There was one odd section, right at the end of the communication, apparently added after the main signal had been recorded. Chamlis was shown in the main lounge at Ikroh.
“Gurgeh,” it said, “this arrived today; general delivery, unspecified sender, care of Special Circumstances.” The view began to pan across to where, if no interfering interloper had changed the furniture around, there ought to have been a table. The screen blanked out. Chamlis said, “Our little friend. But quite lifeless. I’ve scanned it, and I had… [cut] send down its bugging team to take a look too. It’s dead. Just a casing with no mind; like an intact human body with the brain neatly scooped out. There’s a small cavity in the center, where its mind must have been.”
The visuals returned; the view panned round to Chamlis again. “I can only assume the thing finally agreed to be restructured and they made it a new body. Odd they should send the old one here though. Let me know what you want done with it. Write soon. Hope this finds you well, and successful in whatever it is you’re up to. Kindest re—”
Gurgeh switched the screen off. He got up quickly, went to the window and looked out at the courtyard beneath, frowning.
A smile spread slowly across his face. He laughed, silently, after a moment, then went over to the intercom and told his servant to bring some wine. He was just raising the glass to his lips when Flere-Imsaho floated in through the window, returning from another wildlife safari, its casing pale with dust. “You look pleased with yourself,” it said. “What’s the toast?”
Gurgeh gazed into the wine’s amber depths and smiled. “Absent friends,” he said, and drank.
The next match was a three game. Gurgeh was to face Yomonul Lu Rahsp, the star marshal imprisoned in the exoskeleton, and a youngish colonel, Lo Frag Traff. He knew that, going on form, they were both supposed to be inferior to Krowo, but the Intelligence chief had done so badly—he was unlikely to hold on to his post now—Gurgeh didn’t think this was any indication he was going to have an easier game against his next two opponents than he’d had against the last one. On the contrary; it would be only natural for the two military men to gang up on him.
Nicosar was to play the old star marshal, Vechesteder, and the defense minister, Jhilno.
Gurgeh passed the days studying. Flere-Imsaho continued to explore. It told Gurgeh it had watched a whole region of the advancing fire-front being extinguished by a torrential rainstorm; it had revisited the area a couple of days later to find tinderplants re-igniting the dried vegetation. As an example of how integral the fire and the rest of the planet’s ecology had become, the drone said, it was an impressive display.
The court amused itself with hunts in the forest during the daylight hours and live or holo shows at night.
Gurgeh found the entertainments predictable and tedious. The only faintly interesting ones were duels, usually males fighting each other, held in pits surrounded by banked circles of shouting, betting imperial officials and players. The duels were only occasionally to the death. Gurgeh suspected that things went on in the castle at night—entertainments of a different sort—which were inevitably fatal for at least one of the participants, and which he would not be welcome to attend or expected to hear about.
However, the thought no longer worried him.
Lo Frag Traff was a young apex with a very obvious scar running from one brow down his cheek, almost to his mouth. He played quick, fierce games, and his career in the Imperial Star Army bore the same hallmarks. His most famous exploit had been the sacking of the Urutypaig Library. Traff had been in command of a small ground force in a war against a human-oid species; the war in space had been fought to a temporary stalemate, but through a combination of great military talent and a little luck Traff found himself in a position to threaten the species’ capital city from the ground. The enemy had sued for peace, making it a condition of the treaty that their great library, famous throughout the civilized species of the Lesser Cloud, be left untouched. Traff knew that if he refused this condition the fight would go on, so he gave his word that not a letter, not a pixel, on the ancient microfiles would be destroyed, and they would be left in situ.
Traff had orders from his star marshal that the library had to be destroyed. Nicosar himself had commanded this as one of his first edicts after coming to power; subject races had to understand that once they displeased the Emperor, nothing could prevent their punishment.
While nobody in the Empire cared in the least about one of its loyal soldiers breaking an agreement with some bunch of aliens, Traff knew that giving your word was a sacred thing; nobody would ever trust him again if he went back on it.
