Cordelia's Honor - Lois McMaster Bujold [83]
"Admiral Vorrutyer."
Poor butchered toad. You know, I think you spoke the truth—you must have loved Aral once, to have hated him so. What did he do to you, I wonder? Rejected you, most likely. I could understand that pain. We have some common ground after all, perhaps. . . .
Mehta adjusted another dial, frowned again, turned it back. "Admiral Vorkosigan."
Ah love, let us be true to one another. . . . Cordelia focused wearily on Mehta's blue uniform. She'll get a geyser if she drills her well there—probably knows it already, she's making another note. . . .
Mehta glanced at her chronometer, and leaned forward with increased attention. "Let's talk about Admiral Vorkosigan."
Let's not, thought Cordelia, "What about him?"
"Does he work much in their Intelligence section, do you know?"
"I don't think so. His main line seems to be Staff tactician, when—when he isn't on patrol duty."
"The Butcher of Komarr."
"That's a damned lie," said Cordelia automatically, then wished she hadn't spoken.
"Who told you that?" asked Mehta.
"He did."
"He did. Ah."
I'll get you for that "Ah"—no. Cooperation. Calm. I do feel calm. . . . Wish that woman would either finish smoking that thing or put it out. Stings my eyes.
"What proof did he offer you?"
None, Cordelia realized. "His word, I guess. His honor."
"Rather intangible." She made another note. "And you believed him?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"It—seemed consistent, with what I saw of his character."
"You were his prisoner for six days, were you not, on that Survey mission?"
"That's right."
Mehta tapped her light pen and said "hm," absently, looking through her. "You seem quite convinced of this Vorkosigan's veracity. You don't think he ever lied to you, then?"
"Well—yes, but after all, I was an enemy officer."
"Yet you seem to accept his statements unquestioningly."
Cordelia tried to explain. "A man's word is something more to a Barrayaran than a vague promise, at least for the old-fashioned types. Heavens, it's even the basis for their government, oaths of fealty and all that."
Mehta whistled soundlessly. "You approve of their form of government now, do you?"
Cordelia stirred uncomfortably. "Not exactly. I'm just starting to understand it a little, is all. It could be made to work, I suppose."
"So this word of honor business—you believe he never breaks it?"
"Well . . ."
"He does, then."
"I have seen him do so. But the cost was huge."
"He breaks it for a price, then."
"Not for a price. At a cost."
"I fail to see the distinction."
"A price is something you get. A cost is something you lose. He lost—much, at Escobar."
The talk was drifting onto dangerous ground. Got to change the subject, Cordelia thought drowsily. Or take a nap . . . Mehta glanced at the time again, and studied Cordelia's face intently.
"Escobar," said Mehta.
"Aral lost his honor at Escobar, you know. He said he was going to go home and get drunk, afterwards. Escobar broke his heart, I think."
"Aral . . . You call him by his first name?"
"He calls me 'dear Captain.' I always thought that was funny. Very revealing, in a way. He really does think of me as a lady soldier. Vorrutyer was right again—I think I am the solution to a difficulty for him. I'm glad. . . ." The room was getting warm. She yawned. The wisps of smoke wound tendril-like about her.
"Soldier."
"He loves his soldiers, you know. He really does. He's stuffed with this peculiar Barrayaran patriotism. All honor to the Emperor. The Emperor hardly seems worthy of it. . . ."
"Emperor."
"Poor sod. Tormented as Bothari. May be as mad."
"Bothari? Who is Bothari?"
"He talks to demons. The demons talk back. You'd like Bothari. Aral does. I do. Good guy to have with you on your next trip to hell. He speaks the language."
Mehta frowned, twiddled her dials again, and tapped her readout screen with a long fingernail. She backtracked. "Emperor."
Cordelia could hardly keep her eyes open. Mehta lit another cigarette and set it beside the stub of the first.
"Prince," said Cordelia. Mustn't talk about the Prince. . . .
"Prince," repeated