Chapter 29 The Court of Chess
In the Court of Chess everything had the appearance of fairness. Mozez and Clay sat at similar elevations on opposite sides of the court, each looking over wooden railings upon the huge marble squares of alternating colors that were both the floor of the hall and a colossal chessboard. The moves were to be timed by tall water clocks attended by slaves, and each player would have the same amount of time. A square opening in the roof and large windows high in the walls provided plenty of light. Well behaved onlookers filled ascending benches on the hall’s sides. This was all straightforward.
Furthermore, Clay had been given fresh clothing and a meal, and his own bag of personal items had been fetched for him from the Capricorn. The court officers had even honored his request to have Zendor seated by him. (Mozez had no objections, it seemed, to advisors he considered to be mad.) Each player had a small board placed before him for ease of calculation, since the pageant of the large board might prove distracting.
There ended the fairness. Mozez had given himself plenty of advantages. That the Interpreter had chosen the white army for himself, with privilege of first move, did not trouble Clay much; nor did the presence of armed guards posted close behind him. But Mozez had also seated several gray bearded advisors around his royal person, each with a small board with which to follow the game. And below Mozez’s balcony was seated a crowd of men, again each with his marble board and jade chess pieces. These were seated in two rows of eight, like a chess army, which puzzled Clay.
Near the water clocks, the Interpreter’s orchestra was finding seats. As a few began to tune up, Zendor leaned near to Clay.
“You’d better let me choose the moves.”
“Are you kidding? What do you know about chess?”
“Probably far more than you do. As a young man I was best in my school.”
“Well, I tied for fourth in my state, last spring. I’m dangerous. So I’ll handle it. You just make suggestions. You know, it’s the most incredible thing that Mozez chose one of the few things I’m good at.”
This piece of luck reminded Clay of his escape from the Heretics’ Pool. That was not just luck, that was impossible. He had told Mozez the truth when he had called it a miracle. Now that he was to play this chess game, one against many, would there be another miracle? And if so, who did he have to thank? His one Psalm answered him. Did that imply that he was becoming a Christian? Just backing into it, as it were? He did not think that such things happened by chance, like accidentally going to a wrong address and then staying. What if he did not want to be watched over?
He was used to deciding for himself regarding religion, but he had to admit that his freedom had up to now resulted in no firm decisions at all. For the practical effect of freedom had been that he never thought about religion unless he had to. He felt humiliated to realize that he had used his freedom only to run away.
Now doors opened in a wall of the court and the chess pieces entered. First came sixteen children dressed as warriors, eight in cream and eight in black. Each carried a little sword and shield, and even the girls wore tied-on black beards. They were cute, Clay thought, but oh, such solemn expressions! As they were taking their places on the pawns’ squares, the four castles followed, each a little tower on wheels with a man inside it; then four men dressed as korfies as the knights. Next came the bishops, two cream, two black; and finally, the tall kings and queens.
When all had taken their proper places, the court was a spectacle of banners and trumpets, of capes and jewels, marble and gold. The orchestra began to play softly, sounding tinny and oriental. An aroma of incense came from the lampadaria on their ornate columns. The richly clad audience applauded the music.
Remembering himself, Clay pulled out his camera and took a few pictures with the flash off. No one objected, since they had no idea what the little black box was.
In the opposite balcony a sort of announcer stood up and addressed the crowd. He told them that Clay was a Pretender to a foreign crown and that his claims were about to be tested. He reminded them that Tiras Mozez (followed by a string of titles) had never lost a game in the Court of Chess. Then he called for silence. Mozez’s water clock was started, and a young herald announced the Interpreter’s first move: “Pawn to king’s fourth!” One of the cream-clad children stepped forward two squares. Clay decided on the Sicilian, since it was the only defense he knew in any depth, and communicated his move to his own herald.
It began well. Clay established a pawn center while Tiras Mozez had none. But as the game continued, Clay grew suspicious about the sixteen men seated beyond Mozez’s end of the board. One or another of them would sometimes wave a bright handkerchief above his head in sight of Mozez on the balcony above. Whenever one of Mozez’s pieces was captured, one of these men would rise and leave the hall.
Clay turned to Zendor. “Do you see what they’re up to? Every time I threaten one of his pieces, one of his advisors waves a handkerchief. I’ll bet Mozez has one of them assigned to each of his pieces, and that advisor is responsible for watching that piece and nothing else. It’s like a crude version of a chess computer.”
