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Ivan does not successfully get Miles to stop fussing with the thing (Miles takes an impression of its impressions on a plastic flimsy) or convince him to leave it somewhere other than inside the bedchamber (it is in a drawer) nor get him to actually tell Vorreedi as promised (Vorreedi is dealing with importation infractions out of town; this is, Miles says, nothing to do with him). He does, however, get Miles (who complains about not having had warning about all this downtime such that he could have scheduled leg bone replacement surgery) to their ride to the party, on time and in uniform.
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.
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middlingalong
thisvorlunatic
Miles nods as ungrudgingly as possible.
"That worked well," says Vorob'yev, gazing after the departing - and visibly impressed - majordomo.
"I should bloody think so. Breaks my heart," mutters Miles. He passes the beautiful maplewood box to Ivan, looks around at the air of general stalledness in the vicinity, and wafts away in search of a nice warm drink. Ideally one without the soporific effect alcohol tends to have on him. He's already taken a moderate dose of painkillers just in order to be able to walk in his stiff, calf-embracing formal boots; he doesn't need to be dulled any further from here.
"That worked well," says Vorob'yev, gazing after the departing - and visibly impressed - majordomo.
"I should bloody think so. Breaks my heart," mutters Miles. He passes the beautiful maplewood box to Ivan, looks around at the air of general stalledness in the vicinity, and wafts away in search of a nice warm drink. Ideally one without the soporific effect alcohol tends to have on him. He's already taken a moderate dose of painkillers just in order to be able to walk in his stiff, calf-embracing formal boots; he doesn't need to be dulled any further from here.
At his elbow a soft voice murmurs, "Lord Vorkosigan?"
thisvorlunatic
He turns, trying to conceal his startlement. "Yes... ma'am?" he hazards, taking in the sight of an androgynous elderly bald - person - much closer to his height than most people, wearing the grey and white of the Celestial Garden's service staff.
"Ba," she corrects politely. "A lady wishes to speak with you. Would you accompany me, please?"
thisvorlunatic
"Uh... sure," he says. Maybe she's from Mia. He certainly can't imagine any other ladies around here who might want to talk to him about anything.
The ba leads him down corridors, through a dewy garden, and into a small porchlike part of a building, open to the garden on two sides, floored with dark wood, and containing - a bubble.
"Thank you," says the bubble, "that will be all for the time being."
The ba bows, and backs away, eyes downcast.
"Thank you," says the bubble, "that will be all for the time being."
The ba bows, and backs away, eyes downcast.
thisvorlunatic
Miles... is deeply confused.
He bows to the bubble, as smoothly as he can manage, trying to transmute his inward state of surprise and ravenous curiosity to an outward state of calm, polite interest. (He wonders self-consciously if the occupant of the bubble has ever so much as seen pictures of someone as obviously physically imperfect as him.)
He bows to the bubble, as smoothly as he can manage, trying to transmute his inward state of surprise and ravenous curiosity to an outward state of calm, polite interest. (He wonders self-consciously if the occupant of the bubble has ever so much as seen pictures of someone as obviously physically imperfect as him.)
Nothing about the bubble suggests that it might be concealing a look of disgust or surprise.
"By any chance, do you have an object that was recently lost into your or possibly your companion Lord Vorpatril's possession and want to return it at once?"
"By any chance, do you have an object that was recently lost into your or possibly your companion Lord Vorpatril's possession and want to return it at once?"
thisvorlunatic
"I... did receive such an object," he says slowly. "Very unexpectedly. And I'm afraid I haven't the least idea what it is, or who it belongs to - besides, that is, not me."
"It belongs to the Star Creche, with the current custodian being the Handmaiden thereof in the temporary absence of an Empress."
thisvorlunatic
"I... see." No he doesn't. "There remains the matter of - some kind of proof. I don't mean to be rude about it, milady, but I have nothing more to go on right now than the word of a very pretty soap bubble, and that's not enough to reassure me I'd be giving it to the right person. Leaving aside the fact that I don't have it here."
"Please, tell me about your standards of proof," invites the bubble.
thisvorlunatic
"Well - what the thing is, and who you are, if not the Handmaiden in question, would both be good to know," he says. "Ideally corroborated by outside sources of some kind... it's possible I could find a little information about the sparkly stick on my own, which, no offense, settles my mind somewhat better than getting it all from you. But speaking of my curiosity, somewhat more trivially - I couldn't help noticing your serving woman. Are there many folk around here with no hair?" Not even eyebrows - a detail which naturally caught his eye.
