Table Of ContentThe Warrior’s Apprentice
by Lois McMaster Bujold
Version 1.1
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
The tall and dour non-com wore Imperial dress greens and carried his
communications panel like a field marshal’s baton. He slapped it absently
against his thigh and raked the group of young men before him with a gaze of
dry contempt. Challenging.
All part of the game, Miles told himself. He stood in the crisp autumn breeze
and tried not to shiver in his shorts and running shoes. Nothing to put you off
balance like being nearly naked when all about you look ready for one of
Emperor Gregor’s reviews although, in all fairness, the majority here were
dressed the same as himself. The non-com proctoring the tests merely seemed
like a one-man crowd. Miles measured him, wondering what conscious or
unconscious tricks of body language he used to achieve that air of icy
competence. Something to be learned there...
“You will run in pairs,” the non-com instructed. He did not seem to raise his
voice, but somehow it was pitched to carry to the ends of the lines. Another
effective trick, Miles thought; it reminded him of that habit of his father’s, of
dropping his voice to a whisper when speaking in a rage. It locked attention.
“The timing of the five kilometer run begins immediately upon completion of
the last phase of the obstacle course; remember it.” The non-com began counting
off pairs.
The eliminations for officers candidacy in the Barrayaran Imperial Military
Service took a gruelling week. Five days of written and oral examinations were
behind Miles now. The hardest part was over, everybody said. There was almost
an air of relaxation among the young men around him. There was more talking
and joking in the group, exaggerated complaints about the difficulty of the
exams, the withering wit of the examining officers, the poor food, interrupted
sleep, surprise distractions during the testing. Self-congratulatory complaints,
these, among the survivors. They looked forward to the physical tests as a game.
Recess, perhaps. The hardest part was over—for everyone but Miles.
He stood to his full height, such as it was, and stretched, as if to pull his
crooked spine out straight by force of will. He gave a little upward jerk of his
chin, as if balancing his too-large head, a head meant for a man over six feet, on
his just-under-five-foot frame, and narrowed his eyes at the obstacle course. It
began with a concrete wall, five meters high, topped with iron spikes. Climbing
it would be no problem, there was nothing wrong with his muscles, it was the
coming down that worried him. The bones, always the damn bones...
“Kosigan, Kostolitz,” the non-com called, passing in front of him. Miles’s
brows snapped down and he gave the non-com a sharp upward glance, then
controlled his gaze to a blank straightness. The omission of the honorific before
his name was policy, not insult. All classes stood equal in the Emperor’s service
now. A good policy. His own father endorsed it.
Grandfather bitched, to be sure, but that unreconstructed old man had begun his
Imperial service when its principle arm was horse cavalry and each officer
trained his own military apprentices. To have addressed him in those days as
Kosigan, without the Vor, might have resulted in a duel. Now his grandson
sought entrance to a military academy, off planet style, and training in the tactics
of energy weapons, wormhole exits, and planetary defense. And stood shoulder
to shoulder with boys who would not have been permitted to polish his sword in
the old days.
Not quite shoulder to shoulder, Miles reflected dryly, stealing a sidelong glance
up at the candidates on either side of him. The one he had been paired with for
the obstacle course, what’s his name, Kostolitz, caught the glance and looked
back down with ill-concealed curiosity. Miles’s eye level gave him a fine
opportunity to study the fellow’s excellent biceps. The non-com signalled fall
out for those not running the obstacle course immediately. Miles and his
companion sat on the ground.
“I’ve been seeing you around all week,” offered Kostolitz. “What the hell is
that thing on your leg?”
Miles controlled his irritation with the ease of long practice. God knew he did
stand out in a crowd, particularly this crowd. At least Kostolitz did not make hex
signs at him, like a certain decrepit old countrywoman down at Vorkosigan
Surleau. In some of the more remote and undeveloped regions on Barrayar, like
deep in the Dendarii Mountains in the Vorkosigans’ own district, infanticide was
still practiced for defects as mild as a harelip, despite sporadic efforts from the
more enlightened centers of authority to stamp it out. He glanced down at the
pair of gleaming metal rods paralleling his left leg between knee and ankle that
had remained secretly beneath his trouser leg until this day.
“Leg brace,” he replied, polite but unencouraging.
Kostolitz continued to stare. “What for?”
“Temporary. I have a couple of brittle bones there. Keeps me from breaking
them, until the surgeon’s quite sure I’m done growing. Then I get them replaced
with synthetics.”
“That’s weird,” commented Kostolitz. “Is it a disease, or what?” Under the
guise of shifting his weight, he moved just slightly farther from Miles.
Unclean, unclean, thought Miles wildly; should I ring a bell? I ought to tell him
it’s contagious—I was six-footfour this time last year... He sighed away the
temptation. “My mother was exposed to a poison gas when she was pregnant
with me. She pulled through all right, but it wrecked my bone growth.”
