The Player of Games (16 page)

sir
, in Eächic,' Flere-Imsaho hissed over the hum. 'Don't touch him, but when he holds up one hand, you hold up two and say your bit. Remember; don't touch him.' The apex stopped just in front of Gurgeh, held up one hand and said, 'Welcome to Groasnachek, Eä, in the Empire of Azad, Murat Gurgee.' Gurgeh controlled a grimace, held up both hands (to show they were empty of weapons, the old books explained) and said, 'I am honoured to set foot upon the holy ground of Eä,' in careful Eächic. ('Great start,' muttered the drone.) The rest of the welcoming passed in something of a daze. Gurgeh's head swam; he sweated under the heat of the bright binary overhead while he was outside (he was expected to inspect the honour guard, he knew, though quite what he was supposed to be looking for had never been explained), and the alien smells of the shuttleport buildings once they passed inside to the reception made him feel more strongly than he'd expected that he really was somewhere quite foreign. He was introduced to lots of people, again mostly apices, and sensed they were delighted to be addressed in what was apparently quite passable Eächic. Flere-Imsaho told him to do and say certain things, and he heard himself mouth the correct words and felt himself perform the acceptable gestures, but his overall impression was of chaotic movement and noisy, unlistening people - rather smelly people, too, though he was sure they thought the same of him. He also had an odd feeling that they were laughing at him, somewhere behind their faces. Apart from the obvious physical differences, the Azadians all seemed very compact and hard and determined compared to Culture people; more energetic and even - if he was going to be critical - neurotic. The apices were, anyway. From the little he saw of the males, they seemed somehow duller, less fraught and more stolid as well as being physically bulkier, while the females appeared to be quieter - somehow deeper - and more delicate-looking. He wondered how he looked to them. He was aware he stared a little, at the oddly alien architecture and confusing interiors, as well as at the people… but on the other hand he found a lot of people - mostly apices, again - staring at him. On a couple of occasions Flere-Imsaho had to repeat what it said to him, before he realised it was talking to him. Its monotonous hum and crackling static, never far away from him that afternoon, seemed only to add to the air of dazed, dreamlike unreality. They served food and drink in his honour; Culture and Azadian biology was close enough for a few foods and several drinks to be mutually digestible, including alcohol. He drank all they gave him, but bypassed it. They sat in a long, low shuttleport building, simply styled outside but ostentatiously furnished inside, around a long table loaded with food and drink. Uniformed males served them; he remembered not to speak to them. He found that most of the people he spoke to either talked too fast or painstakingly slowly, but struggled through several conversations nevertheless. Many people asked why he had come alone, and after several misunderstandings he stopped trying to explain he was accompanied by the drone and simply said he liked travelling by himself. Some asked him how good he was at Azad. He replied truthfully he had no idea; the ship had never told him. He said he hoped he would be able to play well enough not to make his hosts regret they had invited him to take part. A few seemed impressed by this, but, Gurgeh thought, only in the way that adults are impressed by a respectful child. One apex, sitting on his right and dressed in a tight, uncomfortable-looking uniform similar to those worn by the three officers who'd boarded the
Limiting Factor
, kept asking him about his journey, and the ship he'd made it on. Gurgeh stuck to the agreed story. The apex continually refilled Gurgeh's ornate crystal goblet with wine; Gurgeh was obliged to drink on each occasion a toast was proposed. Bypassing the liquor to avoid getting drunk meant he had to go to the toilet rather often (for a drink of water, as much as to urinate). He knew this was a subject of some delicacy with the Azadians, but he seemed to be using the correct form of words each time; nobody looked shocked, and Flere-Imsaho seemed calm. Eventually, the apex on Gurgeh's left, whose name was Lo Pequil Monenine senior, and who was a liaison official with the Alien Affairs Bureau, asked Gurgeh if he was ready to leave for his hotel. Gurgeh said he thought that he was supposed to be staying on board the module. Pequil began to talk rather fast, and seemed surprised when Flere-Imsaho cut in, talking equally quickly. The resulting conversation went a little too rapidly for Gurgeh to follow perfectly, but the drone eventually explained that a compromise had been reached; Gurgeh would stay in the module, but the module would be parked on the roof of the hotel. Guards and security would be provided for his protection, and the catering services of the hotel, which was one of the very best, would be at his disposal. Gurgeh thought this all sounded reasonable. He invited Pequil to come along in the module to the hotel, and the apex accepted gladly.
