The force-feedings turned out to be on a schedule of every three hours. It was the only clock he had, or he would have thought time had stopped. He had surely entered eternity.
He’d always thought being skinned alive was something done with sharp knives. Or dull ones. Ryoval’s technicians did it chemically, spraying carefully selected areas of his body with an aerosol. They wore gloves, masks, protective clothing; he tried, but failed, to grab off a mask and let one share what they administered. He cursed his littleness, and cried, and watched his skin bubble up and drip away. The chemical was not a caustic, but rather some strange enzyme; his nerves were left horribly intact, exposed. Touching anything, or being touched, was agony after that, especially the pressure of sitting or lying down. He stood in the little closet-cell, shifting from foot to foot, touching nothing, for hours, till his shaking legs finally gave way.
It was all happening so fast. Where the hell was everybody? How long had he been here? A day?
So. I have survived one day. Therefore, I can survive another one-day. It couldn’t be worse. It could only be more.
He sat, and rocked, mind half whited-out with pain. And rage. Especially rage. From the moment of the first force-feeding, it hadn’t been Naismith’s war any more. This was personal now, between Ryoval and him. But not personal enough. He’d never been alone with Ryoval. He’d always been outnumbered, outweighed, passed from one set of bindings to another. Admiral Naismith was being treated as a fairly dangerous little prick, even now. That wouldn’t do.
He would have told them everything, all about Lord Mark, and Miles, and the Count, and the Countess, and Barrayar. And Kareen. But the force-feedings had stopped his mouth, and the drug had stripped him of language, and the other things had kept him too busy screaming. It was all Ryoval’s fault. The man watched. But he didn’t listen.
I wanted to be Lord Mark. I just wanted to be Lord Mark. Was that so bad? He still wanted to be Lord Mark. He’d almost had it, brushing his grasp. Ripped away. He wept for it, hot tears splashing like molten lead on his not-skin. He could feel Lord Mark slipping from him, racked apart, buried alive. Disintegrating. I just wanted to be human. Screwed up again.
Chapter Twenty-Five
He circled the room for the hundreth time, tapping on the walls. ’If we could figure out which one is the exterior,” he said to Rowan, “maybe we could break through it somehow.”
“With what, our fingernails? What if we’re three floors up? Will you please sit down,” Rowan gritted. “You’re driving me crazy!”
“We have to get out.”
“We have to wait. Lilly will miss us. And something will be done.”
“By who? And how?” He glared around their little bedroom. It wasn’t designed as a prison. It was only a guest room, with its own bath attached. No windows, which suggested it was underground or in an interior section of the house. If it was underground, breaking through a wall might not be much use, but if they could bore into another room, the possibilities bloomed. One door, and two stunner-armed guards outside of it. They’d tried enticing the guards into opening the door last night, once with faked illness, and once for real when his frantic agitation had resulted in another convulsion. The guards had handed in Rowan’s medical bag, which was no help, because then the exhausted woman had started responding to his demands for action by threatening to sedate him.
“Survive, escape, sabotage,” he recited. It had become a litany, running through his head in an endless loop. “It’s a soldier’s duty.”
“I’m not a soldier,” said Rowan, rubbing her dark-ringed eyes. “And Vasa Luigi isn’t going to kill me, and if he was going to kill you he’d have done it last night. He doesn’t play with his prey like Ryoval does.” She bit her lip, perhaps regretting that last sentence. “Or maybe he’s going to leave us in here together till / kill you.” She rolled over in bed, and pulled her pillow over her head.
“You should have crashed that lightflyer.”
A noise from under the pillow might have been either a groan or a curse. He had probably mentioned that regret a few too many times.
When the door clicked open he spun as if scalded.
A guard half-saluted, politely. “Baron Bharaputra’s compliments, ma’am, sir, and would you prepare to join him and the Baronne for dinner. We will escort you upstairs when you’re ready.”
The Bharaputras’ dining room had large glass doors giving a view onto an enclosed, winter-frosted garden, and a big guard by every exit. The garden glimmered in the gathering gloom; they had been here a full Jacksonian day, then, twenty-six hours and some odd minutes. Vasa Luigi rose at their entry, and at his gesture the guards faded back to positions outside the doors, giving an illusion of privacy.
The dining room was arranged stylishly, with individual couches and little tables set in a tiered semi-circle around the view of the garden. A very familiar-looking woman sat on one of the couches.
Her hair was white streaked with black, and wound up in elaborate braids around her head. Dark eyes, thin ivory skin softening with tiny wrinkles, a high-bridged nose—Dr. Durona. Again. She was dressed in a fine flowing silk shirt in a pale green perhaps accidentally reminiscent of the color of the Durona lab coats, and soft trousers the color of cream. Dr. Lotus Durona, Baronne Bharaputra, had elegant tastes. And the means to indulge them.
“Rowan, dear,” she nodded; she held out a hand as if Rowan might give it a courtier’s kiss.
“Lotus,” said Rowan flatly, and compressed her lips. Lotus smiled and turned her hand over, converting it into an invitation to sit, which they all did.
Lotus touched a control pad at her place, and a girl wearing Bharaputra brown and pink silks entered, and served drinks, to the Baron first, curtseying with lowered eyes before him. A very familiar-looking girl, tall and willowy, with a high-bridged nose, fine straight black hair bound at her nape and flowing in a horse-tail down her back… . When she made her offering to the Baronne, her eyes flicked up, and opened like flowers to the sun, bright with joy. When she bowed before Rowan, her up-turning gaze grew startled, and her dark brows drew down in puzzlement. Rowan gazed back equally startled, a look that changed to dawning horror as the girl turned away.
When she bowed before him, her frown deepened. “You … !” she whispered, as if amazed.
“Run along, Lilly dear, don’t gawk,” said the Baronne kindly.
As she left the room, with a swaying walk, she glanced covertly back over her shoulder at them.
“Lilly?” Rowan choked. “You named her Lilly?”
“A small revenge.”
Rowan’s hands clenched in deep offense. “How can you? Knowing what you are? Knowing what we are?”
“How can you choose death over life?” The Baronne shrugged. “Or worse—let Lilly choose it for you? Your time of temptation is not yet, Rowan my dear sister. Ask yourself again in twenty or thirty years, when you can feel your body rotting around you, and see if the answer comes so easily then.”
“Lilly loved you as a daughter.”
“Lilly used me as her servant. Love?” The Baronne chuckled. “It’s not love that keeps the Durona herd together. It’s predator pressure. If all the exterior economic and other dangers were removed, the far corners of the wormhole nexus would not be far enough for us to get away from our dear sibs. Most families are like that, actually.”
Rowan assimilated the point. She looked unhappy. But she didn’t disagree.