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beyond price. It was ringed first by a kilometer-wide park with trees, then by
a street reflecting silver, then by another park, then by an ordinary street,
thick with traffic. From this, eight wide boulevards fanned out like the spokes
of a wheel, centering the city. Centering the universe, Miles gained the
impression. The effect was doubtless intended.
"The ceremony today is in some measure a dress rehearsal for the final one in
a week and a half," Vorob'yev went on, "since absolutely everyone will be
there, ghem-lords, haut-lords, galactics and all. There will likely be
organizational delays. As long as they're not on our part. I spent a week of
hard negotiating to get you your official rankings and place in this."
"Which is?" said Miles.
"You two will be placed equivalently to second-order ghem-lords." Vorob'yev
shrugged. "It was the best I could do."
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r r
In the mob, though toward the front of it. The better to watch without being
much noticed himself, Miles supposed. Today, that seemed like a good idea.
All three of them, Vorob'yev, Ivan, and himself, were wearing their respective
House mourning uniforms, logos and decorations of rank stitched in black
silk on black cloth. Maximum formal, since they were to be in the Imperial
presence itself. Miles ordinarily liked his Vorkosigan House uniform,
whether the original brown and silver or this somber and elegant version,
because the tall boots not only allowed but required him to dispense with the
leg braces. But getting the boots on over his swollen burns this morning had
been . . . painful. He was going to be limping more noticeably than usual, even
tanked as he was on painkillers. I'll remember this, Yenaro.
They spiraled down to a landing by the southernmost dome entrance, fronted
by a landing lot already crowded with other vehicles. Vorob'yev dismissed the
driver and aircar.
"We keep no escort, my lord?" Miles said doubtfully, watching it go, and
awkwardly shifting the long polished maplewood box he carried.
Vorob'yev shook his head. "Not for security purposes. No one but the
Cetagandan emperor himself could arrange an assassination inside the
Celestial Garden, and if he wished to have you eliminated here, a regiment of
bodyguards would do you no good."
Some very tall men in the dress uniforms of the Cetagandan Imperial Guard
vetted them through the dome locks. The guardsmen shunted them toward a
collection of float-pallets set up as open cars, with white silky upholstered
seats, the color of Cetagandan Imperial mourning. Each ambassadorial party
was bowed on board by what looked to be senior servants in white and gray.
The robotically-routed float-cars set off at a sedate pace a hand-span above
the white-jade-paved walkways winding through a vast arboretum and
botanical garden. Here and there Miles saw the rooftops of scattered and
hidden pavilions peeking through the trees. All the buildings were low and
private, except for some elaborate towers poking up in the center of the magic
circle, almost three kilometers away. Though the sun shone outside in an Eta
Ceta spring day, the weather inside the dome was set to a gray, cloudy, and
appropriately mournful dampness, promising, but doubtless not delivering,
rain.
At length they wafted to a sprawling pavilion just to the west of the central
towers, where another servant bowed them out of the car and directed them
inside, along with a dozen other delegations. Miles stared around, trying to
identify them all.
The Marilacans, yes, there was the silver-haired Bernaux, some green-clad
people who might be Jacksonians, a delegation from Aslund which included
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r r
their chief of state-even they had only two guards, disarmed-the Betan
ambassadoress in a black-on-purple brocade jacket and matching sarong, all
streaming in to honor this one dead woman who would never have met them
face-to-face when alive. Surreal seemed an understatement. Miles felt like
he'd crossed the border into Faerie, and when they emerged this afternoon, a
hundred years would have passed outside. The galactics had to pause at the
doorway to make way for the party of a haut-lord satrap governor. He had an
escort of a dozen ghem-guards, Miles noted, in full formal face paint, orange,
green, and white swirls.
The decor inside was surprisingly simple-tasteful, Miles supposed-tending
heavily to the organic, arrangements of live flowers and plants and little
fountains, as if bringing the garden indoors. The connecting halls were
hushed, not echoing, yet one's voice carried clearly. They'd done something
extraordinary with acoustics. More palace servants circulated offering food
and drinks to the guests.
A pair of pearl-colored spheres drifted at a walking pace across the far end of
one hall, and Miles blinked at his first glimpse of haut-ladies. Sort of.
Outside their very private quarters haut-women all hid themselves behind
personal force-shields, usually generated, Miles had been told, from a float-
chair. The shields could be made any color, according to the mood or whim of
the wearer, but today would all be white for the occasion. The haut-lady could [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]