"...It's not a woman. It's a ba, sexless. There was a fashion of making ba hairless some years ago. My name is Linyabel Miriat, although I doubt you'll have ever heard of me before. The Handmaiden sent me and is listening in on this conversation. And I do not think you will be able to find very much information about the 'sparkly stick' by yourself, although perhaps I underestimate what resources are available outside of my typical spheres..."
thisvorlunatic
"So... not all ba are hairless, but all hairless ones are ba?" he clarifies. "I don't need to find a lot of information elsewhere, milady. Enough to convince me that the object belongs to the Star Creche would do it, if you could also demonstrate in some way that you are a representative of the Star Creche."
Not that he knows what the Star Creche is.
Not that he knows what the Star Creche is.
"All hairless people are ba," confirms Linyabel. "The design on the stick will match the seal of the Star Creche, if you can find some way to confirm that to your satisfaction? There is - unfortunately no obvious way to confirm that I'm running errands for the Handmaiden. Even if she came personally, even if she opted to display her face - you would not recognize her."
thisvorlunatic
"But," he says, "if someone opted to display her face - I'd at least know who I was handing the—"
He cuts himself off, startled and not knowing why, until in the absence of distracting speech his ears recognize the distant sound of processional music.
"Oh, sh—sorry, Milady, but that damn parade is starting and I'm supposed to be near the front—how can I reach you?"
He cuts himself off, startled and not knowing why, until in the absence of distracting speech his ears recognize the distant sound of processional music.
"Oh, sh—sorry, Milady, but that damn parade is starting and I'm supposed to be near the front—how can I reach you?"
"There's no affordance for - I'll send for you," says Linyabel. "And I have to go too - don't speak of this to anyone else - please!"
And she starts to float away.
And she starts to float away.
thisvorlunatic
With a hasty bow bubbleward, Miles turns and starts hobbling at maximum speed back to the reception area from which the lady's ba collected him.
He's not going to make it in time.
He doesn't make it in time. There's Vorob'yev, dragging his feet; there's Ivan, hauling the box. Vorob'yev rather unnecessarily mouths Hurry up, dammit!, to which Miles responds by accelerating his limping stride as much as possible - not in fact very much; he was already near top speed. His painkillers are not keeping up with their assigned duties.
He's not going to make it in time.
He doesn't make it in time. There's Vorob'yev, dragging his feet; there's Ivan, hauling the box. Vorob'yev rather unnecessarily mouths Hurry up, dammit!, to which Miles responds by accelerating his limping stride as much as possible - not in fact very much; he was already near top speed. His painkillers are not keeping up with their assigned duties.
middlingalong
Ivan hands over the box as soon as Miles is within handing range. "Where the hell were you all this time, in the lav? I looked there -"
thisvorlunatic
"Sh. Tell you later. I've just had the most bizarre..." The sentence trails off unfinished; all his concentration is taken up by holding the box and marching forward to catch up with the line.
The idea is for the procession to proceed into the building that currently houses the empress's bier, make their courtesies to the dead lady, and lay their gifts one by one in a spiral pattern in the carefully prearranged ranking order. Then the haut- and ghem-lords go one way and the galactic delegates go the other, and they all go eat funeral food in their respective pavilions.
Something other than Miles has apparently gone wrong with this plan. Ahead of them, the slow solemn shuffle of the line has bunched up into a milling knot, voices raised in alarm and confusion.
The idea is for the procession to proceed into the building that currently houses the empress's bier, make their courtesies to the dead lady, and lay their gifts one by one in a spiral pattern in the carefully prearranged ranking order. Then the haut- and ghem-lords go one way and the galactic delegates go the other, and they all go eat funeral food in their respective pavilions.
Something other than Miles has apparently gone wrong with this plan. Ahead of them, the slow solemn shuffle of the line has bunched up into a milling knot, voices raised in alarm and confusion.
thisvorlunatic
Miles is hardly in a position to answer this, at least not without a stepstool to stand on for a view of something other than the next fellow's shoulderblades.
The line resumes moving.
They make it into the rotunda; there's the Empress's bier, raised up over the heads of the crowd, shielded by a force-bubble that permits only a faint faded glimpse of her white-wrapped body.
And directly between them and it, a ghem-commander redirecting the line: "Please retain your gifts and proceed directly around the outside walkway to the Eastern Pavilion, please retain your gifts and proceed directly to the Eastern Pavilion, all will be re-ordered presently, please retain..."
