"Yes, that's all," agrees Ivan as blandly as he can with a nerve disruptor in his pocket.

The luggage is trundled away.

"Will we get it all back?" Ivan wonders.

Miles observes that no one else here seems to be able to read the loudly flashing signage in Ivan's manner and posture. That's convenient.

"Eventually," says Vorob'yev, signalling two of his guards to accompany the luggage as the first Cetagandan bears it away. "After some delays, if things run true to form. Did you gentlemen have a good trip?"

"Entirely uneventful," Miles says swiftly, heading off any possible attempt by Ivan to interject extraneous truths into the conversation. "Until we got here. Is this a usual docking port for Barrayaran visitors, or were we redirected for some other reason?"

The remaining Cetagandan produces no detectable response to this question, and Miles is certainly detecting as hard as he can. Hmm. Inconclusive.

"Sending us through the service entrance is just a little game the Cetagandans play with us, to reaffirm our status," says Vorob'yev with a thin smile. "You are correct, it is a studied insult, designed to distract our minds. I stopped allowing it to distract me some years ago, and I recommend you do the same."

No response from the Cetagandan to this frank speech, either. Miles conceives of the hypothesis that these expressionless fellows are meant to act and be treated like mobile statuary, since that is approximately how Vorob'yev seems to think of the man and he certainly isn't offering any evidence to the contrary - in which case, a reaction would be very telling, but the absence of one is virtually meaningless.

"Thank you, sir. I'll take your advice," he says. "Uh... were you delayed too? We were. They cleared us to dock once and then sent us back out to cool."

"The runaround today seems particularly ornate. Consider yourselves honoured, my lords," says Vorob'yev. He turns to lead them out of the freight bay with a smooth, "Come this way, please."

Miles returns him a slight shake of the head - at this point, it is most prudent to wait. Or at least, most informative...

Onward they go, the five Barrayarans - Miles, Ivan, two guards, and Vorob'yev - trailing the Cetagandan stationer like four green ducklings and a wine-and-black cygnet all in line behind the mauve-and-grey mama duck.

The Barrayaran embassy's local planetary shuttle is docked at a proper passenger lock with a VIP lounge, none of this freight bay business; the Cetagandan stationer deposits them there and leaves. A guard serves drinks at the comfortably seated lounge table - Vorob'yev chooses the wine and Miles politely accepts some, although he sips as minimally as etiquette will allow and pays equally minimal attention to the ensuing small talk.

He ignores them all, thoroughly occupied with his meditations on the subject of Cetagandan security.

Why has no one come calling - even if not to meet them at the gate, then at least on the way here, or while they sit and drink and chat - to ask them sternly worded questions and demand the return of their captured goods?

Possibility one: A setup of some kind; even as Miles waits for the Cetagandans to pounce, they are waiting for him to - what? He's not sure, but Cetagandans being Cetagandans, this scenario seems likely.

Possibility two: A matter of timing. The fugitive is not yet captured, or if captured not yet interrogated, or if interrogated not yet subjected to any line of questioning that would lead him to mention his Barrayaran surprise. If indeed he is a fugitive at all. If indeed anyone knew he was there... Miles gazes contemplatively into his wine, and has a mouthful so as to make at least a pretense of keeping up with the other two.

Just as Vorob'yev finishes his glass - a matter of experienced planning on his part, Miles judges - their luggage arrives with its escort. Vorob'yev departs the table to see it stowed in the shuttle. Miles braces mentally for incoming Ivan, now that the two of them are alone and relatively unobserved.

And indeed:

"Aren't you going to tell him about it?" pleads Ivan.

"I'm... not sure," he admits. "Yet."

He meant to be up to just the sort of thing that plays to his natural talents - verbal fencing with miscellaneous authority figures, the Cetagandans trying to extract the day's prizes from him while he in turn tries to extract from them whatever information he can get them to deliberately or inadvertently divulge, on this or other topics. He considers it hardly his fault that the Cetagandans are inexplicably failing to come after him in the first place.

And pictured in Fig. 1, we have the reason Ivan does not work for ImpSec...

"Of course they know. Just like we know who's really who at the Cetagandan embassy in Vorbarr Sultana. It's a polite legal fiction. Don't worry, I'll see to it."

Not without considerable regret, because of course Vorreedi isn't going to share any results with a mere unnoteworthy courier whose family happens to be important, and of course Miles can't breathe a word of his actual accomplishments to sway that decision because all the good ones are staggeringly classified.

Not a moment too soon, because there's Vorob'yev, here to affirm the integrity of their luggage and get them strapped into their shuttle seats for departure.

"And that's that, my lords. Nothing taken from your possessions, nothing added. Welcome to Eta Ceta Four. There are no official ceremonies requiring your presence today, but if you're not too tired from your journey, the Marilacan Embassy is hosting an informal reception tonight for the legation committee and all its august visitors. I recommend it to your attention."

"Recommend?" says Miles alertly. Anyone who has done as good a job as Vorob'yev at something as delicate as ambassador to Cetaganda has, in Miles's view, a recommendation of exceptional weight.

"You'll be seeing a lot of these people over the next two weeks. It should provide a useful orientation," Vorob'yev elaborates.

"Undress greens, please," says Vorob'yev. "Clothing is a cultural language everywhere, to be sure, but here it's practically a secret code. It is difficult enough to move among the ghem-lords without committing some defined error, and among the haut-lords it's nearly impossible. Uniforms are always correct, or, if not exactly correct, clearly not the wearer's fault, since he has no choice. I'll have my protocol office give you a list of which uniforms you are to wear at each event."

Miles is very pleased with this development. No fussing around with outfits, just a nice tidy list, consisting wholly of things he's absolutely certain to have brought. Given the proportions of their respective luggage, though, he suspects Ivan may have a different outlook.

The shuttle makes undocking noises, much fainter than those of the smaller personnel pod, and proceeds away from the station without a peep from Cetagandan security.

So. Since he strongly doubts that the Cetagandan authorities would extend their subtle head games into allowing the Barrayarans to depart their customs station carrying stolen lethal weaponry, Miles can rule out all scenarios in which the fugitive has been caught and the tale of their adventure extracted from him. This leaves not caught at all, or caught and badly mishandled, his movements left untraced, his vandalism of the freight bay's vid pickups undetected. Of those two, the first is likelier. Therefore, the only people who know about their encounter are Miles, Ivan, their pod pilot - who has very ostentatiously washed his hands of the whole business and won't be setting foot dirtside anyway - and the fugitive himself.

Therefore, if the mystery man wants his widget back, he'll have to find Miles. Which should not be at all difficult. And then... well, whatever happens, it's bound to be interesting. A practical exercise suitable for a fresh young intelligence officer looking to deemphasize the 'fresh'. He wonders if there might not be some way to coax Vorreedi into giving him a crack at the puzzle.