'Before you ask our friend what we're passing over now,' Flere-Imsaho said, hovering and buzzing at Gurgeh's elbow, 'that's called a shantytown, and it's where the city draws its surplus unskilled labour from.' Gurgeh frowned at the bulkily disguised drone. Lo Pequil was standing beside Gurgeh on the rear ramp of the module, which had opened to make a sort of balcony. The city unrolled beneath them. 'I thought we weren't to use Marain in front of these people,' Gurgeh said to the machine. 'Oh, we're safe enough here; this guy's bugged, but the module can neutralise that.' Gurgeh pointed at the shantytown. 'What's that?' he asked Pequil. 'That is where people who have left the countryside for the bright lights of the big city often end up. Unfortunately, many of them are just loafers.' 'Driven off the land,' Flere-Imsaho added in Marain, 'by an ingeniously unfair property-tax system and the opportunistic top-down reorganisation of the agricultural production apparatus.' Gurgeh wondered if the drone's last phrase meant 'farms', but he turned to Pequil and said, 'I see.' 'What does your machine say?' Pequil inquired. 'It was quoting some… poetry,' Gurgeh told the apex. 'About a great and beautiful city.' 'Ah.' Pequil nodded; a series of upward jerks of the head. 'Your people like poetry, do they?' Gurgeh paused, then said, 'Well, some do and some don't, you know?' Pequil nodded wisely. The wind above the city drifted in over the restraining field around the balcony, and brought with it a vague smell of burning. Gurgeh leant on the haze of field and looked down at the huge city slipping by underneath. Pequil seemed reluctant to come too near the edge of the balcony. 'Oh; I have some good news for you,' Pequil said, with a smile (rolling both lips back). 'What's that?' 'My office,' Pequil said, seriously and slowly, 'has succeeded in obtaining permission for you to follow the progress of the Main Series games all the way to Echronedal.' 'Ah; where the last few games are played.' 'Why yes. It is the culmination of the full six-year Grand Cycle, on the Fire Planet itself. I assure you, you are most privileged to be allowed to attend. Guest players are rarely granted such an honour.' 'I see. I am indeed honoured. I offer my sincere thanks to you and your office. When I return to my home I shall tell my people that the Azadians are a most generous folk. You have made me feel very welcome. Thank you. I am in your debt.' Pequil seemed satisfied with this. He nodded, smiled. Gurgeh nodded too, though he thought the better of attempting the smile.
'Well?' 'Well what, Jernau Gurgeh?' Flere-Imsaho said, its yellow-green fields extending from its tiny casing like the wings of some exotic insect. It laid a ceremonial robe on Gurgeh's bed. They were in the module, which now rested on the roof-garden of Groasnachek's Grand Hotel. 'How did I do?' 'You did very well. You didn't call the minister "Sir" when I told you to, and you were a bit vague at times, but on the whole you did all right. You haven't caused any catastrophic diplomatic incidents or grievously insulted anybody… I'd say that's not too bad for the first day. Would you turn round and face the reverser? I want to make sure this thing fits properly.' Gurgeh turned round and held out his arms as the drone smoothed the robe against his back. He looked at himself in the reverser field. 'It's too long and it doesn't suit me,' he said. 'You're right, but it's what you have to wear for the grand ball in the palace tonight. It'll do. I might take the hem up. The module tells me it's bugged, incidentally, so watch what you say once you're outside the module's fields.' 'Bugged?' Gurgeh looked at the image of the drone in the reverser. 'Position monitor and mike. Don't worry; they do this to everybody. Stand still. Yes, I think that hem needs to come up. Turn round.' Gurgeh turned round. 'You like ordering me around, don't you, machine?' he said to the tiny drone. 'Don't be silly. Right. Try it on.' Gurgeh put the robe on, looked at his image in the reverser. 'What's this blank patch on the shoulder for?' 'That's where your insignia would go, if you had one.' Gurgeh fingered the bare area on the heavily embroidered robe. 'Couldn't we have made one up? It looks a bit bare.' 'I suppose we could,' Flere-Imsaho said, tugging at the robe to adjust it. 'You have to be careful doing that sort of thing though. Our Azadian friends are always rather nonplussed by our lack of a flag or a symbol, and the Culture rep here - you'll meet him tonight if he remembers to turn up - thought it was a pity there was no Culture anthem for bands to play when our people come here, so he whistled them the first song that came into his head, and they've been playing that at receptions and ceremonies for the last eight years.' 'I thought I recognised one of the tunes they played,' Gurgeh admitted. The drone pushed his arms up and made some more adjustments. 'Yes, but the first song that came into the guy's head was "Lick Me Out"; have you heard the lyrics?' 'Ah.' Gurgeh grinned. '
That
song. Yes, that could be awkward.' 'Damn right. If they find out they'll probably declare war. Usual Contact snafu.' Gurgeh laughed. 'And I used to think Contact was so organised and efficient.' He shook his head. 'Nice to know something works,' the drone muttered. 'Well, you've kept this whole Empire secret seven decades; that's worked too.' 'More luck than skill,' Flere-Imsaho said. It floated round in front of him, inspecting the robe. 'Do you really want an insignia? We could rustle some up if it'd make you feel happier.' 'Don't bother.' 'Right. We'll use your full name when they announce you at the ball tonight; sounds reasonably impressive. They can't grasp we don't have any real ranks, either, so you may find they use "Morat" as a kind of title.' The little drone dipped to fix a stray gold-thread near the hem. 'It's all to the good in the end; they're a bit blind to the Culture, just because they can't comprehend it in their own hierarchical terms. Can't take us seriously.' 'What a surprise.' 'Hmm. I've got a feeling it's all part of a plan; even this delinquent rep - ambassador, sorry - is part of it. You too, I think.' 'You think?' Gurgeh said. 'They've built you up, Gurgeh,' the drone told him, rising to head height and brushing his hair back a little. Gurgeh in turn brushed the meddlesome field away from his brow. 'Contact's told the Empire you're one hot-shot game-player; they've said they reckon you can get to colonel/bishop/junior ministerial level.' '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