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Thanks to some rather unsavory family connections, Ivan Vorpatril had had occasion in his life to be half-killed by a truly impressive array of instruments and circumstances. Shock-sticks unkindly wielded, light-flyers precipitously crashed or sabotaged, deadly hyposprays poked at various bits of him...he was becoming something of a connoisseur. Still, there was something to be said for getting down to brass tacks -- or billy clubs, as it were. Low cost, minimal training period, easily foraged from anyplace that had trees -- and should one break, you could always toss it away and find a new one. Maximum persuasion for minimum effort. Tactically, Ivan was solidly in favor; in practice, he could've wished to be knocked unconscious somewhat sooner.
The end of the interrogation came as swiftly as the beginning; one thug secured Ivan's arms and yanked them impossibly backwards while another one landed a shot to his jaw and the third planted a foot forcefully in his stomach. Doubling over and howling seemed the only appropriate response, and had the advantage of being just what they'd been hoping for. Thus compacted, he found himself carried off through a series of dim hallways, drifting in and out of consciousness until he was set on his feet, punched in the gut, and shoved through a low, narrow doorway. The door was built of heavy iron bars, which clanged shut viciously far too close to his toes. He was so busy testing and counting them, and otherwise taking stock, that he nearly missed the quiet footsteps approaching him from behind.
Movement -- let alone escape -- unlikely, Ivan turned and sighted along the floor at a pair of feet in polished half-boots. They were attached to a pair of long, lean legs and a narrow body topped with the face he'd most and least wanted to see. A toe nudged not ungently at his side; Ivan gave an involuntary moan, his last hope of correcting whatever mistake had brought him here vanishing in one long, pained breath.
"Ivan Vorpatril. Fantastic." Ivan's new cell-mate dropped to a crouch and peered at him critically. A long sigh drifted down over him, thick with disappointment. "Tell me you're not the cavalry."
Ivan lifted a hand weakly and fluttered his fingers vaguely toward his head. Not a shining example of a salute, but then, he wasn't a shining example of a lieutenant, either. It was the best he could manage under the circumstances. He tried to sit up, nearly sacrificing consciousness to the effort, then topped back over. "H...Hi," he panted. "Sorry I can't get up..."
"Oh, for Heaven's sake, stop that." A firm grip settled on his shoulder, pressing him to the floor and preventing any further misguided attempts at movement. Ivan gazed nervously up into hazel eyes that sparked with annoyance under an elegant shock of dark hair. He tried to smile charmingly. "Stop that, too, if you don't mind," Gregor said. "You've got blood in your teeth. What were they hitting you for?"
"Amusement, I think. And a shocking lack of fast-penta. Kept asking me what I knew about you, what I knew about Miles, what I knew about Illyan, what they knew about you... Like either of them would've told me anything." He hauled himself up against the nearest stone wall, clutching uncomfortably at his stomach. "I hate amateurs."
"How did you get here?"
"Big guy tossed me in, just now. You were here, I think, Sire..."
Gregor shifted a millimeter away, and the temperature in the room dropped a good five degrees. Ivan was sure it would be measurable, if only he had the proper equipment.
"Sorry," Ivan said, shrugging with one shoulder. "It's just that I'm not used to getting assaulted by strangers with anybody but Miles."
"Really?" Gregor's tone implied he thought it would be a rather common event.
"I was on one of the emergency search teams. Everyone remotely useful was called in when you were discovered missing."
"And right after that, they called you."
Ivan glanced up sharply, just in time to see Gregor pulling his face back into neutral. "I see," he said, raising one eyebrow and scowling as fiercely as he knew how. "A lifetime of devoted service to my Emperor, and--"
"Oh, for God's sake."
"Right. So," Ivan said quickly, "I got separated from the rest of my team--"
"You mean you got lost," Gregor translated.
"It's very dim and twisty down here! Anyway, the next thing I knew, one of your admirers had grabbed me in a headlock and started asking stupid questions and pounding on me with a stick." Ivan rolled his shoulders, feeling every bruise and cut across his back. "That went on for about twenty years."
"Did you tell them anything?"
"Oh, everything," Ivan said cheerfully. "It didn't take long. It's a madhouse up there. Miles looks like a ghost, Illyan's half-crazed, and the last I heard, ImpSec was administering fast-penta to the Residence mice. Nobody has a clue what happened to you -- Oh." Uneasiness settled in the pit of Ivan's already troubled stomach. "Except for me, now, I suppose."
Gregor didn't have to say a word to make his position on that subject crystal clear. Ivan offered him a look of sincere apology. "I ... can see why that might be cause for some concern."
"Sorry," Gregor said kindly.
Ivan waved him off. Loyalty and familial concern had driven him to join the search for Gregor; he'd never for a moment considered he might actually find him. Search and rescue had never really been his area; that was more Miles's line. In all honesty, Ivan wasn't exactly aglow with confidence himself. Being the only loyal man alive who knew the Emperor's whereabouts sounded a lot like the first symptom of a very brief and terminal disease.
Ivan reached out unsteadily, and Gregor supplied an arm to help drag him to his feet. He looked around the room carefully, trying to see it through the filter of his training. He'd been running mindless errands and entering useless data in the capital for so long, he'd almost forgotten what thinking felt like.
The walls were made of solid gray stone; the floor was the same color, and probably the very same rock. The cell hadn't been built so much as carved. The light was the same inside as it had been out in the corridor, yellow and watery, falling from what looked like stripes of lemon-colored paint on the ceiling. There was a cot against the wall, a threadbare sheet to cover it, a tray of untouched food, and a bottle of water. An unpleasantly aromatic bucket sat in the farthest corner from the door; there ended the list of modern conveniences.
"I've been here fifteen hours," Gregor said, watching Ivan limp around the room. "The only way out is the way in."
"Well, it is a dungeon."
Gregor shrugged uncomfortably.
"Have they been back since they brought the food?"
"Not till they showed you in."
Ivan went to the doorway, and peered through the bars out into the hall. Not a soul in sight. The bars were dishearteningly thick and stable; they didn't even rattle when he shook them. "They'll be back. If they mean to kill you, there are surer ways than starvation."