Traff already knew what he was going to do. He solved the problem by shuffling the library, sorting every word in it into alphabetical order and every pixel of every illustration into order of color, shade and intensity. The original microfiles were wiped and re-recorded with volumes upon volumes of “the”s, “it”s, and “and”s; the illustrations were fields of pure color.
There were riots, of course, but Traff was in control by then, and as he explained to the incensed and—as it turned out, literally—suicidal guardians of the library, and to the Empire’s Supreme Court, he had kept his word about not actually destroying or taking as booty a single word, image or file.
Halfway through the game on the Board of Origin, Gurgeh realized something remarkable; Yomonul and Traff were playing each other, not him. They played as if they expected him to win anyway, and were battling for second place. Gurgeh had known there was little love lost between the two; Yomonul represented the old guard of the military and Traff the new wave of brash young adventurers. Yomonul was an exponent of negotiation and minimum-force, Traff of the moves that smite. Yomonul had a liberal view of other species; Traff was a xenophobe. The two came from traditionally opposed colleges, and all their differences were displayed quite overtly in their game-styles; Yomonul’s was studied, careful and detached; Traff’s was aggressive to the point of recklessness.
Their attitude to the Emperor was different, too. Yomonul took a cool, practical view of the throne, while Traff was utterly loyal to Nicosar himself rather than the position he held. Each detested the beliefs of the other.
Nevertheless, Gurgeh hadn’t expected them to more or less disregard him and go straight for each other’s throats. Once again, he felt slightly cheated that he wasn’t getting a proper game. The only compensation was that the amount of venom in the play of the two warring military men was something to behold, undeniably impressive if distressingly self-defeating and wasteful. Gurgeh cruised through the game, quietly picking up points while the two soldiers fought. He was winning, but he couldn’t help feeling the other two were getting much more out of the game than he was. He’d have expected they would use the physical option, but Nicosar himself had ordered that there be no betting during the match; he knew the two players were pathologically opposed, and didn’t want to risk losing the military services of either.
Gurgeh sat watching a table-screen during lunch on his third day on the Board of Origin. There were still a few minutes before play resumed and Gurgeh sat alone, watching the news-reports showing how well Lo Tenyos Krowo was doing in his game against Yomonul and Traff. Whoever had faked the apex’s play—not Krowo himself, who’d refused to have anything to do with the subterfuge—was making a good job of impersonating the Intelligence chief’s style. Gurgeh smiled a little.
“Contemplating your coming victory, Jernau Gurgeh?” Hamin said, easing himself into the seat across the table.
Gurgeh turned the screen round. “It’s a little early for that, don’t you think?”
The old, bald apex peered at the screen, smiling thinly. “Hmm. You think so?” He reached out, turned the screen off.
“Things change, Hamin.”
“Indeed they do, Gurgeh. But I think the course of this game will not. Yomonul and Traff will continue to ignore you and attack each other. You will win.”
“Well then,” Gurgeh said, loo
king at the dead screen. “Krowo will get to play Nicosar.”
“Krowo may; we can devise a match to cover that. You must not.”
“Must not?” Gurgeh said. “I thought I’d done all you wanted. What else can I do?”
“Refuse to play the Emperor.”
Gurgeh looked into the old apex’s pale gray eyes, each set in a web of fine lines. They gazed just as calmly back. “What’s the problem, Hamin? I’m not a threat anymore.”
Hamin smoothed the fine material at the cuff of his robe. “You know, Jernau Gurgeh, I do hate obsessions. They’re so… blinding, yes?” He smiled. “I am becoming worried for my Emperor, Gurgeh. I know how much he wants to prove he is rightfully on the throne, that he is worthy of the post he’s held the last two years. I believe he will do just that, but I know that what he really wants—what he always did want—is to play Molsce and win. That, of course, isn’t possible anymore. The Emperor is dead, long live the Emperor; he rises from the flames… but I think he sees old Molsce in you, Jernau Gurgeh, and it is you he feels he must play, you he must beat; the alien, the man from the Culture, the morat, player-of-games. I am not sure that would be a good idea. It is not necessary. You will lose anyway, I feel certain, but… as I say; obsessions disturb me. It would be best for all concerned if you let it be known as soon as possible you will retire after this game.”
