"What?" Gurgeh said, looking horrified. "That's not what they told me!"
"Or me," the drone said. "I only found out myself looking at a news roundup an hour ago. They're setting you up, man; they want to keep the Empire happy and they're using you to do it. First they get them good and worried telling them you can beat some of their finest players, then, when — as is probably going to happen — you get knocked out in the first round, they thereby reassure the Empire the Culture's just a joke; we get things wrong, we're easily humiliated."
Gurgeh looked levelly at the drone, eyes narrowed. "First round, you think, do you?" he said calmly.
"Oh. I'm sorry." The little drone wavered back a little in the air, looking embarrassed. "Are you offended? I was just assuming… well, I've watched you play… I mean…" The machine's voice trailed off.
Gurgeh removed the heavy robe and dropped it on to the floor. "I think I'll take a bath," he told the drone. The machine hesitated, then picked up the robe and quickly left the cabin. Gurgeh sat on the bed and rubbed his beard.
In fact, the drone hadn't offended him. He had his own secrets. He was sure he could do better in the game than Contact expected. For the last hundred days on the Limiting Factor he knew he hadn't been extending himself; while he hadn't been trying to lose or make any deliberate mistakes, he also hadn't been concentrating as much as he intended to in the coming games.
He wasn't sure himself why he was pulling his punches in this way, but somehow it seemed important not to let Contact know everything, to keep something back. It was a small victory against them, a little game, a gesture on a lesser board; a blow against the elements and the gods.
The Great Palace of Groasnachek lay by the broad and murky river which had given the city its name. That night there was a grand ball for the more important people who would be playing the game of Azad over the next half-year.
They were taken there in a groundcar, along broad, tree-lined boulevards lit by tall floodlights. Gurgeh sat in the back of the vehicle with Pequil, who'd been in the car when it arrived at the hotel. A uniformed male drove the car, apparently in sole control of the machine. Gurgeh tried not to think about crashes. Flere-Imsaho sat on the floor in its bulky disguise, humming quietly and attracting small fibres from the limousine's furry floor covering.
The palace wasn't as immense as Gurgeh had expected, though still impressive enough; it was ornately decorated and brightly illuminated, and from each of its many spires and towers, long, richly decorated banners waved sinuously, slow brilliant waves of heraldry against the orange-black sky.
In the awning-covered courtyard where the car stopped there was a huge array of gilded scaffolding on which burned twelve thousand candles of various sizes and colours; one for every person entered in the games. The ball itself was for over a thousand people, about half of them game-players; the rest were mostly partners of the players, or officials, priests, officers and bureaucrats who were sufficiently content with their present position — and who had earned the security of tenure which meant they could not be displaced, no matter how well their underlings might do in the games — not to want to compete.
The mentors and administrators of the Azad colleges — the game's teaching institutions — formed the remainder of the gathering, and were similarly exempt from the need to take part in the tournament.
The night was too warm for Gurgeh's taste; a thick heat filled with the city-smell, and stagnant. The robe was heavy and surprisingly uncomfortable; Gurgeh wondered how soon he could politely leave the ball. They entered the palace through a huge doorway flanked by massive opened gates of polished, jewel-studded metal. The vestibules and halls they passed through glittered with sumptuous decorations standing on tables or hanging from walls and ceilings.
The people were as fabulous as their surroundings. The females, of whom there seemed to be a great number, were ablaze with jewellery and extravagantly ornamented dresses. Gurgeh guessed that, measuring from the bottom of their bell-shaped gowns, the women must have been as broad as they were tall. They rustled as they went by, and smelled strongly of heavy, obtrusive perfumes. Many of the people he passed glanced or looked or actually stopped and stared at Gurgeh and the floating, humming, crackling Flere-Imsaho.
Every few metres along the walls, and on both sides of every doorway, gaudily-uniformed males stood stock still, their trousered legs slightly apart, gloved hands clasped behind their rod-straight backs, their gaze fixed firmly on the high, painted ceilings.
"What are they standing there for?" Gurgeh whispered to the drone in Eächic, low enough so that Pequil couldn't hear.
"Show," the machine said.
Gurgeh thought about this. "Show?"
"Yes; to show that the Emperor is rich and important enough to have hundreds of flunkeys standing around doing nothing."
