Daryl is too miserably dizzy to reject her offers this time. It's been hours, and he's exhausted and queasy. The bowl smells awful, of course it does, and he wretches into it pathetically. It's over quickly-- there isn't much in his stomach-- and he sets into a series of cold shivers. Christ, what a waste he is.

"Barrayaran," Daryl says, except without half so many vowels. Baryarn. She'll know what he means. "Little'n. Prick."