Risk, or security? In the few months since Miles had at last acquired a full range of motion, she'd run on panicked overdrive, trying to save him from physical harm; he'd spent the same time near-frantically trying to escape her supervision. Much more of this struggle, and either she'd be insane, or he would.
If she could not keep him safe, perhaps the next best thing was to teach him competence at living dangerously. He was almost undrownable already. His big grey eyes were radiating a desperate, silent plea at her, Let me, let me, let me . . . with enough transmission energy to burn through steel. I would fight the world for you, but I'm damned if I can figure out how to save you from yourself. Go for it, kid.
"Yes," she said. "If the sergeant accompanies you."
Bothari shot her a look of horrified reproach. Aral rubbed his chin, his eyes alight. Piotr looked utterly taken aback to have his bluff called.
"Good," said Miles. "Can I have my own horse? Can I have that one?"
"No, not that one," said Piotr indignantly. Then drawn in, added, "Perhaps a pony."
"Horse," said Miles, watching his face.
Cordelia recognized the Instant Re-Negotiation Mode, a spinal reflex, as far as she could tell, triggered by the faintest concession. The kid should be put to work beating out treaties with the Cetagandans. She wondered how many horses he'd finally end up with. "A pony," she put in, giving Piotr the support that he did not yet recognize how badly he was going to need. "A gentle pony. A gentle short pony."
Piotr pursed his lips, and gave her a challenging look. "Perhaps you can work up to a horse," he said to Miles. "Earn it, by learning well."
"Can I start now?"
"You have to get your arm set first," said Cordelia firmly.
"I don't have to wait till it heals, do I?"
"It will teach you not to run around breaking things!"
Piotr regarded Cordelia through half-lidded eyes. "Actually, proper dressage training starts on a lunge line. You aren't permitted to use your arms till you've developed your seat."
"Yeah?" said Miles, hanging worshipfully on his words. "What else—?"
By the time Cordelia withdrew to hunt up the personal physician who accompanied the Lord Regent's traveling circus, ah, entourage, Piotr had recaptured his horse—rather efficiently, though Cordelia wondered if the sugar in his pockets was cheating—and was already explaining to Miles how to make a simple line into an effective halter, which side of the beast to stand on, and what direction to face while leading. The boy, barely waist-high to the old man, was taking it in like a sponge, upturned face passionately intent.
"Want to lay a side-bet, who's leading who on that lunge line by the end of the week?" Aral murmured in her ear.
"No contest. I must say, the months Miles spent immobilized in that dreadful spinal brace did teach him how to do charm. The most efficient long-term way to control those about you, and thus exert your will. I'm glad he didn't decide to perfect whining as a strategy. He's the most willful little monster I've ever encountered, but he makes you not notice."
"I don't think the Count has a chance," Aral agreed.
She smiled at the vision, then glanced at him more seriously. "When my father was home on leave one time from the Betan Astronomical Survey, we made model gliders together. Two things were required to get them to fly. First we had to give them a running start. Then we had to let them go." She sighed. "Learning just when to let go was the hardest part."
Piotr, his horse, Bothari, and Miles turned out of sight into the barn. By his gestures, Miles was asking questions at a rapid-fire rate.
Aral gripped her hand as they turned to go up the hill. "I believe he'll soar high, dear Captain."
Lois McMaster Bujold, Barrayar
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