The Warrior's Apprentice (Vorkosigan Saga, #2)

by Lois McMaster Bujold

Do you know, I shall be the first Count Vorkosigan to die in bed in nine generations?”

“Elena! I gather you came up from Vorkosigan Surleau with Mother last night. Come on in.” She perched near him on the arm of another chair. “Yes, she knows what a treat it is for me to come to the capital. I almost feel like she’s my mother, sometimes.” “Tell her that. It would please her.”

“Did he ask you about changing your name?” He stared. “What?” “To the usual patronymic. He’d been talking about, when you—oh.” She cut herself off, but Miles caught the full import of her half-revelation.

“There’s an officer no one disobeys. The Admiral’s Captain.”

“Oh, make no mistake—she’s strange by Betan standards, too.

Admiral Lord Aral Vorkosigan, Prime Minister of Barrayar in the service of Emperor Gregor Vorbarra, formerly Lord Regent of same, straightened his uniform jacket and cleared his throat.

in eighteen years of residence here, his own mother had never come to regard the Vor system as anything other than a planet-wide mass hallucination.

The remark triggered a painful memory. “Sir,” asked Miles hesitantly, “is that why you never made the bid for the Imperium that everyone was expecting? Because your heir was—” A vague gesture at his body silently implied the forbidden term, deformed.

“A lawyer?” Miles said, aghast. “You want me to be a lawyer? That’s as bad as being a tailor—” “Beg pardon?” asked Lord Vorkosigan, missing the connection. “Never mind. Something Grandfather said.”

“Lord Vorkosigan? Lord Vorkosigan?” the man murmured. Miles peered through slitted eyes, feeling thick with sleep, as though moving under water. What hour—and why was the idiot miscalling him by his father’s title? New, was he? No . . . Cold consciousness washed over him, and his stomach knotted, as the full significance of the man’s words penetrated. He sat up, head swimming, heart sinking. “What?”

Miles had thought his grandfather was the last of his generation. Not quite, it seemed, for the damnedest set of ancient creaking martinets and their crones, in black like flapping crows, came creeping from whatever woodwork they’d been lurking in. Miles, grimly polite, endured their shocked and pitying stares when introduced as Piotr Vorkosigan’s grandson, and their interminable reminiscences about people he’d never heard of, who’d died before he was born, and of whom—he sincerely hoped—he would never hear again.

yes, that’s Captain Illyan’s personal mark. I definitely don’t want to talk to him.” He quailed at the thought of accidentally summoning the attention of Barrayar’s Chief of Imperial Security.

Negri's protege

I wish I’d known more about this when I was a kid, I could have agitated for two birthdays, one when Mother had the cesarean, and one when they finally popped me out of the replicator.”

Captain Koudelka returned the smile with all his heart. The Count somehow managed to smile at her and frown menacingly at Miles at the same time. The Sergeant’s frown was democratically universal. The duty guard’s smirk broadened to a muffled snicker as they fled down the hall.

he treats every male that comes near me like a potential rapist anyway—he’ll

It was indeed Count Vorkosigan. He pinned his son with eyes cold and gray as a glacier on a sunless day, and began without preamble, “Miles, what did you do to make that girl cr—” He broke off as his gaze passed over Ivan, standing at attention like a man stuffed. Count Vorkosigan’s voice returned to a more normal growl. “Oh, hell. I was hoping to avoid tripping over you tonight. Figured you’d be getting safely drunk in a corner on my wine—”

“Going on fifty years of military and political service, and what am I? A boogey-man, used to frighten boys into good behavior—like the Baba Yaga, who only eats the bad little children.”

Not that anybody’s likely to tell me. Lord Miles Naismith Vorkosigan. Occupation: security risk. Hobbies: falling off walls, disappointing sick old men to death, making girls cry. . . .

