Cetaganda

begin anew.

'I'm not really qualified to judge aesthetics,' Miles mentioned, hoping to head off any conversation in that direction.

'So very few are,' smiled Yenaro, 'but that doesn't stop them.'

'It does seem to me to be a very considerable technical achievement. Do you drive the motion with antigrav, then?'

'No, there's no antigrav in it at all. The generators would be bulky and wasteful of power. The same force drives the leaves' motion as drives their color changes—or so my technicians explained it to me.'

'Technicians? I somehow pictured you putting all this together with your own hands.'

Yenaro spread his hands—pale, long-fingered, and thin—and stared at them as if surprised to find them on the ends of his wrists. 'Of course not. Hands are to be hired. Design is the test of the intellect.'

'I must disagree. In my experience, hands are integral with brains, almost another lobe for intelligence. What one does not know through one's hands, one does not truly know.'

'You are a man capable of true conversation, I perceive. You must meet my friends, if your schedule here permits. I'm hosting a reception at my home in two evenings' time—do you suppose—?'

'Um, maybe . . .' That evening was a blank as far as the funeral formalities went. It could be quite interesting, a chance to observe how the ghem-lordlings of his own generation operated without the inhibitions of their elders; a glimpse into the future of Cetaganda. 'Yes, why not?'

'I'll send you directions. Oh.' Yenaro nodded toward the fountain, which was starting up with its high- canopied summer greens again. 'Now we can go in.'

Miles did not find the view from inside the fountain-maze all that much different from the outside. In fact, it seemed less interesting, as at close range the illusion of forms in the flitting leaves was reduced. The music was clearer, though. It rose to a crescendo, as the colors began to change.

'Now you'll see something,' said Yenaro, with evident satisfaction.

It was all sufficiently distracting that it took another moment for Miles to realize that he was feeling something—tingling and heat, coming from his leg braces lying against his skin. He schooled himself not to react, till the heat began to rise.

Yenaro was babbling on with artistic enthusiasm, pointing out effects, Now, watch this— Brilliant colors swirled before Miles's eyes. A distinct sensation of scalding flesh crept up his legs.

Miles muffled his scream to a less-edged yell, and managed not to jump for the water. God knew, he might be electrocuted. The few seconds it took him to pelt out of the maze brought the steel of his braces to a temperature sufficient to boil water. He gave up dignity, dove for the floor, and yanked up his trouser legs. His first snatch at the clamps burned his hands, too. He swore, eyes watering, and tried again. He tore off his boots, snapped loose the braces, and flung them aside with a clatter, and curled up momentarily in overwhelming pain. The braces had left a pattern of rising white welts surrounded by an angry red border of flesh on shin, knees, and ankles.

Yenaro was flapping about in distress, calling loudly for help. Miles looked up to find himself the center of an audience of about fifty or so shocked and bewildered people, witnessing his display. He stopped writhing and swearing, and sat panting, his breath hissing through clenched teeth.

Ivan and Vorob'yev shouldered through the mob from different directions. 'Lord Vorkosigan! What has happened?' asked Vorob'yev urgently.

'I'm all right,' said Miles. He was not all right, but this was not the time or place to go into details. He pulled his trouser legs quickly back down, concealing the burns.

Yenaro was yammering on in dismay, 'What happened? I had no idea—are you all right, Lord Vorkosigan? Oh dear . . .'

Ivan bent and prodded at a cooling brace. 'Yes, what the hell . . . ?'

Miles considered the sequence of sensations, and their possible causes. Not antigrav, not noticeable to anyone else, and it had slid right past Marilacan embassy security. Hidden in plain sight? Right. 'I think it was some sort of electro-hysteresis effect. The color-changes in the display are apparently driven by a reversing magnetic field at low level. No problem for most people. For me, well, it wasn't quite as bad as shoving my leg braces into a microwave, but—you get the idea.' Grinning, he got to his feet. Ivan, looking very worried, had already collected his flung boots and the offending braces. Miles let him keep them. He didn't want to touch them just now. He blundered rather blindly closer to Ivan, and muttered under his breath, 'Get me out of here. . . .' He was shivering and shocky, as Ivan's hand on his shoulder could sense. Ivan gave him a short, understanding nod, and swiftly withdrew through the crowd of finely dressed men and women, some of whom were already turning away.

Ambassador Bernaux hurried up, and added his worried apologies to Yenaro's one-man chorus. 'Do you wish to stop in to the embassy infirmary, Lord Vorkosigan?' Bernaux offered.

'No. Thank you. I'll wait till we get home, thanks.' Soon, please.

Bernaux bit his lip, and regarded the still-apologizing Lord Yenaro. 'Lord Yenaro, I'm afraid—'

'Yes, yes, turn it off at once' said Yenaro. 'I will send my servants to remove it immediately. I had no idea—everyone else seemed to be enjoying—it must be re-designed. Or destroyed, yes, destroyed at once. I am so sorry—this is so embarrassing—'

Yes, isn't it? thought Miles. A show of his physical weakness, displayed to a maximum audience at the earliest possible moment . . .

'No, no, don't destroy it,' said Ambassador Bernaux, horrified. 'But we certainly must have it examined by a safety engineer, and modified, or perhaps a warning posted. . . .'

Ivan reappeared at the edge of the dispersing crowd, and gave Miles a thumbs-up signal. After a few more minutes of excruciating social niceties, Vorob'yev and Ivan managed to get him escorted back down the lift tube to the waiting Barrayaran embassy groundcar. Miles flung himself into the upholstery and sat, grinning in pain, breath shallow. Ivan eyed his shivering form, skinned out of his tunic, and tucked it around Miles's shoulders. Miles let him.

'All right, let's see the damages,' demanded Ivan. He propped one of Miles's heels on his knee and rolled back the trouser leg. 'Damn, that's got to hurt.'

'Quite,' agreed Miles thinly.

'It could hardly have been an assassination attempt, though,' said Vorob'yev, his lips compressed with calculation.

'No,' agreed Miles.

'Bernaux told me he had his own security people examine the sculpture before they installed it. Looking for bombs and bugs, of course, but they cleared it.'

'I'm sure they did. This could not have hurt anyone . . . but me.'

Vorob'yev followed his reasoning without effort. 'A trap?'

'Awfully elaborate, if so,' noted Ivan.

'I'm . . . not sure,' said Miles.I'm meant to be not-sure. That's the beauty of it. '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 said.

'Before we even arrived.' Before our little encounter with the man with no eyebrows. It can't possibly be connected—can it? 'How long have we been scheduled for that party?'

'The embassies arranged the invitations about three days ago,' said Vorob'yev.

'The timing is awfully tight, for a conspiracy,' Ivan observed.

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

'Provisionally,' said Miles. That was no accident. I was set up. Me, personally. You know there's a war on when the opening salvo arrives.

Except that, usually, one knew why a war had been declared. It was all very well to swear not to be blindsided again, but who was the enemy here?