Traff had orders from his star marshal that the library had to be destroyed. Nicosar himself had commanded this as one of his first edicts after coming to power; subject races had to understand that once they displeased the Emperor, nothing could prevent their punishment.
While nobody in the Empire cared in the least about one of its loyal soldiers breaking an agreement with some bunch of aliens, Traff knew that giving your word was a sacred thing; nobody would ever trust him again if he went back on it.
Traff already knew what he was going to do. He solved the problem by shuffling the library, sorting every word in it into alphabetical order and every pixel of every illustration into order of colour, shade and intensity. The original microfiles were wiped and re-recorded with volumes upon volumes of "the's, "it's, and "and's; the illustrations were fields of pure colour.
There were riots, of course, but Traff was in control by then, and as he explained to the incensed and — as it turned out, literally — suicidal guardians of the library, and to the Empire's Supreme Court, he had kept his word about not actually destroying or taking as booty a single word, image or file.
Halfway through the game on the Board of Origin, Gurgeh realised something remarkable; Yomonul and Traff were playing each other, not him. They played as if they expected him to win anyway, and were battling for second place. Gurgeh had known there was little love lost between the two; Yomonul represented the old guard of the military and Traff the new wave of brash young adventurers. Yomonul was an exponent of negotiation and minimum-force, Traff of the moves that smite. Yomonul had a liberal view of other species; Traff was a xenophobe. The two came from traditionally opposed colleges, and all their differences were displayed quite overtly in their game-styles; Yomonul's was studied, careful and detached; Traff's was aggressive to the point of recklessness.
Their attitude to the Emperor was different, too. Yomonul took a cool, practical view of the throne, while Traff was utterly loyal to Nicosar himself rather than the position he held. Each detested the beliefs of the other.
Nevertheless, Gurgeh hadn't expected them to more or less disregard him and go straight for each other's throats. Once again, he felt slightly cheated that he wasn't getting a proper game. The only compensation was that the amount of venom in the play of the two warring military men was something to behold, undeniably impressive if distressingly self-defeating and wasteful. Gurgeh cruised through the game, quietly picking up points while the two soldiers fought. He was winning, but he couldn't help feeling the other two were getting much more out of the game than he was. He'd have expected they would use the physical option, but Nicosar himself had ordered that there be no betting during the match; he knew the two players were pathologically opposed, and didn't want to risk losing the military services of either.
Gurgeh sat watching a table-screen during lunch on his third day on the Board of Origin. There were still a few minutes before play resumed and Gurgeh sat alone, watching the news-reports showing how well Lo Tenyos Krowo was doing in his game against Yomonul and Traff. Whoever had faked the apex's play — not Krowo himself, who'd refused to have anything to do with the subterfuge — was making a good job of impersonating the Intelligence chief's style. Gurgeh smiled a little.
"Contemplating your coming victory, Jernau Gurgeh?" Hamin said, easing himself into the seat across the table.
Gurgeh turned the screen round. "It's a little early for that, don't you think?"
The old, bald apex peered at the screen, smiling thinly. "Hmm. You think so?" He reached out, turned the screen off.
"Things change, Hamin."
"Indeed they do, Gurgeh. But I think the course of this game will not. Yomonul and Traff will continue to ignore you and attack each other. You will win."
"Well then," Gurgeh said, looking at the dead screen. "Krowo will get to play Nicosar."
"Krowo may; we can devise a game to cover that. You must not."
"Must not?" Gurgeh said. "I thought I'd done all you wanted. What else can I do?"
"Refuse to play the Emperor."
Gurgeh looked into the old apex's pale grey eyes, each set in a web of fine lines. They gazed just as calmly back. "What's the problem, Hamin? I'm not a threat any more."
Hamin smoothed the fine material at the cuff of his robe. "You know, Jernau Gurgeh, I do hate obsessions. They're so… blinding, yes?" He smiled. "I am becoming worried for my Emperor, Gurgeh. I know how much he wants to prove he is rightfully on the throne, that he is worthy of the post he's held the last two years. I believe he will do just that, but I know that what he really wants — what he always did want — is to play Molsce and win. That, of course, isn't possible any more. The Emperor is dead, long live the Emperor; he rises from the flames… but I think he sees old Molsce in you, Jernau Gurgeh, and it is you he feels he must play, you he must beat; the alien, the man from the Culture, the morat, player-of-games. I am not sure that would be a good idea. It is not necessary. You will lose anyway, I feel certain, but… as I say; obsessions disturb me. It would be best for all concerned if you let it be known as soon as possible you will retire after this game."
"And deprive Nicosar of the chance to beat me?" Gurgeh looked surprised and amused.
"Yes. Better he still feels there's something still to prove. It will do him no harm."
"I'll think about it," Gurgeh said.
Hamin studied him for a moment. "I hope you understand how frank I've been with you, Jernau Gurgeh. It would be unfortunate if such honesty went unacknowledged, and unrewarded."
Gurgeh nodded. "Yes, I don't doubt it would."
A male servant at the door announced the game was about to recommence. "Excuse me, rector," Gurgeh said, rising. The old apex's gaze followed him. "Duty calls."
"Obey," Hamin said.
Gurgeh stopped, looking down at the wizened old creature on the far side of the table. Then he turned and left.
Hamin gazed at the blank table-screen in front of him, as if absorbed in some fascinating, invisible game that only he could see.
Gurgeh won on the Board of Origin and the Board of Form. The ferocious struggle between Traff and Yomonul continued; first one edged ahead, then the other. Traff went into the Board of Becoming with a very slight lead over the older apex. Gurgeh was so far ahead he was almost invulnerable, able to relax in his strongholds and spectate upon the total war around him before heading out to mop up whatever was left of the exhausted victor's forces. It seemed the only fair — not to mention expedient — thing to do; let the lads have their fun, then impose order later and tidy the toys back in the box.
Still no substitute for a real game, though.
"Are you pleased or displeased, Mr Gurgeh?" Star Marshal Yomonul came up to Gurgeh and asked him the question during a pause in the game while Traff consulted with the Adjudicator on a point of order. Gurgeh had been standing thinking, staring at the board, and hadn't noticed the imprisoned apex approach. He looked up in surprise to see the star marshal in front of him, his lined face looking out, faintly amused, from its titanium and carbon cage. Neither soldier had paid him any attention until now.
"At being left out?" Gurgeh said.