"They don't mean to kill me. I've been treated quite well, all things considered."
"Really." Ivan watched Gregor's face closely. It was a true wonder: Gregor Vorbarra, Emperor of Barrayar, ever so slightly blushing. "What do you think they want?"
"Oh, who can say," Gregor said, too quickly. "Court intrigue, you know. If it's not one thing, it's another."
Ivan's eyes narrowed, and his blood pressure rose several points. He knew that tone very, very well. It was borrowed, whole cloth, from the faithless stylings of Ivan's mad, miniature cousin. "How shall I put this gently," he said, meaning, without committing treason. "Tell me what's going on, or I will punch you in the nose."
Gregor blinked once, slow, lizard-like -- completely unimpressed.
"Gregor, I have been mugged, beaten, questioned under extreme duress, and flung into a cave, all in your service--"
"I'd like to tell you," Gregor said sincerely. He raised his hands, palm up, a helpless what can you do? expression lengthening his narrow face. "It's classified at the highest levels."
"Do you know what isn't classified? The real reason Taria Vorselka never showed up for that dance she promised Miles at your sixteenth birthday party."
Gregor's posture stiffened, almost imperceptibly. "How do you even know--?"
"Emperors don't have secret trysts. Not for long, anyway. And Taria has always taken a craftsman's pride in her conquests."
Gregor paled, but said nothing. Ivan sighed, and shook his head in deep, counterfeit regret. "It's a shame. Miles's ego is so delicately balanced; I hate to think what might happen if--"
"All right!" Gregor said, his voice low enough to qualify as a growl.
Ivan waited.
"A few months ago, Illyan became aware of what we thought, at the time, was a plot to assassinate me. My personal objections to the idea aside, this isn't really the best time for it. D'you know, they're offering philosophy courses on current succession theory at University these days?" Gregor frowned thoughtfully. "I really ought to think about getting married."
Ivan felt as if he were still being beaten with the stick. "I'm sorry...you said 'at the time'...?"
"You must understand, we could target some of the middlemen, but we had no way of knowing how far up it went. We couldn't even definitively tie it to Barrayaran politics; Illyan had some interesting theories about the Cetagandans he was batting around for a while, but he hadn't entirely ruled out Komarr. Interrogation was iffy; a plot of this scope would surely isolate the instigator from the lower ranks for safety's sake."
"With you so far..."
"Illyan was prepared to arrest everyone in sight, get everything we could, and trust one thread of intent would lead to another until we had the whole lot. I convinced him to wait and--"
"--see what happened," Ivan said faintly. "Of course you did."
Gregor gave a brittle, unhappy smile. "My security was perfect; I thought we could learn more by letting them try and fail than by rounding them all up when they'd barely gotten started."
"It doesn't sound like a terrifically bad plan," Ivan allowed. "What went wrong?"
"Nobody explained it to Miles," Gregor said darkly. "And as it turned out, they weren't after me."
Ivan was not at all surprised to learn that the party responsible for his current situation, if not its actual architect, was Lieutenant Lord Miles Vorkosigan. The existence of a galactic plot against his abbreviated cousin's life merely proved that Ivan had kindred spirits, out there somewhere in the void. The only extraordinary thing was that Miles wasn't around to watch Ivan suffer in person. Usually, that was his favorite part.
Gregor was right; the barred door was the only way out or in. Ivan stationed himself beside it, between Gregor and anyone who might wander in with dire intent. He was prepared to wait there all night, mainly so he could tell Miles about it later, but in fact a guard obliged him by sauntering up to the bars only a few hours after Ivan took up watch. It was one of the men from Ivan's extended low-tech interrogation session; he wouldn't be forgetting those faces any time soon. He wore undress greens identical to Ivan's, but for the captain's tabs. If he'd earned them, Ivan would very, very surprised.
"Please," Ivan said in instant, unstinting anguish, "you have to bring a doctor. The Emperor is very ill."
The flat Betan accent cancelled out the uniform the moment he opened his mouth. "He don't look sick."
Across the room, Gregor's eyes went wide before drooping to half-mast. He leaned pitifully against the wall and moaned.
"It's the cold, it's brought on a fever. How long has he been in here with no suitable blankets? It's like a meat locker down here. Do you mean to ransom a corpse, man? He'll be dead within the hour if you don't do something!"
The guard's eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "He's still standing..."
Obligingly, Gregor swooned in an artistic fashion and, after a suitable interval, fell over. "Ow," he muttered, rubbing furtively at his knee.
Ivan stepped into the guard's line of sight. "See how pale he is? He's practically transparent. Please, you must bring a doctor, or at least some blankets and something warm to drink." In a very big mug, thanks; one that won't fit through the bars. Come a little closer, won't you...?
With a disdainful curl of his lip, the guard turned and went back the way he had come. Ivan pressed his face into the bars and peered after him as best he could. When he was completely out of sight, and the clacking of his boots had faded into silence, Ivan turned and favored Gregor with a glare.
"'Ow'?" he said indignantly. "How the hell am I supposed to sell your imminent demise when all you can come up with is 'ow'?"
"Your pardon, Lord Vorpatril," Gregor snapped. "I didn't know I was in the play until I found myself onstage."
Ivan bit back a last pointed bit of criticism. It wasn't Gregor's fault. He was right; Ivan hadn't warned him, or even suggested the ruse as an option. He'd just expected him to follow along and wing it, like...well, like he would've done, had their positions been reversed. But Gregor hadn't had his training; he'd had the sense to insulate himself somewhat from his less than predictable relatives.
"Sorry," Ivan said, hunching his shoulders uncomfortably. "I seem to have picked up some bad rescue etiquette in my travels."
"I can't imagine where." Gregor's eyes glinted, and Ivan grinned, accepting it as truce.
"Our fellow, did you recognize him? He was part of my welcoming committee."
"He was with the group that went after Miles, too; sole survivor, actually."
Ivan bared his teeth in satisfaction; he sincerely hoped Miles had vaporized them. Trying as his cousin could be, Ivan was fond of the little runt; if anybody was going to kill Miles, it was going to be him. "So, how did he end up making off with you, then?"
