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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
middlingalong
"Not necessarily," says Maz. "He could hand things over to an Imperial aunt, one of his mother's kin, as an interim move."
There is a knock, which proves to herald tea and wine and petits fours (one sort of which turns out to be Maz's favorite).
Ivan takes some wine, swallows a mouthful, and says, "Do the haut-lords marry, then? One of these genetic contracts must be the equivalent of a marriage, right?"
"Well . . . no." Maz eats a second petit four and then a third, then drinks about half a cupful of tea. "There are several kinds of contracts. The simplest is for a sort of one-time usage of one's genome. A single child is created, who becomes the... I hesitate to use the term property... who is registered with the constellation of the male parent, and is raised in his constellation's crèche. You understand, these decisions are not made by the principals — in fact, the two parents may never even meet each other. These contracts are chosen at the most senior level of the constellation, by the oldest and presumably wisest heads, with an eye to either capturing a favored genetic line, or setting up for a desirable cross in the ensuing generation.
"At the other extreme," she goes on, "is a lifetime monopoly — or longer, in the case of Imperial crosses. When a haut-woman is chosen to be the mother of a potential heir, the contract is absolutely exclusive — she must never have contracted her genome previously, and can never do so again, unless the emperor chooses to have more than one child by her. She goes to live in the Celestial Garden, in her own pavilion, for the rest of her life."
There is a knock, which proves to herald tea and wine and petits fours (one sort of which turns out to be Maz's favorite).
Ivan takes some wine, swallows a mouthful, and says, "Do the haut-lords marry, then? One of these genetic contracts must be the equivalent of a marriage, right?"
"Well . . . no." Maz eats a second petit four and then a third, then drinks about half a cupful of tea. "There are several kinds of contracts. The simplest is for a sort of one-time usage of one's genome. A single child is created, who becomes the... I hesitate to use the term property... who is registered with the constellation of the male parent, and is raised in his constellation's crèche. You understand, these decisions are not made by the principals — in fact, the two parents may never even meet each other. These contracts are chosen at the most senior level of the constellation, by the oldest and presumably wisest heads, with an eye to either capturing a favored genetic line, or setting up for a desirable cross in the ensuing generation.
"At the other extreme," she goes on, "is a lifetime monopoly — or longer, in the case of Imperial crosses. When a haut-woman is chosen to be the mother of a potential heir, the contract is absolutely exclusive — she must never have contracted her genome previously, and can never do so again, unless the emperor chooses to have more than one child by her. She goes to live in the Celestial Garden, in her own pavilion, for the rest of her life."
thisvorlunatic
"A reward, or a punishment?" wonders Miles. He's getting mental images of a haut-lady tucked away in her bubble within a bubble, never seeing the light of day.
"It's the best shot at power a haut-woman can ever get—a chance of becoming a dowager empress, if her son — and it's always and only a son — is ultimately chosen to succeed his father. Even being the mother of one of the losers, a prince-candidate or satrap governor, is no bad deal. It's also why, in an apparently patriarchal culture, the output of the haut-constellations is skewed to girls. A constellation head — clan chief, in Barrayaran terminology — can never become an emperor or the father of an emperor, no matter how brightly his sons may shine. But through his daughters, he has a chance to become the grandfather of one. Advantages, as you may imagine, then accrue to the dowager empress's constellation. The Degtiar were not particularly important until fifty years ago."
thisvorlunatic
"So - the emperor has sons, but everyone else is mad for daughters," he says, temporarily distracted from Handmaid-related concerns by sociological curiosity. "But only once or twice a century, when a new emperor succeeds, can anyone win the game."
middlingalong
"That's about right," Maz nods.
"So.. where does sex fit into all this?" asks Ivan plaintively.
"Nowhere," says Maz.
"Nowhere!" exclaims a horrified Ivan.
