Not Place, but People - III

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III

Settling back into her couch beside Mark, Kareen’s head was whirling.

Although she had known from Uncle Aral himself that the haut felt indebted to Mark for killing Ryoval, and had supposed that to account for the horrid curiosity they had shown, all surreptitious stares and burning glances, she had not really understood how strong that sense of debt was in Emperor the haut Fletchir Giaja, and wondered again who the renegade could have been. Some imperial relative, perhaps, or high scion? And besides, what was Miles really up to? She might lack his ability to intuit close-held secrets apparently from thin air but she was neither a fool nor unobservant, and the cross-currents in that whole conversation screamed of distinctly Milesian intrigue. With acuity sharpened by the special insights loving Mark had given her, she suspected that wringing from the Cetagandans an acknowledgement of Mark was probably close to the heart of the plan, but Miles had, as usual, wrapped it up in he alone knew what shells of pangalactic action. Though Gregor might have guessed. And Dag Benin.

As she peered sideways at Giaja, murmuring something to a Ba servitor, a thought suddenly arrested her. Kareen knew Gregor as well as almost anyone who wasn’t born a Vorkosigan, Vorpatril, or Vorvolk, except Simon Illyan, and an emperor was an emperor; she didn’t think this one any more likely than Gregor to do anything spontaneously, let alone give away high and dangerous secrets. Which means it wasn’t the real secret. It was the lie to conceal that secret. And what could be so dangerous a secret that a successfully renegade haut was an acceptable fiction of conceal­ment? The Ba bowed and departed, and Kareen remembered what Miles had told them about the genderless Ba and their use to the haut during the pre-trip briefing; a renegade Ba would not only have had no choice but to clone, but in all likelihood known a very great deal-silent servants always did. Could that be …? She drew breath to whisper the thought to Mark, but caught herself in time: if the haut were concealing it, Miles was helping them; and she would do nothing to imperil the haut offer of help with those rescued clone-children on Escobar, whom she knew weighed on Mark’s mind-not that there seemed any danger of it given the tense haut eagerness to be of assistance. Demand, really. About to sink into her couch she found Benin, Giaja, and beyond them Miles and Ekaterin regarding her gravely, almost gulped but didn’t, nodded to them all firmly, and lay back to be stunned by the sudden thought that her instinctive response had been her first real action here as Lady Kareen Vorkosigan.

I can do this, after all.

She was still smiling as the lights dimmed and that marvellous lettering in light reappeared, shining in the darkness.

TO THE INVASION IMPROMPTU BY NICOL SEVEN,

THE HAUT PEL’S GRACE TO THE FALLEN

The lettering ribboned and faded while the whole sphere sank into near-darkness and complete silence. Kareen braced herself for the tremendous, rippling chord that began Nicol’s Impromptu, but the silence endured as low red lights came up in the lowest part of the sphere, below the level of the imperial box, illuminating an appalling tableau-bubbles featuring images Kareen recognised as the Baron and Baronne Bharaputra, Baron Fell, and others she didn’t know, each held by an almost invisible black-garbed dancer, floating serenely above a contortion of slowly writhing quaddies, limbs twisted to what seemed impossible angles, faces so stretched in rictus she could not help but imagine their screams. After a dreadful, staring moment while she felt revulsion sweep the audience she became aware through her pity of a different, cleaner light, and looked up to see, almost at the top of the sphere, glowing white bubble-images of Gregor and Fletchir Giaja, at first alone, then joined, on Gregor’s side, by images of Tante Cordelia and Uncle Aral, then Miles, and on Giaja’s side Benin, and two roseate bubbles that must represent Rian and Pel.

Silence remained absolute as bubbles bearing ghem-faces she remembered from the day of the invasion appeared below Giaja and fell purposely toward and into the animated frieze of writhing quaddies below, only to vanish. Then she heard Mark hiss at her side and followed his gaze to see with shock, among the writhing quaddies, bubbles bearing images of Taura and Mark himself, struggling for space and then rising towards the top of the group. Mirroring the ghem-bubbles Giaja had despatched, the Miles-bubble swooped down and its dancer caught an upper hand of the quaddie who held the Taura-bubble, lifting both up to the middle of the sphere, before the bubbles swung down again together to lift the Mark-bubble; and all three, a third time, to seize a chain of smaller bubbles-children-and pull them free, spinning them to bubbles in that grey Dendarii Mercenary uniform Miles had once shown her, who sped them toward exits before rising back with the Mark- and Taura-bubbles to positions below Gregor and the senior Vorkosigans.