"Doesn't everybody know that already?"
The drone didn't answer for a moment. Then it sighed. "You haven't really cracked the psychology of wealth and power yet, have you, Jernau Gurgeh?"
Gurgeh walked on, smiling on the side of his face Flere-Imsaho couldn't see.
The apices they passed were all dressed in the same heavy robes Gurgeh was wearing; ornate without being ostentatious. What struck Gurgeh most strongly, though, was that the whole place and everybody in it seemed to be stuck in another age. He could see nothing in the palace or worn by the people that could not have been produced at least a thousand years earlier; he had watched recordings of ancient imperial ceremonies when he'd done his own research into the society, and thought he had a reasonable grasp of ancient dress and forms. It struck him as strange that despite the Empire's obvious, if limited, technological sophistication, its formal side remained so entrenched in the past. Ancient customs, fashions and architectural forms were all common in the Culture too, but they were used freely, even haphazardly, as only parts of a whole range of styles, not adhered to rigidly and consistently to the exclusion of all else.
"Just wait here; you'll be announced," the drone said, tugging at Gurgeh's sleeve so that he stopped beside the smiling Lo Pequil at a doorway leading down a huge flight of broad steps into the main ballroom. Pequil handed a card to a uniformed apex standing at the top of the steps, whose amplified voice rang round the vast hall.
"The honourable Lo Pequil Monenine, AAB, Level Two Main, Empire Medal, Order of Merit and bar… with Chark Gavant-sha Gernow Morat Gurgee Dam Hazeze."
They walked down the grand staircase. The scene below them was an order of magnitude brighter and more impressive than any social event Gurgeh had ever witnessed, The Culture simply didn't do things on such a scale. The ballroom looked like a vast and glittering pool into which somebody had thrown a thousand fabulous flowers, and then stirred.
"That announcer murdered my name," Gurgeh said to the drone. He glanced at Pequil. "But why does our friend look so unhappy?"
"I think because the «senior» in his name was missed out," Flere-Imsaho said.
"Is that important?"
"Gurgeh, in this society everything is important," the drone said, then added glumly, "At least you both got announced."
"Hello there!" a voice shouted out as they got to the bottom of the stairs. A tall, male-looking person pushed between a couple of Azadians to get beside Gurgeh. He wore garish, flowing robes. He had a beard, bunned brown hair, bright staring green eyes, and he looked as though he might come from the Culture. He stuck one long-fingered, many-ringed hand out, took Gurgeh's hand and clasped it. "Shohobohaum Za; pleased to meet you. I used to know your name too until that delinquent at the top of the stairs got his tongue round it. Gurgeh, isn't it? Oh, Pequil; you here too, eh?" He pushed a glass into Pequil's hands. "Here; you drink this muck, don't you? Hi drone. Hey; Gurgeh," he put his arm round Gurgeh's shoulders, "you want a proper drink, yeah?"
"Jernow Morat Gurgee," Pequil began, looking awkward, "Let me introduce…"
But Shohobohaum Za was already steering Gurgeh away through the crowds at the bottom
of the staircase. "How's things anyway, Pequil?" he shouted over his shoulder at the dazed-looking apex. "Okay? Yeah? Good. Talk to you later. Just taking this other exile for a little drink!"
A pale-looking Pequil waved back weakly. Flere-Imsaho hesitated, then stayed with the Azadian.
Shohobohaum Za turned back to Gurgeh, removed his arm from the other man's shoulders and, in a less strident voice, said, "Boring bladder, old Pequil. Hope you didn't mind being dragged away."
"I'll cope with the remorse," Gurgeh said, looking the other Culture man up and down. "I take it you're the… ambassador?"
"The same," Za said, and belched. "This way," he nodded, guiding Gurgeh through the crowds. "I spotted some grif bottles behind one of the drink tables and I want to dock with a couple before the Emp and his cronies snaffle the lot." They passed a low stage where a band played loudly. "Crazy place, isn't it?" Za shouted at Gurgeh as they headed for the rear of the hall.
Gurgeh wondered exactly what the other man was referring to.
"Here we is," Za said, coming to a stop by a long line of tables. Behind the tables, liveried males served drinks and food to the guests. Above them, on a huge arched wall, a dark tapestry sewn with diamonds and gold-thread depicted an ancient space battle.