“Huh. Didn’t they give you any medical treatment?”
“Oh, sure. I’ve had an Inquisition’s worth. That’s why
I can walk around today, instead of being carried in a bucket.”
Kostolitz looked mildly revolted, but stopped trying to sidle subtly upwind.
“How did you ever get past the medicals? I thought there was a minimum height
rule.”
“It was waived, pending my test results.”
“Oh.” Kostolitz digested this.
Miles returned his attention to the test ahead. He should be able to pick up
some time on that belly-crawl under the laser fire; good, he would need it on the
five kilometer run. Lack of height, and a permanent limp from a left leg shorter,
after more fractures than he could remember, by a good four centimeters than his
right, would slow him down. No help for it. Tomorrow would be better;
tomorrow was the endurance phase. The herd of long-legged gangling boys
around him could unquestionably beat him on the sprint. He fully expected to be
anchor man on the first 25 kilometer leg tomorrow, probably the second as well,
but after 75 kilometers most would be flagging as the real pain mounted. I am a
professional of pain, Kostolitz, he thought to his rival. Tomorrow, after about
kilometer 100, I’ll ask you to repeat those questions of yours—if you have the
breath to spare....
Bloody hell, let’s pay attention to business, not this dink. A five meter drop—
perhaps it would be better to go around, take a zero on that part. But his overall
score was bound to be relatively poor. He hated to part with a single point
unnecessarily, and at the very beginning, too. He was going to need every one of
them. Skipping the wall would cut into his narrow safety margin—
“You really expect to pass the physicals?” asked Kostolitz, looking around. “I
mean, above the 50th percentile?”
“No.”
Kostolitz looked baffled. “Then what the hell’s the point?” “I don’t have to
pass it; just make something near a decent score.”
Kostolitz’s eyebrows rose. “Whose ass do you have to kiss to get a deal like
that? Gregor Vorbarra’s?”
There was an undercurrent of incipient jealousy in his tone, class-conscious
suspicion. Miles’s jaw clamped. Let us not bring up the subject of fathers...
“How do you plan to get in without passing?” Kostolitz persisted, eyes
narrowing. His nostrils flared at the scent of privilege, like an animal alert for
blood.
Practice politics, Miles told himself. That too should be in your blood, like war.
“I petitioned,” Miles explained patiently, “to have my scores averaged instead of
taken separately. I expect my writtens to bring up my physicals.”
“That far up? You’d need a damn near perfect score!”
“That’s right,” Miles snarled.
“Kosigan, Kostolitz,” another uniformed proctor called. They entered the
starting area.
“It’s a little hard on me, you know,” Kostolitz complained.
“Why? It hasn’t got a thing to do with you. None of your business at all,” Miles
added pointedly.
“We’re put in pairs to pace each other. How will I know how I’m doing?”
“Oh, don’t feel you have to keep up with me,” Miles purred.
Kostolitz’s brows lowered with annoyance.
They were chivvied into place. Miles glanced across the parade ground at a
distant knot of men waiting and watching; a few military relatives, and the
liveried retainers of the handful of Counts’ sons present today. There was a pair
of hard-looking men in the blue and gold of the Vorpatrils’; his cousin Ivan must
be around here somewhere.
And there was Bothari, tall as a mountain and lean as a knife, in the brown and
silver of the Vorkosigans. Miles raised his chin in a barely perceptible salute.
Bothari, 100 meters away, caught the gesture and changed his stance from at
ease to a silent parade rest in acknowledgment.
A couple of testing officers, the non-com, and a pair of proctors from the
course were huddled together at a distance. Some gesticulations, a look in
Miles’s direction; a debate, it seemed. It concluded. The proctors returned to
their stations, one of the officers started the next pair of boys over the course,
and the non-com approached Miles and his companion. He looked uneasy. Miles
schooled his features to cool attention.
“Kosigan,” the non-com began, voice carefully neutral. “You’re going to have
to take off the leg brace. Artificial aids not permitted for the test.”
A dozen counter-arguments sprang up in Miles’s mind. He tightened his lips on
them. This non-com was in a sense his commanding officer; Miles knew for
certain that more than physical performance was being evaluated today. “Yes,
sir.” The non-com looked faintly relieved.
“May I give it to my man?” asked Miles. He threatened the non-com with his
eyes—if not, I’m going to stick you with it, and you’ll have to cart it around the
rest of the day—see how conspicuous it makes you feel...
“Certainly, sir,” said the non-com. The “sir” was a slip; the non-com knew who
he was, of course. A small wolfish smile slid across Miles’s mouth, and
vanished. Miles gave Bothari a high sign, and the liveried bodyguard trotted over
obediently. “You may not converse with him,” the non-com warned.
“Yes, sir,” acknowledged Miles. He sat on the ground and undipped the much-
loathed apparatus. Good; a kilo less to carry. He tossed it up to Bothari, who
caught it one-handed, and squirmed back to his feet. Bothari, correctly, offered
him no hand up.
