I blame Sma. She got me into this crock of shit.
He looked around the cluttered spaces of the room. What had he to do with idiots like Keiver, with all this historical junk, with any of this? He didn't feel part of it, could not identify with it, and he did not entirely blame them for not listening to him. He supposed he did have the satisfaction of knowing that he had warned the fools, but that was little enough to warm yourself with, on a cold and closing night like this.
He'd fought; put his life at risk for them, won a few desperate rear-guard actions, and he had tried to tell them what they ought to do; but they'd listened too late, and given him some limited power only after the war was already more or less lost. But that was just the way they were; they were the bosses, and if their whole way of life vanished because it was a tenet of that way that people like them automatically knew how to make war better than even the most experienced commoners or outsiders, then that was not unjust; everything came level in the end. And if it meant their deaths, let them all die.
In the meantime, while supplies held out, what could be more pleasant? No more long cold marches, no boggy excuses for camps, no outside latrines, no scorched earth to try and scrape a meal from. Not much action, and maybe he would get itchy feet eventually, but that was more than compensated for by being able to satisfy the more highly-placed itches of some of the noble ladies also trapped in the castle.
Anyway, he knew in his heart that there was a relief in not being listened to, sometimes. Power meant responsibility. Advice unacted upon almost always might have been right, and in the working out of whatever plan was followed, there was anyway always blood; better it was on their hands. The good soldier did as he was told, and if he had any sense at all volunteered for nothing, especially promotion.
'Ha,' Keiver said, rocking in the china chair. 'We found more grass seed today.'
'Oh, good.'
'Indeed.'
Most of the courtyards, gardens and patios were already given over to pasture; they'd torn the roofs off some of the less architecturally important halls and planted there as well. If they weren't blown to bits in the meantime, they might - in theory - feed a quarter of the castle's garrison indefinitely.
Keiver shivered, and wrapped the cloak more tightly about his legs. 'But this is a cold old place, Zakalwe, isn't it?'
He was about to say something in reply when the door at the far end of the room opened a crack.
He grabbed the plasma cannon.
'Is... is everything all right?' said a quiet, female voice.
He put the gun down, smiling at the small pale face peering from the doorway, long black hair following the line of the door's studded wood.
'Ah, Neinte!' Keiver exclaimed, rising only to bow deeply to the young girl (princess, indeed!) who was - technically, at least, not that that precluded other, more productive, even lucrative, relationships in the future - his ward.
'Come on in,' he heard the mercenary tell the girl.
(Damn him, always taking the initiative like that; who did he think he was?)
The girl crept into the room, gathering her skirts in front of her. 'I thought I heard a shot...'
The mercenary laughed. 'That was a little time ago,' he said, rising to show the girl to a seat near the fire.
'Well,' she said, 'I had to dress...'
The man laughed louder.
'My lady,' Keiver said, rising slightly late, and flourishing what would now - thanks to Zakalwe - look like a rather awkward bow. 'Forfend we should have disturbed your maidenly slumber...'
Keiver heard the other man stifle a guffaw as he kicked a log further into the fire. The princess Neinte giggled. Keiver felt his face heat up, and decided to laugh.
Neinte - still very young, but already beautiful in a delicate, fragile way - wrapped her arms round her drawn-up legs, and stared into the fire.
He looked from her to Keiver, in the silence that followed (except that the deputy vice-regent-in-waiting said, 'Yes, well.'), and thought - as the logs crackled and the scarlet flames danced - how like statues the two young people suddenly looked.
Just once, he thought, I'd like to know whose side I'm really on in something like this. Here I am, in this absurd fortress, packed with riches, crammed with concentrated nobility - such as it was, he thought, watching Keiver's vacant-looking eyes - facing out the hordes beyond (all claw and tackle, brute force and brute intelligence) trying to protect these delicate, simpering products of a millennia's privilege, and never knowing whether I'm doing the tactically or the strategically right thing.
The Minds did not assume such distinctions; to them, there was no cut-off between the two. Tactics cohered into strategy, strategy disintegrated into tactics, in the sliding scale of their dialectical moral algebra. It was all more than they ever expected the mammal brain to cope with.