Za gave a whistle and leant over to whisper to the tall, stern-looking male who approached. Gurgeh saw a piece of paper being exchanged, then Za slapped his hand over Gurgeh's wrist and breezed away from the tables, hauling Gurgeh over to a large circular couch set round the bottom of a fluted pillar of marble inlaid with precious metals.
"Wait till you taste this stuff," Za said, leaning towards Gurgeh and winking. Shohobohaum Za was a little lighter in colour than Gurgeh, but still much darker than the average Azadian. It was notoriously difficult to judge the age of Culture people, but Gurgeh guessed the man was a decade or so younger than he. "You do drink?" Za said, looking suddenly alarmed.
"I've been bypassing the stuff," Gurgeh told him.
Za shook his head emphatically. "Don't do that with grif," he said, patting Gurgeh's hand. "Would be tragic. Ought to be a treasonable offence, in fact. Gland Crystal Fugue State instead. Brilliant combination; blows your neurons out your ass. Grif is stunning stuff. Comes from Echronedal you know; shipped over for the games. Only make it during the Oxygen Season; stuff we're getting should be two Great Years old. Costs a fortune. Opened more legs than a cosmetic laser. Anyway." Za sat back, clasping his hands and looking seriously at Gurgeh. "What do you think of the Empire? Isn't it wonderful? Isn't it? I mean, vicious but sexy, right?" He jumped forward as a male servant carrying a tray with a couple of small, stoppered jugs came up to them. "Ah-ha!" He took the tray with its jugs in exchange for another scrap of paper. He unstoppered both jugs and handed one to Gurgeh. He raised his jug to his lips, closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He muttered something under his breath that sounded like a chant. Finally he drank, keeping his eyes tightly closed.
When he opened his eyes, Gurgeh was sitting with one elbow on his knee, his chin in his hand, looking quizzically at him. "Did they recruit you like this?" he asked. "Or is it an effect the Empire has?"
Za laughed throatily, gazing up to the ceiling where a vast painting showed ancient seaships fighting some millennia-old engagement. "Both!" Za said, still chuckling. He nodded at Gurgeh's jug, an amused but — so it seemed to Gurgeh — more intelligent, look on his face now; a look which made Gurgeh revise his estimation of the other man's age upward by several decades. "You going to drink that stuff?" Za said. "I just spent an unskilled worker's yearly wage getting it for you."
Gurgeh looked into the other man's bright green eyes for a moment, then raised the jug to his lips. "To the unskilled workers, Mr Za," he said, and drank.
Za laughed uproariously again, head back. "I think we're going to get along just fine, game-player Gurgeh."
The grif was sweet, scented, subtle and smoky. Za drained his own jug, holding the thin spout over his opened mouth to savour the last few drops. He looked at Gurgeh and smacked his lips. "Slips down like liquid silk," he said. He put the jug on the floor. "So; you're going to play the great game, eh, Jernau Gurgeh?"
"That's what I'm here for." Gurgeh sipped a little more of the heady liquor.
"Let me give you some advice," Za said, briefly touching his arm. "Don't bet on anything. And watch the women — or men, or both, or whatever you're into. You could get into some very nasty situations if you aren't careful. Even if you mean to stay celibate you might find some of them — women especially — just can't wait to see what's between your legs. And they take that sort of stuff ridiculously seriously. You want any body-games; tell me. I've got contacts; I can set it up nice and discreet. Utter discretion and complete secrecy totally guaranteed; ask anybody." He laughed, then touched Gurgeh's arm again and looked serious. "I'm serious," he said. "I can fix you up."
"I'll bear that in mind," Gurgeh said, drinking. "Thanks for the warning."
"My pleasure; no problem. I've been here eight… nine years now; envoy before me only lasted twenty days; got chucked out for consorting with a minister's wife." Za shook his head and chuckled. "I mean, I like her style, but shit; a minister! Crazy bitch was lucky she was only thrown out; if she'd been one of their own they'd have been up her orifices with acid leeches before the prison gate had shut. Makes me cross my legs just thinking about it;"
Before Gurgeh could reply, or Za could continue, there was a terrific crashing noise from the top of the great staircase, like the sound of thousands of breaking bottles. It echoed through the ballroom. "Damn, the Emperor," Za said, standing. He nodded at Gurgeh's jug. "Drink up, man!"