Kareen turned her head to meet Mark’s eyes and saw his mixture of shock, astonished admiration at just how close to the wind Miles the Relentless had been sailing in that peculiar conversation just now, and, beneath it all, pride. Yes! Her heart eased and appreciation of her lunatic brother-in-law impossibly rose another big notch as she took in the therapeutic fraternal care he had somehow managed here, but her attention was drawn back to the dumbshow still unfolding above her when, for the first time, the Gregor- and Giaja-bubbles turned to face one another. After a moment the Miles- and Benin-bubbles spun out to meet one another mid-way between the groups, rotated slowly around, and returned. Another moment, and the emperors themselves launched into graceful arcs that brought them together, and as they came to rest side-by-side the first great, triumphant, melded chord of Nicol’s music rippled through the sphere and everything changed.

Light picked out Nicol herself in the soloist’s spot in the orchestra-pit and blazed in the upper half of the sphere where the complete Barrayaran and Cetagandan parties assembled around the emperors-Gregor having acquired a Laisa-bubble beside him, Miles an Ekaterin-bubble, and Mark, she saw with real shock, a Kareen-bubble to match, far more beautiful and elegant than she had ever imagined herself, while on the Cetagandan side more roseate Planetary-Consort bubbles and others showing ghem-Admirals Lhosh and Arvin appeared around Giaja. Then the ghem-officers swung down to meet Uncle Aral and Miles at a point about two-thirds of the height of the sphere, and from the entrances at that level poured dancers with bubbles bearing images of ships, the Vorbarra Arms, and the black-and-white Imperial Array used by ghem-officers on personal service to Giaja. Driven by Nicol’s now striding music, born of and wrought in moments of heartfelt relief, pleasure at bloodless rescue, and joy in clean, over­whelming revenge, the movements of commanders and ships alike were at once disciplined and graceful, but also somehow pleased themselves, eager in their work; below them the Baron-bubbles crabwalked in alarm, while tangled quaddies unfroze, stretching their relief and letting smiles come to their faces. Above them all, a fraction below the emperors, one roseate bubble moved to a central position and (rippling shock through the audience) resolved into a visible image of haut Pel that instantly made Kareen think of Ivan indignantly calling her insanely beautiful. Eyes blazing, hair in long, swinging plaits, rose gown swirling with flecks of iridescent colour, Pel began to dance.

What was part of the bubble’s moving image and what the movements of the quaddie dancer holding it Kareen was never sure, then or later, for the two were melded, the dancer’s upper hands becoming extensions of the image’s arms as the lower ones held and manipulated the bubble in gorgeous, lyrical movement. Below her Aral and Miles with Benin, Lhosh, and Arvin danced inspiration and command, while the larger ship bubbles were also, absurdly yet not risibly, dancing to the lowest and slowest of Nicol’s rhythms, as smaller ships danced faster to higher ones. Below all the Barons and Baronnes sank into awkward, arhythmic panic as once contorted quaddies leaped around them, climbing the arpeggios and flourishes of the music to freedom, until bubbles swooped to carry them aside, and others to seize and arrest Jacksonians. And as Ekaterin had been insisting when that interval conversation began, all the Barrayaran and Cetagandan bubbles, while never less than dignified, and in the case of the emperors and Pel majestic, were joyful. The music demanded it, echoing and rolling its exuberant contentment, and the dancing Pel rode the hearts of both music and movement, grace spilling from her gesturing hands to gild the willing labours of conquest below.