He recalled what Sma had said to him, long long ago back in that new beginning (itself the product of so much guilt and pain); that they dealt in the intrinsically untoward, where rules were forged as you went along and were never the same twice anyway, where just by the nature of things nothing could be known, or predicted, or even judged with any real certainty. It all sounded very sophisticated and abstract and challenging to work with, but in the end it came down to people and problems.
This girl was what it came down to, here, this time; barely more than a child, and trapped in the great stone castle with the rest of the cream or scum (depending on how you looked at it), to live or die, depending on how well I advise, and on how capable these clowns are of taking that advice.
He looked at the girl's, flame-lit face, and felt something more than distant desire (for she was attractive), or fatherly protectiveness (for she was so young, and he, despite his appearance, so old). Call it... he didn't know what. A realisation; an awareness of the tragedy the whole episode represented; the break-up of the Rule, the dissolution of power and privilege and the whole elaborate, top-heavy system this child represented.
The muck and dirt, the king with fleas. For theft, mutilation; for the wrong thoughts, death. An infant mortality rate as astronomical as the life-expectancy was minute, and the whole grisly, working package wrapped in a skein of wealth and advantage designed to maintain the dark dominion of the knowing over the ignorant (and the worst of it was the pattern; the repetition; the twisted variations of the same depraved theme in so many different places).
So this girl, called a princess. Would she die? The war was going against them, he knew, and the same symbolic grammar that presented her with the prospect of power if things went well, also dictated her use, her expendability, if all failed about them. Rank demanded its tribute; the obsequious bow or the mean stab, according to the outcome of this struggle.
He saw her suddenly old, in the flickering firelight. He saw her shut in some slimed dungeon, waiting, hoping, scabbed with lice and ragged in sack-cloth, head shaved, eyes dark and hollow in the raw skin, and finally marched out one snow-filled day, to be nailed to a wall with arrows or bullets, or face the cold axe blade.
Or maybe that too was too romantic. Maybe there would be some desperate flight to asylum, a lonely and bitter exile spent growing old and worn, barren and senile, forever remembering the ever more golden old times, composing futile petitions, hoping for a return, but growing slowly, inevitably, into something like the pampered uselessness her upbringing had always conditioned her for, but without any of the compensations she had been bred to expect from her station.
With a feeling of sickness, he saw that she meant nothing. She was just another irrelevant part of another history, heading - with or without the Culture's carefully evaluated nudges in what they saw as the right direction - for what would probably be better times and an easier life for most. But not her, he suspected, not right at this moment.
Born twenty years earlier, she might have expected a good marriage, a productive estate, access to the court, and lusty sons, talented daughters... twenty years from now, perhaps an astu
tely mercantile husband, or even - in the unlikely event this particular genderist society was heading that way so soon - a life of her own; academic, in business, doing good works; whatever.
But, probably, death.
High in a turret of a great castle rising on a black crag above snowy plains, besieged and grand, crammed full of an empire's treasure, and he sitting by a log fire was a sad and lovely princess... I used to dream about such things, he thought. I used to long for them, ache for them. They seemed the very stuff of life, its essence. So why does all this taste of ashes?
I should have stayed on that beach, Sma. Perhaps after all I am getting too old for this.
He made himself look away from the girl. Sma said he tended to get too involved, and she was not totally wrong. He'd done what they'd asked; he'd be paid, and at the end of all this, after all, there was his own attempt to claim absolution for a past crime. Livueta, say you will forgive me.
'Oh!' The princess Neinte had just noticed the wreckage of the bloodwood chair.
'Yes,' Keiver stirred uncomfortably. 'That, ah... that was, umm, me, I'm afraid. Was it yours? Your family's?'
'Oh, no! But I knew it; it belonged to my uncle; the archduke. It used to be in his hunting lodge. It had a great big animal's head above it. I was always frightened to sit in it because I dreamt the head would fall from the wall and one of the tusks would stick right into my head and I'd die!' She looked at both men in turn and giggled nervously. 'Wasn't I silly?'
'Ha!' said Keiver.
(While he watched them both and shivered. And tried to smile.)
