[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
equipped and fully decorated, she had groaned, shifting her stomach
uncomfortably in her lap, and now would be a good time. . . .
Now was not a good time anymore. "Padma Vorpatril will head the list. The hunt
will be up for him, all right. He and Aral are the last descendants of
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Prince Xav, now, if anybody's fool enough to start up that damned succession-
debate again. Or if anything does happen to Gregor." He bit down on this last
line as if he might hold back fate with his teeth. "Lady Vorpatril and the
baby, too?" "Perhaps not Alys Vorpatril. The boy, definitely." Not exactly a
separable matter, just at the moment. The wind had died down at last. Cordelia
could hear the horses' teeth tearing up plants, a steady munch-munch-munch.
"Won't the horses show up on thermal sensors? And us, too, despite dumping our
power cells. I don't see how they can miss us for long." Were troops up there
right now, eyes in the clouds?
"Oh, all the people and beasts in these hills will show up on their thermal
sensors, once they start aiming them in the right direction." "All? I
hadn't seen any."
"We've passed about twenty little homesteads, so far tonight. All the people,
and their cows, and their goats, and their red deer, and their horses, and
their children. We're straws in a haystack. Still, it will be well for us to
split up soon. If we can make it to the trail at the base of Amie Pass before
mid-morning, I have an idea or two." By the time Bothari shoved her back atop
Rose, the deep blackness was greying. Pre-dawn light seeped into the woods as
they began to move again. Tree branches were charcoal stokes in the dripping
mist. She clung to her saddle in silent misery, towed along by
Bothari. Gregor actually still slept, for the first twenty minutes of the
ride, openmouthed and limp and pale in Piotr's grip.
The growing light revealed the night's ravages. Bothari and Esterhazy were
both muddy and scuffed, beard-peppered, their brown-and-silver uniforms
rumpled. Bothari, having given up his jacket to Gregor, went in shirtsleeves.
The open round collar of his shirt made him look like a condemned criminal
being led to the beheading-block. Piotr's general's dress greens had survived
fairly well, but his stubbled red-eyed face above it was like a derelict's.
Cordelia felt herself a hopeless tangle, with her wet tendrils of hair,
mishmash of old clothing and house slippers. It could be worse. I could still
be pregnant. At least if I die, I die singly now. Was little Miles safer than
she right now? Anonymous in his replicator on some shelf in Vaagen and Henri's
restricted laboratory? She could pray so, even if she couldn't believe so. You
Barrayaran bastards had better leave my boy alone.
They zigzagged up a long slope. The horses blew like bellows even though just
walking: getting balky, stumbling over roots and rocks. They came to a halt at
the bottom of a little hollow. Both horses and people drank from the murky
stream. Esterhazy loosened girths again. He scratched under the horses'
headbands, and they butted against him, nuzzling his empty pockets for
tidbits. He murmured apologies and little encouragements to them. "It's all
right, Rosie, you can rest at the end of the day. Just a few more hours." It
was more briefing than anybody had bothered to give Cordelia.
Esterhazy left the horses to Bothari and accompanied" Piotr into the woods,
scrabbling up the slope. Gregor busied himself in an attempt to gather
vegetation and hand-feed it to the animals. They lipped at the native
Barrayaran plants and let them fall messily from their mouths, unpalatable.
Gregor kept picking the wads up and offering them again, trying to shove them
in around the horses' bits.
"What's the Count up to, do you know?" Cordelia asked Bothari.
He shrugged. "Gone to make contact with somebody. This won't do." A jerk of
his head in no particular direction indicated their night of beating around in
the brush.
Cordelia could only agree. She lay back and listened for lightflyers, but
heard only the babble of water in the little stream, echoed by the gurgles of
her empty stomach. She was galvanized into motion once, to keep the hungry
Gregor from sampling some of the possibly-toxic plants himself.
"But the horses ate these ones," he protested.
"No!" Cordelia shuddered, detailed visions of unfavorable biochemical and
Page 214
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
histamine reactions dancing in a molecular crack-the-whip through her head.
"It's one of the first habits you have to learn for Betan Astronomical Survey,
you know. Never put strange things in your mouth till they've been cleared by
the lab. In fact, avoid touching your eyes, mouth, and mucous membranes."
Gregor, unconsciously compelled, promptly rubbed his nose and eyes.
Cordelia sighed, and sat back down. She sucked on her tongue, thinking about
that stream water and hoping Gregor wouldn't point out her inconsistency.
Gregor threw pebbles into the pools.
Fully an hour later, Esterhazy returned. "Come on." They merely led the horses
this time, sure sign of a steep climb to come. Cordelia scrambled, and scraped
her hands. The horses' haunches heaved. Over the crest, down, up again, and
they came out on a muddy double trail carved through the forest.
"Where are we?" asked Cordelia.
"Aime Pass Road, Milady," supplied Esterhazy.
"This is a road?" Cordelia muttered in dismay, staring up and down it.
Piotr stood a little way off, with another old man holding the reins of a
sturdy little black-and-white horse.
The horse was considerably better groomed than the old man. Its white coat was
bright and its black coat shiny Its mane and tail were brushed to feather-
softness. Its feet and fetlocks were wet and dark, though, and its belly
flecked with fresh mud. In addition to an old cavalry saddle like Piotr's
horse's, the pinto bore four large saddlebags, a pair in front and a pair
behind, and a bedroll. The old man, as unshaven as Piotr, wore an Imperial
Postal Service jacket so weatherworn its blue had turned grey. This was
supplemented by odd bits of other old uniforms: a black fatigue shirt, an
ancient pair of trousers from a set of dress greens, worn but well-oiled [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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equipped and fully decorated, she had groaned, shifting her stomach
uncomfortably in her lap, and now would be a good time. . . .