As the music slowly diminished the glorious business hummed and evolved into its distinct harmonies, before conquerors, liberated, and even the conquered were drawn together into the final melding harmony and tonal resolutions, until with the last note a perfect tableau hung before her-emperors uppermost, Pel at graceful rest, freed quaddies with arms outstretched in acclamation around all, and the victorious commanders, troop-emblems, and ships arrayed over crouched and supplicant Jacksonians. There was a long, long silence after the last harmonies had faded, and then, all but making Kareen jump in her seat, a deafening crash of applause.

Everyone seemed to be clapping and cheering, haut as well as ghem; she was clapping herself, as was Mark beside her, grinning wildly. Stealing a sideways glance she saw Giaja wasn’t, though his hands rested together; he was simply absorbing the sound, listening with some inner imperial ear to the unaccustomed exuberance of His subjects. Beyond him, however, the outermost section of the force-shield disappeared, and Pel stood, openly visible, to drop the dancers a deep curtsey. Then, as bubbles disappeared and the quaddie dancers broke their tableau, gathering before the imperial box for their bow, the Ba servitor came again to stand just behind Giaja and as soon as the dancers were arrayed he stood, gesturing sharply with one hand. The noise cut off as abruptly as it had begun, leaving everyone, including herself, on their feet awaiting his words. He began, and having heard him speak so recently and informally Kareen had for the first time a clear sense of how much he added to his voice in public, subtle, layered harmonics of suasion and assurance. Amazing.

“Honoured haut and honourable ghem, distinguished Barrayaran and Quaddie guests. We have been privileged tonight to experience three flawless performances of three remarkable works. All praise to the makers and performers.” Stepping forward a half-pace he bowed again, as he had after Prime Decay, and the whole audience bowed or curtsied with him, but this time he stepped back, still standing, and continued. “In token of Our appreciation, We would now ask the Minchenko Ballet’s principal composer, Llewellyn Three, leading soloist Garnet Five who danced the role of the haut Pel Navarr, and the incomparable musician Nicol Seven to accept enrollment in the warrant of Our House.”

The three quaddies were propelled forward by their grinning fellows to the very edge of the imperial box amid a soft murmur of surprise from the audience; each bowed and smiled back at the smiles dazzling them as they received in turn from the haut Emperor, with a curious ceremonial gesture that made Kareen think of religious blessings, handsome, red-ribboned scrolls that the Ba servitor had evidently brought. Pel had moved to stand beside Giaja, and to louder murmurs of surprise shook hands with all three before adding an explanation.

“There is not, as I understand, any distinction closely equivalent to these warrants in your culture. They declare you friends of Cetaganda, always welcome here as our guests in the Celestial Garden. You will also find, if you accept the many invitations to perform you will surely receive, that the status they confer eases your way, and your company’s, with our lesser officialdom.”

Haut and ghem of sufficiently high rank and privilege to be here were too cultured to laugh openly, but Kareen saw smiles on nearer faces, and nods of agreement as Llewellyn bowed, expressing his and the company’s thanks and pleasure in having performed well for such distinguished auditors and spectators. The quaddies withdrew to their fellows, still in mid-sphere-and, sensibly, stayed there, for both Giaja and Pel were still standing, and Giaja had raised a hand.

“One piece We saw told of events long past, and though We honour the trials and valour of the Quaddie Nation, those events need not trouble us today. The second was a meditation to which all with sense must attend, building in abstraction what Lady Kareen Vorkosigan was moved to call harmonies of change and endurance.”

As he spoke her name Giaja inclined his head to her, and she felt her face heat as she dipped in return, but also a cool and flowing confidence, a gifted reassurance that sharply recalled Gregor and set her wondering anew about imperial capacities. Then she remembered the newsies who were seeing this at the embassy. Yikes!

“The third, however, touching Us so much more nearly, must command Our attention now. My Imperial Cousin and Cousine, Their Imperial Majesties Gregor and Laisa Toscane Vorbarra, Emperor and Empress of Barrayar, could not be here tonight, nor Their Viceroy and Vicereine of Sergyar, nor ghem-Admirals Arvin and Lhosh, nor the redoubtable Sergeant Taura, but others whose faces and actions all saw are here-Lord Auditor and Lady Vorkosigan, Lord Mark and Lady Kareen Vorkosigan, ghem-General Benin, and of course the haut Pel Navarr.”

