hours it had cost him to make it here unobserved had not improved his mood. Neither had the rain.
The consul's brows drew down as he took in Miles's appearance in turn, a very far cry from Miles's cultivated gray-eminence-look of their brief meeting last week. Although the ragged, stained clothing, two-day growth of face stubble, general reek, and peculiar shoes might not be the whole of why he flinched. But, showing a keen eye that was well-placed in the diplomatic corps, he caught Miles's gaze tracking his waving mug, and added smoothly, "Do you want to come to the kitchen and sit down, my Lord Auditor? We were just having breakfast."
"Tea, yes," said Miles, relieved from his impulse to wrench the mug out of the man's hand. Gods, yes.
Vorlynkin led through the back archway, saying, "How did you get here?"
"Walked. Thirty-odd kilometers since midnight, back ways, dodging twice because I didn't want to explain myself in my current condition to the local street guards. Needless to say, this was not my original plan."
The kitchen was a modest tidy room, with a round dining table squeezed into a sort of bay overlooking the walled back garden. The windows mostly reflected the room's bright interior, but beyond, the night's damp blackness was turning to bluer shadow. The blond kid, the attaché Johannes, turned from the microwave and almost dropped whatever pre-packaged bachelor fare he'd just heated. At his boss's head-jerk, he hastened to pull out a chair for the very important, if very unkempt, visitor. Miles fell into it, trying not to let his gratitude overcome his exasperation, because the latter was about all that was keeping him functional.
"Can I get you something, my lord?" asked the lieutenant solicitously.
"Tea. Also a shower, dry clothes, food, sleep, and a secured comconsole, though I'd settle for just the comconsole, but let's start with the tea." Or else he risked pillowing his head on his arms and going for the sleep first, right here. "Did you get my don't-panic message off to Barrayar, and my wife? Coded, I trust?"
Vorlynkin said, a little stiffly, "We notified ImpSec Galactic Affairs on Komarr that we'd heard from you, and that you were not in the hands of the kidnappers."
"Good enough. I'll send my own update in a bit." Miles trusted it would overtake any word anyone had been maladroit enough to hand on to Ekaterin, or he'd have some groveling to do whe
n he got home. "Meanwhile, I've had no news since yesterday. Have you heard more on the hostages taken from the cryo-conference? Anything on Armsman Roic?"
Vorlynkin slid into his chair a quarter-wedge around the table from Miles. "Good news there, sir. Your Armsman managed to escape his captors long enough to reach a comlink of some sort and call the Northbridge authorities. The police rescue team reached them not long ago—we've been up all night following developments. It seems everyone was freed alive. I don't know how long it will take him to get back—he said he had to stay till he'd given his testimony.
"Ah, yes. Roic has a deal more sympathy for police procedure than I do." Miles took his first swallow of hot tea with profound relief. "And the boy—wait. And who might you be?" Miles eyed Yuuichi, who had taken refuge with Johannes on the far side of the kitchen.
"This is our consulate clerk, Yuuichi Matson," Vorkynkin put in. "Our most valuable employee. He's been here about five years." The clerk cast his boss a grateful look and slanted Miles a civil bow.
The consulate's only employee, actually. And since Vorlynkin had been here two years, and Johannes had only arrived last year, Matson was also the oldest, in time of service if not age. Who do you trust, my Lord Auditor? In a situation like this, no one but Roic, Miles supposed, but misplaced paranoia could be as great a mistake as misplaced faith. Careful, then, but not bloody paralyzed. "So what happened to Jin?"
"We dispatched him back to you exactly as you directed, my lord. We did take the precaution of placing a microscopic ping tracer in the envelope, however."
Not exactly the don't follow him that Miles had written, but it would be hypocritical to quibble over fine points now. Results, after all.
"By early evening, the envelope had come to rest in what we think is the evidence room of the Northbridge central police station—it's in that building, anyway. The boy Jin, after apparently passing through the hands of the police, ended up at the juvenile detention center, where he's been all night. With that much to go on, Lieutenant Johannes was able to access the public arrest records for yesterday, and identify him by process of elimination. It seems the boy's full name is Jin Sato, and he's a runaway who's been missing for over a year!"