"He grabbed me in the confusion, as something of a consolation prize, I think, while my security detachment was off trying to rescue the real belle of the ball. And he brought the food earlier; said it was safe, but I was hardly going to take the risk."
"What d'you suppose the clubs are about? Not your typical villain's weapon of choice."
"Probably meant to foil scanners. Most energy weapons have a distinctive energy signal, and we sweep for them several times a day. Whoever's behind this has a disconcerting amount of information about our security procedures," Gregor said pensively. "Illyan's probably beside himself. It's almost got to come from the inside."
"Well, this guy's no insider. Betan accent, Barrayaran uniform, dumb as a rock.... Cheap boots," Ivan noted, feeling a bit sorry for the fellow. "I'm glad he's not one of ours." Barrayaran politics could be byzantine and gruesome, it was true, but Ivan was an optimist; he liked to think even the most treasonous local conspirator would balk at actually thieving the Emperor.
"He's no Cetagandan, either. And I very seriously doubt he hails from Komarr."
"Galactic mercenary." Ivan brightened, a wicked thought flitting through his mind. "Has a certain poetic justice to it, don't you think? I believe we've just met Miles's petard."
Gregor, staunch to the last, didn't dignify that with a response.
"Right, then." Ivan clapped his hands once, then rubbed them together industriously. "Let's try this again, with you on the cot. Our lad will be back soon with either tea or reinforcements; either way, it's best if we keep your health our little secret."
When Gregor had arranged himself into a wan and vaguely flu-like configuration on the cot, Ivan drew the thin blanket over him and reached down to ruffle up his hair. Royalty apparently conveyed special properties upon one's appearance; while Ivan probably resembled a sorely misused scarecrow, Gregor remained palely noble and impeccably groomed. It wouldn't do.
"Sorry about this," Ivan said.
"About wh-- Hey!" Gregor jerked his head back, but couldn't evade Ivan's hands, which rubbed grime and no small amount of blood all over his face.
"I said I was sorry."
"You could've warned me!"
"At times, we must suffer for our art."
The effect was perfect; recoiling from the surface of one's own face made one appear to be very ill indeed. The timing wasn't bad, either; just as Ivan stepped back, their captor's footsteps echoed toward them from the hall.
The fates were with them; he carried a steaming mug and a thick folded blanket. Comforted, Ivan took a deeper breath than he had since his arrival. Their interest in Gregor's health might not approach Ivan's, but any interest in it at all had to be a good sign.
He set down the supplies, unlocked the cell door, and waved Ivan back from it with an all-too-familiar club. Ivan was disinclined to attempt heroics until the thug turned just a little too far toward the cot and presented an unguarded blind spot. A shout from Gregor took his eyes off Ivan for a split second, and Ivan's foot drove his nose partway through his skull, accounting for the rest of his attention. He collapsed at Ivan's feet, twitching and spitting blood. Ivan nudged him with a toe, but received no coherent response. He relieved the man of his beating stick with great satisfaction.
"'S what happens when you skimp on infantry," Ivan said cheerfully. "They taught me that at military school."
"Lesson learned, I'd say." Gregor stood beside Ivan, gazing down at the twitching body.
"Shall I kill him for you?"
Gregor looked at Ivan oddly. "A bit cold-blooded, don't you think?"
Ivan shrugged. "He did lay hands upon your Imperial person. Plus he kicked me in the teeth earlier, which helped resolve any ambiguity I might have felt otherwise. Quick or slow?"
"This is a side of you I don't think I've ever seen before," Gregor said wonderingly. He tilted his head to one side, genuinely interested. "Do you have a preference?"
"Quick. It's cleaner, quieter, and gets us out of this cell faster. Anyway, I think he's half-dead already."
"By God, there's some of your mother in you after all. I believe I may be the only person on Barrayar who knows that. Where've you been all my life?"
"You're just used to Miles," Ivan said smugly. "He can be a little slow at times."
"Credit where it's due, Ivan. He may be...unconventional, at times, but Miles is a brilliant strategist."
"Miles is a collective of brilliant strategists with competing priorities, powered by the will of a twelve year old lunatic. Every decision is made by committee. When you've only got the one personality to consult, things tend to happen pretty quickly."
Gregor blinked. "I suppose that's...sound."
"I don't wear this uniform just because I look good in it," Ivan said smartly. "Though, I really do look quite fet-- Hey!"
The thug had come around enough to bat viciously at Ivan's feet. Ivan brought the club down on his head rather harder than was strictly necessary; it landed with a satisfyingly terminal crunch. "I hope that will teach you to go 'round stealing other people's royalty," Ivan said to the corpse reproachfully.
In the hallway outside their cell, Ivan realized he had a problem. Bright strips of glowing paint lined the ceiling in either direction, vanishing around a left turn one way and a right turn the other. His memory of his arrival had more to do with what hurt now and what might start to hurt next than with what passage he might have been kicked and carried down. Each looked equally promising; his finely honed, militarily trained sense of direction seemed to have absolutely no preference in the matter.
Sighing deeply, Gregor shoved Ivan aside and started down the left-hand corridor. Ivan's duty in this, at least, was clear. After a quick shake to make sure the cell was locked and its keys safely pocketed, Ivan followed the leader.
"It's not as if he's going to break out," Gregor said when Ivan caught up.
"Not now that I've locked it," Ivan agreed. "It was just sort of creepy, knowing he'd be back there in the cold dark. Unguarded, unbound, eyes blank and staring--"
"Ivan!"
"Ah--sorry. Anyway, nothing to worry about now, is there? If he comes awake craving human flesh, he's safely locked in."
"We're not giving you enough to do, are we."
Ivan grinned. "Not unless you count today -- and that's just how I like it. Gregor, just out of curiosity...have you any idea where we're going?"
Gregor shrugged philosophically. "Away from the dead man and our prison cell? How would I know? I got snatched same as you, and not that much earlier."
"It's your dungeon, though. Surely you've got some idea...?"
"It's not my dungeon. I don't even think I have a dungeon. Illyan has one, somewhere at ImpSec HQ; that's enough for me. I didn't know this place existed till I got locked up in it. Mind you, I'm not terribly surprised; squirreling away enemies and unfortunate connections seems to have been a favorite Imperial pastime in days gone by."
