marilacan embassy

[middlingalong]

Ivan does not successfully get Miles to stop fussing with the thing (Miles takes an impression of its impressions on a plastic flimsy) or convince him to leave it somewhere other than inside the bedchamber (it is in a drawer) nor get him to actually tell Vorreedi as promised (Vorreedi is dealing with importation infractions out of town; this is, Miles says, nothing to do with him). He does, however, get Miles (who complains about not having had warning about all this downtime such that he could have scheduled leg bone replacement surgery) to their ride to the party, on time and in uniform.

The Marilacan embassy is, Vorob'yev says, to be regarded as neutral yet non-secured territory - they can enjoy themselves, among fellow offworlders and some ghem-lords. Vorob'yev entertains them - so to speak - on the way by remarking on the Marilacan strategic situation; they've apparently been taking lots of help from Ceteganda, are ignoring their womhole maps and don't think Cetaganda would ever backstab them and blah blah. There is also more fascinating gossip about suicides with... "uncooperative principals", but not much of it; the topic soon drifts to the fact that the party may yield gossip that they should report to Vorreedi when he's back. Along with certain other things they should report to Vorreedi.

"Try not to give away more than you gain," Vorob'yev says.

"Well, I'm safe," remarks Ivan. "I don't know anything." A position of safety he'd dearly like to be able to cultivate more, coz, hint hint.

The Marilacan embassy is pretty, and scans their guests; Ivan does at least know enough to have left the nerve disruptor behind. There's an art project - Ivan doesn't rightly know what sort of thing to call it; a sculpture? With a water feature? And flying colorful flakes? The Marilacan ambassador, Berneaux, says it's called Autumn Leaves, anyway, so it's an Autumn Leaves - and then both lieutenants are shooed. The hors d'oeuvres are excellent. There is wine. Ivan can at this point get rid of his cousin and see if there are any ladies who could benefit from his company about.

Oh now there is one.

Ivan sets about charming the probably-at-least-an-eighth-haut ghem-lady as best he knows how. Mutants on purpose may be mutants still but pretty on purpose is pretty still likewise. He knows tact, at least with girls. He gets her (Lady Gelle) to laugh. Miles is wandering back in his direction again, but whatever, Miles probably isn't going to compete with him for elbow room here.

Then they're approached by some ghem-lord, Yenaro apparently, who mercifully doesn't seem to be related to or involved with the girl, and indeed obliquely congratulates her on having located "galactic exotics". Good, Ivan has been trading on the right characteristic with her so far. Gelle introduces Ivan, and prompts Ivan to introduce Miles, to Yenaro. They talk ancient history, grandfathers and who's at fault for events of the war - apparently they call it the Barrayaran War here.

Gelle kindly diverts the subject to the art piece, which is Yenaro's handiwork. He insults her stylistic choices and Ivan takes the opening to compliment her; if she's looking for sophisticated Cetegandan taste over appreciative galactic obliviousness Ivan can't help her, but he can show off the latter to best effect in case it'll sell. Yenaro chooses this occasion to tell the lady that Ivan was born in the usual - well, the normal, anyway - fashion. Her revulsion is disheartening, although she seems to find Yenaro's behavior at least as obnoxious as she finds childbirth grotesque. Either way, the combination of the two sends her skating off into the crowd.

Yenaro fumbles and then coaxes them into touring the interior of his sculpture. Miles breaks off, but Ivan goes ahead and has a look, no use holding a grudge at the man for dissuading exactly one girl, however pretty she was. Miles is apparently more interested in talking to the forty-standard lady Vorob'yev has on his arm.

Comments

[thisvorlunatic]

"I'm... not sure."

Which can only be by deliberate design, if it was indeed a trap... a trap of surpassing subtlety. Almost Cetagandan, you might say.

"It had to have taken days, maybe weeks, of preparation. We didn't even know we were coming here till two weeks ago. When did it arrive at the Marilacan embassy?"

"Last night, according to Bernaux," Vorob'yev supplies.

"Before we even arrived." Therefore, also before they met the mystery fugitive. Logically speaking, it couldn't possibly have followed from that incident. Miles is not wholly sure he trusts the comforting solidity of this logic. "How long have we been scheduled for that party?"

