Miles, Mystery & Mayhem - Lois McMaster Bujold [49]
Miles rose along with Benin, and paused. "Ghem-Colonel . . . may I make a personal suggestion?"
Benin tilted his head in curious permission.
"You have good reason to suspect you have a little problem somewhere overhead. But you don't know where yet. If I were you, I'd go straight to the top. Make personal contact with your Emperor. It's the only way you can be sure you've capped the murderer."
Did Benin turn pale, beneath his face paint? No way to tell. "That high over—Lord Vorkosigan, I can hardly claim casual acquaintance with my celestial master."
"This isn't friendship. It's business, and it's his business. If you truly mean to be useful to him, it's time you began. Emperors are only human." Well, Emperor Gregor was. The Cetagandan emperor was haut-human. Miles hoped that still counted. "Ba Lura must have been more to him than a piece of the furniture—it served him for over fifty years. Make no accusations, merely request that he protect your investigation from being quashed. Strike first, today, before . . . someone . . . begins to fear your competence." If you're going to cover your ass, Benin, by God do it right.
"I will . . . consider your advice."
"Good hunting." Miles nodded cheerfully, as if it wasn't his problem. "Big game is the best. Think of the honor."
Benin bowed himself out with a small, wry smile, to be escorted from the building by the embassy guard.
"See you around," Miles called.
"You may be sure of it." Benin's parting wave was almost, but not quite, a salute.
Miles's desire to dissolve into an exhausted puddle on the corridor floor was delayed by the arrival of Vorob'yev, doubtless from his listening post below-stairs, and another man. Ivan hovered behind them with an expression of morose anxiety.
The other man was middle-aged, middle-sized, and wearing the loose bodysuit and well-cut robes of a Cetagandan ghem-lord, in middle colors. They hung comfortably upon him, but his face was free of colored paint, and the haircut he sported was that of a Barrayaran officer. His eyes were . . . interested.
"A very well conducted interview, Lord Vorkosigan," said Vorob'yev, relieving Miles's mind. Slightly. An even wager who had interviewed whom, just now.
"Ghem-Colonel Benin obviously has a lot on his mind," said Miles. "Ah . . ." He glanced at Vorob'yev's companion.
"Allow me to introduce Lord Vorreedi," said the ambassador. "Lord Vorkosigan, of course. Lord Vorreedi is our particular expert in understanding the activities of the ghem-comrades, in all their multitude of arenas."
Which was diplomatic-talk for Head Spy. Miles nodded careful greetings. "Pleased to meet you at last, sir."
"And you," Vorreedi returned. "I regret not arriving sooner. The late empress's obsequies were expected to be rather more sedate than this. I didn't know of your keen interest in civil security, Lord Vorkosigan. Would you like us to arrange you a tour of the local police organizations?"
"I'm afraid time will not permit. But yes, if I hadn't been able to get into a military career, I think police work might have been my next choice."
A uniformed corporal from the embassy's ImpSec office approached, and motioned away his civilian-clothed superior. They conferred in low tones, and the corporal handed over a sheaf of colored papers to the protocol officer, who in turn handed them to the ambassador with a few words. Vorob'yev, his brows climbing, turned to Ivan.
"Lord Vorpatril. Some invitations have arrived for you this morning."
Ivan took the sheets, their colors and perfumes clashing, and leafed through them