Ученик воина

Вещи человека - это нечто вроде внешней оболочки его разума, наподобие раковины моллюска.

.... я всегда считала, что ..... испытания - это дар. А великие испытания - великий дар. Не выдержать испытания - это несчастье. Но отказаться от него - значит отказаться от дара. А это хуже, более непоправимо, чем несчастье.

.... уйти ради одного только покоя - значит расстаться с последней надеждой сохранить честь. Окончательное поражение, без единой крупицы будущей победы.

Честь не уменьшится, если ее разделить.

— Это всего лишь сотрясение мозга, — прокомментировал Форкосиган без всякого сочувствия. — Прогулка пойдет вам на пользу.
— Далеко идти? — выдохнула она.
— Около двухсот километров.

Miles exhaled carefully, faint with rage and reminded grief. He does not know, he told himself. He cannot know... "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.

He took up the control lead of the float pallet, and lowered the oblong box, waiting patiently all this time, into its rest. Bothari had always waited patiently for him.

"Mother," said Miles, "calls it my great gift. Tests are a gift, she says, and great tests are a great gift. Of course," he added thoughtfully, "it's widely agreed my mother is a bit strange …"

Ivan snickered. "By God, Miles, you've made a profit. I think you're the first Vorkosigan to do so in five generations. Must be that bad Betan blood."

Truth is what you make it…

His fruit drink seemed to slosh, viscous and nasty, on the roof of his stomach. Damn null-gee. He'd better wind this up. A mercenary Admiral didn't need a reputation for space sickness to go with his more obvious disabilities. Miles wondered briefly how many key command decisions in history had been flicked out in the compelling urgency of some like biological necessity.

"Glad you made it, my lord."
Miles slid into a station chair. "Me too. But please—just 'Mr. Naismith'. No 'my lord'."
Auson looked puzzled. "The others all call you that."
"Yes, but, um—it's not just a courtesy. It denotes a specific legal relationship. You wouldn't call me 'my husband' even if you heard my wife do so, eh?"

"As my lady's dog. Blood washes away sin. She swore it to me …" He trailed off, gaze never leaving the depths. Presently, the flask slipped from his fingers, and he began to snore. Miles sat cross-legged, watching over him, a small figure in his underwear against the black immensity, and very far from home.

"Of course. But please don't murder my engineer. I need him. All right?"
"Damn techs. Always coddled."

Miles gazed around the crystal chamber, gorgeous in the sparked darkness. Superb spot for a nuzzle, and more. But those long white hands were down at the infirmary, probably laying cold compresses or something on Baz's brow. While he sat here getting drunk with the ugliest man in the system. What a waste.

Bothari lingered to go over the arrangements for keeping the horde of new prisoners secure with the overworked patrol assigned to that detail. Never had Miles seen a man wish more passionately to be twins; he half-expected Bothari to go into mitosis on the spot.

A true Vor, Miles told himself severely, does not bury his face in his leigewoman's breasts and cry—even if he is at a convenient height for it.

Auson mouthed the words: my ship … He found his voice. "My ship! The finest technology Illyrica will sell, and you want to use it for a frigging medieval battering ram? Shall we boil some oil and fling it at 'em, while we're at it? Throw a few rocks?" His voice went up an octave, and cracked.

And more quietly, her gloved hand tightening on his arm for emphasis, "Thank you, Miles—for the honor." She had not quite mastered the touch of the servos, and mashed his flesh to the bone. Miles, who would not have moved to destroy the moment if she'd accidentally torn his arm off, smiled back with no more than a blink of pain. God, what have I done? he thought. She looks like a valkyrie….

Miles looked up into the precious, ugly face of his personal killer. Bothari compressed his lips, and sighed.