Iain Banks - Against a Dark Background

A waiter appeared with a drink on a tray. She looked round to see Miz at the far end of the ramp, talking to a tall, plump man in long ceremonial robes of blue and gold; the Log-Jam’s colours. The two men walked down towards the shell-boats, the tall official nodding his head tolerantly as Miz made a joke. A small entourage of lesser officials followed behind. She sipped her drink as the group approached. The official made a small gesture with one gloved, heavily ringed hand; his minions stopped a few metres back on the pontoon, and stood there in the sunlight trying to look dignified while he and Miz walked to the shell-boat where she sat.

“The Lady Sharrow,” Miz said. “The honourable Vice Invigilator Ethce Lebmellin.”

The official bowed slowly, with just that degree of care that indicated he was not used to bowing. Sharrow nodded.

“My lady, this is indeed a pleasure,” the Vice Invigilator said. His voice was high and soft; his face was leaner than the body beneath the long, formal robes suggested. His eyes looked dark and cold.

“How do you do?” she said.

“May I welcome you to our humble city?”

“You may indeed,” she said. “Will you join us, sir?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure, dear lady, but I regret affairs of state require my presence elsewhere. Perhaps another time.”

“Perhaps,” she said, and smiled.

“Mister Kuma,” Lebmellin said, turning to the other man.

“Triplicate, Mister Lebmellin,” Miz said quietly.

Sharrow frowned, wondering if she’d heard right. Triplicate? she thought. She wouldn’t have heard the word at all but for the fact Miz pronounced it so carefully.

The robed official didn’t look in the least confused; he just looked at the other man for a second, then said, “Triplicate,” also very quietly. Miz smiled.

The official turned to her, bowing again, and returned along the pontoon to the barge, his entourage sweeping behind him like chicks after their mother.

Miz sat back down in the shell-boat, looking quietly pleased with himself.

“That your tame official?” Sharrow said quietly.

Miz nodded. “Devious big fuck; wouldn’t trust him further than I could throw him. But he’s the guy who can be in the right place at the right time, and he’s hungry.”

“You really are going ahead with this, aren’t you?”

“Damn right I am.”

“And the, ah… T-word just there; a password?”

Miz giggled. “Kind of.” He glanced at her. “Tee-hee-hee,” he said.

“You’re mad,” she told him.

“Nonsense. This’ll work out fine.”

“What boundless optimism you display, Miz,” she said, shaking her head.

“Well,” he said, shrugging. “Why not?” Then a look of uncertainty crossed his face. “There is just one slightly worrying development, recently. Well, over the last few weeks.” He pulled at his lower lip with his fingers. “Not sure if it’s actually a security leak as such, but kind of worrying.”

“What?” she said.

He turned side-on to face her again. “You know they have those sial races, down in Tile?”

“Yes,” she said. “They take the animals’ own brains out and replace them with human ones.”

“Yeah, criminals’ brains, Tile being a bit uncivilised. Anyway.” He coughed. “Somebody seems to be naming sials after my embarrassments.”

“What?”

“For example, three weeks ago I had a shipment of, um… legally sensitive antique electronic circuitry being moved on a Land Car from Deblissav to Meridian. As the car was going through a pass in a mountain range called The Teeth, it was mined, attacked and looted. Bandits got clean away.” He shrugged. “Two days later, the winner at Tile Races was called Electric Toothache.”

She considered this. “Kind of tenuous, though, isn’t it?” she said, amused.

“There have been others,” he said. He looked genuinely worried. “I’ve had my agent there look into it, but we can’t work out how it’s being done. The stables keep the names secret until the race and then decide on a name on the day; supposed to help prevent cheating. Somebody’s getting the owners to name their beasts after things that go wrong in my affairs. And I can’t work out why.”

She patted his shoulder. “You’re working too hard, dear,” she said.

“I should have known better than to tell you,” he said, draining his glass. He nodded at hers. “Come on; take your drink and we’ll go and watch the race finish.”

They abandoned the little boat, leaving it rocking on the waves. She twirled her parasol as they walked back towards the barge, the water under the pontoon making slapping, gulping noises on the slats and floats of the walkway and the circular hulls of the shell-boats.

Thrial was the sun. Rafe was little more than a molten blob, while M’hlyr was solid on its one ever outward-facing side. Fian was sufficiently cold near its unwobbling poles for water ice to exist despite the fact most metals would run like water at its equator. Trontsephori was smaller than Golter; a clouded water world whose weather systems were so classically simple they resembled a crude simulation. Speyr was almost as large as Golter, terraformed five millennia earlier. Then came Golter, with its three moons, followed by a belt of asteroids; then Miykenns, colonised even earlier than Speyr, followed by the system’s giants; Roaval-ringed and mooned-and Phrastesis, shelled in still settling debris after the enigmatic destruction of its moons during the Second War. After it came the small giant, Nachtel, with its cold, just-habitable moon, Nachtel’s Ghost. Plesk, Vio and Prenstaleraf made up the outer system, each one colder and rockier and tinier in turn, trailing off like something at the end of a sentence. Assorted debris and comets completed the system.

Thrial was a ring of pure white gold inset with veins of platinum; it opened on a concealed hinge made from what appeared to be extruded diamond 13. The planets hung on loops of equally unlikely allotropic mercury and were each represented by a flawless example of the relevant birthstone according to the Piphramic Astrology, precisely graded to indicate planetary size on a logarithmic scale. Moons were red diamond, the asteroids emerald dust and the comets a tinily beaded fringe of dark carbon fibres, each tipped with a microscopic sphere of white gold. Distance from Thrial was represented by molecule-wide fines somehow etched into the ambivalent loops of mercury.

The Crownstar Addendum, as the necklace had been called for four or five thousand years, was beyond argument the single most precious piece of jewellery in the system, either extant or missing. All by itself, in its sheer pricelessness, the Crownstar Addendum provided the theoretical security for the Log-Jam’s currency, commercial guarantees and insurance bonds. Its melted-down and split-up value alone would have kept an averagely extravagant noble family comfortably off for a century or so, or even bought a minor house name, but that element of its value was insignificant compared to its intrinsic worth as something precious and mysterious that had somehow survived-and, to the extent that it could, had often been part of-Golter’s frenetically embroiled and feverish history.

Exactly who or what had made it, for whom, and when, and how, nobody knew.

No more did they know what the Crownstar itself was, if there had ever been such a thing. On Golter, the chances were about equal that if the Crownstar had existed it had been hidden, broken up, or just lost.

Whatever the Crownstar had been, and wherever it had ended up, there was no doubt concerning the location of its Addendum; it was kept deep in a special vault located inside a battleship near the centre of the Log-Jam. It was taken out-under intense security-only for very rare and special occasions; it was never, ever worn, and the impregnability of its vault-effectively a gigantic revolving safe made from three thousand tonnes of armour plate-had in recent years become almost as legendary as the fabled necklace itself.