“And deprive Nicosar of the chance to beat me?” Gurgeh looked surprised and amused.
“Yes. Better he still feels there’s something still to prove. It will do him no harm.”
“I’ll think about it,” Gurgeh said.
Hamin studied him for a moment. “I hope you understand how frank I’ve been with you, Jernau Gurgeh. It would be unfortunate if such honesty went unacknowledged, and unrewarded.”
Gurgeh nodded. “Yes, I don’t doubt it would.”
A male servant at the door announced the game was about to recommence. “Excuse me, rector,” Gurgeh said, rising. The old apex’s gaze followed him. “Duty calls.”
“Obey,” Hamin said.
Gurgeh stopped, looking down at the wizened old creature on the far side of the table. Then he turned and left.
Hamin gazed at the blank table-screen in front of him, as if absorbed in some fascinating, invisible game that only he could see.
Gurgeh won on the Board of Origin and the Board of Form. The ferocious struggle between Traff and Yomonul continued; first one edged ahead, then the other. Traff went into the Board of Becoming with a very slight lead over the older apex. Gurgeh was so far ahead he was almost invulnerable, able to relax in his strongholds and spectate upon the total war around him before heading out to mop up whatever was left of the exhausted victor’s forces. It seemed the only fair—not to mention expedient—thing to do; let the lads have their fun, then impose order later and tidy the toys back in the box.
Still no substitute for a real game, though.
“Are you pleased or displeased, Mr. Gurgeh?” Star Marshal Yomonul came up to Gurgeh and asked him the question during a pause in the game while Traff consulted with the Adjudicator on a point of order. Gurgeh had been standing thinking, staring at the board, and hadn’t noticed the imprisoned apex approach. He looked up in surprise to see the star marshal in front of him, his lined face looking out, faintly amused, from its titanium and carbon cage. Neither soldier had paid him any attention until now.
“At being left out?” Gurgeh said.
The apex moved one rod-braced arm to indicate the board. “Yes; to be winning so easily. Do you seek the victory or the challenge?” The apex’s skeletal mask moved with each action of the jaw.
“I’d prefer both,” Gurgeh admitted. “I have thought of joining in; as a third force, or on one side or the other… but this looks too much like a personal war.”
The elderly apex grinned; the head-cage nodded easily. “It is,” he said. “You’re doing very well as you are. I wouldn’t change now, if I were you.”
“What about you?” Gurgeh asked. “You seem to be getting the worst of it at the moment.”
Yomonul smiled; the face mask flexed even for that small gesture. “I’m having the time of my life. And I still have a few surprises lined up for the youngster, and a few tricks. But I feel a little guilty at letting you through so easily. You’ll embarrass us all if you play Nicosar and win.”
Gurgeh expressed surprise. “You think I could?”
“No.” The apex’s gesture was the more emphatic for being contained and amplified in its dark cage. “Nicosar plays at his best when he has to, and at his best he will beat you. So long as he isn’t too ambitious. No; he’ll beat you, because you’ll threaten him, and he will respect that. But—ah…” The star marshal turned as Traff strode across the board, moved a couple of pieces, and then bowed with exaggerated courtesy to Yomonul. The star marshal looked back at Gurgeh. “I see it is my turn. Excuse me.” He returned to the fray.
Perhaps one of the tricks Yomonul had mentioned was making Traff think his conversation with Gurgeh had been to enlist the Culture man’s aid; for some time afterward the younger soldier acted as though he was expecting to have to fight on two fronts.
It gave Yomonul an edge. He scraped in ahead of Traff. Gurgeh won the match and the chance to play Nicosar. Hamin tried to talk to him in the corridor outside the game-hall, immediately after his victory, but Gurgeh just smiled and walked past.
