funerary proceedings

[middlingalong]

In the wake of the death of Empress Rian Degtiar of the Cetagandan Empire, cordiality from Barrayar consists of sending a couple of lieutenants to attend the funeral. It promises to be a series of social scaffolding appointments, a funeral, some more socialization - all of it principally with ghem-lords and -ladies; Barrayaran lieutenants, Ivan is sure, do not rate shoulder-rubbing with haut, but that's all well and good anyway - and then going home. Well enough. They have a diplomatic purpose, but they are not, actually, diplomats - if actual diplomats were supposed to be necessary Ivan assumes someone with Ambassador in front of his name would have been sent in... lieu of... lieutenants.

"Now," Ivan says, for want of better ways to pass the time, "is it, 'Diplomacy is the art of war pursued by other men', or is it the other way around...?"

Comments

[thisvorlunatic]

He ignores them all, thoroughly occupied with his meditations on the subject of Cetagandan security.

Why has no one come calling - even if not to meet them at the gate, then at least on the way here, or while they sit and drink and chat - to ask them sternly worded questions and demand the return of their captured goods?

Possibility one: A setup of some kind; even as Miles waits for the Cetagandans to pounce, they are waiting for him to - what? He's not sure, but Cetagandans being Cetagandans, this scenario seems likely.

Possibility two: A matter of timing. The fugitive is not yet captured, or if captured not yet interrogated, or if interrogated not yet subjected to any line of questioning that would lead him to mention his Barrayaran surprise. If indeed he is a fugitive at all. If indeed anyone knew he was there... Miles gazes contemplatively into his wine, and has a mouthful so as to make at least a pretense of keeping up with the other two.

Just as Vorob'yev finishes his glass - a matter of experienced planning on his part, Miles judges - their luggage arrives with its escort. Vorob'yev departs the table to see it stowed in the shuttle. Miles braces mentally for incoming Ivan, now that the two of them are alone and relatively unobserved.

[middlingalong]

And indeed:

"Aren't you going to tell him about it?" pleads Ivan.

[thisvorlunatic]

"Not yet," mutters Miles.

[middlingalong]

"Why not?"

[thisvorlunatic]

"Are you in such a hurry to lose that nerve disruptor?" he inquires. "The embassy'd take it away from you as fast as the Cetagandans, I bet."

[middlingalong]

Ivan will not be baited. Right this minute. "Screw that. What are you up to?"

[thisvorlunatic]

"I'm... not sure," he admits. "Yet."

He meant to be up to just the sort of thing that plays to his natural talents - verbal fencing with miscellaneous authority figures, the Cetagandans trying to extract the day's prizes from him while he in turn tries to extract from them whatever information he can get them to deliberately or inadvertently divulge, on this or other topics. He considers it hardly his fault that the Cetagandans are inexplicably failing to come after him in the first place.

[middlingalong]

"We've got to at least report this to the embassy's military attaché."

[thisvorlunatic]

"Report it, yes. But not to the attaché," says Miles. "Illyan told me that if I had any problems—meaning, of the sort our department concerns itself with—I was to go to Lord Vorreedi. He's listed as a protocol officer, but he's really an ImpSec colonel and chief of ImpSec here."

[middlingalong]

"The Cetagandans don't know?"

[thisvorlunatic]

And pictured in Fig. 1, we have the reason Ivan does not work for ImpSec...

"Of course they know. Just like we know who's really who at the Cetagandan embassy in Vorbarr Sultana. It's a polite legal fiction. Don't worry, I'll see to it."

Not without considerable regret, because of course Vorreedi isn't going to share any results with a mere unnoteworthy courier whose family happens to be important, and of course Miles can't breathe a word of his actual accomplishments to sway that decision because all the good ones are staggeringly classified.

[middlingalong]

Ivan sighs and gives up for the moment.

[thisvorlunatic]

Not a moment too soon, because there's Vorob'yev, here to affirm the integrity of their luggage and get them strapped into their shuttle seats for departure.

"And that's that, my lords. Nothing taken from your possessions, nothing added. Welcome to Eta Ceta Four. There are no official ceremonies requiring your presence today, but if you're not too tired from your journey, the Marilacan Embassy is hosting an informal reception tonight for the legation committee and all its august visitors. I recommend it to your attention."

"Recommend?" says Miles alertly. Anyone who has done as good a job as Vorob'yev at something as delicate as ambassador to Cetaganda has, in Miles's view, a recommendation of exceptional weight.

"You'll be seeing a lot of these people over the next two weeks. It should provide a useful orientation," Vorob'yev elaborates.

[middlingalong]

"What should we wear?" inquires Ivan brightly.

[thisvorlunatic]

"Undress greens, please," says Vorob'yev. "Clothing is a cultural language everywhere, to be sure, but here it's practically a secret code. It is difficult enough to move among the ghem-lords without committing some defined error, and among the haut-lords it's nearly impossible. Uniforms are always correct, or, if not exactly correct, clearly not the wearer's fault, since he has no choice. I'll have my protocol office give you a list of which uniforms you are to wear at each event."

Miles is very pleased with this development. No fussing around with outfits, just a nice tidy list, consisting wholly of things he's absolutely certain to have brought. Given the proportions of their respective luggage, though, he suspects Ivan may have a different outlook.

[middlingalong]

Ivan does. Uniforms. Meh.

[thisvorlunatic]

The shuttle makes undocking noises, much fainter than those of the smaller personnel pod, and proceeds away from the station without a peep from Cetagandan security.

So. Since he strongly doubts that the Cetagandan authorities would extend their subtle head games into allowing the Barrayarans to depart their customs station carrying stolen lethal weaponry, Miles can rule out all scenarios in which the fugitive has been caught and the tale of their adventure extracted from him. This leaves not caught at all, or caught and badly mishandled, his movements left untraced, his vandalism of the freight bay's vid pickups undetected. Of those two, the first is likelier. Therefore, the only people who know about their encounter are Miles, Ivan, their pod pilot - who has very ostentatiously washed his hands of the whole business and won't be setting foot dirtside anyway - and the fugitive himself.

Therefore, if the mystery man wants his widget back, he'll have to find Miles. Which should not be at all difficult. And then... well, whatever happens, it's bound to be interesting. A practical exercise suitable for a fresh young intelligence officer looking to deemphasize the 'fresh'. He wonders if there might not be some way to coax Vorreedi into giving him a crack at the puzzle.

[middlingalong]

Ivan would like to ostentatiously wash his hands of the whole mess, but alas, this is not his privilege today.