And they would get none at all from a man whose birth name was still marked on his tongue. Wet work, indeed.

As she ushered the captain and his companion to the door, Cathy remembered something.

“Oh, yes. Satisfy my curiosity, Anton. Earlier, you said there were three types of people in State Security. But you never got around to explaining the third sort. So who are they?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? What happens to a young idealist, as the years go by and he discovers his beloved Revolution is covered with warts?”

Cathy frowned. “They adapt, I imagine. Get with the program. Either that or turn against it and defect.”

Anton shook his head. “Many do adapt, yes. The majority of them, probably. And when they do they are often the most vicious—just to prove to their superiors, if nothing else, that they can be counted on. But almost none ever defect and there are a lot of them who just fade into the woodwork, trying to find a corner where they can still live. Don’t forget that, from their point of view, the alternative isn’t all that attractive.”

His lips twitched. “Even a Gryphon traditionalist like me isn’t all that fond of some aspects of Manticoran society. Try to imagine, Cathy, how a man from the Legislaturalist regime’s Dolist ranks is going to feel, at the prospect that he’d have to bow and scrape before the likes of Pavel Young, Earl of North Hollow.”

Cathy was startled. “Surely they don’t know—”

“Of course they do!” Anton’s mouth started to twitch again, but the twitch turned into a genuine smile. “The Peeps tend to be a little schizophrenic on the subject of Honor Harrington, you know. On the one hand, she’s their arch-nemesis. On the other, she’s often been their favorite example of the injustices of Manticoran elitist rule.

“Not any more, of course,” he chuckled. “From the news coverage, I’d say the Salamander’s days in exile and disgrace are finished. Doubt there’s more than three Conservative Lords who’ll still argue she’s unfit for their company.”

Cathy brayed her agreement. “If that many!”

“But don’t think the Peep propagandists didn’t make hay while the sun was shining, Cathy. At least until Cordelia Ransom decided that there was more propaganda value in having Harrington ‘executed.’ ” Anton scowled. “That whole stinking Pavel Young affair was plastered all over every media outlet in the Havenite empire, for weeks on end. Hell, they didn’t even have to make anything up! The truth was stinking bad enough. A vile and cowardly aristocrat used his wealth and position to ruin an excellent officer’s career. Even paying for the murder of her lover—and getting away with it until Harrington finally cornered him into a personal duel. And then, when she shot him in self-defense after he violated the dueling code, the Lords blamed her? Because she shot him too many times?”

The highlander’s soul was back in charge, never mind the uniform. “A pox on all aristocracy,” he hissed. “Inbred filth and corruption.”

Belatedly, he remembered. “Uh, sorry. Nothing personal. Uh, Lady Catherine.”

“S’okay, Anton. I forget I’m a countess myself, as often as not.” She rubbed her sunburned nose.

“I—I’m really sorry we met this way, Cathy. I would have liked—I don’t know—”

Cathy placed her hand on his arm and gave it a little squeeze. She was a bit startled by the thick muscle under the uniform. “Don’t say anything, Anton. Let’s get your daughter back, shall we? The rest can take care of itself.”

He flashed her a thankful smile. They were now at the door, which Isaac was holding open in his best butler’s manner. Robert Tye had already stepped through and was waiting for Anton in the corridor beyond.

Anton and Cathy stared at each other for a moment. Now that they were standing side by side, she realized how much taller she was than the stocky captain. But, also, that the width of his shoulders was not an illusion created by his short stature. He really was almost misshapen. Like a dwarf warrior from the hills, disguised in a uniform.

Anton gave her a quick little bow, and hastened through the door. Then, stopped abruptly.

“Good Lord—I forgot to ask. How long will it take you—” He broke off, glancing quickly into the corridor.

Cathy understood. “I should be in contact with the individual quite shortly, I think. I’ll get in touch with you, Captain Zilwicki.”

“Thank you.” He was gone.

Helen

By the time Helen finished widening the tunnel enough to squeeze herself through, two-thirds of the dust in her makeshift hourglass had fallen through the hole. She had to wage a fierce battle to keep herself from leaving immediately.

That natural impulse was almost overwhelming. But it would be stupid. It wasn’t enough to simply get out of the cell. She also had to make her escape. And that was not going to be easy.

Again, Helen’s success had caught her off guard. She had never really thought about what she would do if she ever got out of the cell. But now she realized that she needed to think about it before she plunged into the darkness.

The darkness was literal, not figurative. Helen had stuck her head through the hole as soon as she widened it enough. And seen—

Nothing. Pitch black. Her own head, filling the hole, had cut off the feeble illumination provided by the cell’s light fixture. Helen had never experienced such a complete darkness. She remembered her father telling her, once, of the time he and her mother had visited Gryphon’s famous Ulster Caverns on their honeymoon. As part of the tour, the guide had extinquished all the lighting in their section of the caverns, for a full five minutes. Helen’s father had described the experience, with some relish—not so much because he was fascinated by utter darkness as because he’d had the chance to fondle his new bride in flagrant disregard for proper public conduct.

Remembering that conversation, Helen had to control herself again. She was swept by a fierce urge to see her father as soon as possible. If Helen’s long-dead mother was a constant source of inspiration for her, it was her father who sat in the center of her heart. Helen was old enough to recognize the emptiness which lurked just beneath her father’s outward cheer and soft humor. But he had always been careful not to inflict that grief on his daughter.

Oh, Daddy!

For a moment, she almost thrust herself into the hole. But among her father’s many gifts to her had been Master Tye’s training, and Helen seized that regimen to keep her steady.

Breathe in, breathe out. Find the calm at the center.

Two minutes later, she backed out of the hole and went through the now-familiar process of disguising her work. Since she had plenty of time, she took more care than usual placing the coverings over the hole and blending in the fresh fill. But her own ablutions were as skimpy as she could make them. Just enough to remove the obvious streaks of dirt.

Helen had no idea how long it would take her to find water in that darkness beyond—if there was any water to be found at all. So she planned to drink the remaining water as soon as she heard her captors approaching. That way she could save the new water bottle her captors would bring her. She might have to live on that water for days.

Or, possibly, forever. Helen knew full well that she might simply die in the darkness. Even if she could elude her captors—even if she found water and food—she had no idea what other dangers might lurk there.

She stretched herself out on the pallet and began Master Tye’s relaxation exercises. She also needed as much rest as possible before setting forth.

Breathe in, breathe out. As always, the exercises brought calmness. But, after a time, she stopped thinking about them. Master Tye faded from her mind, and so did her father.