Miles is hardly in a position to answer this, at least not without a stepstool to stand on for a view of something other than the next fellow's shoulderblades.
The line resumes moving.
They make it into the rotunda; there's the Empress's bier, raised up over the heads of the crowd, shielded by a force-bubble that permits only a faint faded glimpse of her white-wrapped body.
And directly between them and it, a ghem-commander redirecting the line: "Please retain your gifts and proceed directly around the outside walkway to the Eastern Pavilion, please retain your gifts and proceed directly to the Eastern Pavilion, all will be re-ordered presently, please retain..."
In obedience to his insistent murmur, the line turns a sharp left and shuffles straight out of the rotunda again through a nearby door. Past him, Miles can see a row of assorted ghem-guards - repurposed on the spot from the retinues of the satrap governors, if he doesn't miss his guess - stretching across the room, with the obvious intent of keeping everyone on this side of the Empress.
Miles is overcome by curiosity.
He shoves the maplewood box into Ivan's arms, ducks past the officer on shooing duty, and with his face arranged in a pleasant smile and his hands arranged in a nonthreatening palm-out posture, he slips between two guards in the line. As he suspected, their impromptu organization and his sheer audacity combine to forestall all resistance; they just gape at him as he sails past, looking for whatever it is they are so determined to prevent everyone from seeing.
Once he reaches the other side of the catafalque, it's pretty obvious. In pride of place beneath the bier, the spot reserved for the first gift of the first haut-lord, there lies a throat-slit body in a grey-and-white palace servant's uniform. Its right hand holds a jeweled knife; its blood pools fresh and red on the green malachite floor.
Its face is familiar.
Miles last saw it on the Cetagandan transfer station, kicking Ivan in the chest.
Oh, hell.
His glimpse of the body is short-lived; the highest-ranking officer available swoops in to herd him away. "Lord Vorkosigan, would you rejoin your delegation, please?"
"Of course. Who was that poor fellow?"
His cheerful cooperation surprises some truth out of the man. "It is Ba Lura, the Celestial Lady's most senior servitor. The ba has served her for sixty years and more; it seems to have wished to follow on and serve her in death as well. A most tasteless gesture, to do it here..."
Mere seconds after the end of this short speech, the ghem-commander succeeds in getting Miles within Ivan's-arm's-reach of the line.
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timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2014-07-10 02:13 am (UTC)The line resumes moving.
They make it into the rotunda; there's the Empress's bier, raised up over the heads of the crowd, shielded by a force-bubble that permits only a faint faded glimpse of her white-wrapped body.
And directly between them and it, a ghem-commander redirecting the line: "Please retain your gifts and proceed directly around the outside walkway to the Eastern Pavilion, please retain your gifts and proceed directly to the Eastern Pavilion, all will be re-ordered presently, please retain..."
In obedience to his insistent murmur, the line turns a sharp left and shuffles straight out of the rotunda again through a nearby door. Past him, Miles can see a row of assorted ghem-guards - repurposed on the spot from the retinues of the satrap governors, if he doesn't miss his guess - stretching across the room, with the obvious intent of keeping everyone on this side of the Empress.
Miles is overcome by curiosity.
He shoves the maplewood box into Ivan's arms, ducks past the officer on shooing duty, and with his face arranged in a pleasant smile and his hands arranged in a nonthreatening palm-out posture, he slips between two guards in the line. As he suspected, their impromptu organization and his sheer audacity combine to forestall all resistance; they just gape at him as he sails past, looking for whatever it is they are so determined to prevent everyone from seeing.
Once he reaches the other side of the catafalque, it's pretty obvious. In pride of place beneath the bier, the spot reserved for the first gift of the first haut-lord, there lies a throat-slit body in a grey-and-white palace servant's uniform. Its right hand holds a jeweled knife; its blood pools fresh and red on the green malachite floor.
Its face is familiar.
Miles last saw it on the Cetagandan transfer station, kicking Ivan in the chest.
Oh, hell.
His glimpse of the body is short-lived; the highest-ranking officer available swoops in to herd him away. "Lord Vorkosigan, would you rejoin your delegation, please?"
"Of course. Who was that poor fellow?"
His cheerful cooperation surprises some truth out of the man. "It is Ba Lura, the Celestial Lady's most senior servitor. The ba has served her for sixty years and more; it seems to have wished to follow on and serve her in death as well. A most tasteless gesture, to do it here..."
Mere seconds after the end of this short speech, the ghem-commander succeeds in getting Miles within Ivan's-arm's-reach of the line.