"The embassies arranged the invitations about three days ago."

[middlingalong]

"The timing is awfully tight, for a conspiracy."

[thisvorlunatic]

"I think I must agree with you, Lord Vorpatril. Shall we put it down as an unfortunate accident, then?" suggests Vorob'yev.

"Provisionally," Miles allows.

The hell it is. That accident was targeted with exquisite care and attention, and knowledge of his particular weaknesses - knowledge that anyone could likely find on public information networks, granted, but they'd still have to spend the time to dig it up. This is the opening salvo of some subtle war.

If only he had the slightest clue who was on the other side.

The one thing he knows for damn sure is that he is going to Lord Yenaro's party come hell or high water.

[middlingalong]

The Celestial Garden is the Cetegandan imperial residence. It is enclosed entirely by an opalescent force dome - an enormous one. The skyscrapers around it and the park ringing its border form a sort of bowl in which it rests, egglike, boulevards fanning out beyond the park ring in eight directions. Ivan and Miles are apparently to be placed in the "dress rehearsal" they're about to attend as though they are second-order ghem-lords. They're all three in House mourning uniforms, since after all the real reason they are here is that someone has died.

They have no escort; only the Emperor of Cetaganda, himself, could arrange an assassination here, and if he wanted to a squad of bodyguards wouldn't stop him. They change vehicles, are waved through by appropriately mournful personages, observe trees and the private little buildings nestled between them, are ushered along still further in. The hall they turn up in is tastefully decorated, little indoor garden tidbits here and there not interfering a whit with rather miraculous acoustics.

There are a couple of floating pearly spheres drifting along at the far end of one branch of the room. Haut-ladies. Wrapped up in force-bubbles generated by float-chairs, whenever outside their private quarters. White, today, for the occasion; Cetagandan mourning color. If this denies outsiders the opportunity to look at haut-ladies, that does not bother those haut-ladies, certainly; it also denies outsiders the opportunity to shoot at them. (There is a haut-lord, over there, plainly visible, accompanied by ghem-guards.)

A lord accepts Gregor's gift's documentation from Miles's hand; a sword Dorca Vorbarra the Just carried in the First Cetagandan War. Documented provenance. The sword itself they have to lug a bit longer. He invites Miles to convey his own Imperial master's thanks to Miles's.

[thisvorlunatic]

Miles nods as ungrudgingly as possible.

"That worked well," says Vorob'yev, gazing after the departing - and visibly impressed - majordomo.

"I should bloody think so. Breaks my heart," mutters Miles. He passes the beautiful maplewood box to Ivan, looks around at the air of general stalledness in the vicinity, and wafts away in search of a nice warm drink. Ideally one without the soporific effect alcohol tends to have on him. He's already taken a moderate dose of painkillers just in order to be able to walk in his stiff, calf-embracing formal boots; he doesn't need to be dulled any further from here.

[alicornucopia]

At his elbow a soft voice murmurs, "Lord Vorkosigan?"

[thisvorlunatic]

He turns, trying to conceal his startlement. "Yes... ma'am?" he hazards, taking in the sight of an androgynous elderly bald - person - much closer to his height than most people, wearing the grey and white of the Celestial Garden's service staff.

[alicornucopia]

"Ba," she corrects politely. "A lady wishes to speak with you. Would you accompany me, please?"

[thisvorlunatic]

"Uh... sure," he says. Maybe she's from Mia. He certainly can't imagine any other ladies around here who might want to talk to him about anything.

[alicornucopia]

The ba leads him down corridors, through a dewy garden, and into a small porchlike part of a building, open to the garden on two sides, floored with dark wood, and containing - a bubble.

"Thank you," says the bubble, "that will be all for the time being."

The ba bows, and backs away, eyes downcast.

[thisvorlunatic]

Miles... is deeply confused.

He bows to the bubble, as smoothly as he can manage, trying to transmute his inward state of surprise and ravenous curiosity to an outward state of calm, polite interest. (He wonders self-consciously if the occupant of the bubble has ever so much as seen pictures of someone as obviously physically imperfect as him.)

[alicornucopia]

Nothing about the bubble suggests that it might be concealing a look of disgust or surprise.