“Frankly, I’d rather be getting drunk in a corner with that idiot Ivan—or talking to you.” His father’s eyes were warm upon him. “Your work comes first, of course, sir. I understand that.” Count Vorkosigan paused, and gave him a peculiar look. “Then you understand nothing. My work has been a blight on you from the very beginning. I’m sorry, sorry it made such a mess for you—”

“I’ll make you take back that apology! I am all right, damn it! I’ll make you see it. I’ll stuff you so full of pride in me there’ll be no room left for your precious guilt! I swear by my word as Vorkosigan. I swear it, Father”—his voice fell—“Grandfather. Somehow, I don’t know how . . .”

Permanent contraceptive implants, for the women and hermaphrodites. You need the permit to get it removed. It’s the custom, at puberty—a girl gets her implant, and her ears pierced, and her, er, um”—Miles discovered he was not immune to pinkness himself—he went on in a rush—“her hymen cut, all on the same visit to the doctor. There’s usually a family party—sort of a rite of passage. That’s how you can tell if a girl’s available, the ears . . .”

The affair had ended, for Miles, in a terrifying black depression that had deepened for weeks, culminating at last late one night in the third, and most secret, time the Sergeant had saved his life. He had cut Bothari twice, in their silent struggle for the knife, exerting hysterical strength against the Sergeant’s frightened caution of breaking his bones. The tall man had finally achieved a grip that held him, and held him, until he broke down at last, weeping his self-hatred into the Sergeant’s bloodied breast until exhaustion finally stilled him. The man who’d carried him as a child, before he first walked at age four, then carried him like a child to bed. Bothari treated his own wounds, and never referred to the incident again.

Typical Betan, thought Miles, they don’t study anybody’s history but Earth’s and their own.

“Do you know anything about the RG class freighters?” “Sure. I’ve worked a couple. Necklin drive. They’re all gone now, though.”

Convenient

“Thanks.” Miles smiled awkwardly, turned away, then turned back. “Uh—can we keep this between you and me? I mean, no need to mention it to my father?” An involuntary smile turned one corner of the Sergeant’s mouth. “Not if you pay me back,” he murmured blandly.

“Well, at least he’ll stop bouncing off the walls, and give us all a break,” said Mayhew cheerfully. “I’ve never seen anybody overrev on that stuff the way he did.” “Oh, was that liquor of yours a stimulant?” asked Elena. “I wondered why he didn’t fall asleep.” “Couldn’t you tell?” chuckled Mayhew. “Not really.” Miles twisted his head to take in Elena’s upside-down worried face, and smile in weak reassurance. Sparkly black-and-purple whirlpools clouded his vision. Mayhew’s laughter faded. “My God,” he said hollowly, “you mean he’s like that all the time?”

Lmao

“What if—” began Mayhew. He looked at Miles curiously. “What if they’d wanted, say, Sergeant Bothari instead of me? What would you have done then?” “Oh, I’d go in,” said Miles automatically, then paused. The air hung empty, waiting for explanation. “That’s different. The Sergeant is—is my liegeman.” “And I’m not?” asked Mayhew ironically. “The State Department will be relieved.” There was a silence. “I’m your liege lord,” replied Miles at last, soberly. “What you are is a question only you can answer.”

The expression on Bothari’s face disturbed Miles. The confidence was all right; it was the underlying air of anticipation that put knots in his guts.

Miles nearly bolted from the room, confounded by this spate of practical questions. He had been prepared for defiance, disbelief, a concerted unarmed rush. . . . He had a sudden maniac vision of Vorthalia the Bold demanding a whole-life policy from his emperor at sword’s point.

“You’re not a commander, you’re a bloody holovid director,” muttered Bothari.

“It’s not balanced on a hoax,” she said earnestly. “You balance it.” “Isn’t that what I said?” He laughed, shakily.

Elena was observing him anxiously. “What’s the matter, Miles? You don’t look happy. We won!” A true Vor, Miles told himself severely, does not bury his face in his liegewoman’s breasts and cry—even if he is at a convenient height for it.

“My mother was a real soldier, too. And I don’t think she ever failed to feel another’s pain. Not even her enemy’s.”

“The Count your father promised me,” Bothari raised his voice slightly to override him, “I’d be buried at your lady mother’s feet, at Vorkosigan Surleau. He promised. Didn’t he tell you?”

Yet here he sat, a man with an imaginary battle fleet negotiating for its services with a man with an imaginary budget. Well, the price was certainly right.

