Miles takes a breath.

"What will happen to - um, everyone? Naru, Kety, the other governors, Vio..."

"Naru will be executed," says the Emperor. "Haut Kety will... retire. Immediately. To a supervised estate. If he objects, suicide is also an option. The other governors will finish out their current appointments, after which they may find new ones hard to come by."

"And Vio," says Lisbet, "despite... certain other suggestions, will be permitted a painless suicide. Externally administered, if necessary, but I don't believe it will be."

"As for everyone," says the Emperor, with a faintly exasperated glance between Miles and Lisbet, "that is a problem on which I shall now retire and meditate."

He summons Benin to herd Miles away, which Benin does, reuniting him with Ivan and Vorreedi in the process. The three of them are taken to the Western Gate of the Celestial Garden, where a car from the Barrayaran Embassy awaits.

Benin addresses Vorreedi before the car carries them off.

"We cannot," he says, "control what goes into your official reports. But my Celestial Master... expects that none of what you have seen or heard will appear as social gossip."

"That, I think I can promise," Vorreedi says sincerely.

"May I have your words upon your names in the matter, please?" says Benin.

He can have Ivan's, sure as anything.

And Vorreedi's, and Miles's. And with this assurance, he permits them to depart. Miles guesses from the colour of the sky that it's maybe two hours till dawn.

Vorreedi waits until halfway through the ride to ask Miles coldly, "What did you think you were doing, Vorkosigan?"

"I stopped the Cetagandan Empire from breaking up into eight aggressively expanding units. I derailed plans for a war by some of them with Barrayar. I survived an assassination attempt, and helped catch three high-ranking traitors. Admittedly, they weren't our traitors, but still. Oh. And I solved a murder. What more d'you bloody want?"

Vorreedi looks like he is just barely restraining himself from throwing up his hands. "Are you a special agent or not?"

"Well," Miles says pleasantly, "if not... I sure succeeded like one, didn't I?"

Ivan groans.

When they're back in the embassy, and back in their suite - well, it's hardly a secret anymore, he was on her lap in front of everybody.

"So you weren't kidding about your friendly haut-lady."

Ivan leaves him be.

Well, for a while.

Then he shakes him by the shoulder.

Miles throws a pillow. It misses, an impressive feat at this range.

(Despite himself, his heart leaps.)

"Fine, I'm up, I'm up," he grumbles, shambling out of bed.

"Start depilating. I've brought your uniform and boots from the embassy laundry. Anyway, if the Cetagandans wanted to assassinate you they'd probably do something subtler."

Ivan also produces a coffee bulb.

Maz expresses a hope to get to meet the aristocrat Countess Vorkosigan someday, and Vorob'yev appears. Benin, who has apparently been promoted overnight, is escorted in by embassy guards.

"May I ask," Vorob'yev says, "what this is all about, ghem-General?"

"My Celestial Master," says Benin, half-bowing, "requests the attendance of Lord Vorkosigan at this hour. Ah - we will return him to you."

"Your word upon it? It would be a major embarrassment for the embassy were he to be mislaid... again." There is a sternness in his tone, slightly undermined by the fact that he is stroking Maz's hand where she has rested it on his arm.

"My word upon it, Ambassador."

And he leads Miles out, to the enormous Imperial land-cruiser.

It's not quite half a block long, but it's damned impressive all the same.

"May I ask what this is all about, ghem-General?" tries Miles.

"I am instructed that explanations must wait until you arrive at the Celestial Garden. It will take only a few minutes of your time. I first thought that you would like it, but upon mature reflection, I think that you will hate it. Either way, you deserve it."

From this Miles deduces that whatever it is, it probably isn't a wedding. "Take care your growing reputation for subtlety doesn't go to your head, ghem-General," he bites out. Benin smiles serenely.

On arrival, Miles is conducted to an Imperial audience chamber - a small one, more personal than last night's conference hall. The room boasts but a single seat, currently occupied by Fletchir Giaja's Imperial ass; it and the rest of the Emperor are clad in such a swaddle of elaborate white robes that two ba servants flank his seat, waiting to assist him when he needs to rise therefrom. A third servitor holds a small flat case. A few haut-bubbles float behind, anonymously white.

"You may approach my Celestial Master, Lord Vorkosigan," says Benin.

Miles approaches. Standing opposite the seated Emperor, he is almost exactly eye to eye. The third ba hands the case to its Emperor, who opens it.

"Do you know what this is, Lord Vorkosigan?" asks Fletchir Giaja.