"By any chance, do you have an object that was recently lost into your or possibly your companion Lord Vorpatril's possession and want to return it at once?"

[thisvorlunatic]

"I... did receive such an object," he says slowly. "Very unexpectedly. And I'm afraid I haven't the least idea what it is, or who it belongs to - besides, that is, not me."

[alicornucopia]

"It belongs to the Star Creche, with the current custodian being the Handmaiden thereof in the temporary absence of an Empress."

[thisvorlunatic]

"I... see." No he doesn't. "There remains the matter of - some kind of proof. I don't mean to be rude about it, milady, but I have nothing more to go on right now than the word of a very pretty soap bubble, and that's not enough to reassure me I'd be giving it to the right person. Leaving aside the fact that I don't have it here."

[alicornucopia]

"Please, tell me about your standards of proof," invites the bubble.

[thisvorlunatic]

"Well - what the thing is, and who you are, if not the Handmaiden in question, would both be good to know," he says. "Ideally corroborated by outside sources of some kind... it's possible I could find a little information about the sparkly stick on my own, which, no offense, settles my mind somewhat better than getting it all from you. But speaking of my curiosity, somewhat more trivially - I couldn't help noticing your serving woman. Are there many folk around here with no hair?" Not even eyebrows - a detail which naturally caught his eye.

[alicornucopia]

"...It's not a woman. It's a ba, sexless. There was a fashion of making ba hairless some years ago. My name is Linyabel Miriat, although I doubt you'll have ever heard of me before. The Handmaiden sent me and is listening in on this conversation. And I do not think you will be able to find very much information about the 'sparkly stick' by yourself, although perhaps I underestimate what resources are available outside of my typical spheres..."

[thisvorlunatic]

"So... not all ba are hairless, but all hairless ones are ba?" he clarifies. "I don't need to find a lot of information elsewhere, milady. Enough to convince me that the object belongs to the Star Creche would do it, if you could also demonstrate in some way that you are a representative of the Star Creche."

Not that he knows what the Star Creche is.

[alicornucopia]

"All hairless people are ba," confirms Linyabel. "The design on the stick will match the seal of the Star Creche, if you can find some way to confirm that to your satisfaction? There is - unfortunately no obvious way to confirm that I'm running errands for the Handmaiden. Even if she came personally, even if she opted to display her face - you would not recognize her."

[thisvorlunatic]

"But," he says, "if someone opted to display her face - I'd at least know who I was handing the—"

He cuts himself off, startled and not knowing why, until in the absence of distracting speech his ears recognize the distant sound of processional music.

"Oh, sh—sorry, Milady, but that damn parade is starting and I'm supposed to be near the front—how can I reach you?"

[alicornucopia]

"There's no affordance for - I'll send for you," says Linyabel. "And I have to go too - don't speak of this to anyone else - please!"

And she starts to float away.

[thisvorlunatic]

With a hasty bow bubbleward, Miles turns and starts hobbling at maximum speed back to the reception area from which the lady's ba collected him.

He's not going to make it in time.



He doesn't make it in time. There's Vorob'yev, dragging his feet; there's Ivan, hauling the box. Vorob'yev rather unnecessarily mouths Hurry up, dammit!, to which Miles responds by accelerating his limping stride as much as possible - not in fact very much; he was already near top speed. His painkillers are not keeping up with their assigned duties.

[middlingalong]

Ivan hands over the box as soon as Miles is within handing range. "Where the hell were you all this time, in the lav? I looked there -"

[thisvorlunatic]

"Sh. Tell you later. I've just had the most bizarre..." The sentence trails off unfinished; all his concentration is taken up by holding the box and marching forward to catch up with the line.

The idea is for the procession to proceed into the building that currently houses the empress's bier, make their courtesies to the dead lady, and lay their gifts one by one in a spiral pattern in the carefully prearranged ranking order. Then the haut- and ghem-lords go one way and the galactic delegates go the other, and they all go eat funeral food in their respective pavilions.

Something other than Miles has apparently gone wrong with this plan. Ahead of them, the slow solemn shuffle of the line has bunched up into a milling knot, voices raised in alarm and confusion.