"Apparently it's not an honor one can refuse."
"Mm." With difficulty, Miles pulled his imagination away from these side-fascinations, and back to his most immediate worry. "That seal of the Star Creche thing—I don't suppose you have a picture of it?"
"I brought a number of vids with me, yes, my lord," said Maz. "With your permission, we can run them on your comconsole."
Ooh, I adore competent women. Do you have a younger sister, milady Maz? "Yes, please," said Miles.
They all trooped over to the chamber's comconsole desk, and Maz began a quick illustrated lecture on haut crests and the several dozen assorted Imperial seals. "Here it is, my lord—the seal of the Star Creche."
It was a clear cubical block, measuring maybe fifteen centimeters on a side, with the bird-pattern incised in red lines upon its top. Not the mysterious rod. Miles exhaled with relief. The terror that had been riding him ever since Maz had mentioned the seal, that he and Ivan might have accidentally stolen a piece of the Imperial regalia, faded. The rod was some kind of Imperial gizmo, obviously, and would have to be returned—anonymously, by preference—but at least it wasn't—
Maz called up the next unit of data, "And this object is the Great Key of the Star Creche, which is handed over along with the seal," she went on.
Ivan choked on his wine. Miles, faint, leaned on the desk and smiled fixedly at the image of the rod. The original lay some few centimeters under his hand, in the drawer.
"And, ah—just what is the Great Key of the Star Creche, m'la—Maz?" Miles managed to murmur. "What does it do?"
"I'm not quite sure. At one time in the past, I believe it had something to do with data retrieval from the haut gene banks, but the actual device may only be ceremonial by now. I mean, it's a couple of hundred years old. It has to be obsolete."
We hope. Thank God he hadn't dropped it. Yet. "I see."
"Miles . . ." muttered Ivan.
"Later," Miles hissed to him out of the corner of his mouth. "I understand your concern."
Ivan mouthed something obscene at him, over the seated Maz's head.
Miles leaned against the comconsole desk, and screwed up his features in a realistic wince.
"Something wrong, my lord?" Maz glanced up, concerned.
"I'm afraid my legs are bothering me, a bit. I had probably better pay another visit to the embassy physician, after this."
"Would you prefer to continue this later?" Maz asked instantly.
'Well ... to tell you the truth, I think I've had about all the etiquette lessons I can absorb for one afternoon."
"Oh, there's lots more." But apparently he was looking realistically pale, too, for she rose, adding, "Far too much for one session, to be sure. Are your injuries much troubling you? I didn't realize they were that severe."
Miles shrugged, as if in embarrassment. After a suitable exchange of parting amenities, and a promise to call on his Vervani tutor again very soon, Ivan took over the hostly duties, and escorted Maz back downstairs.
He returned immediately, to seal the door behind him and pounce on Miles. "Do you have any idea how much trouble we're in?" he cried.
Miles sat before the comconsole, re-reading the official, and entirely inadequate, description of the Great Key, while its image floated hauntingly before his nose above the vid plate. "Yes. I also know how we're going to get out of it. Do you know as much?"
This gave Ivan pause. "What else do you know that I don't?"
"If you will just leave it to me, I believe I can get this thing back to its rightful owner with no one the wiser."
"Its rightful owner is the Cetagandan emperor, according to what Maz said."
"Well, ultimately, yes. I should say, back to its rightful keeper. Who, if I read the signs right, is as chagrined about losing it as we are in finding it. If I can get it back to her quietly, I don't think she's going to go around proclaiming how she lost it. Although ... I do wonder how she did lose it." Something was not adding up, just below his level of conscious perception.
"We mugged an Imperial servitor, that's how!"
"Yes, but what was Ba Lura doing with the thing on an orbital transfer station in the first place? Why had it disabled the security monitors in the docking bay?"
"Lura was taking the Great Key somewhere, obviously. To the Great Lock, for all I know." Ivan paced around the comconsole. "So the poor sod cuts its throat the next morning 'cause it lost its charge, its trust, courtesy of us—hell, Miles. I feel like we just killed that old geezer. And it never did us any harm, it just blundered into the wrong place and had the bad luck to startle us."
"Is that what happened?" Miles murmured. "Really . . . ?" Is that why I am so desperately determined for the story to be something, anything, else? The scenario hung together. The old Ba, charged with transporting the precious object, loses the Great Key to some outlander barbarians, confesses its disgrace to its mistress, and kills itself in expiation. Wrap. Miles felt ill. "So ... if the key was that important, why wasn't the Ba traveling with a squadron of Imperial ghem-guards?"
"God Miles, I wish it had been!"
A firm knock sounded on Miles's door. Miles hastily shut down the comconsole and unsealed the door lock. "Come in."
Ambassador Vorob'yev entered, and favored him with a semi-cordial nod. He held a sheaf of delicately colored, scented papers in his hand.
"Hello, my lords. Did you find your tutorial with Maz useful?"
"Yes, sir," said Miles.
"Good. I thought you would. She's excellent." Vorobyev held up the colored papers. "While you were in session, this invitation arrived for you both, from Lord Yenaro. Along with assorted profound apologies for last night's incident. Embassy security has opened, scanned, and chemically analyzed it. They report the organic esters harmless." With this safety pronouncement, he handed the papers across to Miles. "It is up to you, whether or not to accept. If you concur that the unfortunate side-effect of the sculpture's power field was an accident, your attendance might be a good thing. It would complete the apology, repairing face all around."
"Oh, we'll go, sure." The apology and invitation were hand-calligraphed in the best Cetagandan style. "But I'll keep my eyes open. Ah . . . wasn't Colonel Vorreedi due back today?"
Vorob'yev grimaced. "He's run into some tedious complications. But in view of that odd incident at the Marilacan embassy, I've sent a subordinate to replace him. He should be back tomorrow. Perhaps ... do you wish a bodyguard? Not openly, of course, that would be another insult."
"Mm . . . we'll have a driver, right? Let him be one of your trained men, have backup on call, give us both comm links, and have him wait for us nearby."
"Very well, Lord Vorkosigan. I'll make arrangements," Vorob'yev nodded. "And . . . regarding the incident in the rotunda earlier today—"
Miles's heart pounded. "Yes?"
"Please don't break ranks like that again."
"Did you receive a complaint?" And from whom?
"One learns to interpret certain pained looks. The Cetagandans would consider it impolite to protest—but should unpleasant incidents pile high enough, not too impolite for them to take some sort of indirect and arcane retaliation. You two will be gone in ten days, but I will still be here. Please don't make my job any more difficult than it already is, eh?"
"Understood, sir," said Miles brightly. Ivan was looking intensely worried—was he going to bolt, pour out confessions to Vorob'yev? Not yet, evidently, for the ambassador waved himself back out without Ivan throwing himself at his feet.