Seeing his bodyguard and the non-com together, the non-com suddenly
bothered Miles less. The proctor looked shorter, somehow, and younger; even a
little soft. Bothari was taller, leaner, much older, a lot uglier, and considerably
meaner-looking. But then, Bothari had been a non-com himself when this
proctor had been a toddler.
Narrow jaw, hooked beak of a nose, eyes of a nondescript color set too close
together; Miles looked up at his liveried retainer’s face with a loving pride of
possession. He glanced toward the obstacle course and let his eyes pass over
Bothari’s. Bothari glanced at it too, pursed his lips, tucked the brace firmly under
his arm, and gave a slight shake of his head directed, apparently, at the middle
distance. Miles’s mouth twitched. Bothari sighed, and trotted back to the waiting
area.
So Bothari advised caution. But then, Bothari’s job was to keep him intact, not
advance his career—no, unfair, Miles chided himself. No one had been of more
service in the preparations for this frantic week than Bothari. He’d spent endless
time on training, pushing Miles’s body to its too-soon-found limits, unflaggingly
devoted to his charge’s passionate obsession. My first command, thought Miles.
My private army.
Kostolitz stared after Bothari. He identified the livery at last, it seemed, for he
looked back at Miles in startled illumination.
“So, that’s who you are,” he said, with a jealous awe. “No wonder you got a
deal on the tests.”
Miles smiled tightly at the implied insult. The tension crawled up his back. He
groped for some suitably scathing retort, but they were being motioned to the
starting mark.
Kostolitz’s deductive faculty crunched on, it seemed, for he added sardonically,
“And so that’s why the Lord Regent never made the bid for the Imperium!”
“Time mark,” said the proctor, “now!”
And they were off. Kostolitz sprinted ahead of Miles instantly. You’d better
run, you witless bastard, because if I can catch you, I’m going to kill you—Miles
galloped after him, feeling like a cow in a horse race.
The wall, the bloody wall—Kostolitz was grunting halfway up it when Miles
arrived. At least he could show this working-class hero how to climb. He
swarmed up it as if the tiny toe and finger holds were great steps, his muscles
powered—over-powered—by his fury. To his satisfaction, he reached the top
ahead of Kostolitz. He looked down, and stopped abruptly, perched gingerly
among the spikes.
The proctor was watching closely. Kostolitz caught up with Miles, his face
suffused with effort. “A Vor, scared of heights?” Kostolitz gasped, with a
grinning glare over his shoulder. He flung himself off, hit the sand with an
authoritative impact, recovered his balance, and dashed off.
Precious seconds would be wasted climbing down like some arthritic little old
lady—perhaps if he hit the ground rolling—the proctor was staring—Kostolitz
had already reached the next obstacle—Miles jumped.
Time seemed to stretch itself, as he plummeted toward the sand, especially to
allow him the full sick savor of his mistake. He hit the sand with the familiar
shattering crack.
And sat, blinking stupidly at the pain. He would not cry out—at least, the
detached observer in the back of his brain commented sardonically, you can’t
blame it on the brace—this time you’ve managed to break both of them.
His legs began to swell and discolor, mottled white and flushed. He pulled
himself along until they were stretched out straight, and bent over a moment,
hiding his face in his knees. Face buried, he permitted himself one silent rictus
scream. He did not swear. The vilest terms he knew seemed wholly inadequate
to the occasion.
The proctor, awakening to the fact that he was not going to stand up, started
toward him. Miles pulled himself across the sand, out of the path of the next pair
of candidates, and waited patiently for Bothari.
He had all the time in the world, now.
Miles decided he definitely didn’t like the new antigrav crutches, even though
they were worn invisibly inside his clothing. They gave his walk a slithery
uncertainty that made him feel spastic. He would have preferred a good old-
fashioned stick, or better yet a swordstick like Captain Koudelka’s that one could
drive into the ground with a satisfying thunk at each step, as if spearing some
suitable enemy—Kostolitz, for example. He paused to gather his balance before
tackling the steps to Vorkosigan House.
Minute particles in their worn granite scintillated warmly in the autumn
morning light, in spite of the industrial haze that hung over the capital city of
Vorbarr Sultana. A racket from farther down the street marked where a similar
mansion was being demolished to make way for a modern building. Miles
glanced up to the high-rise directly across the street; a figure moved against the
roofline. The battlements had changed, but the watchful soldiers still stalked
along them.
Bothari, looming silently beside him, bent suddenly to retrieve a lost coin from
the walkway. He placed it carefully in his left pocket. The dedicated pocket.
One corner of Miles’s mouth lifted, and his eyes warmed with amusement.
“Still the dowry?”
“Of course,” said Bothari serenely. His voice was deep bass, monotonous in
cadence. One had to know him a long time to interpret its expressionlessness.
