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of meticulous janitorial task. But of course. No haut genetic contracts were
approved or, presumably, carried out during the period of mourning for the
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Celestial Lady, putative mistress of this domain. A screaming-bird pattern
decorated the surface of a comconsole, and hovered above several
cabinet-locks. He was standing in the center of the Star Crèche.
The bubble settled by one wall, vanishing without a pop. The haut Rian Degtiar
rose from her float-chair.
Her ebony hair today was bound up in thick loops, tumbling no farther than her
waist. Her pure white robes were only calf-length, two simple layers
comfortably draped over a white bodysuit that covered her from neck to
white-slippered toe. More woman, less icon, and yet . . . Miles had hoped
repeated exposure to her beauty might build up an immunity in him to the
mind-numbing effect of her. Obviously, he would need more exposure than this.
Lots more. Lots and lots and stop it. Don't be more of a idiot than you have
to be.
"We can talk here," she said, gliding to a station chair beside the comconsole
desk and settling herself in it. Her simplest movements were like dance. She
nodded to another station chair across from hers, and Miles lurched into it
with a strained smile, intensely conscious that his boots barely touched the
floor. Rian seemed as direct as the ghem-generals' wives were closed. Was the
Star Crèche itself a sort of psychological force-bubble for her? Or did she
merely consider him so sub-human as to be completely non-threatening, as
incapable as a pet animal of judging her?
"I . . . trust you are correct," Miles said, "but won't there be repercussions
from your Security for bringing me in here?"
She shrugged. "If they wish, they can request the Emperor to reprimand me."
"They cannot, er, reprimand you directly?"
"No."
The statement was flat, factual. Miles hoped she was not being overly
optimistic. And yet . . . by the lift of her chin, the set of her shoulders,
it was clear that the haut Rian Degtiar, Handmaiden of the Star Crèche, firmly
believed that within these walls she was empress. For the next eight days,
anyway.
"I trust this is important. And brief. Or I'm going to emerge to find
ghem-Colonel Benin waiting for an exit-interview."
"It's important." Her blue eyes seemed to blaze. "I know which satrap governor
is the traitor, now!"
"Excellent! That was fast. Uh . . . how?"
"The Key was, as you said, a decoy. False and empty. As you knew." Suspicion
still glinted in her eye, lighting upon him.
"By reason alone, milady. Do you have evidence?"
"Of a sort." She leaned forward intently. "Yesterday, Prince Slyke Giaja had
his consort bring him to the Star Crèche. For a tour, he pretended. He
insisted I produce the Empress's regalia, for his inspection. His face said
nothing, but he gazed upon the collection for a long time, before turning
away, as if satisfied. He congratulated me upon my loyal work, and left
immediately thereafter."
Slyke Giaja was certainly on Miles's short list. Two data points did not quite
make a triangulation, but it was certainly better than nothing. "He didn't ask
to see the Key demonstrated, to prove it worked?"
"No."
"He knew, then." Maybe, maybe . . . "I bet we gave him food for thought,
seeing his decoy sitting there all demure. I wonder which way he's going to
jump next? Does he realize you know it's a decoy, or does he think you've been
fooled?"
"I could not tell."
It wasn't just him, Miles thought with glum relief; even the haut couldn't
read other haut. "He must realize he has only to wait eight days, and the
truth will come out the first time your successor tries to use the Great Key.
Or if not the truth, certainly the accusation against Barrayar. But is that
his plan?"
"I don't know what his plan is."
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"He wants to involve Barrayar somehow, that I'm sure of. Perhaps even provoke
armed conflict between our states."
"This . . ." Rian turned one hand, curled as if around the stolen Great Key,
"would be an outrage, but surely . . . not cause enough for war."
"Mm. This may only be Part One. This pis angers you at us, logically Part Two
ought to be something that angers us at you." An uncomfortable new
realization. Clearly, Lord X Slyke Giaja? was not done yet. "Even if I'd
handed the Key back in that first hour which I don't think was in his
script we still could not have proved we didn't switch it. I wish we hadn't
jumped the Ba Lura. I'd give anything to know what story it was supposed to
have primed us with."
"I wish you hadn't either," said Rian rather tartly, settling back in her
station chair and twitching her vest, the first un-purposive move Miles had
ever seen her make.
Miles's lips twisted in brief embarrassment. "But this is important the
consorts, the satrap governors' consorts. You never told me about them.
They're in on this, aren't they? Why not on both sides?"
She nodded reluctant acknowledgment. "But I do not suspect any of them of
being involved in this treason. That would be . . . unthinkable."
"But surely your Celestial Lady used them why unthinkable? I mean, here a
woman's got a chance to make herself an instant empress, right along with her
governor. Or maybe even independently of her governor."
The haut Rian Degtiar shook her head. "No. The consorts do not belong to them.
They belong to us."
Miles blinked, slightly dizzy. "Them. The men. Us. The women. Right?"
"The haut-women are the keepers. . . ." She broke off, evidently hopeless of
explaining it to an outlander barbarian. "It cannot be Slyke Giaja's consort."
"I'm sorry. I don't understand."
"It's . . . a matter of the haut-genome. Slyke Giaja is attempting to take
something to which he has no right. It is not that he attempts to usurp the
emperor. That is his proper part. It's that he attempts to usurp the empress.
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