"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 noncom, 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 noncom
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approached Miles and his companion. He looked uneasy. Miles
schooled his features to cool attention.
"Kosigan," the noncom 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 noncom was in a sense his
commanding officer; Miles knew for certain that more than physical
performance was being evaluated today. "Yes, sir." The noncom looked faintly relieved.
"May I give it to my man?" asked Miles. He threatened the noncom 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 noncom. 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 noncom warned.
"Yes, sir," acknowledged Miles. He sat on the ground and
unclipped 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.