The Player of Games

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