His head was still spinning with a bizarre mixture of elation and terror when the guards delivered him to Ryoval’s presence. It was a luxurious office, or study; the Baron evidently kept private quarters here, for he glimpsed a living room beyond an archway. Mark had no trouble recognizing Ryoval. He’d seen him in the vid recording from the Ariel’s first mission here. The conversation where he’d threatened to have Admiral Naismith’s severed head encased in plastic for a wall-hanging. In another man, this might be dismissed as hyperbole, but Mark had the uneasy feeling Ryoval had meant it literally. Ryoval was leaning half-seated on his comconsole desk. He had shining dark hair arranged in elaborate bands, a high-bridged nose, and smooth skin. Strong and youthful, for a centenarian.

He’s wearing a clone. Mark’s smile became vulpine. He hoped Ryoval would not mistake his post-stun tremula for fear.

The guards sat him in a chair and fastened him down with metal bands to his wrists. “Wait outside,” the Baron instructed them. “It won’t be long.” They exited.

Ryoval’s hands were trembling slightly. The skin of his bronzed face was faintly moist. When he looked up and smiled back at Mark, his eyes seemed alight with some internal glow, the look of a man so filled with the visions inside his head, he scarcely saw the present reality. Mark was almost too enraged to care. Clone-consumer!

“Admiral,” Ryoval breathed happily. “I promised you we would meet again. As inevitably as fate.” He looked Mark up and down; his dark brows rose. “You’ve put weight on, the last four years.”

“Good living,” Mark snarled, uncomfortably reminded of his nakedness. For all he’d loathed the Dendarii uniform, it had actually made him look rather good. Quinn had personally re-tailored it for this masquerade, and he wished for it back. Presumably it had been what had fooled Ryoval’s troopers, though, in that moment of heroic temporary insanity.

“I’m so glad you are alive. At first I’d hoped for your unpleasant death in one of your little combats, but upon reflection I actually began to pray for your survival. I’ve had four years to plan this meeting. Revising and refining. I’d have hated for you to miss your appointment.”

Ryoval did not recognize him as not-Naismith. Ryoval was barely seeing him at all. He seemed to be looking through him. The Baron began to stride up and down in front of him, pouring out his plans like a nervous lover, elaborate plans for vengeance that ranged from the obscene to the insane to the impossible.

It could be worse. Ryoval could be making these threats right now to that thin little, vague-eyed, bewildered cryo-amnesic, who would not know even who he was, let alone why these things should be happening to him. The thought sickened Mark. Yeah. Better me than him, right now. No shit.

He means to terrorize you. It’s only words. What was it the Count had said? Don’t sell yourself to your enemy in advance, in your mind… .

Hell, Ryoval wasn’t even his enemy. All these gaudy scenarios had been tailored for Miles. No, not even for Miles. For Admiral Naismith, a man who didn’t exist. Ryoval chased a ghost, a chimera.

Ryoval stopped beside him, interrupting his whispered tirade. Curiously, he ran a moist hand down Mark’s body, fingers curving in precise anatomical tracing of the muscles hidden beneath the layer of fat. “Do you know,” he breathed, “I’d planned to have you starved.

But I think I’ve changed my mind. I believe I’ll have you force-fed, instead. The results could be even more amusing, in the long run.”

Mark shivered sickly for the first time. Ryoval felt it, beneath his probing fingers, and grinned. The man had an appalling instinct for the target. Better he should keep Ryoval focused on the chimera? Better we should get the hell out of here.

He took a breath. “I hate to burst your bubble, Baron, but I have some bad news for you.”

“Now, did I ask you to speak?” Ryoval’s fingers traced back up, to pinch the flesh around his jaw. “This isn’t an interrogation. This isn’t an inquisition. Confession will gain you nothing. Not even death.”

It was that damned contagious hyperactivity. Even Miles’s enemies caught it.

“I’m not Admiral Naismith. I’m the clone the Bharaputrans made. Your goons grabbed the wrong guy.”

Ryoval merely smiled. “Nice try, Admiral. But we’ve been watching the Bharaputran clone at the Durona Clinic for days. I knew you would come for him, after what you did to try and get him back the first time. I don’t know what passion he inspires in you—were you lovers? You’d be amazed how many people have clones made for that purpose.”

So. When Quinn had sworn no one could possibly be following them, she’d been right. Ryoval hadn’t been following them. He’d been waiting for them. Swell. It had been his actions, not his words or his uniform, which had convicted him of being Naismith.

“But I will obtain him too,” Ryoval shrugged. “Very soon.”

No, you won’t. “Baron, I really am the other clone. Prove it to yourself. Have me examined.”

Ryoval chuckled. “What do you suggest? A DNA scan? Even the Duronas couldn’t decide.” He sighed deeply. “There’s so much I want to do to you, I scarcely know where to begin. I must take it slowly. And in logical order. One cannot torture body parts that have already been removed, for example. I wonder how many years I can make you last? Decades?”

Mark felt his self-control cracking. “I’m not Naismith,” he said, his voice going high with strain.

Ryoval grasped Mark’s chin and tilted it up, his lips twisting in ironic disbelief. “Then I will practice on you. A dry-run. And Naismith will be along. In time.”

You’re going to be astonished at what will be along, in time. ImpSec would have no hesitation whatsoever about taking Ryoval’s House apart around him, no inhibitions even by Jacksonian standards.

To rescue Miles.

He, of course, wasn’t Miles.

He reflected worriedly on that, as the guards entered again at Ryoval’s summons.

The first beating was unpleasant enough. It wasn’t the pain. It was pain without escape, fear without release, that worked upon the mind, tensed the body. Ryoval watched. Mark screamed without restraint. No silent, suffering, manly pride here, thank you. Maybe that would convince Ryoval he was not Naismith. This was crazy. Still, the guards broke no bones, and ended the exercise perfunctorily. They left him locked naked in a very cold, tiny room or closet, without windows. The air vent was perhaps five centimeters across. He couldn’t get his fist, let alone his body, though it.

He tried to prepare, to steel himself. To give himself hope. Time was on his side. Ryoval was a supremely practiced sadist, but of a psychological bent. Ryoval would keep him alive, and relatively undamaged, at least at first. After all, nerves must be intact to report pain. A mind must be relatively unclouded, to experience all the nuances of agony. Elaborate humiliations, rather than immediate flaying to death, must be first on the menu. All he had to do was survive. Later—there wouldn’t be a later. The Countess had said Mark’s going to Jackson’s Whole would force Illyan to assign more agents here whether he wanted to or not, that alone being a sure benefit of Mark’s journey even if he accomplished nothing personally at all.

And what, after all, were a few more humiliations to him? Miles’s immense pride could be shattered. He had none. Torture was old news to him. Oh, Ryoval. Have you ever got the wrong man.

Now, if Ryoval were half the psychologist he clearly imagined himself to be, he would have grabbed a few of Miles’s friends, to torment in front of him. That would work beautifully, on Miles. But not, of course, on him. He had no friends. Hell, Ryoval. I can think of worse things than you can.