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Ivan pulls carpet-fibers, takes Yenaro not terribly gently by the arm, and follows Miles to an empty nook a few spaces down, where he takes up a forbidding position between Miles, Yenaro, and the pathway.

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"Allow me to demonstrate what you almost did," says Miles. He sets the pitcher down, retrieves the strangely gummy fibers from Ivan, places them carefully on the ground—the flooring is an artificial marble which he judges, importantly, not flammable—and takes up the pitcher again where he sits.

"Lord Yenaro. Down here, if you please." There are no other people visible or audible nearby; good. "Take two drops on your fingers of this harmless liquid, and sprinkle it on top of those threads." He emphasizes 'harmless' in a way that makes it very clear the substance is anything but.
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Yenaro, making impotent protests and trying without success to get Ivan's hand off his arm, eventually obeys, cut off mid-vague-threat by the bright flash of heat.

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"And that was only a gram of the stuff, if that. Multiply this," he gestures at the scorch mark on the quasi-marble tile, "out to the full mass of your little carpet bomb - about five kilos, I'd guess. But you probably have a better idea. I imagine you carried it in here personally. You've obviously never had military training, or you would've recognized it yourself, by the smell—sensitized asterzine. You can dye it to almost any colour, mold it to almost any shape, and until it meets the right catalyst it's totally, harmlessly inert. But as soon as they make contact," scorch mark. "Which is what would have happened to you, me, Ivan, the ladies, the exhibit, and anyone else who happened to be passing by, if you'd dumped that pitcher like you planned."

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"This is - some sort of trick," Yenaro insists.

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"Of course it is. But this time the joke is on you. Tell me, what effect did your good friend the haut-governor say this was going to have?"

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"He -" Yenaro looks desperately at the scorch mark; sniffs his catalyst-damp fingertips. "Oh."

"Confession is good for the soul," says Ivan. "And the body," he adds menacingly. "What did you think you were doing?"

"It... was supposed to release an ester. That would simulate alcohol poisoning. You Barrayarans are famous for that perversion. Nothing that you don't already do to yourselves!"
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"Allowing me and Ivan to stumble through the rest of the exhibition blind drunk, I suppose. Charming. Did you come pre-antidoted?"

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"No, it was - supposed to be harmless - I had arrangements to go and sleep it off. I thought it might be an - interesting sensation."

"Pervert," trills Ivan.

Yenaro glares at him.
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"That first night, at the Marilacan embassy," says Miles. "When I was burned - you weren't entirely faking all that apologetic fluttering, were you? You didn't expect that level of... severity."

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"I - thought perhaps the Marliacans had adjusted the power. It was supposed to shock, not - injure. I was told."

"The zlati ale was yours, though, wasn't it?" growls Ivan.

"You knew?!"

"I'm not an idiot."
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Miles leaves the pitcher on the floor next to the scorch mark and stands, gesturing to a little bench tucked against one side of the nook. "I've got something to tell you, Lord Yenaro, and I think you'd better be sitting down."

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Ivan helps with the sitting down thing. Yenaro looks aggrieved.

Ivan then also pours the remaining liquid onto the nearest potted tree.
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"This isn't just a few cute tricks played on the unsuspecting envoys of an old enemy," Miles says quietly. "You are a pawn in a treasonous plot against your own Empire. The last such pawn I know about was Ba Lura - I assume you've heard how it ended up. You were all set to play out the same pattern, just now." He gestures at the scorch mark for emphasis.

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"That - that can't be," says Yenaro after a silent moment. "It's too crude, it would have started a blood feud between his clan and those of the - bystanders."

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"No," Miles corrects. "It would have started a feud between their clans and yours. Because who would be around to say you hadn't set the trap yourself, and then incompetently walked into it with the rest of us? It would be the obvious conclusion, from the evidence available. A very elegant way for your backer to dispose of you at exactly the moment you ceased to be useful."

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"The Ba Lura..." says Yenaro slowly. "Committed... suicide."

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"No. It was murdered. Your Imperial Security is already headed down that trail. They'll reach the end eventually; I'm just not sure it will be soon enough."

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"You must believe - I would have no regrets if you two fell off a cliff. But I would not push you myself."
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"So I judged," he says, nodding. "For the sake of my curiosity - what were you promised, in return for all this? Or was the scheme its own reward?"

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"A post. You don't know what it's like - to be in the capital without a post. No position, no status, you're no one. I was tired of being no one. I was going to be Imperial Perfumer. It might not sound like much but - it would have gotten me entrance to the Celestial Garden, maybe the Imperial Presence itself. Would have worked among the very best of the Empire. I would have been good at it."
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"Yes," says Miles. "I imagine you would have been. Which governor was it, by the way?"

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"...Haut Ilsum Kety."

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"Thank you." He checks the time. "God, I'm late - you'll have to take it from here, Ivan. Good day, Lord Yenaro, and a much better one than you were meant to have."

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Ivan nods grimly.

Yenaro wilts.
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