'Well,' Keiver laughed. 'You must promise not to tell your uncle that I broke his little seat, or I shall never be invited to one of his hunts again!' Keiver laughed louder. 'Why, I might even end up with my head fixed on one of his walls!'
The girl squealed and put a hand to her mouth.
(He looked away, shivering again, then threw a piece of wood onto the fire, and did not notice then or afterwards that it was a piece of the bloodwood chair he had added to the flames, and not a log at all.)
Three
Sma suspected a lot of ship crews were crazy. For that matter, she suspected a fair few of the ships themselves weren't totally together in the sanity department, either. There were only twenty people on the very fast picket Xenophobe, and Sma had noticed that - as a general rule - the smaller the crew, the weirder the behaviour. So she was already prepared for the ship's staff being pretty off the wall even before the module entered the ship's hangar.
'Ah-choo!' the young crewman sneezed, covering his nose with one hand while extending the other to Sma as she stepped from the module. Sma jerked her hand back, looking at the young man's red nose and streaming eyes. 'Ais Disgarb, Ms Sma,' the fellow said, blinking and sniffing, and looking hurt, 'Belcome aboard.'
Sma put her hand out again cautiously. The crewman's hand was extremely hot. 'Thank you,' Sma said.
'Skaffen-Amtiskaw,' the drone said from behind her.
'Heddo,' the young man waved at the drone. He took a small piece of cloth from one sleeve and dabbed at his leaky eyes and nose.
'Are you entirely all right?' Sma said.
'Dot really,' he said. 'God a cold. Blease,' he indicated to one side, 'cob with be.'
'A cold,' Sma nodded, falling into step alongside the fellow; he was dressed in a jellaba, as though he'd just got out of bed.
'Yes,' the young man said, leading the way through the Xenophobe's collection of smallcraft, satellites and assorted paraphernalia towards the rear of the hangar. He sneezed again, sniffed. 'Sobthig ob a fad on the shib ad the bow-bid.' (Here Sma, immediately behind the man as they walked between two closely parked modules, turned quickly back to look at Skaffen-Amtiskaw and mouthed the word. 'What?' at it, but the machine wobbled, shrugging. ME NEITHER it printed on its aura field, in letters of grey on a rosy background.) 'Be all tought it'd be abusing to relax our ibude systebs and cadge colds,' the young crewman explained, showing her and the drone into an elevator at one end of the hangar.
'All of you?' Sma said, as the door closed and the elevator rolled and rose. 'The whole crew?'
'Yes, dough dot all ad the sabe tibe. The peebil who've recobered say id's very pleasid abter it's ober.'
'Yes,' Sma said, glancing at the drone, which was keeping a standard pattern of formal blue on its aura field, apart from one large red dot on its side that probably only she could see; it was pulsing rapidly. When she noticed it she almost started laughing herself. She cleared her throat. 'Yes, I suppose it would be.'
The young man sneezed mightily.
'Due for a spot of R-and-R soon, are we?' Skaffen-Amtiskaw asked him. Sma nudged the machine with her elbow.
The young crewman looked puzzledly at the machine. 'Jusd bidished sub, adjilly.'
He glanced away to the elevator door as it started to open, Skaffen-Amtiskaw and Sma exchanged looks; Sma crossed her eyes.
They stepped into a wide social area, floored and walled with some dark red wood, polished to the point of gleaming; it supported a variety of richly upholstered couches and chairs, and a few low tables. The ceiling wasn't particularly high, but very attractive, composed of great flutes of gathered-up material rippling in from the walls and hung with many little lanterns. From the light level, it looked to be early morning, ship time. A group of people round one of the tables broke up and came towards her.
'Biz Sba,' the young crewman said indicating Sma, his voice seeming to get thicker all the time. The other people - about fifty-fifty men and women - smiled, introduced themselves. She nodded, exchanged a few words; the drone said hello.
One of the people in the group held a little bundle of brown and yellow fur, cradled against one shoulder rather as one might hold a baby. 'Here.' the man said, presenting the tiny furry creature to Sma. She took it reluctantly. It was warm, had four limbs arranged conventionally, smelled attractive and wasn't any sort of animal she'd ever seen before; it had large ears on a large head, and as she held it, it opened its huge eyes and looked at her. 'That's the ship,' the man who'd handed her the animal said.
