something from the back of his brain, and you could come to a
complete stop . . . He banged the nearly full container back onto the shelf.
His eyes gave back a muted spark from the bathroom mirror.
"Grandfather is right. The only way to go down is fighting."
He returned to bed, to relive his moment of error on the wall in an endless loop until sleep relieved him of himself.
PDF Transform
PDF Transform
Y
Y
Y
er
Y
er
B
2
B
2
B
.0
B
.0
A
A
Click here to buy
Click here to buy
w
w
w
w
w .
w
A B B YY.com
.A B BYY.com
CHAPTER THREE
Miles was awakened in a dim grey light by a servant
apprehensively touching his shoulder.
"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?"
"The—y—your father requests you dress and join him downstairs
immediately." The man's tumbling tongue confirmed his fear.
It was the hour before dawn. Yellow lamps made small warm pools
within the library as Miles entered. The windows were blue-grey cold translucent rectangles, balanced on the cusp of night, neither
transmitting light from without nor reflecting it from within. His
father stood, half-dressed in uniform trousers, shirt, and slippers, talking in a grave undertone with two men. Their personal physician, and an aide in the uniform of the Imperial Residence. His father—
Count Vorkosigan?—looked up to meet his eyes.
"Grandfather, sir?" asked Miles softly.
The new Count nodded. "Very quietly, in his sleep, about two hours ago. He felt no pain, I think." His father's voice was low and clear, without tremor, but his face seemed more lined than usual, almost
furrowed. Set, expressionless; the determined commander. Situation
under control. Only his eyes, and only now and then, through a
passing trick of angle, held the look of some stricken and bewildered child. The eyes frightened Miles far more than the stern mouth.
Miles's own vision blurred, and he brushed the foolish water from
his eyes with the back of his hand in a brusque, angry swipe. "God damn it," he choked numbly. He had never felt smaller.
His father focused on him uncertainly. "I—" he began. "He's been hanging by a thread for months, you know that . . ."
PDF Transform
PDF Transform
Y
Y
Y
er
Y
er
B
2
B
2
B
.0
B
.0
A
A
Click here to buy
Click here to buy
w
w
w
w
w .
w
A B B YY.com
.A B BYY.com
And I cut that thread yesterday, Miles thought miserably. I'm
sorry. . . . But he said only, "Yes, sir."