Cordelia's Honor - Lois McMaster Bujold [29]
"How about power," she suggested, curiously glad that Vorkosigan had at least one admirer. "Energy applied to work."
"That's very good," he applauded, gratified. Cordelia decided not to mention the little blue pill, either.
"He seems an interesting person," she said, angling for another view of Vorkosigan. "How did he ever get in this fix?"
"You mean, Radnov?"
She nodded.
"Well, I don't want to criticize the old man, but—I don't know of anyone else who'd tell a Political Officer when he came on board to stay out of his sight if he wanted to live to the end of the voyage." Koudelka was hushed in his awe.
Cordelia, making the second turning behind him in the halls of the cave, was jerked alert by her surroundings. Most peculiar, she thought. Vorkosigan misled me. The labyrinthine series of caverns was partly natural but mostly carved out by plasma arc: cool, moist, and dimly lit. The huge spaces were stuffed with supplies. This was no cache; it was a full-scale fleet depot. She pursed her lips soundlessly, staring around, suddenly awake to a whole new range of unpleasant possibilities.
In one corner of the caverns stood a standard Barrayaran field shelter, a semicircular ribbed vault covered with a fabric like the Betans' tents. This one was given over to a field kitchen and mess hall, crude and bleak. A lone yeoman was cleaning up after lunch.
"The old man just turned up, alive!" Koudelka greeted him.
"Huh! I thought the Betans had cut his throat," said the yeoman, surprised. "And we did the funeral dinner up so nice."
"These two are the old man's personal prisoners," Koudelka introduced them to the cook, whom Cordelia suspected was more combat soldier than gourmet chef, "and you know what he's like on that subject. The guy's got disruptor damage. He said they're to have proper food, so don't try to poison them with the usual swill."
"Everyone's a critic," muttered the yeoman-cook, as Koudelka vanished about his other chores. "What'll you have?"
"Anything. Anything but oatmeal or blue cheese," she amended hastily.
The yeoman disappeared into the back room, and returned a few minutes later with two steaming bowls of a stew-like substance, and real bread with genuine vegetable oil spread. Cordelia fell to it wolfishly.
"How is it?" asked the yeoman tonelessly, hunching down into his shoulders.
"S'delishoush," she said around a large mouthful. "S'wonderful."
"Really?" He straightened up. "You really like it?"
"Really." She stopped to shove a few spoonfuls into the dazed Dubauer. The taste of the warm food cut across his post-seizure sleepiness, and he chewed away with something like her enthusiasm.
"Here—can I help you feed him?" the yeoman offered.
Cordelia beamed upon him like the sun. "You certainly may."
In less than an hour she had learned that the yeoman's name was Nilesa, heard most of his life's history, and been offered the complete, if severely limited, range of dainties a Barrayaran field kitchen had to offer. The yeoman was evidently as starved for praise as his fellows were for home cooking, for he followed her around racking his brain for small personal services to offer her.
Vorkosigan came in by himself, and sat wearily down beside Cordelia.
"Welcome back, sir," the yeoman greeted him. "We thought the Betans had killed you."
"Yes, I know," Vorkosigan waved away this by-now-familiar greeting. "How about some food?"
"What'll you have, sir?"
"Anything but oatmeal."
He too was served with bread and stew, which he ate without Cordelia's appetite, for the fever and stimulant combined to kill it.
"How did things work out with Commander Gottyan?" Cordelia asked him quietly.
"Not bad. He's back on the job."
"How did you do it?"
"Untied him, and gave him my plasma arc. I told him I couldn't work with a man who made my shoulder blades itch, and this was the last chance I was going to give him for instant promotion. Then I sat down with my back to