In obedience to his insistent murmur, the line turns a sharp left and shuffles straight out of the rotunda again through a nearby door. Past him, Miles can see a row of assorted ghem-guards - repurposed on the spot from the retinues of the satrap governors, if he doesn't miss his guess - stretching across the room, with the obvious intent of keeping everyone on this side of the Empress.
Miles is overcome by curiosity.
He shoves the maplewood box into Ivan's arms, ducks past the officer on shooing duty, and with his face arranged in a pleasant smile and his hands arranged in a nonthreatening palm-out posture, he slips between two guards in the line. As he suspected, their impromptu organization and his sheer audacity combine to forestall all resistance; they just gape at him as he sails past, looking for whatever it is they are so determined to prevent everyone from seeing.
Once he reaches the other side of the catafalque, it's pretty obvious. In pride of place beneath the bier, the spot reserved for the first gift of the first haut-lord, there lies a throat-slit body in a grey-and-white palace servant's uniform. Its right hand holds a jeweled knife; its blood pools fresh and red on the green malachite floor.
Its face is familiar.
Miles last saw it on the Cetagandan transfer station, kicking Ivan in the chest.
Oh, hell.
His glimpse of the body is short-lived; the highest-ranking officer available swoops in to herd him away. "Lord Vorkosigan, would you rejoin your delegation, please?"
"Of course. Who was that poor fellow?"
His cheerful cooperation surprises some truth out of the man. "It is Ba Lura, the Celestial Lady's most senior servitor. The ba has served her for sixty years and more; it seems to have wished to follow on and serve her in death as well. A most tasteless gesture, to do it here..."
Mere seconds after the end of this short speech, the ghem-commander succeeds in getting Miles within Ivan's-arm's-reach of the line.
The line resumes moving.
They make it into the rotunda; there's the Empress's bier, raised up over the heads of the crowd, shielded by a force-bubble that permits only a faint faded glimpse of her white-wrapped body.
And directly between them and it, a ghem-commander redirecting the line: "Please retain your gifts and proceed directly around the outside walkway to the Eastern Pavilion, please retain your gifts and proceed directly to the Eastern Pavilion, all will be re-ordered presently, please retain..."
In obedience to his insistent murmur, the line turns a sharp left and shuffles straight out of the rotunda again through a nearby door. Past him, Miles can see a row of assorted ghem-guards - repurposed on the spot from the retinues of the satrap governors, if he doesn't miss his guess - stretching across the room, with the obvious intent of keeping everyone on this side of the Empress.
Miles is overcome by curiosity.
He shoves the maplewood box into Ivan's arms, ducks past the officer on shooing duty, and with his face arranged in a pleasant smile and his hands arranged in a nonthreatening palm-out posture, he slips between two guards in the line. As he suspected, their impromptu organization and his sheer audacity combine to forestall all resistance; they just gape at him as he sails past, looking for whatever it is they are so determined to prevent everyone from seeing.
Once he reaches the other side of the catafalque, it's pretty obvious. In pride of place beneath the bier, the spot reserved for the first gift of the first haut-lord, there lies a throat-slit body in a grey-and-white palace servant's uniform. Its right hand holds a jeweled knife; its blood pools fresh and red on the green malachite floor.
Its face is familiar.
Miles last saw it on the Cetagandan transfer station, kicking Ivan in the chest.
Oh, hell.
His glimpse of the body is short-lived; the highest-ranking officer available swoops in to herd him away. "Lord Vorkosigan, would you rejoin your delegation, please?"
"Of course. Who was that poor fellow?"
His cheerful cooperation surprises some truth out of the man. "It is Ba Lura, the Celestial Lady's most senior servitor. The ba has served her for sixty years and more; it seems to have wished to follow on and serve her in death as well. A most tasteless gesture, to do it here..."
Mere seconds after the end of this short speech, the ghem-commander succeeds in getting Miles within Ivan's-arm's-reach of the line.
middlingalong
Ivan seizes Miles by the back of his uniform and marches him doorward. "What the hell is going on?"
thisvorlunatic
"You should not have gotten out of line, my lord," adds Vorob'yev reprovingly. "Ah... what was it you saw?"
Which question rather undercuts his reprimand, Miles thinks. "One of the late Dowager Empress's oldest ba servants has just cut its throat at the foot of her bier. I didn't know the Cetagandans made a fashion of human sacrifice. Not officially, anyway."