“A what?” said Zendor.
“I mean that I can’t take him by surprise. He can’t lose a piece by oversight because he’ll always be warned. While I on the other hand....”
Zendor understood. “I’ll try to warn you.”
“Yes, keep watching the board. Uh, Zendor, I don’t suppose it would do any good to protest that this is unfair?”
Zendor shook his head. “Cheating is relative. Mozez may think of this game as just an elaborate method of disposing of a prisoner, not too different from a gallows or a guillotine.”
Clay absorbed this and went on playing. Despite the Royal Interpreter’s advantages, many moves passed with nothing more interesting than the even exchange of pieces. Rather than attack, Mozez sat back and maneuvered, several of his moves achieving little more than to mark time. Clay guessed the strategy. Without a raft of advisors, Mozez’s opponents must inevitably blunder away a piece. Clay was being very careful and still felt alert, but he would eventually be worn down. It was diabolical.
He did his best not to worry and became absorbed in the game. Even if he could not catch Mozez napping, much was to do. On the twenty-third move, a center file opened, and he must do his best to control it. On move twenty-six a trade put his remaining bishop in a strong position. Next move, he doubled his castles on the open file. His position was strong.
Mozez and his advisors were not responding adequately. Could they not see that chess goes more than one move deep? That they would soon be overpowered? No, they only shifted Mozez’s queen in a transparent threat to capture a pawn. Clay moved his own queen and covered it. Next move, Mozez’s herald announced the capture of one of Clay’s pawns. A cream draped korfy-knight sent a black clad child off the board, taking a center square. Clay looked at the board and saw that he had blundered in his overconfidence. He could not capture the knight for, if he did, his queen was lost. He felt sick.
“I’m a fish, I’m a fish,” he moaned.
Zendor’s attention had drifted from the board. “I’m sorry, Clay. What is it?”
Clay explained.
“It’s my fault,” said Zendor. “I was supposed to be warning you. But this plague, you see—”
“I understand. It’s all right.”
The crowd now saw that the knight was immune to capture. Amid their polite applause and the scattered cries of, “The Interpreter! The Interpreter!” Clay sat with misty eyes and clenched teeth. Why, the courtiers sounded a little bored! Going through the motions of cheering someone who was bound to win anyway. In his gloom he clung to one thing, that he no longer needed to run or hide. As at the Black Hall, he could actually fight back. Right now, he felt that nothing in the world needed to be smashed more than this sick court. He did not seem to be the one to do
it, but somebody should. Maybe Thoz.
He looked at the board again. Just how bad was it? He had lost only one pawn. That was usually enough to decide a game, and yet.... His pieces were still on very good squares. He had been about to break into Mozez’s position, so why not go ahead and do it? Since his castle was under attack, it would move first, forward, into enemy territory. He spoke quietly to his herald, and presently the black tower rolled forward on the floor below.
Mozez conferred with his advisors and in less than a minute shifted his knight to threaten this castle. Clay only moved it deeper into the white army’s position, and on his turn moved his queen to threaten a long range checkmate. In doing this, he left his bishop temptingly unprotected, but Mozez had to ignore this and advance a pawn to protect against the checkmate. Clay moved his queen and threatened a different checkmate. Mozez blocked with another pawn advance. Again Clay’s queen shifted, and for a third move in a row his unprotected bishop silently taunted Mozez. Mozez could capture it only at the cost of being checkmated in two moves. The Interpreter had run out of meaningful play: all he could do was advance a pawn on the far side of the board.
The crowd’s mood changed. They began to frown, to whisper, and to nudge each other as they comprehended that their Royal Interpreter was undergoing intellectual torture.
Clay threatened yet another checkmate. Now minutes passed, and still Mozez conferred with his advisors, and still the courtiers wondered. At last, Mozez’s herald announced a deliberate sacrifice; to save his king, Mozez moved his knight to where it would be captured by a pawn. There was no other way out.
Clay took the knight, waited while Mozez took back the pawn, and at once threatened another checkmate. When Mozez defended this, Clay rolled his other castle deep into the white position, threatening Mozez’s queen. Mozez moved her. Clay placed the white king in check.
At least most of the courtiers now saw that Mozez’s fail-proof system had come unglued. It was all very well to make sure that no one piece would be left unprotected, but what if a whole army was seized and twisted this way and that until it broke? Clay’s moves had said this to them as clearly as if he had risen in his balcony and made a speech.