'Hello,' the tiny being squeaked.
Sma looked it up and down. 'You're the Xenophobe?'
'Its representative. The bit you can talk to. You can call me Xeny.' It smiled; it had little round teeth. 'I know most ships just use a drone, but,' it glanced at Skaffen-Amtiskaw, 'they can be a bit boring, don't you think?'
Sma smiled, and sensed Skaffen-Amtiskaw's aura flicker out of the corner of her eye. 'Well, sometimes,' she agreed.
'Oh yes,' the little creature said, nodding. 'I'm much cuter.' It wriggled in her hands, looking happy. 'If you like,' it giggled, 'I'll show you to your cabin, yes?'
'Yes; good idea,' nodded Sma, and put the thing over her shoulder. The crewpeople called out to say they'd see her later as she, the ship's bizarre remote drone and Skaffen-Amtiskaw headed for the accommodation section.
'Ooh, you're nice and warm,' the little brown and yellow creature mumbled sleepily, snuggling into Sma's neck as they headed down a deeply carpeted corridor for Sma's quarters. It stirred and she found herself patting its back. 'Left here,' it said, at a junction, then, That's us just breaking orbit now, by the way.'
'Good,' Sma said.
'Can I cuddle up with you when you sleep?'
Sma stopped, detached the creature from her shoulder with one hand and stared it in the face. 'What?'
'Just for chumminess' sake,' the little thing said, yawning wide and blinking. 'I'm not being rude; it's a good bonding procedure.'
Sma was aware of Skaffen-Amtiskaw glowing red just behind her. She brought the yellow and brown device closer to her face. 'Listen, Xenophobe -'
'Xeny.'
'Xeny; you are a million-tonne starship; a Torturer class Rapid Offensive Unit. Even -'
'But I'm demilitarised!'
'Even without your principal armament, I bet you could waste planets if you wanted to -'
'Aw, come on; any silly GCU can
do that!'
'So what is all this shit for?' She shook the furry little remote drone, quite hard. Its teeth chattered.
'It's for a laugh!' it cried. 'Sma; don't you appreciate a joke?'
'I don't know. Do you appreciate being drop-kicked back to the accommodation area?'
'Ooo! What's your problem, lady? Have you got something against small furry animals, or what? Look, Ms Sma; I know very well I'm a ship, and I do everything I'm asked to do - including taking you to this frankly rather fuzzily specified destination - and do it very efficiently, too. If there was the slightest sniff of any real action, and I had to start acting like a warship, this construct in your hands would go lifeless and limp immediately, and I'd battle as ferociously and decisively as I've been trained to. Meanwhile, like my human colleagues, I amuse myself harmlessly. If you really hate my current appearance, all right; I'll change it; I'll be an ordinary drone, or just a disembodied voice, or talk to you through Skaffen-Amtiskaw here, or through your personal terminal. The last thing I want to do is offend a guest.'
Sma pursed her lips. She patted the thing on its head, and sighed. 'Fair enough.'
'I can keep this shape?'
'By all means.'
'Oh goody!' It squirmed with pleasure, then opened its big eyes wide and looked hopefully at her. 'Cuddle?'
'Cuddle.' Sma cuddled it, patted its back.
She turned to see Skaffen-Amtiskaw lying dramatically on its back in mid-air, its aura field flashing the lurid orange that was used to signal Sick Drone in Extreme Distress.
Sma nodded goodbye to the little brown and yellow animal as it waddled away down the corridor which led back to the social area (it waved back with one chubby little paw), then closed the cabin door and made sure the room's internal monitoring was off.
She turned to Skaffen-Amtiskaw. 'How long are we on this ship for?'
'Thirty days?' Skaffen-Amtiskaw suggested.
Sma gritted her teeth and looked round the fairly cosy-looking but - compared to the echoing spaces of the old power station mansion - rather small cabin. 'Thirty days with a crew of viral masochists and a ship that thinks it's a cuddly toy.' She shook her head, sat into the bed field. 'Subjectively, drone, this could be a long trip.' She collapsed back into the bed, muttering.