Cetaganda

'No.' Benin took a breath, and composed himself again. 'Lord Vorkosigan. Our records indicate you left the reception hall to speak privately with a haut-lady.'

'Yes. She sent a ba servant with an invitation. I could hardly refuse. Besides … I was curious.'

'I can believe that,' muttered Benin. 'What was the substance of your conversation with the haut Rian Degtiar?'

'Why—surely you monitored it.' Surely they had not, or this interview would have taken place two days ago, before Miles had ever left the Celestial Garden—and been a lot less politely conducted, too. But Benin doubtless had a vid of Miles's exit from and entrance to the reception area, and testimony from the little ba escort as well.

'Nevertheless,' said Benin neutrally.

'Well—I have to admit, I found the conversation extremely confusing. She's a geneticist, you know.'

'Yes.'

'I believe her interest in me—excuse me, I find this personally embarrassing. I believe her interest in me was genetic. I am widely rumored to be a mutant. But my physical disabilities are entirely teratogenic, damage done by a poison I encountered pre-natally. Not genetic. It's very important to me that be clearly understood.' Miles thought briefly of his own ImpSec eavesdroppers. 'The haut-women, apparently, collect unusual natural genetic variations for their research. The haut Rian Degtiar seemed quite disappointed to learn I held nothing of interest, genetically speaking. Or so I gathered. She talked all around the subject—I'm not sure but what she perceived her own interest as being rather, um, questionable. I'm afraid I don't find haut motivations entirely comprehensible.' Miles smiled cheerfully. There. That was the vaguest convincing-sounding uncheckable bullshit he could come up with on the spur of the moment, and left a good deal of turning-room for whatever the Colonel had got out of Rian, if anything.

'What did interest me, though, was the haut-lady's force-bubble,' Miles added. 'It never touched the ground. She had to be riding in a float-chair in there, I figured.'

'They often do,' said Benin.

'That's why I asked you about who saw the Ba Lura enter the chamber. Can anyone use a haut-bubble? Or are they keyed in some way to the wearer? And are they as anonymous as they look, or do you have some way of telling them apart?'

'They are keyed to the wearer. And each has its own unique electronic signature.'

'Any security measure made by man can be unmade by man. If he has access to the resources.'

'I am aware of this fact, Lord Vorkosigan.'

'Hm. You see the scenario I'm driving at, of course. Suppose the Ba was stunned elsewhere—a theory that hurried cremation has rendered uncheckable, alas—carried unconscious inside a haut-bubble to the blind spot, and had its throat cut, silently and without a struggle. The bubble glides on. It wouldn't have taken more than fifteen seconds. It wouldn't have required great physical strength on the part of the murderer. But I don't know enough about the specs of the bubbles to judge the technical likelihood. And I don't know if any bubbles went in and out— how much traffic was there in the funeral rotunda during the time-window we're talking about? There can't have been that much. Did any haut-lady bubbles enter and exit?'

Benin sat back, pursing his lips, regarding Miles with keen interest. 'You have an alert way of looking at the world, Lord Vorkosigan. Five ba servants, four guards, and six haut-women crossed the chamber during the time in question. The ba have duties there, tending to the botanical arrangements and keeping the chamber perfectly clean. The haut-women frequently come to meditate and pay respects to the Celestial Lady. I have interviewed them all. None report noticing the Ba Lura.'

'Then . . . the last one must be lying.'

Benin tented his fingers, and stared at them. 'It is not quite that simple.'

Miles paused. 'I despise doing internal investigations, myself,' he said at last. 'I trust you are documenting every breath you're taking, at this point.'

Benin almost smiled. 'That's entirely my problem, isn't it.'

Miles was actually beginning to like the man. 'You are, considering the venue, of rather low rank for an investigation of this sensitivity, aren't you?'

'That too … is my problem.'

'Sacrificable.'

Benin grimaced. Oh, yes. Nothing Miles had said yet was anything Benin hadn't thought of too—if he'd dared to speak it aloud. Miles decided to continue sprinkling the favors.

'You've won yourself quite a pretty problem, in this murder, I'd say, ghem-Colonel,' Miles remarked. Neither of them were keeping up the pretense about the suicide anymore. 'Still, if the method was as I guess, you can deduce quite a lot about the murderer. His rank must be high, his access to internal security great, and—excuse me—he has a peculiar sense of humor, for a Cetagandan. The insult to the Empress nearly borders on disloyalty.'

'So says an examination of the method,' said Benin, in a tone of complaint. 'It's motive that troubles me. That harmless old ba has served in the Celestial Garden for decades. Revenge seems most unlikely.'

'Mm, perhaps. So if Ba Lura is old news, maybe it's the murderer who's newly arrived. And consider— decades of standing around sopping up secrets—the ba was well placed to know things about persons of extraordinarily high rank. Suppose . . . the ba had been tempted, say, into a spot of blackmail. I would think that a close tracing of Ba Lura's movements these last few days might be revealing. For instance, did the Ba leave the Celestial Garden at any time?'

'That . . . investigation is in progress.'

'If I were you, I'd jump on that aspect. The Ba might have communicated with its murderer.' Aboard his ship, in orbit, yes. 'The timing is peculiar, you see. To my eye, this murder shows every sign of having been rushed. If the murderer had had months to plan, he could have done a much better and quieter job. I think he had to make a lot of decisions in a hurry, maybe in that very hour, and some of them were, frankly, bad.'

'Not bad enough,' sighed Benin. 'But you interest me, Lord Vorkosigan.'

Miles trusted that wasn't too much of a double entendre. 'This sort of thing is meat and drink to me. It's the first chance I've had to talk shop with anyone since I came to Eta Ceta.' He favored Benin with a happy smile. 'If you have any more questions for me, please feel free to stop by again.'

'I don't suppose you would be willing to answer them under fast-penta?' Benin said, without much hope.

'Ah . . .' Miles thought fast, 'with Ambassador Vorob'yev's permission, perhaps.' Which would not, of course, be forthcoming. Benin's slight smile fully comprehended the delicacy of a refusal-without-refusing.

'In any case, I should be pleased to continue our acquaintance, Lord Vorkosigan.'

'Any time. I'll be here nine more days.'

Benin gave Miles a penetrating, unreadable look. 'Thank you, Lord Vorkosigan.'

Miles had about a million more questions for his new victim, but that was all he dared cram into the opening session. He wanted to project an air of professional interest, not frantic obsession. It was tempting, but dangerous, to think of Benin as an ally. But he was certainly a window into the Celestial Garden. Yeah, a window with eyes that looked back at you. But there had to be some reasonably subtle way to induce Benin to slap himself on the forehead and cry, Say, I'd better take a closer look at those satrap governors! He was definitely looking in the correct direction, up. And over his shoulder. A most uncomfortable position in which to work.

How much influence could the satrap governors, all near Imperial relations, put on the Celestial Garden's security? Not too much—they were surely regarded as potential threats. But one might have been building up convenient contacts for a long time now. One might, indeed, have been perfectly loyal till this new temptation. It was a dangerous accusation; Benin had to be right the first time. He wouldn't get a second chance.

Did anyone care about the murder of a ba slave? How much interest did Benin have in abstract justice? If a Cetagandan couldn't be one-up in any other way, holier-than-thou might do. An almost aesthetic drive—the Art of Detection. How much risk was Benin willing to run, how much did he have to lose? Did he have a family, or was he some sort of pure warrior-monk, totally dedicated to his career? To the ghem-Colonel's credit, by the end of the interview Benin had been keeping his eyes on Miles's face because he was interested in what Miles was saying, not