Lights picked them all out, a group arrayed on either side of Giaja, and as the audience unexpectedly bowed or curtsied to them all she hoped her face was not showing the nerves that fluttered her stomach and made her legs tremble beneath her long dress. But the confidence was still there too, even beginnings of enjoyment, so that she glimpsed in herself how it might be possible to draw energy and poise from mass attention, as Ekaterin seemed to do, rather than losing them to flummox and self-consciousness.

“Of the honours due the Planetary Consort of Eta Ceta and ghem-General Benin We have spoken elsewhere. But We speak now of the honours due these Barrayarans among Us, whom We can no longer deem outlanders for they have all in goodwill spoken freely to Our hearts, contributing unexpected wisdom to Our counsels and timely strength to Our hand.”

Even if Kareen had not known how fiercely all Cetagandans-and especially the haut-guarded their distinct identity she would have felt the profound surprise that slammed the audience, deepening collective silence to dumb­struck astonish­ment. Giaja turned to Miles and Ekaterin.

“Lord Auditor and Lady Vorkosigan, you perhaps did not realise that your respective memberships of Our Orders of Merit and Virtue have already conferred upon you enrollment in the Warrant of our House. We are pleased now to enroll you both, with Lord Mark and Lady Kareen”-he glanced towards her and Mark as an imperial gesture encompassed all four Vorkosigans-“in the Grand Warrant of the Inner Garden.”

What that was Kareen had not the slightest idea, but from the queer groans that sounded in the audience and Miles’s startled look it was probably unprecedented. Make that inconceivable. The scrolls the Ba handed to Giaja, and they went to receive, were much larger than the earlier ones, tied with heavy gold ribbon and surprisingly heavy. Nor was Giaja done, a slight gesture holding all four Barrayarans before him.

“We would also seek Our own harmonies of change and endurance.”

Though audible to all this had been addressed to Kareen alone, but Giaja’s attention then swung out, encompassing all present as a palpable weight-a trick she had never seen before from him but often in Gregor and Miles, making her wonder what else the new imperial Cousins might be learning from one another, and from the other’s high feudatories. She knew Gregor and Giaja talked by frame, but had imagined necessary political exchanges rather than more personal ones; now, knowing enough of the Barrayaran Imperium’s uppermost reaches to know how unimagin­able was the burden Gregor bore unstintingly for them all, she suddenly saw what a surpassing, despaired-of gift mutual fellowship might be to the people the emperors were, who in their commanding political fictions could have no native peers. And seeing it, she intuited, wholly and instantaneously if without details, what Miles and Ekaterin had said on Gregor’s and Laisa’s behalf to Giaja and Rian Degtiar, His Handmaiden, and all the high haut and ghem of Their court that this event assembled, in a language of art that was common tongue for emperors because their own lives were each and all of necessity unending performances that made blessed fictions impossibly and overbearingly real. Falling Free proposed independent epic growth in cooperatively won freedom, Prime Decay found stability in diminution, and The haut Pel’s Grace to the Fallen commemorated partnership and imperial force-in-benignity.

How Miles and Ekaterin-oh yes! most certainly Ekaterin-had managed remotely to programme the Minchenko Ballet in emperor-speak she hadn’t a clue, but they had accepted Miles’s commission. Which would have been more than enough for him to start wondering what precisely he was going to say to the highest of the haut when they attended his premiere. And saying it all in a Quaddie accent was like an exquisite grammatical mode, a Cetagandan-style purity of diction combining extreme tact (quaddies never having figured even remotely in any of Barrayar’s and Cetaganda’s century-long hostilities, and Quaddie­space being far too far away to have any strategic bearing on anything) and a blazing mock-irony about the powers of genetics with a multiply object lesson in co-operative endeavour. The last flicker of Kareen’s insight was to realise with renewed shock that Giaja had known exactly what he was going to hear said in that imperial language and exquisite mode, and had responded in kind, which was what the interval conversation had really been about. Had her honest response to Giaja’s question by fortune suggested her own nonexistent understanding of matters so far beyond her? Then with much greater shock she followed the implication of that, that Miles had utterly trusted her to say the perfect thing whether she understood or not; that he trusted who she was, not what she might or might not know, and trusted enough to … but Giaja was speaking and the reverberations in her brain had to pause.

