'Suvinder, shame on you for saying such a thing.  You should go to her and try to make amends.'

'I will not apologise for what I asked.  Nor will I retract my offer to you, not even to please her.  She must learn to move with the times.  And also that I am the ruler, not her.'

'Well, good for you, but you should still try to make up.'

'I suppose I should.  Yes, you are right.  I will see her tomorrow.  If she will see me.'

'Well, I'd send her my regards, but I don't think it would be a good idea for you to mention that.'

'I think it would be politic not to.' I heard him sigh. 'Kathryn, I must go.'

'Okay, Suvinder.  You look after yourself.  All right?'

'I will.  You too.'

I clicked the phone off.  I sat there, tapping its little warm black body against my other hand, looking out at the mountains and thinking.

Château d'Oex is, as I've said, the closest thing we have to a world HQ.  The compound starts just above the town itself, on the far side of the railroad tracks.  It doesn't look like much, considering: a big old château that looks like it can't decide whether it really is a château or a Schloss, lots of grounds — the sort of grounds that get bigger the longer you look at them, following walls and fences that are as discreetly concealed as possible — and a mountainside scattered with smaller buildings and houses.  Blysecrag is a far more impressive sight.

The bit above ground, however, is not even half the story.  Some people have tried to nickname the place the Iceberg, because so much of it is hidden under the surface.

In the dusk, Château d'Oex the town looked rich and neat and tidy as ever.  It had snowed recently and the place looked quite picturesque, in a neat and tidy way.  I swear they clean the slush.  The road to the compound swept over the railway and up to a tall set of gates and a designer guardhouse.  One of the three guards recognised me and nodded, but they checked my passport anyway.

The gates hummed open with an inertia-rich deliberation that would make you wary of taking anything flimsier than a main battle tank through them uninvited.  The 7-series purred upwards past the trees and the crisply white lawns and pastures, its way lit by ornamental light clusters with three softly glowing white globes apiece, and — on about every fifth or sixth lamp — a little CCTV camera.

The château swung into view, tastefully floodlit and looking chocolate-box pretty against the black and white of the wooded mountainside beyond.  Above it, necklaces of white road lights wiggled on up the slope to higher buildings.

The mostly male staff at the château went gliding around, white-jacketed, efficient, seeming to do the old Miss Heggies trick of materialising and dematerialising at will.  I was welcomed with nods and clicked heels, my bags disappeared apparently of their own volition, my coat slipped silently and almost unnoticed from my shoulders and I was escorted through the baroque and glowing foyer towards the gleaming elevators in the dreamlike state that usually afflicted me here.  I nodded to people I knew, exchanged travel pleasantries with the white-jacketed guy carrying my briefcase, but it all seemed dissociated from reality.  If you'd asked me when I got to my room and was settling in which language I'd been talking to the guy in the white jacket, I couldn't have told you for sure.

My room looked down the slope of the mountainside towards the town.  The mountains across the valley were the colour of the moon.  The room was large: the sort of space hotels tend to call a mini suite.  It had antique furniture, two balconies, a bigger bed than usual, and a bathroom with a separate shower stall.  Flowers, chocolates and newspapers had been delivered, and a half-bottle of champagne.  You become very sensitised to the minutiae of Business perks and privileges over the years, and the precise level of luxury that greets you at Château d'Oex is entirely the most accurate guide to how you're doing within your current status in the hierarchy.

This was up to Level Two standards.  The champagne was only a half-bottle but, then, I was by myself and it doesn't do to encourage one's guests to get too sozzled before dinner.  And it was vintage; big plus.  The phone rang and the general manager of the château welcomed me and apologised for not being able to greet me in person.  I assured him everything was fine and to my taste.

I took Dulsung's little artificial flower and stuck it in a glass on the bedside table.  It looked tiny and forlorn there, even cheap.  What if the staff threw it out?  I picked it up and put it back on my jacket, in the button-hole, but it didn't look right there either, so I stuck it inside, bending the stalk through the button-hole in the single internal pocket so that it was secure.

Dinner was promptly at eight in the main dining room; there were maybe a hundred or so staffers.  I gossiped with the best of them, before, during and after.  The château is, usually, the place to find out what's going on in the Business.  Mostly people wanted to find out what was going on in Thulahn from me.  The quality of the questions they asked indicated the accuracy of the rumours they'd heard, and corresponded pretty accurately to their level in the company.

Had I just come back from Fenua Ua? (No.) Was there some back-up deal being arranged in Thulahn in case Fenua Ua went belly-up at the last moment? (I couldn't say.) Was I going to be president of Fenua Ua? (Unlikely.) Was the deal done yet or not? (I really couldn't say.) Had the Prince really proposed to me? (Yes.) Had I accepted? (No.) So I answered a lot of questions, but I was able to ask a lot in return, and people were happier than they might have been otherwise to share all they knew or felt about a whole host of subjects.  At the end of that evening, even if only for a short time, I probably knew as much about the Business as a whole as anybody did, regardless of level.  Madame Tchassot, who kept a house in the grounds, was present at the meal and after it; the only Level One.  We talked for a few minutes over brandy in the drawing room and she seemed quite friendly.  She would be spending the next few days at her own place, near Lucerne.

'Adrian tells me you're meeting him tomorrow, Kathryn.'

'That's right.  I wanted to talk to him.' I smiled. 'He seems very proud of his new car. 355, I think he said.  Sounds nice.'

She smiled thinly. 'Red is not his colour, but he insisted.'

'Well, it is a Ferrari.  I think it's almost compulsory.'

'You are meeting for lunch?'

'Yes, in a place near the Grimsel Pass.  He recommended it.'

She looked uncertain. 'You will take good care of him, yes?'

'Of course,' I said.  What was she talking about?  She was staring intently at her glass.  She didn't think I had any designs on his tumid butt, did she?

'Thank you.  He is…important to me.  Very dear.'

'Of course, I understand.  I'll try to make sure he leaves me in one piece.' I laughed lightly. 'Why?  He's not a bad driver, is he?  I was thinking of asking for a drive in the Ferrari.'

'No, no, he is a perfectly fine driver, I think.'

'Well, that's a relief.' I raised my glass. 'To careful drivers.'

'Indeed.'

In my dream, I was in a great house in the mountains.  There was bright moonlight and starlight, but the stars were wrong and I remember thinking I must be in New Zealand.  The great house was built on a vast rumpled landscape of spired and crevassed ice tipped between two mountain ranges.  It didn't seem in the least strange to me that the building had been constructed on a glacier, though the whole place creaked and trembled as it moved with the rest of our immediate landscape down the vast slow river of ice.  With each rumble and creak beneath us, a host of diamond chandeliers tinkled, mirrors flexed and distorted, and cracks appeared in the ceilings and walls, sprinkling white dust.  White-overalled servants rushed to repair the fissures, clattering up ladders and shinning up skinny poles to slap fresh plaster across the faults, raining white damp dots.  This happened a lot.  We held umbrellas above us as we walked through the huge, echoing rooms.  Marble statues were real people who had stood too long in one place under the drizzle of plaster.