Za gave a whistle and leaned 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 toward Gurgeh and winking. Shohobohaum Za was a little lighter in color 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 offense, 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 savor 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 ri-diculously 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 honored.” Gurgeh smiled.
“Indeed! Indeed! A most singular and exceptional honor!” 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 toward 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 small guns; preceding the Emperor was a variety of large animals, four- and six-legged, variously colored, 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 meters 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 b
lack-clothed 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 realized 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.
Flere-Imsaho floated up to Gurgeh. “Please,” it said, “don’t ever do something like that again.” Gurgeh ignored the machine.
“At least you could talk, eh?” Pequil said suddenly, taking a glass from a tray with a shaking hand. “At least he could talk, eh, machine?” He was talking almost too fast for Gurgeh to follow. He sank the drink. “Most people freeze. I think I might have. Many people do. What does one knee matter, eh? What does that matter?” Pequil looked round for the male with the drinks tray, then gazed at the throne, where the Emperor was sitting talking to some of his retinue. “What a majestic presence!” Pequil said.
“Why’s he ‘Emperor-Regent’?” Gurgeh asked the sweating apex.
“Their Royal Highness had to take up the Royal Chain after the Emperor Molsce sadly died two years ago. As second-best player during the last games, Our Worship Nicosar was elevated to the throne. But I have no doubt they will remain there!”
Gurgeh, who’d read about Molsce dying but hadn’t realized Nicosar wasn’t regarded as a full Emperor in his own right, nodded and, looking at the extravagantly accoutred people and beasts surrounding the imperial dais, wondered what additional splendors Nicosar could possibly merit if he did win the games.
“I’d offer to dance with you but they don’t approve of men dancing together,” Shohobohaum Za said, coming up to where Gurgeh stood by a pillar. Za took a plate of paper-wrapped sweetmeats from a small table and held it out to Gurgeh, who shook his head. Za popped a couple of the little pastries into his mouth while Gurgeh watched the elaborate, patterned dances surge in eddies of flesh and colored cloth across the ballroom floor. Flere-Imsaho floated nearby. There were some bits of paper sticking to its static-charged casing.
“Don’t worry,” Gurgeh told Za. “I shan’t feel insulted.”
“Good. Enjoying yourself?” Za leaned against the pillar. “Thought you looked a bit lonely standing here. Where’s Pequil?”
“He’s talking to some imperial officials, trying to arrange a private audience.”
“Ho, he’ll be lucky,” snorted Za. “What d’you think of our wonderful Emperor, anyway?”
“He seems… very imperious,” Gurgeh said, and made a frowning gesture at the robes he was wearing, and tapped one ear.
Za looked amused, then mystified, then he laughed. “Oh; the microphone!” He shook his head, unwrapped another couple of pastries and ate them. “Don’t worry about that. Just say what you want. You won’t be assassinated or anything. They don’t mind. Diplomatic protocol. We pretend the robes aren’t bugged, and they pretend they haven’t heard anything. It’s a little game we play.”
“If you say so,” Gurgeh said, looking over at the imperial dais.
“Not much to look at at the moment, young Nicosar,” Za said, following Gurgeh’s gaze. “He gets his full regalia after the game; theoretically in mourning for Molsce at the moment. Black’s their color for mourning; something to do with space, I think.” He looked at the Emperor for a while. “Odd set-up, don’t you think? All that power belonging to one person.”
“Seems a rather… potentially unstable way to run a society,” Gurgeh agreed.
“Hmm. Of course, it’s all relative, isn’t it? Really, you know, that old guy the Emp’s talking to at the moment probably has more real power than Nicosar himself.”
“Really?” Gurgeh looked at Za.
“Yes; that’s Hamin, rector of Candsev College. Nicosar’s mentor.”
“You don’t mean he tells the Emperor what to do?”
“Not officially, but”—Za belched—“Nicosar was brought up in the college; spent sixty years, child and apex, learning the game from Hamin. Hamin raised him, groomed him, taught him all he knew, about the game and everything else. So when old Molsce gets his one-way ticket to the land of nod—not before time—and Nicosar takes over, who’s the first person he’s going to turn to for advice?”
“I see,” Gurgeh nodded. He was starting to regret not having studied more on Azad the political system rather than just Azad the game. “I thought the colleges just taught people how to play.”
