"Sergeant Bothari didn't hesitate," Droushnakovi said flatly. "No," agreed Cordelia. "Sergeant Bothari doesn't waste energy feeling...sorry, for the enemy, either." "No. Do you?" "I feel sick." "You kill two total strangers, and expect to feel jolly?" "Bothari does." "Yes. Bothari enjoyed it. But Bothari is not, even by Barrayaran standards, a sane man. Do you aspire to be a monster?" "You call him that!" "Oh, but he's my monster. My good dog." She always had trouble explaining Bothari, sometimes even to herself. Cordelia wondered if Droushnakovi knew the Earth-historical origin of the term scapegoat. The sacrificial animal that was released yearly into the wilderness, to carry the sins of its community away...Bothari was surely her beast of burden; she saw clearly what he did for her. She was less certain of what she did for him, except that he seemed to find it desperately important. "I, for one, am glad you are heartsick. Two pathological killers in my service would be an excess. Treasure that nausea, Drou."
Barrayar, by Lois McMaster Bujold






