Gurgeh stood up slowly; he pushed the jug into Za's hands. "You have it. I think you appreciate it more." Za restoppered the jug and shoved it into a fold in his robe.
There was a lot of activity at the top of the stairs. People in the ballroom were milling about too, apparently forming a sort of human corridor which led from the bottom of the staircase to a large, glittering seat set on a low dais covered with gold-cloth.
"Better get you into your place," Za said; he went to grab Gurgeh's wrist again, but Gurgeh raised his hand suddenly, smoothing his beard; Za missed.
Gurgeh nodded forward. "After you," he said. Za winked and strode off. They came up behind the group of people in front of the throne.
"Here's your boy, Pequil," Za announced to the worried-looking apex, then went to stand further away. Gurgeh found himself standing beside Pequil, with Flere-Imsaho floating behind him at waist level, humming assiduously.
"Mr Gurgee, we were starting to worry about you," Pequil whispered, glancing nervously up at the staircase.
"Were you?" Gurgeh said. "How comforting." Pequil didn't look very pleased. Gurgeh wondered if the apex had been addressed wrongly again.
"I have good news, Gurgee," Pequil whispered. He looked up at Gurgeh, who tried hard to look inquisitive. "I have succeeded in obtaining for you a personal introduction to Their Royal Highness The Emperor-Regent Nicosar!"
"I am greatly honoured." Gurgeh smiled.
"Indeed! Indeed! A most singular and exceptional honour!" Pequil gulped.
"So don't fuck up," Flere-Imsaho muttered from behind. Gurgeh looked at the machine.
The crashing noise sounded again, and suddenly, sweeping down the staircase, quickly filling its breadth, a great gaudy wave of people flowed down towards the floor. Gurgeh assumed the one in the lead carrying a long staff was the Emperor — or Emperor-Regent as Pequil had called him — but at the bottom of the stairs that apex stood aside and shouted, "Their Imperial Highness of the College of Candsev, Prince of Space, Defender of the Faith, Duke of Groasnachek, Master of the Fires of Echronedal, the Emperor-Regent Nicosar the first!"
The Emperor was dressed all in black; a medium-sized, serious-looking apex, quite unornamented. He was surrounded by fabulously dressed Azadians of all sexes, including comparatively conservatively uniformed male and apex guards toting big swords and sma
ll guns; preceding the Emperor was a variety of large animals, four- and six-legged, variously coloured, collared and muzzled, and held on the end of emerald- and ruby-chained leads by fat, almost naked males whose oiled skins glowed like frosted gold in the ballroom lights.
The Emperor stopped and talked to some people (who knelt when he approached), further down the line on the far side, then he crossed with his entourage to the side Gurgeh was on.
The ballroom was almost totally silent. Gurgeh could hear the throaty breathing of several of the tamed carnivores. Pequil was sweating. A pulse beat quickly in the hollow of his cheek.
Nicosar came closer. Gurgeh thought the Emperor looked, if anything, a little less impressively hard and determined than the average Azadian. He was slightly stooped, and even when he was talking to somebody only a couple of metres away, Gurgeh could hear only the guest's side of the conversation. Nicosar looked a little younger than Gurgeh had expected.
Despite having been advised about his personal introduction by Pequil, Gurgeh nevertheless felt mildly surprised when the blackclothed apex stopped in front of him.
"Kneel," Flere-Imsaho hissed.
Gurgeh knelt on one knee. The silence seemed to deepen. "Oh shit," the humming machine muttered. Pequil moaned.
The Emperor looked down at Gurgeh, then gave a small smile. "Sir one-knee; you must be our foreign guest. We wish you a good game."
Gurgeh realised what he'd done wrong, and went down on the other knee too, but the Emperor gave a small wave with one ringed hand and said, "No, no; we admire originality. You shall greet us on one knee in future."
"Thank you, Your Highness," Gurgeh said, with a small bow. The Emperor nodded, and turned to walk further up the line.
Pequil gave a quivering sigh.
The Emperor reached the throne on the dais, and music started; people suddenly started talking, and the twin lines of people broke up; everybody chattered and gesticulated at once. Pequil looked as though he was about to collapse. He seemed to be speechless.
The Player of Games c-2 Page 15