"The Imperial Residence is apparently sitting atop a hidden complex of secret corridors, Gregor. Illyan, at the very least, had to know."
"Sadly, Illyan is not here. And even he might not know. The city is old, Ivan, and the Residence has served Emperors before me. It's riddled with secret rooms, like holes in cheese. For every one we seal off, another few go undiscovered. Granted," he said, gazing up at the ceiling, "this is the largest oversight, by far." Gregor glanced at Ivan sideways, a glint of humor in his dark eyes. "You could amass an entire undead army down here, and no one would ever be the wiser."
That cheerful thought was sufficient to carry them through the next several minutes in silence. They passed other cells -- all empty, to Ivan's intense relief -- but as each one looked exactly like the others, they were pretty poor landmarks. Whoever had built this particular secret Imperial dungeon had harbored a dark and twisted passion for homogeneity. They marked off their turns by scraping the key Ivan had liberated from their guard against the wall, and took care to correct every right turn with a left one. They might not know exactly where they were going, but they were going there in a fairly consistent direction.
The first actual feature to rise out of the staggering sameness of the dungeon's corridors turned out to be another armed thug. At least, Ivan hoped he was a thug. He was wielding a big stick and seemed to have heard them coming, because he sprang out like at them like a fright-house spook and startled Ivan into clubbing him first and asking questions later.
"You're... very good with that thing," Gregor said, sounding a little dazed.
Ivan ran his hands over the club happily. "I'm growing very attached to it."
"I hope that was one of the bad guys."
"How would I know? He was armed and shouting, that was bad enough for me." Ivan knelt down next to the unconscious stranger and appropriated the second club. This was all starting to remind him of a game Miles had made up a few years ago, bedridden and bored out of his skull after one of his surgeries. You started off empty-handed, and a few turns later you were dripping with rare jewels, worshipped as a god, and armed to the very teeth. If you were Miles, anyway; Ivan always seemed to end up on the wrong side of an assassin's garrote before he got very far.
Still, he was doing all right for himself this time around. From bare hands to billy clubs in less than half an hour, like a historical holovid on fast forward. And-- "Ah, good," he said, pulling the tabs off their assailant's collar. "Bad guy. These aren't even real. The form's okay at a distance, but up close they're clearly knock-offs. Who knew there'd be a market?"
"Ivan...not that I don't appreciate your efforts, but I'd feel a lot better about things if you would ascertain your targets' loyalties before you kill them."
"Now, that's not fair. He's not even dead! I barely even tapped him!"
"He's bleeding from the ear," Gregor pointed out, not unkindly. "You stove his skull in."
"Slander," Ivan declared. "He'll be right as rain in no time. We'd better lock him up before he comes around."
Unfortunately, the key to their cell didn't open any of the others. Together, dragging the mercenary between them, they retraced their steps back through the maze of corridors until they arrived at their former home away from home. In front of the door they stopped, panting and dripping with sweat.
Gregor was the first to speak. "I thought you said you locked it."
"I did lock it."
"I thought you said he was dead."
"He was!"
"Well," Gregor said quietly, "if the cell was locked with a dead occupant, and now neither of those things are true, we may have to revisit your horrorvid theory."
"I've got a better one now." Ivan ducked into the room, dragging the merc with him. "Look around. Somebody's searched this place." The cot was overturned, the mattress pulled askew, the blanket tossed into a corner. The tray they'd left untouched had been overturned, the food scattered over the floor.
"In the last half hour?"
"And in a hurry. Maybe when our friend didn't report in, his buddies came looking for him."
Gregor peered down at the latest of their victims. "I was sort of hoping this was his only buddy."
"Really, Gregor." Ivan waved a hand at the ransacked, empty cell. "Do we have that kind of luck?"
"Hm," Gregor said. "Not so far. Still, it could've been our people. A security detail, looking for us."
"Hm." There was nothing in sight that argued either case specifically. For all Ivan knew, the guy had gotten up and walked out on his own. "All right," he said. "Logic isn't helping; let's look at it strategically. We have a missing corpse and an unlocked cell. Either the good guys found the body and removed it, or the bad guys found the body and removed it."
"That's certainly a concise summary," Gregor said dryly.
"The best is yet to come. As I see it, we can assume it was our people, wait here, and hope they decide to come back; we can assume it was our people and take off looking for them, in spite of having no idea where we are or where we're going; we can assume it was their people, and get out of here quickly before they come back, still without any idea where we are or where we're going; or we can assume it was their people, wait here in ambush in case they come back, and hope we get them before they get us."
"I'm against any plan that involves spending another minute in this cell."
"Good," Ivan said, "because I just thought of another possibility."
"Yes?"
"You won't like it."
"I can't possibly like it less than I like the others."
"We assume it's our people, we sit tight... and Miles turns up and rescues us."
Gregor's naturally pale complexion went positively translucent. "Well," he said in a valiant attempt at equanimity. "He is ... rather pathologically loyal. I wouldn't be surprised to find him down here trying to root out his own would-be assassins. He'd cut off one of his own limbs before he let either of us be harmed on his account."
"Oh, absolutely," Ivan agreed. "Right in front of us. Cheerfully. Reminding of us of his sacrifice and making us feel about as bright and useful as mudflies while he bled to death."
Gregor winced, looking as if he'd bitten deep into something sour. "True."
"I don't know about you, but I know that routine by heart. I'd rather not stick around for a repeat performance."
Gregor nodded emphatically, and led the way through the door. Ivan locked it again; cracked skull or no, this particular mercenary was still breathing. This time, Gregor set off along the right-hand corridor, and this time it was Gregor who ran face-first into the mercenary.
As this one hadn't even bothered with undress greens, Gregor didn't bother to pull his punches. A flurry of limbs resulted in a startled grunt from the merc, followed by a slow, astonished descent to the stone floor. His eyes drifted shut almost peacefully, tranquil as a babe.
Ivan whistled through his teeth. "Nice."
Gregor flashed him a sharp, predatory grin. "I don't just wear this uniform because it looks good."
"What exactly did you do to him?"
"Cut off the blood supply to his brain. Funny little trick Illyan taught me. It won't last. We'd better cart him back and leave him with the other one."