Maz laughs. "Yes, the haut have sexual relations, but it's purely a social game. They even have long-lasting sexual friendships that could almost qualify as marriages, sometimes. I was about to say there's nothing formalized, except that the etiquette of all the shifting associations is so incredibly complex. I guess the word I want is legalized, rather than formalized, because the rituals are intense. And weird, really weird, sometimes, from what little I've been able to gather of it all. Fortunately, the haut are such racists, they almost never go slumming outside their genome, so you are not likely to encounter those pitfalls personally."
"Oh," says Ivan, a little disappointed. "But... if the haut don't marry and set up their own households, when and how do they leave home?"
"They never do."
"Ow! You mean they live with, like, their mothers, forever?"
"Well, not with their mothers, of course. Their grandparents or great-grandparents. But the youth — that is, anyone under fifty or so — do live as pensioners of their constellation. I wonder if that is at the root of why so many older haut become reclusive. They live apart because they finally can."
"So.. where does sex fit into all this?" asks Ivan plaintively.
"Nowhere," says Maz.
"Nowhere!" exclaims a horrified Ivan.
Maz laughs. "Yes, the haut have sexual relations, but it's purely a social game. They even have long-lasting sexual friendships that could almost qualify as marriages, sometimes. I was about to say there's nothing formalized, except that the etiquette of all the shifting associations is so incredibly complex. I guess the word I want is legalized, rather than formalized, because the rituals are intense. And weird, really weird, sometimes, from what little I've been able to gather of it all. Fortunately, the haut are such racists, they almost never go slumming outside their genome, so you are not likely to encounter those pitfalls personally."
"Oh," says Ivan, a little disappointed. "But... if the haut don't marry and set up their own households, when and how do they leave home?"
"They never do."
"Ow! You mean they live with, like, their mothers, forever?"
"Well, not with their mothers, of course. Their grandparents or great-grandparents. But the youth — that is, anyone under fifty or so — do live as pensioners of their constellation. I wonder if that is at the root of why so many older haut become reclusive. They live apart because they finally can."
thisvorlunatic
Hang on. If the haut don't marry— "But what about all those famous and successful ghem-generals and ghem-lords who've won haut-lady wives?"
"They can't all aspire to become Imperial mothers, can they? Actually, I would point out this aspect particularly to you, Lord Vorkosigan. Have you ever wondered how the haut, who are not noted for their military prowess, control the ghem, who are?"
thisvorlunatic
"Oh, yes," he says. "I've been expecting this crazy Cetagandan double-decked aristocracy to fall apart ever since I learned about it. How can you control guns with, with, art contests? How can a bunch of perfumed poetasters like the haut-lords buffalo whole ghem-armies?"
"The Cetagandan ghem-lords would call it the loyalty justly due to superior culture and civilization," Maz smiles. "The fact is that anyone who's competent enough or powerful enough to pose a threat gets genetically co-opted. There is no higher reward in the Cetagandan system than to be Imperially assigned a haut-lady wife. The ghem-lords are all panting for it. It's the ultimate social and political coup."
thisvorlunatic
"You're suggesting the haut control the ghem through these wives?" he says skeptically. "I mean, I'm sure the haut-women are lovely and all, but the ghem-generals can be such hard-bitten cast-iron bastards—I can't imagine anyone who gets to the top in the Cetagandan Empire being that susceptible."
"If I knew how the haut-women do it," Maz sighs, "I'd bottle it and sell it. No, better — I think I'd keep it for myself. But it seems to have worked for the last several hundred years. It is not, of course, the only method of Imperial control, to be sure. Only the most overlooked one. I find that, in itself, significant. The haut are nothing if not subtle."
thisvorlunatic
He considers this for a moment, and asks, "Does this - haut-bride - come with a dowry?"
Maz takes another petit four.
"You have hit upon an important point, Lord Vorkosigan. She does not."
"You have hit upon an important point, Lord Vorkosigan. She does not."
thisvorlunatic
"I'd think keeping a haut-wife in the style to which she is accustomed could get rather expensive," he says, continuing in this line of reasoning.
"Very."
thisvorlunatic
"So," he concludes, "if the Cetagandan emperor wished to depress an excessively successful subject, he could award him a few haut-wives and bankrupt him?"
middlingalong
"I... don't think it's done quite so obviously as all that. But the element is there. You are very acute, my lord," says Maz.
