The Warrior's Apprentice

When the time comes to leap in faith whether you have your eyes open or closed or scream all the way down or not makes no practical difference.

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?

I've got forward momentum. There's no virtue in it. It's just a balancing act. I don't dare stop.

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.

Hunting hawks did not belong in cages, no matter how much a man coveted their grace, no matter how golden the bars. They were far more beautiful soaring free. Heartbreakingly beautiful.

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

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.

There will be grace and forgiveness enough, old dog, even for you. I pray you will spare me a drink from that cup, when it overflows for you. - Miles Vorkosigan

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.

It's never too late while you're breathing.

Miles sat hunched in a battered armchair in a small private parlor overlooking the street side of the great old mansion, feet up, eyes closed. It was a seldom-used room; there was a good chance of being left alone to brood in peace. He had never come to a more complete halt, a drained blankness numb even to pain. So much passion expended for nothing—a lifetime of nothing stretching endlessly into the future—because of a split second’s stupid, angry self-consciousness . .

You know, if you're trying to take a roomful of people by surprise, it's a lot easier to hit your targets if you don't yell going through the door.

The days were a gray fog. Faces, familiar and unfamiliar, badgered him for directions, to which his reply was an invariable, laconic, “Suit yourself.” Elena would not talk to him at all. He was stirred to fear she was finding comfort in Baz’s arms. He watched her covertly, anxious. But she seemed not to be finding comfort anywhere. After

He watched his booted feet, dark and distant hillocks, waver before him as he was borne aloft. Feet first, it would have to be feet first. He barely felt the prick of the first IV in his arm. He heard Elena’s voice, raised tremblingly behind him. “All right you clowns! No more games. We’re going to win this one for Admiral Naismith!” Heroes. They sprang up around him like weeds. A carrier, he was seemingly unable to catch the disease he spread. “Damn it,” he moaned. “Damn it, damn it, damn it . . .” He repeated this litany like a mantra, until the medtech’s second sedative injection parted him from his pain, frustration, and consciousness.

I don’t believe in prolonging agonies,” said Oser. “Rather than watch you enspell the rest of my fleet man by man—while I still possess a fleet to offer—I understand the Dendarii Mercenaries are looking for recruits.” It

Not only was Ivan an idiot, but he generated a telepathic damping field that turned people nearby into idiots, too. He would point this out to Barrayaran Intelligence, who would make of his cousin the newest weapon in their arsenal—if

He barely managed not to choke it into free fall, atomized. Thick, green, herbal, sweet as syrup—he nearly gagged on the sweetness—perhaps sixty percent pure ethanol. But what was the rest of it? It burned down his esophagus, making him feel suddenly like an animated display of the digestive system, with all the different parts picked out in colored lights. Respectfully, he wiped the mouthpiece on his sleeve and handed the bottle to its owner, who tucked it back under his arm. “Thanks,” Miles gasped. Mayhew nodded. “So how,” Miles aspirated, then cleared his throat to a more normal tone, “what are you planning to do next? What are you demanding?

Miles nodded agreement in principle, even though he was inclined to include Ivan himself in the category of my God the company.

The bruised civilian interrupted, pointing at Elena. “Screw him! This woman assaulted me! There were a dozen witnesses. Damn it, I want her charged. She’s vicious.” Elena had her hands over her ears again, lower lip stuck out but trembling slightly. Miles began to get the picture. “Did you hit him?” She

Heroes. They sprang up around him like weeds. A carrier, he was seemingly unable to catch the disease he spread.

Miles paused at the door. “Ah—about Tav Calhoun—” “Yes?” “You know that janitor’s closet on the second level?” “Vaguely.” She looked at him in unease. “Please be sure somebody checks it tomorrow morning. But don’t go up there before then.” “I wouldn’t dream of it,” she assured him faintly.

Yes. A bloody serious one. Desertion in the heat of battle,” said Miles. “If he gets extradited home, the penalty’s quartering. Technically.” “That doesn’t sound so bad.” Hathaway shrugged. “He’s been quartered in my recycling center for two months. It could hardly be worse. What’s the problem?” “Quartering,” said Miles. “Uh—not domiciled. Cut in four pieces.” Hathaway stared, shocked. “But that would kill him!

Sorry things got so messy,” Miles apologized. “I realize how it must burn you to have your opponent blunder to victory. I’d have preferred something neater and more tactical myself, like Komarr, but I had to take the situation as I found it.” Tung snorted. “Who wouldn’t? Who do you think you are? Lord Vorkosigan?” Miles

Hunting hawks do not belong in cages, no matter how much a man covets their grace, no matter how golden the bars. They are far more beautiful soaring free. Heartbreakingly beautiful. He