Gurgeh, Pequil realised, had not said a single word the whole time they'd been in the hall.
Flere-Imsaho watched the man. It had expected more of a reaction, but he did nothing except sit at the screen, watching replays of all the games he'd played since he'd arrived. He wouldn't talk.
He would be going to Echronedal now, along with a hundred and nineteen other fourth-round single-game winners. As was usual after a bet of such severity had been honoured, the family of the now mutilated Bermoiya had resigned for him. Without moving a piece on either of the two remaining great boards, Gurgeh had won the match and his place on the Fire Planet.
Some twenty days remained between the end of Gurgeh's game against Bermoiya and the date when the imperial court's fleet departed for the twelve-day journey to Echronedal. Gurgeh had been invited to spend part of that time at an estate owned by Hamin, the rector of the ruling College of Candsev, and mentor to the Emperor. Flere-Imsaho had advised against it, but Gurgeh had accepted. They would leave tomorrow for the estate, a few hundred kilometres distant on an island in an inland sea.
Gurgeh was taking what the drone believed was an unhealthy, even perverse interest in what the news- and press-agencies were saying about him. The man seemed actually to relish the calumnies and invective poured upon him following his win over Bermoiya. Sometimes he smiled when he read or heard what they said about him, especially when the news-readers — in shocked, reverent tones — related what the alien Gurgey had caused to be done to Lo Prinest Bermoiya; a gentle, lenient judge with five wives and two husbands, though no children.
Gurgeh had also started to watch the channels which showed the imperial troops crushing the savages and infidels it was civilising in distant parts of the Empire. He had the module unscramble the higher-level military broadcasts which the services put out, it seemed, in a spirit of competition with the court's more highly encrypted entertainment channels.
The military broadcasts showed scenes of alien executions and tortures. Some showed the buildings and art-works of the recalcitrant or rebellious species being blown up or burned; things only very rarely shown on the standard news-channels if for no other reason than that all aliens were depicted as a matter of course as being uncivilised monsters, docile simpletons or greedy and treacherous subhumans, all categories incapable of producing high art and genuine civilisation. Sometimes, where physically possible, Azadian males — though never apices — were shown raping the savages.
It upset Flere-Imsaho that Gurgeh should enjoy watching such things, especially as it had been instrumental in introducing him to the scrambled broadcasts in the first place, but at least he didn't appear to find the sights sexually stimulating. He didn't dwell on them the way the drone knew Azadians tended to; he looked, registered, then flicked away again.
He still spent the majority of his time staring at the games shown on the screen. But the coded signals, and his own bad press, kept drawing him back, time and again, like a drug.
"But I don't like rings."
"It isn't a question of what you like, Jernau Gurgeh. When you go to Hamin's estate you'll be outside this module. I might not always be close by, and anyway I'm not a specialist in toxicology. You'll be eating their food and drinking their drink and they have some very clever chemists and exobiologists. But if you wear one of these on each hand — index finger preferably — you should be safe from poisoning; if you feel a single jab it means a non-lethal drug, such as a hallucinogen. Three jabs means somebody's out to waste you."
"What do two jabs mean?"
"I don't know! A malfunction, probably; now will you put them on?"
"They really don't suit me."
"Would a shroud?"
"They feel funny."
"Never mind, if they work."
"How about a magic amulet to ward off bullets?"
"Are you serious? I mean, if you are there is a passive-sensor impact-shield jewellery set on board, but they'd probably use CREWs—"
Gurgeh waved one (ringed) hand. "Oh, never mind." He sat down again, turning on a military-execution channel.
The drone found it difficult to talk to the man; he wouldn't listen. It attempted to explain that despite all the horrors he had seen in the city and on the screen there was still nothing the Culture could do that wouldn't do more harm than good. It tried to tell him that the Contact section, the whole Culture in fact, was like him, dressed in his cloak and standing unable to help the man lying injured in the street, that they had to stick to their disguise and wait until the moment was right… but either its arguments weren't getting through to him, or that wasn't what the man was thinking about, because he made no response, and wouldn't enter into a discussion about it.
Flere-Imsaho didn't go out much during the days between the end of the game with Bermoiya and the journey to Hamin's estate. Instead it stayed in, with the man, worrying.
"Mr Gurgeh; I am pleased to meet you." The old apex put out his hand. Gurgeh grasped it. "I hope you had a pleasant flight here, yes?"
"We did, thank you," Gurgeh said. They stood on the roof of a low building set in luxuriant green vegetation and looking out over the calm waters of the inland sea. The house was almost submerged in the burgeoning greenery; only the roof was fully clear of the swaying treetops. Near by were paddocks full of riding animals, and from the various levels of the house long sweeping gantries, elegant and slim, soared out through the crowding trunks above the shady forest floor, giving access to the golden beaches and the pavilions and summer-houses of the estate. In the sky, huge sunlit clouds piled sparkling over the distant mainland.
"You say "we"," Hamin said, as they walked across the roof and liveried males took Gurgeh's baggage from the aircraft.
"The drone Flere-Imsaho and I," Gurgeh said, nodding to the bulky, buzzing machine at his shoulder.
"Ah yes," the old apex laughed, bald head reflecting the binary light. "The machine some people thought let you play so well." They descended to a long balcony set with many tables, where Hamin introduced Gurgeh — and the drone — to various people, mostly apices plus a few elegant females. There was only one person Gurgeh already knew; the smiling Lo Shav Olos put down a drink and rose from his table, taking Gurgeh's hand.
"Mr Gurgeh; how good to see you again. Your luck held out and your skill increased. A formidable achievement. Congratulations, once again." The apex's gaze flicked momentarily to Gurgeh's ringed fingers.
"Thank you. It was at a price I'd have willingly forgone."
"Indeed. You never cease to surprise us, Mr Gurgeh."
"I'm sure I shall, eventually."
"You are too modest." Olos smiled and sat down.
Gurgeh declined the offer to visit his rooms and freshen up; he felt perfectly fresh already. He sat at a table with Hamin, some other directors of Candsev College, and a few court officials. Chilled wines and spiced snacks were served. Flere-Imsaho settled, relatively quietly, on the floor by Gurgeh's feet. Gurgeh's new rings appeared to be happy there was nothing more damaging than alcohol in the fare being served.
The conversation mostly avoided Gurgeh's last game. Everyone pronounced his name correctly. The college directors asked him about his unique game-style; Gurgeh answered as best he could. The court officials inquired politely about his home world, and he told them some nonsense about living on a planet. They asked him about Flere-Imsaho, and Gurgeh expected the machine to answer, but it didn't, so he told them the truth; the machine was a person by the Culture's definition. It could do as it liked and it did not belong to him.
One tall and strikingly beautiful female, a companion of Lo Shav Olos who'd come over to join their table, asked the drone if its master played logically or not.