When Mozez moved out of check, Clay checked him again, and now the Interpreter must sacrifice a castle for Clay’s mere bishop, more of the white army lost to save the king. And still the checks continued. Castles were traded off; then the queens went; and Mozez’s king stood with only five children for protection. Clay still had king, three pawns, and a castle, and this castle now dominated the board. He moved it to threaten one of Mozez’s pawns; and it could not be protected. Both this and another pawn on that side of the board must fall in a few moves.
Mozez conferred briefly with his advisors and then spoke to the herald. The young man leaned over the rail and said to Mozez’s king, “Lie down!”
“What?” said the man, looking up. “The Interpreter says you must lie down!”
The man did so stiffly, holding on to his crown. No one stirred. No one seemed to understand.
“The Interpreter resigns,” said the herald impatiently. “The game is over. You are all dismissed.”
Very slowly, they withdrew—orchestra, advisors, and all. The few chess pieces still on the board looked around in confusion, stayed where they were, and finally fled in a group.
Mozez had had greater disappointments. After taking a bath in his silver plated tub, he felt almost at ease about the loss. He called for the two heretics and made ready to receive them in a small, windowless room, yet not so small as to lack a secondary throne raised on a marble platform. Here he seated himself while the lamps were lighted. Presently the prisoners were led before him.
“You’ll have to go,” he began abruptly. “I can’t keep someone who defeats both drowning and myself. Before long, the people would want you to be the Interpreter. My popularity, confessedly, is very low. Somehow the people blame me for the plague that is raging on the mainland.”
A slave brought him a cup of wine.
“Regardless of what anyone thinks, last month I cut off all shipping from the lake shores to this island, in order to keep the plague out. This capitol city is, then, like a head cut off from a body. I won’t even receive messages until the plague has run its course. Do you consider that callous, or merely prudent?”
Clay and Zendor were at a loss for an answer, but Mozez preferred not to wait for one.
“So it isn’t bad enough that my family has, over some hundreds of years, lost control of the other Perg states.... Are you aware that I’m the titular ruler of Tiras and Prowts? But they send me neither taxes nor soldiers, and I’m helpless to do anything about it. (Rather like my position in the chess game just now. Congratulations, by the way. Well played.) That isn’t bad enough, I say, but now I can’t even control my own state of Thalschor. And by the time the plague ends, my poor excuse for an army will be halved in strength, I suppose. How am I supposed to rule these people? What would you do?”
He took fruit from a gold dish.
“For as long as the plague lasts, Thalschor is invasion proof. No enemy commander would be fool enough to risk bringing back this black death to his own country. But when the plague ends, we will have to deal with some invader or other. It may be Farja. More likely it will be Anatolia, and they’ll come at us by way of Saldar. Do you think I’m too gloomy? If you go east, will you try to claim the Emperor’s throne?”
This last and unexpected question was directed toward Clay and apparently meant to be answered, for Mozez waited.
“Yes, O Keeper.”
“Good, because that’s what I want you to do. Solomon has enough on his hands with the Dragons, but he’ll send the Saldarians after me anyway if he thinks he can have Thalschor cheaply. So go stir things up for him. Make enough trouble that Solomon will forget about me. I’ll provide you with everything you need to make a grand impression, and after that you’re on your own.”
Mozez fell silent and his brow creased. “Are you—really—the heir of Lila? I mean, I’ve just received messengers from Farja, and they want you turned over to them as a pretender; want you too badly, I might say, for me to believe them. Tell me, did you murder one of their Councilmen? No? I didn’t think so. The Farjans have been lying to me as long as I can remember. Now they come here with their usual flatteries and a promise of a fortune in gold if I’ll give you over to them. But I note they haven’t brought the fortune with them. You heretics seem to think we Tirasites are simple minded. No, I never admitted to having you. I’m sending them away never knowing you were here. I have my own plans for you.”
His voice lowered. “Aside from your utility, an heir of Lila is interesting to me. Many a pious Tirasite loves Lila’s name and that of her half brother the Prince Kulismos. I, of course, say nothing of their claims to a Fold-wide Empire. Both were abominable heretics. But fascinating heretics, admirable heretics.” He looked up at his listening attendants and laughed, seeming to change his mood. “Nonsense, of course. But we’ll see how convincing Clay Gareth is to the Easterners. It will take some time to prepare a proper escort for you: things have been disrupted by the plague. But in the meantime you’ll remain here as my guests.”