“We have seen tonight great truth in art, and not in art only. Lord Mark Vorkosigan, in recognition of your valour in rescuing children from the planet of joint imperial sovereignty now called Aralyar Ceta, before We were able to do so Ourselves, we are pleased to confer upon you Our Order of Merit.”

Kareen suspected her face must have lit up as brightly as Miles’s, though without (she hoped) the unholy glee dancing in his eyes and certainly without the teasing flick of his fingers towards his identical decoration, which he frequently described as the greatest minor embarrassment of his life. The Ba servitor handed Giaja the heavy medal on its ribbon, and her breath caught at the problem Mark’s height presented but Giaja somehow inclined himself elegantly, without a hint of stooping, to place it round Mark’s neck and shake his hand. But what happened to her face when Giaja then turned to her she could not imagine.

“Lady Kareen Koudelka Vorkosigan, in recognition of your work along­side Lord Mark, and the gifts of your grace to Us, We are pleased to confer upon you Our Order of Virtue.” The medal and ribbon were familiar to Kareen from Ekaterin’s, bestowed by Benin at her graduation in Vorbarr Sultana, but she could hardly believe the weight that settled round her neck, nor that Giaja, taking her hand, raised it to his lips. Behind him Pel and Miles looked as if they might burst out hooting, and Ekaterin seemed to be valiantly subduing a gurgle, thinking perhaps of the strangely matched quartet the Vorkosigan brothers and their wives now made, and what Vorbarr Sultana would have to say now to the Chance Brothers. Or to their wives. Which was a thought. Oh yes, definitely a thought. But all their eyes were also shining, and with the weight of the medal her confidence flowed back, enabling her to stand with her adopted family and calmly accept the deep bows and curtsies of audience and quaddies, still gathered in mid-sphere and orchestra-pit.

Then it was all over, Giaja swinging to leave with Pel and Benin, themselves following behind with the rest of the party, guards and servitors falling in around. In one of the antechambers a stream of bubble-chairs joined them-Rian and the Planetary Consorts now back behind their personal force-screens-and Pel dropped from Giaja’s side into her own chair, flicking on the screen as soon as she was seated. There was, Kareen knew, a late reception for the quaddie performers, and a private dinner for the imperial party, and she found to her surprise that she was starving. A hand softly touched her arm and she turned to meet Helen Vorthys’s shrewd smile.

“Congratulations, dear. Did you have any idea all this was going to happen?”

“Not in the least, Professora. Though Miles did tell Mark he was going to tell Pel about the children on Escobar, and I was told about that renegade haut by Uncle Aral after the invasion, because of Mark’s … involvement with Baron Ryoval.”

“I understand, dear.” Helen looked as if she also understood that Kareen had done more than euphemise the killing of Ryoval, and was wondering hard about the shape of missing bits, but Gregor’s and the Vorkosigans’ secrets about Jackson’s Whole were not Kareen’s to divulge. “And the gravity suits you, you know.”

“Good.” The thought came back. “By way of a footnote to your report, Professora, let me invite you and Lord Auditor Vorthys to a party Mark and I shall be giving next month; a sort of debriefing for this, when Uncle Aral and Tante Cordelia will be in town.” She leaned slightly sideways, confidentially, and the Professora’s head inclined toward her. “Tell me, Tante Helen, when you were awarded your Silver Imperial Star”-she gestured to the gleaming medal on the older woman’s breast-“how did you set about the public announcement? I think if Miles agrees I shall invite everyone to come and learn about mine, including as special guests those actors everyone likes so much, you know, the Chance Brothers. I shall seat them between Miles and Mark, if only to protect them from Tante Cordelia. What do you think?”

The Professora’s smile was lovely but it was her well-concealed crogglement that really warmed Kareen’s heart. This was, after all, the Celestial Garden, and as Ekaterin often said, where else should amazing things grow?