Great dark eyes, clean square line of jaw—her last name was Visconti, typically Escobaran. Her first name was Elena. “No,” whispered Miles to himself firmly. “Not possible.” He weakened. “Anyway, not likely . . .”

She picked her way in across strewn clothing, weapons, equipment, disconnected chargers, rations wrappers, and stared around, wrinkling her nose in dismay. “You know,” she said at last, “if you’re not going to pick this mess up yourself you ought to at least choose a new batman.” Miles stared around too. “It never occurred to me,” he said humbly. “I used to imagine I was a very neat person. Everything just put itself away, or so I thought. You wouldn’t mind?”

“They asked me to come. You haven’t been letting anyone else in, remember? They’ve been pestering me for days. They act like a bunch of ancient Christians asking the Virgin Mary to intercede with God.” A ghost of his old grin flitted across his mouth. “No, only with Jesus. God is back on Barrayar.”

“They do add up, it’s true. My grandfather carried nine generations on his back. My father carried ten. I carry eleven—and I swear that last one weighs more than all the rest put together. It’s a wonder I’m not squashed even shorter. I feel like I’m down to about half a meter right now. Soon I’ll disappear altogether.”

“I wasn’t thinking of your genetic risks. Mine. His. Your father must have known what he was—he’ll never accept—” “Look, anybody who can trace a blood relationship with Mad Emperor Yuri through two lines of descent has no room to criticize anybody else’s genes.” “Your father is loyal to his class, Miles, like your grandfather, like Lady Vorpatril—they could never accept me as Lady Vorkosigan.” “Then I’ll present them with an alternative. I’ll tell them I’m going to marry Bel Thorne. They’ll come around so fast they’ll trip over themselves.”

“I don’t know what I am anymore. Miles, you must believe me—I love you as I love breath—” His heart rocketed. “But I can’t be your annex.” And crashed. “I don’t understand.” “I don’t know how to put it plainer. You’d swallow me up the way an ocean swallows a bucket of water. I’d disappear in you. I love you, but I’m terrified of you, and of your future.”

“I know all about suicide. Don’t think you can fool me.”

“Damn it,” he mumbled apologetically, “things like this never happened to Vorthalia the Bold.” She raised a thoughtful eyebrow. “How do you know? The histories of those times were all written by minstrels and poets. You try and think of a word that rhymes with ‘bleeding ulcer.’

“Ivan, one of these days somebody is going to pull out a weapon and plug you, and you’re going to die in bewilderment, crying, ‘What did I say? What did I say?’ ” “What did I say?” asked Ivan indignantly.

<3

“If Barrayar were my right arm, I’d take a plasma arc and burn it off. Your father and mother knew what he was all the time, and yet they sheltered him. What are they, then?” “The Sergeant was doing all right—doing well, even, until . . . You were to be his expiation, don’t you see it—” “What, a sacrifice for his sins? Am I to form myself into the pattern of a perfect Barrayaran maiden like trying to work a magic spell for absolution? I could spend my whole life working out that ritual and not come to the end of it, damn it!” “Not the sacrifice,” he tried to tell her. “The altar, perhaps.”

“That’s the spirit! Forward momentum.” Mayhew snorted. “Your forward momentum is going to lead all your followers over a cliff someday.” He paused, beginning to grin. “On the way down, you’ll convince ’em all they can fly.” He stuck his fists in his armpits and waggled his elbows. “Lead on, my lord. I’m flapping as hard as I can.”

Count Vorkosigan’s eye fell on Ivan, and his face cleared to stunned exasperation. “Ivan, you idiot! Where have you been?” Ivan glanced at Miles and rose to the occasion, bowing toward the witness bench. “Admiral Hessman sent me to find Miles, sir. I did. Somehow, I don’t think that was what he really had in mind.”

Only on Barrayar, Miles reflected, would pulling a loaded needler start a stampede toward one.

“You do Simon Illyan an injustice to suspect him. He has served you all your life, and your grandfather before you.”

Truly, it began at a wall not one hundred kilometers outside Vobarr Sultana.