Cetaganda

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Miles woke from a late, uneasy doze to find Ivan cautiously shaking him by the shoulder.

He closed his eyes again, blocking out the dimness of his suite and his cousin. 'Go 'way.' He tried to pull the covers back up over his head.

Ivan renewed his efforts, more vigorously. 'Now I know it was a mission,' he commented. 'You're having your usual post-mission sulks.'

'I am not sulking. I am tired.'

'You look terrific, you know. Great blotch on the side of your face that goon left with his shock-stick. Goes all the way up to your eye. It'll show from a hundred meters. You should get up and look in the mirror.'

'I hate people who are cheerful in the morning. What time is it? Why are you up? Why are you here?' Miles lost his clutch on his bedclothes as Ivan dragged them ruthlessly from his grip.

'Ghem-Colonel Benin is on his way here to pick you up. In an Imperial land-cruiser half a block long. The Cetagandans want you at the cremation ceremony an hour early.'

'What? Why? He can't be arresting me from here, diplomatic immunity. Assassination? Execution? Isn't it a little late for that?'

'Ambassador Vorob'yev also wants to know. He sent me to rustle you up as swiftly as possible.' Ivan propelled Miles toward his bathroom. 'Start depilating, I've brought your uniform and boots from the embassy laundry. Anyway, if the Cetagandans really wanted to assassinate you, they'd hardly do it here. They'd slip something subtle under your skin that wouldn't go off for six months, and then would drop you mysteriously and untraceably in your tracks.'

'Reassuring thought.' Miles rubbed the back of his neck, surreptitiously feeling for lumps. 'I bet the Star Creche has some great terminal diseases. But I pray I didn't offend them.'

Miles suffered Ivan to play valet, on fast-forward, with editorials. But he forgave his cousin all sins, past, present, and future, in exchange for the coffee bulb Ivan also shoved into his hand. He swallowed and stared at his face in the mirror, above his unfastened black tunic. The shock-stick contusion across his left cheek was indeed turning a spectacular polychrome, crowned by a blue-black circle under his eye. The other two hits were not as bad, as his clothing had offered some protection. He still would have preferred to spend the day in bed. In his cabin on the outbound ImpSec jumpship, heading home as fast as the laws of physics would allow.

They arrived at the embassy's lobby to find not Benin but Mia Maz waiting in her formal black and white funeral clothing. She had been keeping Ambassador Vorob'yev company when they'd dragged in last night—this morning, rather—and could not have had much more sleep than Miles. But she looked remarkably fresh, even chipper. She smiled at Miles and Ivan. Ivan smiled back.

Miles squinted. 'Vorob'yev not here?'

'He's coming down as soon as he's finished dressing,' Maz assured him.

'You . . . coming with me?' Miles asked hopefully. 'Or . . . no, I suppose you have to be with your own delegation. This being the big finish and all.'

'I'll be accompanying Ambassador Vorob'yev.' Maz's smile escaped into a chipmunk grin, dimples everywhere. 'Permanently. He asked me to marry him last night. I think it was a measure of his general distraction. In the spirit of the insanity of the moment, I said yes.'

If you can't hire help . . . Well, that would solve Vorob'yev's quest for female expertise on the embassy's staff. Not to mention accounting for all that bombardment of chocolates and invitations. 'Congratulations,' Miles managed. Though perhaps it ought to be Congratulations to Vorob'yev and Good luck to Maz.

'It still feels quite strange,' Maz confided. 'I mean, Lady Vorob'yev. How did your mother cope, Lord Vorkosigan?'

'You mean, being an egalitarian Betan and all? No problem. She says egalitarians adjust to aristocracies just fine, as long as they get to be the aristocrats.'

'I hope to meet her someday.'

'You'll get along famously,' Miles predicted with confidence.

Vorob'yev appeared, still fastening his black tunic, at almost the same moment as ghem-Colonel Benin was escorted inside by the embassy guards. Correction. Ghem-General Benin. Miles smiled under his breath at the glitter of new rank insignia on Benin's blood-red dress uniform. I called that one right, did I not?

'May I ask what this is all about, ghem-General?' Vorob'yev didn't miss the new order.

Benin half-bowed. 'My Celestial Master requests the attendance of Lord Vorkosigan at this hour. Ah … we will return him to you.'

'Your word upon it? It would be a major embarrassment for the embassy were he to be mislaid . . . again.' Vorob'yev managed to be stern at Benin while simultaneously capturing Maz's hand upon his arm and covertly stroking it.

'My word upon it, Ambassador,' Benin promised. At Vorobyev's reluctant nod of permission, he led Miles out. Miles glanced back over his shoulder, lonely for Ivan, or Maz, or somebody on his side.

The groundcar wasn't half a block long, but it was a very fine vehicle indeed, and not military issue. Cetagandan soldiers saluted Benin punctiliously, and settled him and his guest in the rear compartment. When they pulled away from the embassy, it felt something like riding in a house.

'May I ask what all this is about, ghem-General?' Miles inquired in turn.

Benin's expression was almost . . . crocodilian. 'I am instructed that explanations must wait until you arrive at the Celestial Garden. It will take only a few minutes of your time, nothing more. I first thought that you would like it, but upon mature reflection, I think you will hate it. Either way, you deserve it.'

'Take care your growing reputation for subtlety doesn't go to your head, ghem-General,' Miles growled. Benin merely smiled.

It was definitely an Imperial audience chamber, if a small one, not a conference chamber like the room last night. There was only one seat, and Fletchir Giaja was in it already. The white robes he wore this morning were bulky and elaborate to the point of half-immobilizing him, and he had two ba servitors waiting to help him with them when he rose again. He had his icon-look plastered back on his face again, his expression so reserved it resembled porcelain. Three white bubbles floated silently beyond his left hand. Another ba servitor brought a small flat case to Benin, who stood upon the Emperor's right.

'You may approach my Celestial Master, Lord Vorkosigan,' Benin informed him.

Miles stepped forward, deciding not to kneel. He and the haut Fletchir Giaja were almost eye to eye as he stood.

Benin handed the case to the emperor, who opened it. 'Do you know what this is, Lord Vorkosigan?' Giaja asked.

Miles eyed the medallion of the Order of Merit on its colored ribbon, glittering on a bed of velvet. 'Yes, sir. It is a lead weight, suitable for sinking small enemies. Are you going to sew me into a silk sack with it, before you throw me overboard?'

Giaja glanced up at Benin, who responded with a Didn't I tell you so? shrug.

'Bend your neck, Lord Vorkosigan,' Giaja instructed him firmly. 'Unaccustomed as you may be to doing so.'

Was not Rian in one of those bubbles? Miles stared briefly at his mirror-polished boots, as Giaja slipped the ribbon over his head. He stepped back half a pace, tried and failed to keep his hand from touching the cool metal. He would not salute. 'I … refuse this honor, sir.

'No, you don't,' Giaja said in an observant tone, watching him. 'I am given to understand by my keenest observers that you have a passion for recognition. It is a . . .'