"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 been concentrating as much as he intended to in the coming games.

He wasn't sure himself why he was pulling his punches in this way, but somehow it seemed important not to let Contact know everything, to keep something back. It was a small victory against them, a little game, a gesture on a lesser board; a blow against the elements and the gods.

The Great Palace of Groasnachek lay by the broad and murky river which had given the city its name. That night there was a grand ball for the more important people who would be playing the game of Azad over the next half-year.

They were taken there in a groundcar, along broad, tree-lined boulevards lit by tall floodlights. Gurgeh sat in the back of the vehicle with Pequil, who'd been in the car when it arrived at the hotel. A uniformed male drove the car, apparently in sole control of the machine. Gurgeh tried not to think about crashes. Flere-Imsaho sat on the floor in its bulky disguise, humming quietly and attracting small fibres from the limousine's furry floor covering.

The palace wasn't as immense as Gurgeh had expected, though still impressive enough; it was ornately decorated and brightly illuminated, and from each of its many spires and towers, long, richly decorated banners waved sinuously, slow brilliant waves of heraldry against the orange-black sky.

In the awning-covered courtyard where the car stopped there was a huge array of gilded scaffolding on which burned twelve thousand candles of various sizes and colours; one for every person entered in the games. The ball itself was for over a thousand people, about half of them game-players; the rest were mostly partners of the players, or officials, priests, officers and bureaucrats who were sufficiently content with their present position — and who had earned the security of tenure which meant they could not be displaced, no matter how well their underlings might do in the games — not to want to compete.