"Assuming the other one's still there," Ivan grumbled.
He was; they laid his colleague out next to him with a palpable sense of relief. The next one, as well, and the next. When they'd polished off the sixth and stacked him with the others, Ivan looked them over with his hands on his hips, frowning. "I don't really care for this," he confided to Gregor. "It's all a bit too easy, don't you think?"
Gregor shrugged. "There are weightier items on my list of the day's concerns."
"How'd they all get down here without anyone noticing? How long have they been here? How did they get out to snatch at Miles without being caught before they came anywhere near him -- let alone you? And who on earth would have hired these unskilled half-wits? They've clearly never had so much as a day of decent training. And really, who would want to kill Miles, anyway? Not counting family, I mean. No one who knows about the little admiral would tie him to Lieutenant Vorkosigan, and he's just not strategically valuable enough to warrant assassination in his own right. It's insane."
"It's not relevant." Gregor leaned against the wall by the door, exhaustion evident in every line of his body. He wasn't looking so perfectly assembled now. His hair stuck up in every direction, a fresh line of blood decorated his cheekbone in a vaguely Cetagandan fashion, and the right arm of his uniform jacket was ripped where the newest addition to their menagerie had cut a little too close with an unexpected dagger. Before this, Ivan had never seen Gregor fight -- not for his life, anyway, not for keeps. This was a completely different side of him; a welcome, if slightly disturbing one. He'd carried his weight and more.
And he was right; for now, the who and the why were far less important than the how in God's name do we get out of here. Ivan went to Gregor and slugged him on the shoulder, hard.
"Hey!" Gregor jerked back, glaring with full Imperial force. The effect was somewhat cancelled out by the subsequent offended examination of his shoulder. "What the hell was that for?"
"You looked like you needed cheering up. Don't worry; we'll find a way out of here, and you can give me a medal or something, for all my hard work and dedication."
Ivan should have known better.
Perhaps he'd grown complacent; encountering the mercenaries one at a time, bopping them over the head or letting Gregor do it, hauling them back to the cell...it was more manual labor than anything else. It came as rather a surprise, then, when instead of one there were three, and instead of knocking them over, Ivan got knocked over himself. A blow to his head with a heavy club -- bigger than mine? he had time to wonder before impact confirmed the suspicion -- grounded him for the rest of the fight. There were a few seconds he couldn't remember clearly, and then a brief period he couldn't remember at all.
He came to with a reflexive lunge, his body following his last conscious order to put itself between Gregor and the mercenaries. The sudden sensation of his brain sloshing inside his skull and the confusing lack of any mercenaries to fling himself in front of left Ivan dazed.
"Flattering," Gregor said quietly beside him, a kind hand pressing him back to the floor. "But unnecessary. You got yours with your new favorite toy; I got mine with it too, once you were done."
Ivan started to nod understanding, then thought better of it. Best to save his energy for vital systems not currently working at optimal levels. Like being awake, for instance. Relief at hearing Gregor's voice had grayed him out a little, initially. "Where," he said experimentally, and when that went all right, "Where are they?"
Gregor sighed. He sat on his haunches beside Ivan, looking rather put out. "Well, I left them in the cell," Gregor said. "But I've come to suspect it contains some sort of disposal unit. The rest of our friends were gone."
"That's...not quite as funny as it was the first time," Ivan said. "All right. Playtime's over. Help me up."
"I don't think that's a good idea."
"Neither do I, but it's the best I've got right now. I think my brains got a bit scrambled." He took the hand Gregor offered him, and with additional help from the wall, got onto his feet. A quick look at Gregor's face confirmed Ivan's self-diagnosis; no one he knew personally would have let that comment slide without editorial unless he were dying. "How bad is it?" he asked nervously.
"Who's the Emperor of Barrayar?"
"You are."
"Not too bad, then," Gregor said.
Gregor turned out to be a far more efficient rescuer than Ivan had been; it would have been embarrassing, had Ivan not been so close to weeping with gratitude. He set about it with a grim determination that would have made even Illyan proud; in fact, Ivan suspected he'd been holding back, all this time. If he didn't know better, he'd think Gregor just liked knocking people down.
Progress was slow; Gregor half-carried Ivan, propping him against a wall before each turn and scouting ahead on his own. He moved with utter silence, translating his natural stillness and reserve into a level of stealth that bordered on the professional. He would've made a lovely thief, Ivan thought, if he hadn't got stuck with Emperor.
If there were any other mercenaries lurking around blind corners, Gregor's newfound dedication to sneakiness evaded them, though Ivan thought it highly possible they'd already killed or maimed them all. They moved through the corridors unchallenged, led by will and hope alone as far as Ivan could tell, until one corridor widened out into a small, circular room. The corridor they'd left continued on the other side of the room, in exactly the same fashion.
Two doors offered exit: one into a cell much like the one they'd been stashed in originally, and one into a closet-sized room with a ladder bolted onto the wall. The upward passage was unlighted; the ladder climbed into darkness, quite possibly forever. Gregor pulled at the ladder experimentally; it was solid. He looked at Ivan appraisingly, one eyebrow higher than the other.
Ivan straightened to attention. Or as close to it as he could come, anyway. His sense of balance was somewhat lacking. "I can make it," he promised. "You go first, so you can keep climbing when I fall."
"You go first," Gregor said. "I'll make sure you don't."
"But I'm supposed to be looking out for you!"
"Then you should've ducked a little faster, shouldn't you." Gregor smiled crookedly, and gave him a careful push toward the ladder. "Remember that for next time."
There were two ways Ivan could've responded to that, and one of them was treason. He kept his honor, instead, settling for an extremely dark look as he set his hands on the rungs.
The climb was as difficult as Ivan had feared, but mercifully short. He had to stop frequently and just hold on, only Gregor's presence a few rungs below keeping him on the ladder. Vertigo made it feel like he was climbing down head-first half the time, and he wasn't entirely sure the darkness around him was external until it slowly started to dissipate, replaced with a dull yellow glow.
What felt like half a year crawling upwards had probably only spanned ten minutes when Ivan discovered a small landing and dragged himself onto it. Gregor pulled himself up a second later, wedging himself in between Ivan and the wall. He looked worn, but nowhere near bad as Ivan felt.