Miles eyes the medallion of the Order of Merit, glittering in its velvet bed on its beautiful shimmering ribbon. "Yes, sir," he says. "It is a lead weight, suitable for sinking small enemies. Are you going to sew me into a silk sack with it, before you throw me overboard?"

The Emperor glances at Benin, who shrugs.

"Bend your neck, Lord Vorkosigan," says Fletchir. "Unaccustomed as you may be to doing so."

"I..." says Miles, but before he can formulate any coherent objections, the Emperor has slipped the ribbon over his head.

"I am given to understand by my keenest observers," says the Emperor with a sideways glance at a bubble, "that you have a passion for recognition. It is an understandable quality that puts me much in mind of our own ghem."

Miles bites his lip briefly, then ventures, "As far as recognition goes, sir, this is hardly something that I will be able to show around at home. More like, hide it in the bottom of the deepest drawer I own."

"Good," says the Emperor. "As long as you lay all the events that led to it alongside."

Aha. Miles sighs. "Yes, sir," he says, trying to keep the wistfulness from his tone. As bribes for his silence go, the Order of Merit is... certainly well-targeted.

The Emperor, much to Miles's surprise, smiles slightly. "You will accompany on my left hand," he says. "It's time to go. And... after the cremation ceremony, you are invited to remain, to receive a more voluntary reward. You may bring your cousin and your Ambassador."

Miles gulps. "Yes, sir," he says faintly, buoyed by wild hopes.

Those hopes carry him soaring through the Imperial parade, down into the funeral dell - an open bowl, its sides filled with haut and ghem mourners clad in white, its rim painted with the more varied shades of the galactic delegates. Above arcs the dome of the Celestial Garden's force-shield. A much smaller force-dome in the center holds the deceased Celestial Lady and her bier-gifts.

The eight planetary consorts and their Handmaiden lead the Imperial parade in their white bubbles, followed by the truncated array of ghem-governors - seven, count 'em - and finally the Emperor with his honour guard, headed by Benin in place of the traitorous Naru. Miles limps along behind, grateful for his House blacks concealing most of his many bruises, somewhat more conflicted about the Order of Merit hanging around his neck.

Down, down, down they go, to fetch up at last in a ring around the central bubble. A line of young ghem-girls circles the thing laying down a final offering of flowers; a chorus sings, the music catching at Miles's heart.

One of the nine haut-bubbles from the parade approaches the Emperor, accompanied by a familiar short little ba carrying a tray. Lisbet's voice emerges from the bubble, in measured ceremonial phrases denoting the return of the Celestial Lady's regalia to their source. Ba and bubble drift away—

—and back again in the next minute, for an exchange of further ceremonial phrases. The ba picks up the tray as delicately as it set it down. A stir of interest travels through the haut audience, particularly among members of the Serise constellation. And Lisbet Serise takes possession of the Star Creche again as Cetaganda's next Empress.

The Emperor lifts a hand, signaling Imperial engineers at their station. Inside the central bubble, a dull orange glow takes hold, brightening through red and yellow to a blue-white rendered only barely unsearing by the muting film of the force-shield. The objects inside blur into a brief whirl at that point, then dissolve entirely into molecular plasma. It only takes ten minutes from first to last. Then a wide circle opens in the force-dome above, and a much smaller hole opens in the bier-bubble to match it, and a roaring column of white fire vents into the blue sky. The upper dome closes again, and the inner bubble fades, leaving behind no trace whatsoever of the celestial corpse or any of her accompanying gifts.

Emperor Fletchir removes his white outer robes, and replaces them with a more colourful set brought by a ba servitor. The Imperial parade winds its way out of the bowl in reverse, led by the Emperor with Miles once again at his side. A large open float-car awaits them at the top; the parade, minus Miles, boards it.

Out of mourning, the haut Lisbet's bubble is a deep, rich shade of indigo, cycling down to something darker and bluer with glacial slowness. She pauses next to Miles. "Ghem-General Benin will return you to your delegation. I will see you again shortly, for a purpose you have correctly guessed."

Miles... bubbles his way back to Vorob'yev and Vorreedi and Ivan and Maz. Benin seems about to say something to him, and then desists, which is just as well. Miles strongly doubts he could concentrate well enough to emit coherent speech.

It is therefore up to Benin to explain to the delegation, "Lord Vorkosigan is invited to a small ceremony with my Celestial Master and his new Celestial Lady. You may attend, Lord Vorpatril, Lord Vorob'yev, Miss Maz. It should not take up very much of your time. Refreshments will be provided beforehand."

Vorreedi looks like he may explode at any moment, but contents himself with one long stare at the medal on Miles's chest. Miles, soaring, ignores him.