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"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."
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"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.
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"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 [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]