“Should I take this to Base Security, then? I wondered.”
“Ah—coded social messages, usually,” Oliver clarified. “The things the ghem say with plasma cannons tend to be more direct. I’m sure it pains their sense of aesthetics.”
“Oh. Aesthetics,” said Vorinnis. Her tone conveyed uncoded dubiousness.
Oliver went on, “So the elements you need to observe to deconstruct this will be the choices of paper, ink, the particular style of the calligraphy, wording—extra points for obscure poetic references—the method of delivery—which was what, by the way?”
“I think somebody handed it in at the gate, and it went by base mail after that.”
“I see.”
The girl craned her neck at the paper still in Cordelia’s hand. “So what does it say? Convey.”
“Well, to start with, it is in the correct form, which indicates some baseline of respect, personal or professional,” Oliver began.
“Or a basic ability to follow the instructions in an etiquette manual,” Cordelia put in. “Which is not a point against the boy, mind you.”
She handed it back across, and Oliver turned it over once more. He said, “The paper itself is relatively neutral, the colors of envelope and card blend pleasingly enough, so there is no covert hostility. Calligraphy style is formal, not familiar, but not official. The scents, however…heh.”
“What?” Vorinnis did not quite wail.
Cordelia put in, “Cinnamon for warmth, which is supposed to give a hint how to construe the other odors blended in. Roses—for once, even the Cetagandans follow the old Earth traditions—love, lust, or friendship, depending on the color of the rose.”
“How can you tell the color of a rose from its scent?” said Vorinnis.
“Cetagandans can,” said Oliver. “So can a lot of other people, with a little training. It’s not a superpower.”
“And—oh, dear, I forget gardenia. Oliver? Help us out.”
“Hope,” he intoned, blue eyes crinkling just a tiny bit, though he kept his face perfectly straight. “Lord ghem Soren is asking you for a date, Lieutenant. He hopes you will accept.” He handed the papers back to the girl.
She accepted them, her face scrunching up in unfeigned bewilderment. “Good grief, why?”
Cordelia’s brow wrinkled at this. It didn’t sound as though it boded well for either the ghem lord or the Vor lieutenant. She wasn’t sure whether to wince or sit back and watch the show. For now, she sat back.
“Well, the ghem are very competitive,” said Oliver. “I know very little of this one yet, but as a general rule you may guess that he either wants to show you up, or show you off.”
Vorinnis’s face stayed scrunched. “I’m not sure I follow that, sir.”
Oliver rubbed his lips, meditatively. “Alternatively, I observe that a cultural attaché is often an unofficial spy. What slicker way to keep tabs on the competition’s boss than to date his secretary?”
Vorinnis drew herself up in offense. “Sir! I would never!”
“I didn’t suggest that you would, Lieutenant.”
“That could cut both ways, of course,” Cordelia put in. “Is there any disinformation you want to feed the Cetagandan consulate this week, Oliver?”
The lieutenant grew less stiff, considering this wrinkle.
“Not especially. You?”
“Not offhand. I’d have to think about it.”
“But what should I do about this, sir?” said Vorinnis, waving her…prospective love letter? Bait? Cetagandans, not to mention run-of-the-mill, un-gene-modified humans, could also lie with flowers, after all.
“We are not at war with Cetaganda, nor even, at the moment, in an especially tense diplomatic phase.”
Not by Oliver’s standards, certainly, Cordelia reflected.
“I’d say you are free to accept or decline as you wish, Lieutenant.”
“Although should you wish to decline in an especially cutting fashion, I’m sure Admiral Jole can direct you to some useful reference materials,” Cordelia put in.
“Oh, there’s an entire manual for military support staff to diplomatic outposts in the Cetagandan Empire, to which I call your attention just as general background reading, Lieutenant. Although I don’t recommend trying that route unless one is expert. Shows far too flattering an interest, you see.” He added after a moment, “Also, it’s very long and detailed.”
“Have you read it, sir?”
“I had to nearly memorize the damned thing, when I became aide to the Prime Minister. It ended up being relevant much sooner than I’d anticipated. Hegen Hub War, after all.”
“I see, sir.” Vorinnis was getting a very thoughtful look, under her lowering brows. “So you’re saying this could be, um…career development? Know your enemy?”
“Admiral Vorkosigan’s motto might as well have been Know Everything. No one could, but in his train, it wasn’t for lack of trying. I’ve brought the obvious cautions to your attention, and I expect you understand them. I think you can manage the rest.”
“Sir. Uh, thank you, sir. Ma’am. For your time.” She returned an uncertain, if faintly bucked-up, smile, and a parting salute, and trailed away, turning her letter over once more.
Cordelia removed her hand from her mouth as soon as she could decently contain her grin. “Oliver, you were encouraging that poor girl.”
“Hey, that’s my job as a mentor. Alternatively, I might have been having mercy on that poor sod of a ghem lord.”
“I am not at all sure that aiming a Vorinnis at him qualifies as a merciful gesture.”
“Well, presumably, we will find out. At least, I hope she debriefs to me, later.”
“I want all the gossip if she does. Oh, my.”
“Should we meet by the town fountain with scrub brushes?”
“I’ll bring my dirty laundry if you’ll bring yours.”
He made an amused face. “I am not following that metaphor out any farther, thanks.” Fortunately, the arrival of dessert relieved him of the necessity. But he glanced up toward where the girl had gone, and his slight smile became a slight snicker.
“Share the joke?” prodded Cordelia.
“Her redolent letter just reminded me of an Aral-story. Oh, God, should I tell this one? I may be the only living witness.”
“And if you drop dead, it’ll vanish out of the historical record? Tell, Oliver.” It couldn’t be one of the hard ones, if it was making him smirk like that.
“Tell you, maybe. I can’t imagine sharing it with Vorinnis. Or anyone else, really.” He swallowed a bite of sherbet. “Right, so…in the aftermath of the Hegen Hub war, we spent a good deal of time stuck up in Vervain orbit. While young Gregor was downside wooing the Vervani to such good effect, Aral and I were sorting through the details—beating out the six-way cease-and-desist-fire and peace agreements. There was this one obnoxious Cetagandan envoy who seemed to imagine they could still jerk us around even though they had just lost. They would send all these hand-calligraphed notes, very formal and faux-respectful, which of course some poor sod then had to transcribe—”
“That sod being yourself?”
“Frequently, yes. For the, ah, hotter ones, at least. So we had a spate of these, each one smellier than the last—up to twelve scents at once, we had to send them down to the lab for chemical analysis to be sure, sometimes—most of which, if interpreted in the correct order, which for some reason he didn’t think we could do, worked out to assorted deadly insults. Aral was getting more and more impatient with this ghem ass, and as I was trying to decode the most recent, he finally said, ‘Just give me the damned thing,’ twitched it out of my hands, and took it into the lav. Where he proceeded to amend it with, er, his own personal scent mark.”