Cetaganda

'That worked well,' said Vorob'yev with satisfaction.

'I should bloody think so,' growled Miles. 'Breaks my heart.' He handed off the box to Ivan to juggle for a while.

Nothing seemed to be happening just yet—organizational delays, Miles supposed. He drifted away from Ivan and Vorob'yev in search of a hot drink. He was on the point of capturing something steaming and, he hoped, non-sedating, from a passing tray when a quiet voice at his elbow intoned, 'Lord Vorkosigan?'

He turned, and stifled an indrawn breath. A short and rather androgynous elderly . . . woman?—stood by his side, dressed in the gray and white of Xanadu's service staff. Her head was bald as an egg, her face devoid of hair. Not even eyebrows. 'Yes . . . ma'am?'

'Ba,' she said in the tone of one offering a polite correction. 'A lady wishes to speak with you. Would you accompany me, please?'

'Uh . . . sure.' She turned and paced soundlessly away, and he followed in alert anticipation. A lady? With luck, it might be Mia Maz of the Vervani delegation, who ought to be around somewhere in this mob of a thousand people. He was developing some urgent questions for her. No eyebrows? I was expecting a contact sometime, but . . . here?

They exited the hall. Passing out of sight of Vorob'yev and Ivan stretched Miles's nerves still further. He followed the gliding servant down a couple of corridors, and across a little open garden thick with moss and tiny flowers misted with dew. The noises from the reception hall still carried faintly through the damp air. They entered a small building, open to the garden on two sides and floored with dark wood that made his black boots echo unevenly in time with his limping stride. In a dim recess of the pavilion, a woman-sized pearlescent sphere floated a few centimeters above the polished floor, which reflected an inverted halo from its light.

'Leave us,' a voice from the sphere directed the servant, who bowed and withdrew, eyes downcast. The transmission through the force screen gave the voice a low, flat timbre.

The silence lengthened. Maybe she'd never seen a physically imperfect man before. Miles bowed, and waited, trying to look cool and suave, and not stunned and wildly curious.

'So, Lord Vorkosigan,' came the voice again at last. 'Here I am.'

'Er . . . quite.' Miles hesitated. 'And just who are you, milady, besides a very pretty soap-bubble?'

There was a longer pause, then, 'I am the haut Rian Degtiar. Servant of the Celestial Lady, and Handmaiden of the Star Creche.'

Another flowery haut-title that gave no clue to its function. He could name every ghem-lord on the Cetagandan General Staff, all the satrap governors and their ghem-officers, but this female haut-babble was new to him. But the Celestial Lady was the polite name for the late Empress haut Lisbet Degtiar, and that name at least he knew—

'You are a relative of the late Dowager Empress, milady?'

'I am of her genomic constellation, yes. Three generations removed. I have served her half my life.'

A lady-in-waiting, all right. One of the old Empress's personal retinue, then, the most inward of insiders. Very high rank, probably very aged as well. 'Uh . . . you're not related to a ghem-lord named Yenaro, by chance, are you?'

'Who?' Even through the force-screen the voice conveyed utter bafflement.

'Never mind. Clearly not important.' His legs were beginning to throb. Getting the damn boots back off when he returned to the embassy was going to be an even better trick than getting them on had been. 'I could not help noticing your serving woman. Are there many folk around here with no hair?'

'It is not a woman. It is Ba.'

'Ba?'

'The neuter ones, the Emperor's high-slaves. In his Celestial Father's time it was the fashion to make them smooth like that.'

Ah. Genetically engineered, genderless servants. He'd heard rumors about them, mostly connected, illogically enough, with sexual scenarios that had more to do with the teller's hopeful fantasies than with any likely reality. But they were reputed to be a race utterly loyal to the lord who had, after all, literally created them. 'So . . . not all ba are hairless, but all the hairless ones are ba?' he worked it out.

'Yes . . .' More silence, then, 'Why have you come to the Celestial Garden, Lord Vorkosigan?'

His brow wrinkled. 'To hold up Barrayar's honor in this circu—um, solemn procession, and to present your late Empress's bier-gift. I'm an envoy. By appointment of Emperor Gregor Vorbarra, whom / serve. In my own small way.'

Another, longer pause. 'You mock me in my misery.'

'What?'

'What do you want, Lord Vorkosigan?'

'What do I want? You called me here, Lady, isn't it the other way around?' He rubbed his neck, tried again. 'Er . . . can I help you, by chance?'

'You?!'

Her astonished tone stung him. 'Yeah, me! I'm not as . . .'incompetent as I look. 'I've been known to accomplish a thing or two, in my time. But if you won't give me a clue as to what this is all about, I can't. I will if I do know but I can't if I don't. Don't you see?'

Now he had confused himself, tongue-tangled. 'Look, can we start this conversation over?' He bowed low. 'Good day, I am Lord Miles Vorkosigan of Barrayar. How may I assist you, milady?'

'Thief—!'

The light dawned at last. 'Oh. Oh, no. I am a Vorkosigan, and no thief, milady. Though as possibly a recipient of stolen property, I may be a fence,' he allowed judiciously.

More baffled silence; perhaps she was not familiar with criminal jargon. Miles went on a little desperately, 'Have you, uh, by chance lost an object? Rod-shaped electronic device with a bird-crest seal on the cap?'

'You have it!' Her voice was a wail of dismay.

'Well, not on me.'

Her voice went low, throaty, desperate. 'You still have it. You must return it to me.'

'Gladly, if you can prove it belongs to you. I certainly don't pretend it belongs to me,' he added pointedly.

'You would do this . . . for nothing?'

'For the honor of my name, and, er . . . I am ImpSec. I'd do almost anything for information. Satisfy my curiosity, and the deed is done.'

Her voice came back in a shocked whisper, 'You mean you don't even know what it is?'

The silence stretched for so long after that, he was beginning to be afraid the old lady had fainted dead away in there. Processional music wafted faintly through the air from the great pavilion.

'Oh, shi—er, oh. That damn parade is starting, and I'm supposed to be near the front. Milady, how can I reach you?'

'You can't.' Her voice was suddenly breathless. 'I have to go too. I'll send for you.' The white bubble rose, and began to float away.

'Where? When—?' The music was building toward the start-cue.

'Say nothing of this!'

He managed a sketchy bow at her retreating maybe-back, and began hobbling hastily across the garden. He had a horrible feeling he was about to be very publicly late.

When he'd wended his way back into the reception area, he found the scene was every bit as bad as he'd feared. A line of people was advancing to the main exit, toward the tower buildings, and Vorob'yev in the Barrayaran delegation's place was dragging his feet, creating an obvious gap, and staring around urgently. He spotted Miles and mouthed silently, Hurry up, dammit! Miles hobbled faster, feeling as if every eye in the room was on him.

Ivan, with an exasperated look on his face, handed over the box to him as he arrived. 'Where the hell were you all this time, in the lav? I looked there—'