Miles, Mystery & Mayhem - Lois McMaster Bujold [80]
Into the ensuing silence, Miles said faintly, "That went well, all things considered."
Ivan's lip curled in scorn.
* * *
They kept silence on the trudge back to Ivan's room, where Ivan found a new stack of colored papers waiting on his desk. He sorted through them, pointedly ignoring Miles.
"I have to reach Rian somehow," Miles said at last. "I can't afford to wait. Things are getting too damned tight."
"I don't want anything more to do with any of this," said Ivan distantly.
"It's too late."
"Yes. I know." His hand paused. "Huh. Here's a new wrinkle. This one has both our names on it."
"Not from Lady Benello, is it? I'm afraid Vorreedi will count her off-limits now."
"No. It's not a name I recognize."
Miles pounced on the paper, and tore it open. "Lady d'Har. A garden party. What does she grow in her garden, I wonder? Could it be a double meaning—referencing the Celestial Garden? Hm. Awfully short notice. It could be my next contact. God, I hate being at haut Rian's mercy for every setup. Well, accept it anyway, just in case."
"It's not my first choice of how to spend the evening," said Ivan.
"Did I say anything about a choice? It's a chance, we've got to take it." He went on nastily, "Besides, if you keep leaving your genetic samples all over town, your progeny could end up being featured in next year's art show. As bushes."
Ivan shuddered. "You don't think they would—that's not why—uh, could they?"
"Sure. Why, when you're gone, they could re-create the operative body parts that interest them, to perform on command, to any scale—quite the souvenir. And you thought that kitten tree was obscene."
"There's more to it than that, coz," Ivan stated with injured dignity. His voice faded in doubt. " . . . you don't think they'd really do something like that, do you?"
"There's no more ruthless passion than that of a Cetagandan artist in search of new media." He added firmly, "We're going to a garden party. I'm sure it's my contact with Rian."
"Garden party," conceded Ivan with a sigh. He stared off blankly into space. After a minute he commented offhandedly, "Y'know, it's too bad she can't just get the gene bank back from his ship. Then he'd have the key but no lock. That'd fox him up but good, I bet."
Miles sat down in Ivan's desk chair, slowly. When he'd got his breath back, he whispered, "Ivan—that's brilliant. Why didn't I think of that before?"
Ivan considered this. " 'Cause it's not a scenario that lets you play the lone hero in front of the haut Rian?"
They exchanged saturnine looks. For once, Miles's gaze shifted first. "I meant that as a rhetorical question," he said tightly. But he didn't say it very loudly.
Chapter Twelve
Garden party was a misnomer, Miles decided. He stared past Ambassador Vorob'yev and Ivan as the three of them exited from an ear-popping ride up the lift tube and into the apparently open air of the rooftop. A faint golden sparkle in the air above marked the presence of a lightweight force-screen, blocking unwanted wind, rain, or dust. Dusk here, in the center of the capital, was a silver sheen in the atmosphere, for the half-kilometer-high building overlooked the green rings of parkway surrounding the Celestial Garden itself.
Curving banks of flowers and dwarf trees, fountains, rivulets, walkways, and arched jade bridges turned the roof into a descending labyrinth in the finest Cetagandan style. Every turn of the walkways revealed and framed a different view of the city stretching to the horizon, though the best views were the ones that looked to the Emperor's shimmering great phoenix egg in the city's heart. The lift-tube foyer, opening onto it all, was roofed with arching vines and paved in an elaborate inlay of colored stones: lapis lazuli, malachite, green and white jade, rose quartz, and other minerals Miles couldn't even name.
Looking around, it gradually dawned on Miles why the