"Well," Ivan said presently. "That was not as easy as it looked."
"Rest, Ivan. We have the time."
"Can't. Miles will be having an aneurysm. And I can't even imagine what his father and Illyan are going through." The mere thought made Ivan's heart lurch in his chest. His own worry, prior to landing in Gregor's cell, had been extreme, but theirs would be unbearable. It was the first moment he'd had to really think about it, a luxury he immediately regretted. He shifted and reached for the ladder. "We have to keep moving."
"We will when you're actually capable of moving," Gregor said testily, yanking Ivan back. "As things are, you'll sit there and rest your idiotic bones. That's an order."
"All due respect, but I don't think you get to order me not to rescue you. I took an oath, the terms of which were pretty specific--"
"Then I release you from it."
"In which case you don't get to order me to do anything," Ivan pointed out. "So let's go."
Gregor's head thudded back against the rock wall. Twice. "It's really no wonder Miles turned out the way he did, if he grew up arguing with you."
"Thanks." Ivan smiled, absurdly flattered. "But we're still going." He braced himself with one hand on the floor and one against the wall. Gregor didn't offer any help at first, but something -- possibly the cursing and groaning, if Ivan had to guess -- moved him to lend a shoulder at the very last. When he finally stood, swaying more than was safe and blinking owlishly in the dim light, a flicker of reflection caught his attention.
"Gregor," Ivan said, angling his head and trying to peer around him, "did you know you're standing in front of a mirror?"
Gregor craned his head around to gaze over his own shoulder. "So I am."
It wasn't a true mirror; their reflections were strange, dark and slightly distorted. Gregor's was too short, with sharp, staring eyes that weren't quite the proper color, while Ivan's was even shorter and waving at him frantically. Ivan looked down at his still hands, then back up, eyes widening.
"Maybe we should--" he said, just as Gregor yanked him to the floor.
The glass exploded, scattering rounded pebbles over the platform and down into the ladder well below. Ivan's head swam, the noise and the jarring more than his battered skull could take. He tried to move, but Gregor had a fist around his collar and was hanging on for dear life. He was stuck, head pressed to the floor, until Gregor stood up; then he was lifted carefully to his feet. Gregor got an arm under him, a position that was becoming pleasantly familiar, and hoisted him around to look at the brand new gaping hole in their dungeon.
"Gregor," Miles said, his eyes impossibly huge. "Ivan? How -- where the hell -- we looked everywhere!"
"You can call off the hounds, then," Gregor said cheerfully to Miles, shifting Ivan slightly higher on his shoulder. "I've found him."
Consciousness returned suddenly, his eyes unshuttering on an indrawn breath that shocked him by not hurting a bit. Bright yellow sunlight filtered through thin curtains to his right, and Ivan turned his head -- painlessly! -- to drink it in. There were soft pillows at his back and under his head, and warm, thick blankets covered him to his middle. Ivan was one gentle, doe-eyed nurse away from fancying himself gone to his final, just reward when a familiar, wheezy snore from somewhere off to the left alerted him to Miles's presence.
A small knot in his chest that he hadn't even known was there came slowly unraveled at the sight of his cousin, safe and sound. While he'd been fairly certain, back in the tunnels, that Miles was more likely to die of worry than assassination, the mad fervor of some of his enemies could not be overstated. Fondly, and at no slight risk to his newly-returned health, Ivan shifted a foot out from beneath the pile of blankets and landed a solid kick on the leg of Miles's chair.
Miles came awake with a satisfyingly panicked start, hitting the floor ready to run, his eyes only slightly wilder than his hair. Ivan smirked at him and shifted a little higher on the bed. "Morning, sunshine! What's a hero of the realm got to do to get a little breakfast around here?"
As the adrenaline subsided, Miles visibly relaxed from terror through exasperation and resignation, settling finally into a smirk that perfectly matched Ivan's. "'Hero'?"
"Well, I did single-handedly rescue the Emperor," Ivan said modestly. "It's got to be worth a cup of coffee, at the very least."
"From where I was standing, it looked to be the other way around."
"That's because you only caught the end. Come on, coz; ply me with some eggs, and I'll tell you the whole thrilling adventure." Ivan's stomach rumbled loudly in agreement.
"You can't have eggs," Miles said heartlessly. "You're concussed, and probably dying."
"I am not dying! I feel perfectly fine. Or I will, after I've had some sustenance. Feels like I haven't eaten in a week; how long have I been sleeping?"
"About a week," Miles confirmed. "It took a while for the medicos to gather up your brains and push them back in the gaping hole in the side of your head. We had the doctor add in some filling material, so they shouldn't rattle around like they used to."
A servant wandered in at that moment carrying a tray piled high with toast, bacon, eggs, ham, coffee, and an astonishing array of breakfast tarts. It was all that saved Miles from the truly scathing retort he deserved. Ivan set to with a will, slathering a piece of toast with butter and jam and cramming fully half of it into his mouth at once.
"We did feed you while you were under." Miles watched Ivan eat with a glazed expression of scientific fascination. "Through a tube, granted, but more than enough to fend off starvation."
Ivan waved for Miles to wait while he chewed, swallowed, and belched contentedly. "How's Gregor?" he said when he could talk.
"Better than you." Going to Ivan's bedside, Miles laid a hand on his shoulder and gripped it tightly. There was no light of humor in his eyes now; only a raw and painful gratitude he made no effort to conceal. "For which I, and all of Barrayar, thank you."
Ivan stared down at his breakfast tray, for a moment quite incapable of speech. He nodded, the sudden tightness in his throat preventing anything further.
Thankfully, Miles was no more comfortable than Ivan. He broke the tension by the simple expedient of hopping up on the bed and brazenly thieving several slices of Ivan's bacon. Ivan scowled and pulled his tray closer to his chest, positively giddy with relief.
"Gregor filled us in on your side of things," Miles said after a second successful assault on Ivan's breakfast. He crossed his legs at the foot of the bed and flicked a few crumbs off his sleeve. "It's hard to believe you two were just wandering around picking mercenaries off one by one while we tore the place apart to find you. D'you know, one of our teams found the room where you were stashing the bodies? We were very, very close."
