Because if m'lord died on Roic's watch, there would be nothing for it but to file the testimony by secured comlink and slit his own throat right here.  Death would be better than making that report to certain persons in person.  He pictured the faces of Count and Countess Vorkosigan, of Lady Ekaterin, hearing the news.  Of Commander Pym, of Aurie.  He imagined Sasha and little Helen, five years old—he'd have to kneel to look them in the eye—Where's Papa, Roic?

He lacked a suitable blade.  He'd heard of prisoners choking themselves by swallowing their own tongues—he curled his experimentally—but he doubted it would work for him.  There was the wall.  Strong enough to hold that damned bolt, certainly.  Could he run against that wall hard enough to break his own sturdy neck?

It seemed premature, but it was something to keep in mind.  M'lord, now, he was very big on getting a good meal on board before making life-or-death decisions, and so was m'lady, come to think.  Roic sighed, crawled over, and collected his Reddi-Meal.

#

Miles woke in a blink to broad daylight, a canvas roof, and a curious feline face staring into his from a cat's breath away.  Glad to discover the weight on his chest was not some alarming new medical condition, he lifted the three-legged beast off and gingerly sat up.  Post-drug headache, check.  Fatigue, check.  No screaming angels, double-check and an exclamation point or two.  His vision seemed clear of all unrealities, and his surroundings, though odd, were not out of any nightmare he owned.

He pushed his blanket aside and looked around the rooftop refuge.  All of the castle-like details had faded, to be replaced by a utilitarian flat quadrangle with a couple of exchanger towers supporting the canvas room.  Or barn.  Or zoo.  In addition to the bird of prey on its perch, elegant and haughty and clearly the Vor lord of all it surveyed, some battered metal shelving displayed the cages harboring the black-and-white rat collection, along with several glass-walled terrariums.  Though most of their occupants were out of sight behind artfully-arranged vegetation, he was fairly sure he saw a turtle.  Along the wall opposite his bedroll, three boxes lined with shredded flimsies made nests for the chicken population; Twig, the brown hen, still dozed in hers.  Miles eyed the clothesline still tied around his ankle.  Have I been collected?  He'd known worse fates.

And here was his zookeeper.  Jin, sitting at the little round table, turned around and smiled at him.  "Oh good, you're awake!"