“I too will be allowed to go, O Keeper?” Zendor asked.
“Oh yes, I only just got rid of my own Unknown King. I don’t want another. Mine felt he had to go where the people are suffering most from the plague, or some such sentimental rot. What do you think, am I too critical of him? A fine fellow, really, but one doesn’t tempt the plague. Hm. You can go now.”
Mozez did not want his people to see any more of the young miracle man, so for nearly two weeks Zendor and Clay were kept in isolated luxury. The two heretics had the freedom of Mozez’s inner rooms in the palace, and their every meal was a feast. Mozez himself often spent time with them. He seemed lonely. Burdened with the impossible task
of restoring the glory of Thalschor, he shared his concerns with his guests over many a lingering meal. Often he told them that he wished to find some way to end the self-imposed isolation of the Tirasites, to open his borders to more than the few licensed traders presently allowed.
He even hinted that he himself wished to travel beyond the eastern mountains in the lands forbidden to all Pergs. As Keeper of the Book, he was bound to defend everything the original Tiras had written in 398 A.D. in the Oikou Graphe, or Book of the House. Therefore, the Tirasites must never mingle with others or trust in anyone beyond their lands. But Clay soon realized that, privately, Mozez cared nothing for his ancestor and reserved all his enthusiasm for such colorful heretics of the past as Lila, Kuley, and General Sampson Genbas. Nor was Mozez alone in this. His whole court was enamored of all things Eastern, so that even the bishops and pastors neglected their study of the Book of the House and instead hung on the latest news from Solomon’s court in Eschor: their songs, their intrigues, their fashions.
“Some even go so far,” Mozez told them, “as to whisper of religious reconciliation with the Eastern Church. I speak only of what others say. Might not an Emperor—” He looked at Clay sharply. “—I mean a true Emperor, not old Solomon—bring such a thing about? No, no, I’m only jesting.” But his eyes were serious.
During this time, Zendor’s face became decidedly blue, and he must hide within a deep hood to avoid alarming the court. Mozez himself showed no fear, perhaps because he was preoccupied with the far more fearsome black plague that was devastating his country. He went on with his plans to send Zendor north with Clay. Zendor became even more placid. He went about with little to say, mild of manner, uncharacteristically prayerful. Clay sometimes saw tears in the Unknown King’s glittering eyes. But he could not get Zendor to talk. At most he would only say that he deserved his fate and that he made no complaint to Thoz.
Once Clay overheard him muttering to himself, “Prizca warned me. She said I’d bring shame to the Unknown Kings. I must apologize to her if ever I can.”
Clay felt the loss keenly, especially as their time of departure approached. He was expected to go north under his own guidance, though—back home—he had never even driven to Indianapolis by himself. His mother had always said he was irresponsible and that Simone was better at taking care of herself. At least he had plenty of time to sort things out. Through the long palace days he turned over in his mind everything that had happened to him. He found himself of two minds. Mainly, he saw that the events of the previous months had ruined his life. He might never return to Indiana, and if he did, his college scholarship was lost, his whole future wrecked. That was the backbeat of his every meditation, loud and jarring and inescapable.
But interwoven into that beat came other thoughts, smothered melodies, pure high chords. To think that he had outrun the witches the whole breadth of the Silent Plain; that he had tramped with Jules, swung an oar, sung with the Pidemoi, and sailed with an Unknown King! And oh, the pleasure—even in remembrance—of smashing the Crumblies with his sword! Something in the air of the Fold had won his tolerance. True, the lands he had traveled through were dark with slavery, witchcraft, and tyranny; but they were bright with unspoiled nature, with challenge, and with the struggling faith of folk like Sharalda and Bekah.
Above all this soared one higher, fainter note; something having to do with his suspiciously incredible luck so far; something that reminded him that the appearance of Plan suggests a Planner. Whenever he considered this aspect, he was for some reason reminded of Raspberry’s death by the fence row at home. She had died to bring him here, and that simply had to mean something. She had been right when she had said that the Fold needed its Emperor. He did not feel adequate for the role, but then perhaps it was not his business to be adequate. He would travel toward Eschor and discover what the Planner, if there was one, would do.