when you encounter a haut-woman outside of her bubble.'
'It was . . . the first time I'd ever seen one,' he lied strategically. 'Did I do all right?'
'Hm, barely. You see, the haut-women lose the privilege of the force-shields when they marry out of the genome into the ghem-rank. They become as ghem-women—sort of. But the loss of the shield is considered a great loss of face. So the polite thing to do is to behave as if the bubble were still there. You must never directly address a haut-wife, even if she's standing right in front of you. Put all inquiries through her ghem-husband, and wait for him to transmit the replies.'
'I … didn't say anything to them.'
'Oh, good. And you must never stare directly at them, either, I'm afraid.'
'I thought the men were being rude, to close the women out of the conversation.'
'Absolutely not. They were being most polite, Cetagandan style.'
'Oh. But the way they carry themselves, the women might as well still be in the bubbles. Virtual bubbles.'
'That's the idea, yes.'
'Do the same rules go for … haut-women who still have the privilege of their bubbles?'
'I have no idea. I cannot imagine a haut-woman talking face-to-face with an outlander.'
Miles became aware of a ghostly gray presence at his elbow, and tried not to jump. It was the haut Rian Degtiar's little ba servant. The ba had passed into the room without a ripple, ignored by its inhabitants. Miles's heart began to race, a response he muffled in a polite nod at the servitor.
'Lord Vorkosigan. My lady wishes to speak with you,' said the ba. Maz's eyes widened.
'Thank you, I would be pleased,' Miles responded.
'Ah . . .' He glanced around for Ambassador Vorob'yev, who was still being buttonholed by the Rho Cetan ghem-general. Good. Permissions not requested could not be denied. 'Maz, would you be so kind as to tell the ambassador I've gone to speak with a lady. Mm … I may be some time at it. Go on without me. I'll catch up with you back at the embassy, if necessary.'
'I don't think—' began Maz doubtfully, but Miles was already turning away. He shot her a smile over his shoulder and a cheerful little wave as he followed the ba out of the pavilion.
CHAPTER NINE
The little ba, its expression devoid as ever of any comment on its mistress's affairs, led Miles on a lengthy walk through the garden s winding paths, around ponds and along tiny, exquisite artificial streams. Miles almost stopped to gape at an emerald-green lawn populated by a flock of ruby-red peacocks the size of songbirds, slowly stalking about. A sunny spot on a ledge a little further on was occupied by something resembling a spherical cat, or perhaps a bouquet of cat-fur, soft, white . . . yes, there was an animal in there; a pair of turquoise-blue eyes blinked once at him from the fuzz, and closed again in perfect indolence.
Miles did not attempt conversation or questions. He might not have been personally monitored by Cetagandan Imperial Security on his last trip to the Celestial Garden, when he'd been mixed in with a thousand other galactic delegates; this was certainly not the case today. He prayed Rian would realize this. Lisbet would have. He could only hope Rian had inherited Lisbet's safe zones and procedures, along with the Great Key and her genetic mission.
A white bubble waited in a cloistered walkway. The ba bowed to it and departed.
Miles cleared his throat. 'Good evening, milady. You asked to see me? How may I serve you?' He kept his greeting as general as possible. For all he knew it was ghem-Colonel Benin and a voice-filter inside that damned blank sphere.
Rian's voice or a good imitation murmured, 'Lord Vorkosigan. You expressed an interest in genetic matters. I thought you would care for a short tour.'
Good. They were monitored, and she knew it. He suppressed the tiny part of himself that had been hoping against all reason for a love-affair cover, and answered, 'Indeed, milady. All medical procedures interest me. I feel the corrections to my own damage were extremely incomplete. I'm always looking for new hopes and chances, whenever I have an opportunity to visit more advanced galactic societies.'
He paced along beside her floating sphere, trying, and failing, to keep track of the twists and turns of their route, through archways and other buildings. He managed a suitably admiring comment or two on the passing scenery, so their silence would not be too obvious. He'd walked about a kilometer from the Emperor's buffet, he gauged, though certainly not in a straight line, when they came to a long, low white building. Despite the usual charming landscaping, it had 'biocontrol' written all over it, in the details of its window seals and door-locks. The air lock required complicated encodations from Rian, though once it had identified her, it admitted him under her aegis without a murmur of protest.
She led him through surprisingly un-labyrinthine corridors to a spacious office. It was the most utilitarian, least artistic chamber he'd yet seen in the Celestial Garden. One entire wall was glass, overlooking a long room that had a lot more in common with galactic-standard bio-labs than with the garden outside. Form follows function, and this place was bristling with function: purpose, not the languid ease of the pavilions. It was presently deserted, shut down, but for a lone ba servitor moving among the benches doing some sort of meticulous janitorial task. But of course. No haut genetic contracts were approved or, presumably, carried out during the period of mourning for the Celestial Lady, putative mistress of this domain. A screaming-bird pattern decorated the surface of a comconsole, and hovered above several cabinet-locks. He was standing in the center of the Star Creche.
The bubble settled by one wall, and vanished without a pop. The haut Rian Degtiar rose from her float- chair.
Her ebony hair today was bound up in thick loops, tumbling no farther than her waist. Her pure white robes were only calf-length, two simple layers comfortably draped over a white bodysuit that covered her from neck to white-slippered toe. More woman, less icon, and yet . . . Miles had hoped repeated exposure to her beauty might build up an immunity in him to the mind-numbing effect of her. Obviously, he would need more exposure than this. Lots more. Lots and lots and—
'We can talk here,' she said, gliding to a station chair beside the comconsole desk and settling herself in it. Her simplest movements were like dance. She nodded to another station chair across from hers, and Miles lurched into it with a strained smile, intensely conscious that his boots barely touched the floor. Rian seemed as direct as the ghem-generals' wives were closed. Was the Star Creche itself a sort of psychological force-bubble for her? Or did she merely consider him so sub-human as to be completely non-threatening, as incapable as a pet animal of judging her?
'I … trust you are correct,' Miles said, 'but won't there be repercussions from your Security for bringing me in here?'
She shrugged. 'If they wish, they can request the Emperor to reprimand me.'
'They cannot, er, reprimand you directly?'
'They? No.'
The statement was flat, factual. Miles hoped she was not being overly optimistic. And yet … by the lift of her chin, the set of her shoulders, it was clear that the haut Rian Degtiar, Handmaiden of the Star Creche, firmly believed that within these walls she was empress. For the next eight days, anyway.
'I trust this is important. And brief. Or I'm going to emerge to find ghem-Colonel Benin waiting for an exit- interview.'
'It's important.' Her blue eyes seemed to blaze. 'I know which satrap governor is the traitor, now!'
'Excellent! That was fast. Uh . . . how?'
'The Key was, as you said, a decoy. False and empty. As you knew.' Suspicion still glinted in her eye, lighting upon him.
'By reason alone, milady. Do you have evidence?'
'Of a sort.' She leaned forward intently. 'Yesterday, Prince Slyke Giaja had his consort bring him to the Star Creche. For a tour, he pretended. He insisted I produce the Empress's regalia, for his inspection. His face said
