The Marilacan embassy is, Vorob'yev says, to be regarded as neutral yet non-secured territory - they can enjoy themselves, among fellow offworlders and some ghem-lords. Vorob'yev entertains them - so to speak - on the way by remarking on the Marilacan strategic situation; they've apparently been taking lots of help from Ceteganda, are ignoring their womhole maps and don't think Cetaganda would ever backstab them and blah blah. There is also more fascinating gossip about suicides with... "uncooperative principals", but not much of it; the topic soon drifts to the fact that the party may yield gossip that they should report to Vorreedi when he's back. Along with certain other things they should report to Vorreedi.
"Try not to give away more than you gain," Vorob'yev says.
"Well, I'm safe," remarks Ivan. "I don't know anything." A position of safety he'd dearly like to be able to cultivate more, coz, hint hint.
The Marilacan embassy is pretty, and scans their guests; Ivan does at least know enough to have left the nerve disruptor behind. There's an art project - Ivan doesn't rightly know what sort of thing to call it; a sculpture? With a water feature? And flying colorful flakes? The Marilacan ambassador, Berneaux, says it's called Autumn Leaves, anyway, so it's an Autumn Leaves - and then both lieutenants are shooed. The hors d'oeuvres are excellent. There is wine. Ivan can at this point get rid of his cousin and see if there are any ladies who could benefit from his company about.
Oh now there is one.
Ivan sets about charming the probably-at-least-an-eighth-haut ghem-lady as best he knows how. Mutants on purpose may be mutants still but pretty on purpose is pretty still likewise. He knows tact, at least with girls. He gets her (Lady Gelle) to laugh. Miles is wandering back in his direction again, but whatever, Miles probably isn't going to compete with him for elbow room here.
Then they're approached by some ghem-lord, Yenaro apparently, who mercifully doesn't seem to be related to or involved with the girl, and indeed obliquely congratulates her on having located "galactic exotics". Good, Ivan has been trading on the right characteristic with her so far. Gelle introduces Ivan, and prompts Ivan to introduce Miles, to Yenaro. They talk ancient history, grandfathers and who's at fault for events of the war - apparently they call it the Barrayaran War here.
Gelle kindly diverts the subject to the art piece, which is Yenaro's handiwork. He insults her stylistic choices and Ivan takes the opening to compliment her; if she's looking for sophisticated Cetegandan taste over appreciative galactic obliviousness Ivan can't help her, but he can show off the latter to best effect in case it'll sell. Yenaro chooses this occasion to tell the lady that Ivan was born in the usual - well, the normal, anyway - fashion. Her revulsion is disheartening, although she seems to find Yenaro's behavior at least as obnoxious as she finds childbirth grotesque. Either way, the combination of the two sends her skating off into the crowd.
Yenaro fumbles and then coaxes them into touring the interior of his sculpture. Miles breaks off, but Ivan goes ahead and has a look, no use holding a grudge at the man for dissuading exactly one girl, however pretty she was. Miles is apparently more interested in talking to the forty-standard lady Vorob'yev has on his arm.
"There you are, Lord Vorkosigan," says Vorob'yev. "I've promised to introduce you. This is Mia Maz, who works for our good friends at the Vervani Embassy, and who has helped her out from time to time. I recommend her to you."
Yes, there's that word again. Miles gives the Vervani woman a smile and a bow. "Pleased to meet you," he says sincerely. "And what do you do at the Vervani Embassy, ma'am?"
"So start one without experience," is the first thing that pops into Miles's head, "and let her gain it. Would Milady Maz consider taking on an apprentice?"
"Now there's an idea," says Vorob'yev, trailing off on the thought and then refocusing and turning to his companion. "Maz, we should discuss this, but I must speak to Wilstar, whom I see just hitting the buffet over there. If I'm lucky, I can catch him with his mouth full. Excuse me."
Away goes Vorob'yev, leaving Miles and Mia to each other.
"Don't make that offer to Ivan," Miles jokingly advises, with a nod over the railing to point out his cousin still touring Yenaro's miniature mountain. "He might take you up on it personally."
"So are, uh... ghem-ladies really so different from ghem-lords as to make a full-time study? I admit, most Barrayarans' views of the ghem-lords have been through range-finders." And their views of ghem-ladies have been so limited that even the word itself flows less naturally from Miles's brain. Hm.
"Two years ago, I would have scorned that militaristic view. Since the Cetagandan invasion attempt we've come to appreciate it. Actually, the ghem-lords are so much like the Vor, I'd think you'd find them more comprehensible than we Vervani do. The haut-lords are... something else. And the haut-ladies are even more something else, I've begun to realize."
"The haut-lords' women are so thoroughly sequestered... do they ever do anything?" he asks, immersing himself in the topic at hand. "I mean, nobody ever sees them, do they? They have no power." As far as he knows, which is admittedly not far at all.
"To inferiors," says Miles, having perhaps not immersed himself as well as he meant. But the haut are - well, haughty, even more so than the Cetagandan baseline.
Possibly the best chance he'll get tonight, perhaps the best chance available at all, to find out more about the mysterious screaming bird. If she has the appropriate knowledge base, or knows who does.
"Are you well-up on ghem- and haut-lord seals, crests, marks, that sort of thing? I can recognize about fifty clan-marks by sight, and all the military insignia and corps crests, of course, but I know that just scraches the surface."
"Do you know this icon? I ran across it... well, in an odd place. But it smells ghemish, or hautish, if you know what I mean."
"How can you tell?" he asks, eager for any light she can shed.
"Well, it's clearly a personal seal, not a clan-mark, but it doesn't have an outline around it. For the last three generations people have been putting their personal marks in cartouches, with more and more elaborate borders. You can practically tell the decade by the border design. If you like, I can try to look it up in my resource materials."
"Would you? I'd like that very much." He refolds the flimsy and hands it over. "Uh... I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't show it to anyone else, though." Who knows what kind of trouble it could get her into - or him - or both.
"Excuse me. Professional paranoia. I, uh..." need to pass this off as smoothly as possible so she doesn't think I'm up to something—act a little more suspicious, Miles, why don't you— "It's a habit," is the best he can come up with on the spot.
"You really ought to let Lord Yerano take you on a tour of his sculpture, Miles," Ivan says. "It's quite a thing. An opportunity not to be missed and all that."
"Yes, it's very fine," says Miles, with perhaps less enthusiasm than he might have. True, he's gotten as much intelligence out of Maz as he's going to for the moment, but he was hoping for another dimple or two.