Lois Bujold - Captain Vorpatril's alliance

Ivan was not going to be able to get through the rest of this night without inhaling, alas. And Tej had just slipped out of his view, even though he edged closer and craned his neck. He drew a long breath through his filter mask, squeezed himself down, and ducked in after them all.

Arquas were spreading out through the chamber, their bright green-white cold lights held aloft. The place wasn’t huge, about eight by ten meters, though Ivan spotted a stairway going down to another level. But it was crowded with crates and boxes and covered bins: on the floor, under and upon benches and desks and chairs, some in neat, tight stacks—those against the walls reaching the ceiling—others seemingly flung atop the rest in a scattered hurry. A faint plume of dust had settled over the array, fanning from a rubble-filled aperture on the far end, but on the whole the place looked as pristine as the day it had been sealed off. Ivan wondered if he was now breathing hundred-year-old air, a few molecules of which might have passed through the lungs of Prince Xav, or not-yet-mad Prince Yuri, or other famous Barrayaran ancestors.

Lady ghem Estif was staring around with satisfaction; she stepped up on a crate and pulled down her filter mask. Most of the others followed her example. Ivan left his in place as, he noticed nervously, did the biologist Amiri. “We should be able to speak to each other in normal tones, inside here,” she announced to the Arquas at large. “No loud thumps or shouting or screaming, of course.”

No screaming, eh. Good she’d reminded Ivan of that. It was dawning on him that he’d just lost the biggest wager of his recent life; the ramifications were spinning out beyond his boggled imagination. But at least he wasn’t running around the room mad with greed like the Jacksonians…

“This one’s heavy.” Emerald lifted a plastic box atop a pile, and shook it a little. Something slid inside. “Think it could be the gold?”

Tej, Rish, and Pidge crowded around; drawn, Ivan looked over their shoulders as Em pried open the top. Inside was another large, rectangular box, of fine polished wood. The gold clasp yielded to her green fingers; the velvet-lined lid swung up.

“Oh,” said Rish in disappointment. “It’s just a bunch of old knives.”

Tej held one up. “Kind of elegant, though…”

Ivan, getting a good look into the tray of cutlery at last, reached out and plucked it from her hand with trembling fingers. “This is a Time-of-Isolation seal dagger. Count’s sigil on the hilt…dear God, they all are.” The first tray of twenty knives lifted out to reveal another, and a third. Ivan’s eye decoded the arms, Vorinnis, Vortala, Vorfolse, Vorloupulos…holy crap, Vorkosigan as well, and yes, there was a Vorpatril…it was like a roll-call of the old Council of Counts. “It’s a complete set . A complete set of seal-daggers from all sixty Counts-palatine in existence a hundred years back.” Some brilliant connoisseur ghem-officer’s collection…

“Do they have any value?” Tej inquired ingenuously. “They don’t look all that fancy.”

“Ordinary Vor seal daggers from the Time of Isolation can go for ten thousand marks up. Way up, if it’s from anyone famous. Ten times that, from a count or prince. My cousin Miles has one that’s literally priceless.” Which he used as a letter opener, Ivan recalled. “A complete set… with provenance…” Ivan tried to do the multiplication in his spinning head. “Six to ten million?”

“Barrayaran marks or Betan dollars?” Shiv inquired, coming over.

“Either,” said Ivan, shaken. Very belatedly, he realized he should have said, Oh, it’s just a bunch of dusty, rusty old knives. If you don’t want them, I’ll take them off your hands…

And that was only the first crate. This place held hundreds of them.

He suddenly wanted to run around the room madly breaking open bins. And screaming.

Jet pried open the top of another crate and peered within. “What’s this?” he asked the air, looking nonplussed. Ivan craned his neck; it looked like a pile of old electronics, and some slate slats.

Lady ghem Estif, crossing from one side of the room to the other by threading her way through the piles, stopped to look over his shoulder. Her frown echoed his. After a long pause, she pronounced, “Artwork.” And after another, “Or perhaps a weapon. Not sure. Just set it aside, for now.”

Ceremonial objects , wasn’t that the catch-all term? Ivan thought wildly. He turned to find himself looking through the faded plastic side of another bin; it seemed to be packed tightly with flimsies. Or maybe papers, back then. He lifted it down from its pile of brethren, popped the top, and was retroactively relieved not to have the contents turn to dust—someone ought to be being careful with all this stuff—but, remembering he was already wearing gloves, tried to thumb through the top layer. Real, old-fashioned paper, yes. Some of the pages stuck together. His eye picked out the salutation on a hand-written letter, faded brown ink, Dear Yuri, but of course no saying it was that Yuri…gingerly, he wriggled it out. His wildly skipping glance caught only some talk about requisitions, and the closing salutation, Your brother in a better grade of arms, Xav.

…Duv Galeni would have a stroke .

“What’s that?” asked Shiv, at his elbow. Ivan flinched. His brain finally catching up with his mouth, he said airily, “Not much. Just some old papers and letters.” Hastily, he turned the page face down and closed the lid of the bin, tapping it sealed again, firmly. And, just for luck, returned it to the top of its stack. “Probably not worth hauling out. Go for the gold, eh?”

“Oh, that as well,” said Shiv.

On the other side of the chamber Pearl had found another stack of small, heavy cases, locked and with some Ninth Satrapy seal incised on the tops. Star brought over a flat metal bar looted from a lab bench drawer; together, they pried the top case open. Pearl held up a cylindrical roll that gleamed through its plastic wrapper. “Ah, here are the gold coins. You were right, Grandmama.”

Lady ghem Estif was now moving around to all the cupboards and old, dead refrigeration units in the lab, examining their insides intently; she waved blasé acknowledgement of this. “That’s nice, dear.”

Tej and Rish bopped over to see; Ivan replaced the dagger in its velvet slot, controlled an urge to slip the Vorpatril blade into his pocket, reverently closed and latched the lid, and followed.

Pearl broke open the wrapper and let the coins spill out in a bright clinking stream, handing them around for closer examination.

“Those Ninth Satrapy coins are worth way more than their face value on the collector’s market,” Ivan observed. “Most of them were melted down after the Occupation, and the currency was burned. Although…” He noted the stacks of cases, and gave up on the multiplication, “You might not want to let all those out at once, or you’ll crash the prices.”

Shiv’s paw descended on his shoulder in an approving grip. “Good thinking, Ivan Xav. We’ll make a Jacksonian of you yet.” Though he, too, rolled a few of the coins around curiously in his hand. His sample went back into his pocket when he was done.

Shiv stepped up on a couple of crates and looked over the room with a calculating eye. “I know you’re all excited to be opening presents, children, and so am I,” he called out over the stacks. “But work before pleasure.”

That seemed an un-Jacksonian sentiment, but it was perhaps how Shiv had become a top-dog Jacksonian, Ivan reflected.

Shiv went on, “We’ll need to save the complete inventory for later, in some more secure space. Time is as much of the essence as treasure tonight. Location, location, location, they say; and this is not one to linger in.”