Cinderbuds swayed all around them; the light wind made shushing noises in the golden canopy. The court, the game-players and their retinues sat on a high, steeply raked wooden structure itself almost the size of a small castle. Before the stand, in a large clearing in the cinderbud forest, was a long, narrow run; a double fence of stout timbers five meters or more high. This formed the central section of a sort of open corral, shaped like an hourglass and open to the forest at both ends. Nicosar and the higher-placed players sat at the front of the high wooden platform with a good view of the wooden funnel.
At the back of the stand there were awninged areas where food was being prepared. Smells of roasting meat drifted over the stand and out into the forest.
“That’ll have them frothing at the mouth,” Star Marshal Yomonul said, leaning over to Gurgeh with a whirring of servoes. They were sitting side by side, on the front rank of the platform, a little along from the Emperor. Both held a large projectile rifle, fastened to a supporting tripod in front of them.
“What will?” Gurgeh asked.
“The smell.” Yomonul grinned, gesturing behind them to the fires and grills. “Roasted meat. Wind’s carrying it their way. It’ll drive them crazy.”
“Oh, great,” muttered Flere-Imsaho from near Gurgeh’s feet. It had already tried to persuade Gurgeh not to take part in the hunt.
Gurgeh ignored the machine and nodded. “Of course,” he said. He hefted the rifle stock. The ancient weapon was single shot; a sliding bolt had to be operated to reload it. Each gun had slightly different rifling patterns, so that when the bullets were removed from the bodies of the animals, the marks on them would allow a score to be kept and heads and pelts to be allocated.
“You sure you’ve used one of these before?” Yomonul asked, grinning at him. The apex was in a good mood. In a few tens of days he would be released from the exoskeleton. Meanwhile, the Emperor had allowed the prison regimen to be relaxed; Yomonul could socialize, drink, and eat whatever he liked.
Gurgeh nodded. “I’ve shot guns,” he said. He’d never used a projectile gun, but there had been that day, years ago now, with Yay, in the desert.
“Bet you’ve never shot anything live before,” the drone said.
Yomonul tapped the machine’s casing with one carbon-shod foot.
“Quiet, thing,” he said.
Flere-Imsaho tipped slowly up so that its beveled brown front pointed up at Gurgeh. “ ‘Thing’?” it said indignantly, in a sort of whispered screech.
Gurgeh winked and put his finger to his lips. He and Yomonul grinned at each other.
> The hunt, as it was called, started with a blare of trumpets and the distant howling of the troshae. A line of males appeared from the forest and ran alongside the wooden funnel, beating the timbers with rods. The first troshae appeared, shadows striping along its flanks as it entered the clearing and ran into the wooden funnel. The people around Gurgeh murmured in anticipation.
“A big one,” Yomonul said appreciatively as the golden-black striped beast loped six-legged down the run. Clicks all around the platform announced people preparing to fire. Gurgeh lifted the stock of the rifle. Fastened to its tripod, the rifle was easier to handle in the harsh gravity than it would have been otherwise, as well as being limited in its field of fire; something the Emperor’s ever watchful guards no doubt found reassuring.
The troshae sprinted down the run, paws blurring on the dusty ground; people fired at it, filling the air with muffled cracking noises and puffs of gray smoke. White wood splinters spun off the run’s timbers; puffs of dust burst from the ground. Yomonul sighted and fired; a chorus of shots burst out around Gurgeh. The guns were silenced, but all the same Gurgeh felt his ears close up a little, deadening the racket. He fired. The recoil took him by surprise; his bullet must have gone way over the animal’s head.
He looked down into the run. The animal was screaming. It tried to leap up the fence on the far side of the run, but was brought down in a hail of fire. It limped on a little further, dragging three legs and leaving a trail of blood behind it. Gurgeh heard another muffled report by his side, and the carnivore’s head jerked suddenly to one side; it collapsed. A great cheer went up. A gate in the run was opened and some males scurried in to drag the body away. Yomonul was on his feet beside Gurgeh, acknowledging the cheers. He sat down again quickly, exoskeleton motors whirring, as the next animal appeared out of the forest and raced between the wooden walls.