"So that's what happened to them. We couldn't tell if they'd been carted off by our people or their own. Neither of us cared to stick around and find out. A room with disappearing corpses in a secret dungeon.... It was a little on the weird side, even for this place."
"Sergeant Keflin described it as a sort of bottomless toy box. Every time he opened it, there was something new to play with." Miles's face lit up with a mad, tilted grin. "Rather like Winterfair, if you're fond of dead and half-dead traitors and conspirators; and I am."
"How did the clean-up go? I assume you wouldn't be sitting here eating my breakfast if danger were still lurking in the shadows. And where the hell were we when you found us, by the way, and come to think of it, how did you find us?"
Miles ticked off questions on his fingers. "One, all our villains have been rounded up and are being tortured as we speak. Well, not really tortured, but Illyan gave his solemn oath that he'd jab their hyposprays in really hard. We'll be shaking conspirators out of the trees for a while yet, but we have the instigator in hand. An objective that could've been achieved much sooner if anyone had bothered to tell me what was going on," Miles finished darkly.
"Don't look at me; I'm barely cleared to know the exact time of day."
"That'll all change when Gregor promotes you," Miles said, a comforting promise that made Ivan choke on his toast in horror.
"You're not serious."
"Oh, but I am. Your star is on the rise, dear cousin. Your mother will be very proud."
Interesting, Ivan thought, the way one could actually feel the blood draining from one's face. He hadn't even thought of his mother. He couldn't decide if she'd be frantic, or furious; both, if he was any judge at all. Suddenly, Ivan was struck with a surge of nostalgia for the dungeon.
Miles continued, as if he hadn't just shattered Ivan's plans for a peaceful, posh recovery. "You were in a prison complex that doesn't exist in any history or on any map; God only knows who built it, or when. The technology behind it -- or lack thereof -- seems to date from the Time of Isolation, but that could have been done to foil scans and sensors. Gregor's first act topside, after making sure you weren't going to expire on his carpet, was to sign a research grant for a battalion of archaeologists; some of them are already down there."
"Maybe I can visit them," Ivan said wistfully.
"As for how we found you, we followed our ears. Apparently, soundproofing was beyond our dungeon-crafter's capabilities; your voices echoed all the way up and down the ladder shaft, as clear as you hear me now. Scared the life out of one of the first-floor maids; I understand she's since taken retirement in the country."
"That's a little extreme, isn't it?"
"Not if you think the Residence is haunted." Miles grinned widely, warming to his story. "The mercenaries came up babbling about Barrayaran tunnel-demons; you can imagine how well the servants took to that story. In slightly under twenty-four hours, they had you and Gregor betrayed to your deaths, risen from your lonely, unmarked graves, and stalking the halls to avenge yourselves upon your enemies."
"Well, we would have done," Ivan said. "If it had come to that."
"God forbid." Miles's flashing eyes promised dire consequences for any god who didn't. "Anyway, the maid notified the guards, who notified me and Illyan, not in that order, and we followed the sound of bickering up to the sitting room with the spy mirror. Nobody but housekeeping has been in there since Prince Serg's time, not that that excuse will cut any ice with Illyan; heads are going to roll."
Miles grinned broadly -- in anticipation of the novelty, Ivan supposed. Usually it was Miles's head on the chopping block. "So," Ivan said, a bit dismayed at how quickly it had all come together. "We all live happily ever after?"
Miles nodded. "With the exception of a few dishonorable discharges and one or two public hangings, that about sums it up. The major points we've covered; the rest, you know."
"Except for the identity of your would-be assassin," Ivan pointed out. "Who've you annoyed this time?"
"Ah." Miles's composed expression faltered; a rare blush crept into his cheeks. "Therein lies a story. You see, there was this woman..."
Later, when Miles had retreated under pastry-fire with a kindly promise to tell Ivan's mother he'd awakened, and when Ivan had fended her off by feigning delirium through her first assault, a solid knock at the door signaled a slightly more official visitor. Ivan sat up, rearranging his pillows and bed coverings to lessen the effect of Lady Alys's fit of maternal concern, and waited.
Gregor entered, unbloodied and unbruised, his Imperial presence restored by the clean black lines of a new shirt and trousers, freshly pressed and symbolically free of rank insignia. Ivan was nearly moved to salute, until the Emperor flung himself into the chair Miles had lately vacated, draping one leg over its arm and dropping his head to his fist. "I got more rest back in the dungeon," Gregor said grimly, by way of hello. "I had to authorize two public executions before they'd give me any coffee. How are you?"
"Miles sicced my mother on me," Ivan said, in much the same tone. They shared a look of respectful sympathy, before each returned to his own self-pity. "Tell me," Ivan said, contemplating a dark, eventful future, "d'you think we can expect this sort of thing from all his women?"
Gregor winced. "Technically, Cavilo was my woman. If she'd had her way, she would've been my wife, once upon a time; her circumstances were greatly reduced by her failure. She thought she could win me, best Miles, and walk away with Barrayar in her pocket. He didn't allow it."
"No, he wouldn't." Ivan whistled softly. "Sometimes I'm intensely grateful for my lack of security clearance."
"Sometimes I envy it. I'd sleep a lot better without mine, that's for sure." Gregor sighed, tapping his fingers idly against his knee. "Most of this will still be classified; Illyan and Miles are collaborating on a cover story that will keep him and the Dendarii out of it as much as possible. If we find we need a head to display atop the city gates, there's no shortage of local contenders; Cavilo had her finger on the pulse of my opposition for longer than I care to contemplate."
"An Empire needs a good shakedown once in a while," Ivan opined. "Out with the old, in with the new..."
"A brand new crop of Vor lordlings to vet and flatter in hopes they don't put a knife in my back the second I dare to turn?" Gregor smiled grimly. "I can't wait."
Ivan took in Gregor's disheartened slouch, the slight downturn of his mouth, the tired crease of his brow. He sensed an Imperial brood coming on; a sulk, not to put too fine a point on it, perfected over years of practice. It was a damn shame Gregor had been an only child; he needed someone he couldn't impress to poke at him a bit now and then, renew his perspective, like Ivan did for Miles. He was too damned royal for his own good, sometimes.
