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This is a striking addition to the growing body of Culture lore, and adds definition and scale to the previous works by using the Earth of as contrast. The other stories in the collection range from science fiction to horror, dark-coated fantasy to morality tale. All bear the indefinable stamp of Iain Banks's staggering talent. The Scavenger species are circling.

It is, truly, provably, the End Days for the Gzilt civilization. An ancient people, organized on military principles and yet almost perversely peaceful, the Gzilt helped set up the Culture 10, years earlier and were very nearly one of its founding societies, deciding not to join only at the last moment. Now they've made the collective decision to follow the well-trodden path of millions of other civilizations; they are going to Sublime, elevating themselves to a new and almost infinitely more rich and complex existence.

Lededje Y'breq is one of the Intagliated, her marked body bearing witness to a family shame, her life belonging to a man whose lust for power is without limit. Prepared to risk everything for her freedom, her release, when it comes, is at a price, and to put things right, she will need the help of the Culture In a world renowned even within a galaxy full of wonders, a crime within a war.

For one man it means a desperate flight, and a search for the one - maybe two - people who could clear his name. For his brother it means a life lived under constant threat of treachery and murder.

And for their sister, even without knowing the full truth, it means returning to a place she'd thought abandoned forever. Stewart Gilmour is back in Stonemouth. After five years in exile his presence is required at the funeral of patriarch Joe Murston, and even though the last time Stu saw the Murstons he was running for his life, staying away might be even more dangerous than turning up.

An estuary town north of Aberdeen, Stonemouth, with its five mile beach, can be beautiful on a sunny day. On a bleak one it can seem to offer little more than seafog, gangsters, cheap drugs and a suspension bridge irresistible to suicides.

For short-lived races like humans, space is dominated by the complicated, grandiose Mercatoria. To the Dwellers who may live billions of years, the galaxy consists of their gas-giant planets - the rest is debris.

His work consists of rummaging for data in their vast, disorganised memories and libraries. Unfortunately, without knowing it, he's come close to an ancient secret of unimaginable importance. In this simple but profound tale, four colleagues meet a remarkable gardener whose unique philosophy will forever change their lives. That philosophy is equally powerful for the listener. It had hurt at first, when they had hung him up. His hands, tied inside tight leather pouches, were directly above his head, manacled inside thick loops of iron bolted to the cell walls, which took all his weight.

The tube ended just above his knees; above it there was only a thin and dirty loincloth to hide his ancient and grubby nakedness. He had shut off the pain from his wrists and shoulders even while the four burly guards, two of them perched on ladders, had secured him in place. Even so he could feel that niggling sensation at the back of his skull which told him that he ought to be hurting.

That had lessened gradually as the level of waste in the small sewercell had risen and buoyed up his body. He had started to go into a trance then, as soon as the guards left, though he knew it was probably hopeless. He had stopped the Changing trance and craned his neck to see who his visitor might be. Into the cell, holding a short staff glowing cool blue, stepped the stooped, grizzled figure of Amahain-Frolk, security minister for the Gerontocracy of Sorpen.

The old man smiled at him and nodded approvingly, then turned to the corridor and, with a thin, discoloured hand, beckoned somebody standing outside the cell to step onto the short walkway and enter. He guessed it would be the Culture agent Balveda, and it was. She came lightly onto the metal boarding, looked round slowly, and fastened her gaze on him. He smiled and tried to nod in greeting, his ears rubbing on his naked arms. I thought I might see you again. Come to see the host of the party?

Officially it was his banquet; he was the host. He hoped his voice had shown no signs of fear. Perosteck Balveda, agent of the Culture, a full head taller than the old man by her side and still strikingly handsome even in the pallid glow of the blue torch, shook her thin, finely made head slowly.

Her short, black hair lay like a shadow on her skull. Balveda looked at her feet, just visible under the hem of the long, plain grey gown she wore. A circular pendant on a chain around her neck glinted in the light from the corridor outside. Amahain-Frolk had stepped back beside her, holding the shining staff up and squinting at the captive.

I can. My God, these Changers are dangerous frightening things! She smoothed her hair at the nape of her neck and looked down at the old man. May I ask you one more time? Let him live. The Gerontocrat waved a thin and twisted hand at her, his face distorting in a grimace. You would do well, Miss Balveda, not to keep asking for this. Do you think we take the cowardly murder and impersonation of one of our Outworld ministers lightly? What damage this. Why, when we arrested it two of our guards died just from being scratched!

Another is blind for life after this monster spat in his eye!