The game to-ed and fro-ed for a long time, but Gurgeh was gaining steadily, and eventually, though he was put out first of the five, he'd accumulated sufficient points to ensure he'd play on the next board. Three of the other original five-side had done so badly they had to resign from the match.
Gurgeh never really fully recovered from his mistake on the first board, and did badly on the Board of Form. It was starting to look as though the Empire would not need to lie about him being thrown out of the first game.
He still talked to the Limiting Factor, using Flere-Imsaho as a relay and the game-screen in his own room for the display.
He felt he'd adjusted to the higher gravity. Flere-Imsaho had to remind him it was a genofixed response; his bones were rapidly thickening and his musculature had expanded without waiting to be otherwise exercised.
"Hadn't you noticed you were getting more thick-set?" the drone said in exasperation, while Gurgeh studied his body in the room mirror.
Gurgeh shook his head. "I did think I was eating rather a lot."
"Very observant. I wonder what else you can do you don't know about. Didn't they teach you anything about your own biology?"
The man shrugged. "I forgot."
He adjusted, too, to the planet's short day-night cycle, adapting faster than anybody else, if the numerous complaints were anything to go by. Most people, the drone told him, were using drugs to bring themselves into line with the three-quarters standard day.
"Genofixing again?" Gurgeh asked at breakfast one morning.
"Yes. Of course."
"I didn't know we could do all this."
"Obviously not," the drone said. "Good grief, man; the Culture's been a spacefaring species for eleven thousand years; just because you've mostly settled down in idealised, tailor-made conditions doesn't mean you've lost the capacity for rapid adaptation. Strength in depth; redundancy; over-design. You know the Culture's philosophy." Gurgeh frowned at the machine. He gestured to the walls, and then to his ear.
Flere-Imsaho wobbled from side to side; drone shrug.
Gurgeh came fifth out of seven on the Board of Form. He started play on the Board of Becoming with no hope of winning, but a remote chance of getting through as the Qualifier. He played an inspired game, towards the end. He was starting to feel quite thoroughly at home on the last of the three great boards, and enjoyed using the elemental symbolism the play incorporated instead of the die-matching used in the rest of each match. The Board of Becoming was the least well-played of the three great boards, Gurgeh felt, and one the Empire seemed to understand imperfectly, and pay too little attention to.
He made it. One of the admirals won, and he scraped in as Qualifier. The margin between him and the other admiral was one point; 5,523 against 5,522. Only a draw and play-off could have been closer, but when he thought about it later, he realised he hadn't for one moment entertained the slightest doubt he'd get through to the next round.
"You're coming perilously close to talking about destiny, Jernau Gurgeh," Flere-Imsaho said when he tried to explain this. He was sitting in his room, hand on the table in front of him, while the drone removed the Orbital bracelet from his wrist; he couldn't get it over his hand any more and it was becoming too tight, thanks to his expanding muscles.
"Destiny," Gurgeh said, looking thoughtful. He nodded. "That's what it feels like, I suppose."
"What next?" exclaimed the machine, using a field to cut the bracelet. Gurgeh had expected the bright little image to disappear, but it didn't. "God? Ghosts? Time-travel?" The drone drew the bracelet off his wrist and reconnected the tiny Orbital so that it was a circle again.
Gurgeh smiled. "The Empire." He took the bracelet from the machine, got up easily and walked to the window, turning the Orbital over in his hands and looking out into the stony courtyard.
The Empire? thought Flere-Imsaho. It got Gurgeh to let it store the bracelet inside its casing. No sense in leaving it around; somebody might guess what it represented. I do hope he's joking.
With his own game over, Gurgeh found time to watch Nicosar's match. The Emperor was playing in the prow-hall of the fortress; a great bowled room ribbed in grey stone and capable of seating over a thousand people. It was here the last game would be played, the game which would decide who became Emperor. The prow-hall lay at the far end of the castle, facing the direction the fire would come from. High windows, still unshuttered, looked out over the sea of yellow cinderbud heads outside.
Gurgeh sat in one of the observation galleries, watching the Emperor play. Nicosar played cautiously, gradually building up advantages, playing the game in a percentage-wary way, setting up profitable exchanges on the Board of Becoming, and orchestrating the moves of the other four players on his side. Gurgeh was impressed; Nicosar played a deceptive game. The slow, steady style he evinced here was only one side of him; every now and again there would come, just when it was needed, exactly when it would have the most devastating effect, a move of startling brilliance and audacity. Equally, the occasional fine move by an opponent was always at least matched, and usually bettered, by the Emperor.
Gurgeh felt some sympathy for those playing against Nicosar. Even playing badly was less demoralising than playing sporadically excellently but always being crushed.
"You're smiling, Jernau Gurgeh." Gurgeh had been absorbed in the game and hadn't seen Hamin approach. The old apex sat down carefully beside him. Bulges under his robe showed he wore an AG harness to partially counteract Echronedal's gravity.
"Good evening, Hamin."
"I have heard you qualified. Well done."
"Thank you. Only unofficially, of course."
"Ah yes. Officially you came fourth."
"How unexpectedly generous."
"We took into account your willingness to cooperate. You will still help us?"
"Of course. Just show me the camera."
"Perhaps tomorrow." Hamin nodded, looking down to where Nicosar stood, surveying his commanding position on the Board of Becoming. "Your opponent for the single game will be Lo Tenyos Krowo; an excellent player, I warn you. Are you quite sure you don't want to drop out now?"
"Quite. Would you have me cause Bermoiya's mutilation only to give up now because the strain's getting too much?"
"I see your point, Gurgeh." Hamin sighed, still watching the Emperor. He nodded. "Yes, I see your point. And anyway; you only qualified. By the narrowest of margins. And Lo Tenyos Krowo is very, very good." He nodded again. "Yes; perhaps you have found your level, eh?" The wizened face turned to Gurgeh.
"Very possibly, rector."
Hamin nodded absently and looked away again, at his Emperor.
On the following morning, Gurgeh recorded some faked game-board shots; the game he'd just played was set up again, and Gurgeh made some believable but uninspired moves, and one outright mistake. The part of his opponents was taken by Hamin and a couple of other senior Candsev College professors; Gurgeh was impressed by how well they were able to mimic the game-styles of the apices he'd been playing against.
As had, in effect, been foretold, Gurgeh finished fourth. He recorded an interview with the Imperial News Service expressing his sorrow at being knocked out of the Main Series and saying how grateful he was for having had the chance to play the game of Azad. The experience of a lifetime. He was eternally in the debt of the Azadian people. His respect for the Emperor-Regent's genius had increased immeasurably from its already high starting point. He looked forward to observing the rest of the games. He wished the Emperor, his Empire and all its people and subjects the very best for what would undoubtedly be a bright and prosperous future.