Ivan says, "But how does the haut-lady who gets handed out like a good-conduct medal feel about it all? I mean... if the highest haut-lady ambition is to become an Imperial monopoly, this has got to be the ultimate opposite. To be permanently dumped out of the haut-genome — their descendants never marry back into the haut, do they?"
"No," confirms Maz. "I believe the psychology of it all is a bit peculiar. For one thing, the haut-bride immediately outranks any other wives the ghem-lord may have acquired, and her children automatically become his heirs. This can set up some interesting tensions in his household, particularly if it comes, as it usually does, in mid-life when his other marital associations may be of long standing."
"It must be a ghem-lady's nightmare, to have one of these haut-women dropped on her husband," Ivan muses. "Don't they ever object? Make their husbands turn down the honor?"
"Apparently it's not an honor one can refuse."
Ivan says, "But how does the haut-lady who gets handed out like a good-conduct medal feel about it all? I mean... if the highest haut-lady ambition is to become an Imperial monopoly, this has got to be the ultimate opposite. To be permanently dumped out of the haut-genome — their descendants never marry back into the haut, do they?"
"No," confirms Maz. "I believe the psychology of it all is a bit peculiar. For one thing, the haut-bride immediately outranks any other wives the ghem-lord may have acquired, and her children automatically become his heirs. This can set up some interesting tensions in his household, particularly if it comes, as it usually does, in mid-life when his other marital associations may be of long standing."
"It must be a ghem-lady's nightmare, to have one of these haut-women dropped on her husband," Ivan muses. "Don't they ever object? Make their husbands turn down the honor?"
"Apparently it's not an honor one can refuse."
thisvorlunatic
"Mm..." Enough of this, Miles decides. He needs more information on the real problem. "That seal of the Star Crèche thing—I don't suppose you have a picture of it?"
Yes, it turns out, she does. Miles is so pleased. To his comconsole they go, and they browse through a succession of signs and seals until they come at last to a large cube with the screaming-bird motif engraved in its upper surface.
Well. So far, so good - it seems that whatever Miles has tucked away in his drawer, it's not a piece of the Imperial regalia, or at least not this piece.
Yes, it turns out, she does. Miles is so pleased. To his comconsole they go, and they browse through a succession of signs and seals until they come at last to a large cube with the screaming-bird motif engraved in its upper surface.
Well. So far, so good - it seems that whatever Miles has tucked away in his drawer, it's not a piece of the Imperial regalia, or at least not this piece.
middlingalong
Up until she shows them what she calls the Great Key of the Star Creche.
Ivan chokes on his wine.
Ivan chokes on his wine.
thisvorlunatic
Bugger.
"And, ah—just what is the Great Key of the Star Crèche, m'la—Maz? What does it do?" Nothing important, he fervently hopes.
"And, ah—just what is the Great Key of the Star Crèche, m'la—Maz? What does it do?" Nothing important, he fervently hopes.
middlingalong
"I'm not quite sure. At one time in the past, I believe it had something to do with data retrieval from the haut gene banks, but the actual device may only be ceremonial by now. I mean, it's a couple of hundred years old. It has to be obsolete."
"Miles," says Ivan under his breath.
"Miles," says Ivan under his breath.
thisvorlunatic
"Later," Miles mutters back at him. "I understand your concern." God, does he ever.
Ignoring the things Ivan chooses to mouth at him rather than say them out loud in front of a lady, Miles manufactures a look of poorly concealed pain. It's not a difficult task. The wonderfully polite Maz is eager to spare him further etiquette lessons in light of his injuries. She departs after minimal pleasantries.
Ignoring the things Ivan chooses to mouth at him rather than say them out loud in front of a lady, Miles manufactures a look of poorly concealed pain. It's not a difficult task. The wonderfully polite Maz is eager to spare him further etiquette lessons in light of his injuries. She departs after minimal pleasantries.
thisvorlunatic
"Yes," he says calmly. "I also know how we're going to get out of it. Do you know as much?"