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.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2014-07-18 11:14 pm (UTC)"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.