Diversion seemed called for; Ivan cast about for something shiny and distracting to lay at Gregor's feet. With nothing else to hand, he fell on his own metaphorical sword. "When Miles was here earlier," he said lightly, flinching only a little bit, "he said you were making plans for my future."
"Yes," Gregor said. A speculative gleam entered his eyes, banishing the shadows for the moment. "It's come rather forcefully to my attention that you've been holding out on us, Ivan. There's a little more to you than this idiot bachelor routine you've been running on us all these years. You're positively competent, under the proper circumstances."
"I wouldn't go that far," Ivan protested. "It all happened too fast, I didn't have time to think. I'd have mucked it all up if I'd had a few spare minutes to strategize, I promise you."
Gregor's grin was appreciative, but not at all convinced. "Nice try. No, I'm sorry; there's nothing for it, Ivan. It's my duty as Emperor; I am honor-bound to make some suitable use of you."
"Can't you just give me a medal? Something small and tasteful to wear at dinner parties. That would be a truly just reward for my services." Don't do it, Ivan pleaded silently, don't promote me; what've I ever done to you? "Do you know what Miles would do if he found I suddenly outranked him?" he demanded desperately. "It's not just my life we're talking about; yours wouldn't be worth living, either."
"Hmm." Gregor tilted his head thoughtfully. "You make a decent point. Perhaps something less formal -- a more serious post, someplace you can do some actual good."
"I do good where I am," said Ivan firmly. "I type almost a hundred words a minute. Saves my superiors a great deal of time, which I'm sure they spend for the betterment of your subjects."
Gregor sat up, snapping his fingers. "I've got it!"
"Dear God." Ivan wilted against his pillows, awaiting his fate.
"How about a nice, plum court posting? We'll have to think of something to call it. Vor-tamer is a bit too on the nose. Maybe something along the lines of Imperial Liaison to the Council of Counts?"
Ivan's eyes had grown huge; now he felt them threatening to pop. "I'm...sorry?" he wheezed, pressing himself back into his pillows. Back through the very wall, if wishes counted. "Gregor, surely..."
But it was too late; his feet were on the path. Ivan had seen that look, too many times to count; it sort of ran in the family. "I like it," Gregor said firmly. He leaned forward to smile blindingly at Ivan, who was starting to feel rather faint. "Someone loyal, brave, allergic to ambition...right between me and the greatest danger to my reign in all the realm: my Court and Council. You did take an oath," he continued, his eyes dancing. "The terms were very specific."
"You released me from it," Ivan whined pathetically.
Gregor leaned back, tapping the arm of his chair with his fingers. His smile grew calculating. "In front of what witnesses?" he inquired politely.
"Miles said he and Illyan heard every word we said."
"I think you'll find they didn't."
"But he said--"
"Pathologically loyal," Gregor reminded him. "To me."
Ivan slumped deeper into the bed. "I miss my concussion."
Gregor stood. There was a pleased light in his eyes; that was worth something, Ivan thought. Far better than the darkness he'd seemed to be inviting. Not worth Ivan's life, mind; but maybe he could make something of this, if he worked from the proper perspective. Many a fair and unattached maid graced Gregor's court, after all; and how hard could it be to argue with a bunch of new-minted Vor lords anyway? Ivan had cut his teeth on Vorkosigan logic; he was more than up to the task. A good thing, since it seemed he was doomed to it. Also a good thing if it put him within baiting-distance of Gregor on a regular basis; the man clearly needed looking after.
"You should get some more rest," Gregor said, peering down at him with a measuring eye. "Your recovery wasn't all sunshine and puppies, you know. You managed to put yourself between me and the worst of it, at every turn." He laid a hand on Ivan's shoulder, much as Miles had done; his gaze was unyielding, defying any casual deflection Ivan could devise. "I won't forget."
Ivan swallowed, shaken. So this was what true lunatic allegiance felt like; he would have hurled himself from the battlements, had Gregor only asked it. "It was my duty and my pleasure, my Liege."
Gregor's hand tightened briefly, then fell away. He grinned suddenly -- destroying the moment, to Ivan's undying gratitude. "I don't know what you expected, anyway; you run around publicly defending the realm and whatnot, you get what you deserve. If you'd done it a little more quietly, I could've passed you off as a hapless bystander."
"If I'd--" Ivan glared, and briefly considered making use of one of his pillows to smother Gregor to death. With Uncle Aral and Miles between him and the throne, he could still live a normal life. Assuming he could get away with it. Which he couldn't. He sighed, dreams of vengeance crumbling into dust. "You know," he said, "this is really no kind of incentive to continue my good works."
"What would be?"
"At this point? A nice quiet posting at Camp Permafrost is looking very sweet."
"On my word as Emperor and Vorbarra, I will send you wherever you wish to go. But you won't be much use to me there."
Gregor was deadly serious; for a moment, the Empire lay shining at his feet, filled with endless possibilities. Oddly, all the ones that came to mind seemed tarnished. For all his protestations, Ivan had to admit he liked being close to the action; not in the spotlight, of course, but he enjoyed the view from the wings. "I'm not sure I'll be much use to you here," he cautioned. "But if you swear you won't promote me, I'll give it my best shot."
"Oh, I was never going to promote you." The grin returned, full force. "That was just to tweak Miles and watch Illyan turn green around the edges. You never open with your final offer, Ivan; surely even you know that." Gregor gave a little wave and made his exit, neatly ducking the pillow Ivan hurled after him.
Alone, Ivan slid down in his bed and stared up at the ceiling, taking stock. He had a new job, a few new scars, and what felt disconcertingly like a new sense of purpose. He'd also been knocked around by thugs and had his brains half-beaten out of him. It was a lot to take in; the pros and the cons seemed pretty evenly balanced, until he weighed in proximity to the people who seemed to need him most. That tipped the scales rather more than he would have expected, just a little while ago.
Well, he would try it out, anyway. Who knew what would come of it? His eyes drifted closed; warm and well-fed, the question seemed unimportant. It was only a small transition from spear-carrier to supporting player, after all.
He'd take a page from Gregor's book, and see what happened.