Now was not a good time anymore. "Padma Vorpatril will head the list. The hunt
will be up for him, all right. He and Aral are the last descendants of
Page 213
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
Prince Xav, now, if anybody's fool enough to start up that damned succession-
debate again. Or if anything does happen to Gregor." He bit down on this last
line as if he might hold back fate with his teeth. "Lady Vorpatril and the
baby, too?" "Perhaps not Alys Vorpatril. The boy, definitely." Not exactly a
separable matter, just at the moment. The wind had died down at last. Cordelia
could hear the horses' teeth tearing up plants, a steady munch-munch-munch.
"Won't the horses show up on thermal sensors? And us, too, despite dumping our
power cells. I don't see how they can miss us for long." Were troops up there
right now, eyes in the clouds?
"Oh, all the people and beasts in these hills will show up on their thermal
sensors, once they start aiming them in the right direction." "All? I
hadn't seen any."
"We've passed about twenty little homesteads, so far tonight. All the people,
and their cows, and their goats, and their red deer, and their horses, and
their children. We're straws in a haystack. Still, it will be well for us to
split up soon. If we can make it to the trail at the base of Amie Pass before
mid-morning, I have an idea or two." By the time Bothari shoved her back atop
Rose, the deep blackness was greying. Pre-dawn light seeped into the woods as
they began to move again. Tree branches were charcoal stokes in the dripping
mist. She clung to her saddle in silent misery, towed along by
Bothari. Gregor actually still slept, for the first twenty minutes of the
ride, openmouthed and limp and pale in Piotr's grip.
The growing light revealed the night's ravages. Bothari and Esterhazy were
both muddy and scuffed, beard-peppered, their brown-and-silver uniforms
rumpled. Bothari, having given up his jacket to Gregor, went in shirtsleeves.
The open round collar of his shirt made him look like a condemned criminal
being led to the beheading-block. Piotr's general's dress greens had survived
fairly well, but his stubbled red-eyed face above it was like a derelict's.
Cordelia felt herself a hopeless tangle, with her wet tendrils of hair,
mishmash of old clothing and house slippers. It could be worse. I could still
be pregnant. At least if I die, I die singly now. Was little Miles safer than
she right now? Anonymous in his replicator on some shelf in Vaagen and Henri's
restricted laboratory? She could pray so, even if she couldn't believe so. You
Barrayaran bastards had better leave my boy alone.
They zigzagged up a long slope. The horses blew like bellows even though just
walking: getting balky, stumbling over roots and rocks. They came to a halt at
the bottom of a little hollow. Both horses and people drank from the murky
stream. Esterhazy loosened girths again. He scratched under the horses'
headbands, and they butted against him, nuzzling his empty pockets for
tidbits. He murmured apologies and little encouragements to them. "It's all
right, Rosie, you can rest at the end of the day. Just a few more hours." It
was more briefing than anybody had bothered to give Cordelia.
Esterhazy left the horses to Bothari and accompanied" Piotr into the woods,
scrabbling up the slope. Gregor busied himself in an attempt to gather
vegetation and hand-feed it to the animals. They lipped at the native
Barrayaran plants and let them fall messily from their mouths, unpalatable.
Gregor kept picking the wads up and offering them again, trying to shove them
in around the horses' bits.
"What's the Count up to, do you know?" Cordelia asked Bothari.
He shrugged. "Gone to make contact with somebody. This won't do." A jerk of
his head in no particular direction indicated their night of beating around in
the brush.
Cordelia could only agree. She lay back and listened for lightflyers, but
heard only the babble of water in the little stream, echoed by the gurgles of
her empty stomach. She was galvanized into motion once, to keep the hungry
Gregor from sampling some of the possibly-toxic plants himself.
"But the horses ate these ones," he protested.
"No!" Cordelia shuddered, detailed visions of unfavorable biochemical and
Page 214
ABC Amber Palm Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abcpalm.html
histamine reactions dancing in a molecular crack-the-whip through her head.
"It's one of the first habits you have to learn for Betan Astronomical Survey,
you know. Never put strange things in your mouth till they've been cleared by
the lab. In fact, avoid touching your eyes, mouth, and mucous membranes."
Gregor, unconsciously compelled, promptly rubbed his nose and eyes.
Cordelia sighed, and sat back down. She sucked on her tongue, thinking about
that stream water and hoping Gregor wouldn't point out her inconsistency.
Gregor threw pebbles into the pools.
Fully an hour later, Esterhazy returned. "Come on." They merely led the horses
this time, sure sign of a steep climb to come. Cordelia scrambled, and scraped
her hands. The horses' haunches heaved. Over the crest, down, up again, and
they came out on a muddy double trail carved through the forest.
"Where are we?" asked Cordelia.
"Aime Pass Road, Milady," supplied Esterhazy.
"This is a road?" Cordelia muttered in dismay, staring up and down it.
Piotr stood a little way off, with another old man holding the reins of a
sturdy little black-and-white horse.
The horse was considerably better groomed than the old man. Its white coat was
bright and its black coat shiny Its mane and tail were brushed to feather-
softness. Its feet and fetlocks were wet and dark, though, and its belly
flecked with fresh mud. In addition to an old cavalry saddle like Piotr's
horse's, the pinto bore four large saddlebags, a pair in front and a pair
behind, and a bedroll. The old man, as unshaven as Piotr, wore an Imperial
Postal Service jacket so weatherworn its blue had turned grey. This was
supplemented by odd bits of other old uniforms: a black fatigue shirt, an
ancient pair of trousers from a set of dress greens, worn but well-oiled [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]