“That’s all they do in theory, but in fact they’re more like surrogate noble families. Where the Empire gains over the usual bloodline set-up is they use the game to recruit the cleverest, most ruthless and manipulative apices from the whole population to run the show, rather than have to marry new blood into some stagnant aristocracy and hope for the best when the genes shake out. Actually quite a neat system; the game solves a lot. I can see it lasting; Contact seems to think it’s all going to fall apart at the seams one day, but I doubt it myself. This lot could outlast us. They are impressive, don’t you think? Come on; you have to admit you’re impressed, aren’t you?”
“Unspeakably,” Gurgeh said. “But I’d like to see more before I come to any final judgment.”
“You’ll end up impressed; you’ll appreciate its savage beauty. No; I’m serious. You will. You’ll probably end up wanting to stay. Oh, and don’t pay any attention to that dingbat drone they’ve sent to nursemaid you. They’re all the same, those machines; want everything to be like the Culture; peace and love and all that same bland crap. They haven’t got the”—Za belched—“the sensuality to appreciate the”—he belched again—“Empire. Believe me. Ignore the machine.”
Gurgeh was wondering what to say to that when a brightly dressed group of apices and females came up to surround him and Shohobohaum Za. An apex stepped out of the smiling, shining group, and, with a bow Gurgeh thought looked exaggerated, said to Za, “Would our esteemed envoy amuse our wives with his eyes?”
“I’d be delighted!” Za said. He handed the sweetmeat tray to Gurgeh, and while the women giggled and the apices smirked at each other, he went close to the females and flicked the nictitating membranes in his eyes up and down. “There!” He laughed, dancing back. One of the apices thanked him, then the group of people walked away, talking and laughing.
“They’re like big kids,” Za told Gurgeh, then patted him on the shoulder and wandered off, a vacant look in his eyes.
Flere-Imsaho floated over, making a noise like rustling paper. “I heard what that asshole said about ignoring machines,” it said.
“Hmm?” Gurgeh said.
“I said—oh, it doesn’t matter. Not feeling left out because you can’t dance, are you?”
“No. I don’t enjoy dancing.”
“Just as well. It would be socially demeaning for anybody here even to touch you.”
“What a way with words you have, machine,” Gurgeh said. He put the plate of savories in front of the drone and then let go and walked off. Flere-Imsaho yelped, and just managed to grab the falling plate before all the paper-wrapped pastries fell off.
Gurgeh wandered around for a while, feeling a little angry and more than a little uncomfortable. He was consumed with the idea that he was surrounded by people who were in some way failed, as though they were all the unpassed components from some high-quality system which would have been polluted by their i
nclusion. Not only did those around him strike him as foolish and boorish, but he felt also that he was not much different himself. Everybody he met seemed to feel he’d come here just to make a fool of himself.
Contact sent him out here with a geriatric warship hardly worthy of the name, gave him a vain, hopelessly gauche young drone, forgot to tell him things which they ought to have known would make a considerable difference to the way the game was played—the college system, which the Limiting Factor had glossed over, was a good example—and put him at least partly in the charge of a drunken, loud-mouthed fool childishly infatuated with a few imperialist tricks and a resourcefully inhumane social system.
During the journey here, the whole adventure had seemed so romantic; a great and brave commitment, a noble thing to do. That sense of the epic had left him now. All he felt at this moment was that he, like Shohobohaum Za or Flere-Imsaho, was just another social misfit and this whole, spectacularly seedy Empire had been thrown to him like a scrap. Somewhere, he was sure, Minds were loafing in hyperspace within the field-fabric of some great ship, laughing.
He looked about the ballroom. Reedy music sounded, the paired apices and luxuriously dressed females moved about the shining marquetry floor in pre-set arrangements, their looks of pride and humility equally distasteful, while the servant males moved carefully around like machines, making sure each glass was kept full, each plate covered. He hardly thought it mattered what their social system was; it simply looked so crassly, rigidly over-organized.
“Ah, Gurgee,” Pequil said. He came through the space between a large potted plant and a marble pillar, holding a young-looking female by one elbow. “There you are. Gurgee; please meet Trinev Dutleysdaughter.” The apex smiled from the girl to the man, and guided her forward. She bowed slowly. “Trinev is a game-player too,” Pequil told Gurgeh. “Isn’t that interesting?”
“I’m honored to meet you, young lady,” Gurgeh said to the girl, bowing a little too. She stood still in front of him, her gaze directed at the floor. Her dress was less ornate than most of those he’d seen, and the woman inside it looked less glamorous.