Vorob'yev stifles a grin, not quite in time to conceal it from Miles. "How awkward for them. They are going to have an interesting scramble, trying to retrieve this ceremony."
Yes, indeed... so what did the ba think it was doing? Why did it have the artifact? Why did it come barreling into a Barrayaran personnel pod with the thing in its vest pocket - why did it reach for that pocket wearing an expression of desperate inspiration - why did it come back here the next morning and kill itself in a way calculated to publicly humiliate its celestial superiors?
Miles is particularly confused to note that the haut What's-her-bubble didn't seem to be acting on the theory that the Barrayarans had stolen the sparkly stick. He would expect that if the ba had been up there on any official business, carrying the artifact legitimately, and had panicked and fled when they jumped it, it would have run back to its masters to report being mugged by galactic delegates, and the conversation with the Handmaiden's emissary would have taken a rather different tone.
Or, alternately, it would have omitted to mention the incident at all and... committed dramatic suicide in its shame? But then how did the Handmaiden know to send a haut-lady to question Miles, out of all the people on Eta Ceta? And however she came by that information, why did she decide not to send somebody more aggressive? If Miles received word through whatever channels that a Cetagandan delegate to a Barrayaran state funeral had somehow gotten their hands on a vanished Vor widget, his first ten theories would all involve espionage, and the first person he'd tell would be Illyan. Maybe the Handmaiden of the Star Creche is a very trusting sort. No, he can't imagine anyone that trusting.
In fact, even if the ba wasn't carrying the thing legitimately, why assume that the Barrayarans who ended up with it were innocent in the matter? Why not send some kind of security to shake them down?
His head is spinning.
This train of thought occupies him all the way to the Eastern Pavilion, along the path that circles the central towers. His legs are giving him absolute hell. In the general confusion caused by delegates unexpectedly needing to bring their bulky gifts to the banquet tables, he leaves the maplewood box with Ivan again and navigates around the intervening tables to approach the Vervani delegation and have a quick chat with Mia Maz.
"Good afternoon, m'lady Maz," he greets her when he arrives.
Which question rather undercuts his reprimand, Miles thinks. "One of the late Dowager Empress's oldest ba servants has just cut its throat at the foot of her bier. I didn't know the Cetagandans made a fashion of human sacrifice. Not officially, anyway."
Vorob'yev stifles a grin, not quite in time to conceal it from Miles. "How awkward for them. They are going to have an interesting scramble, trying to retrieve this ceremony."
Yes, indeed... so what did the ba think it was doing? Why did it have the artifact? Why did it come barreling into a Barrayaran personnel pod with the thing in its vest pocket - why did it reach for that pocket wearing an expression of desperate inspiration - why did it come back here the next morning and kill itself in a way calculated to publicly humiliate its celestial superiors?
Miles is particularly confused to note that the haut What's-her-bubble didn't seem to be acting on the theory that the Barrayarans had stolen the sparkly stick. He would expect that if the ba had been up there on any official business, carrying the artifact legitimately, and had panicked and fled when they jumped it, it would have run back to its masters to report being mugged by galactic delegates, and the conversation with the Handmaiden's emissary would have taken a rather different tone.
Or, alternately, it would have omitted to mention the incident at all and... committed dramatic suicide in its shame? But then how did the Handmaiden know to send a haut-lady to question Miles, out of all the people on Eta Ceta? And however she came by that information, why did she decide not to send somebody more aggressive? If Miles received word through whatever channels that a Cetagandan delegate to a Barrayaran state funeral had somehow gotten their hands on a vanished Vor widget, his first ten theories would all involve espionage, and the first person he'd tell would be Illyan. Maybe the Handmaiden of the Star Creche is a very trusting sort. No, he can't imagine anyone that trusting.
In fact, even if the ba wasn't carrying the thing legitimately, why assume that the Barrayarans who ended up with it were innocent in the matter? Why not send some kind of security to shake them down?
His head is spinning.
This train of thought occupies him all the way to the Eastern Pavilion, along the path that circles the central towers. His legs are giving him absolute hell. In the general confusion caused by delegates unexpectedly needing to bring their bulky gifts to the banquet tables, he leaves the maplewood box with Ivan again and navigates around the intervening tables to approach the Vervani delegation and have a quick chat with Mia Maz.
"Good afternoon, m'lady Maz," he greets her when he arrives.