They returned to their hostelry to find a messenger from viceroy Oshanel patiently waiting. His highness Prince Panooq was back at his palace; they were to come as soon as possible. They dressed quickly, leaving their swords, and stepped outside with the messenger. He waved to someone down the street and the viceroy's carriage drew up to them from where it had been ready, four beautiful brown horses drawing it. On the way, their escort did glance at the large velvet-wrapped item Sekar bore, but ventured no query. The guards at the palace waved them through automatically, there was no mistaking whose coach they were in. As they were shown into the viceroy's office, Antim was musing on the surreal sensation of how much had take place since first coming there a few days prior; his train of thought trailed into confusion as they saw Tamanel sprawled, perfectly at home on a couch in the room. Oshanel beamed at their expressions and commented dryly “Of course, you know my brother Tamanel.” “Half-brother,” interjected their friend, “I am only half as devious as this fellow.” Antim couldn't help bursting out with “Well, half as sly certainly seems to have been enough.” Sekar roared with laughter and they all joined in. On relaxed terms, the official informed them “I had always known about the Resik Society of Chess Lovers and their gatherings, but the minds of certain types need their petty distractions.” This time it was Tamanel who started the laughter and his brother pretended to address him sternly, “I really would hope that we can at some point deal with the matters at hand. Now, honoured diplomats, I should say that I am sorry we dragged you into our little situation but, to be honest, I am not. You have achieved much, removing the two snakes orchestrating much misery and oppression, like that dealt to the widow Jafresa, of whom Tamanel has told me. I have already spoken with Prince Panooq: he is coming to terms with the fact that we have his son's murderer in custody and I have prepared certain other measures. I do need you to take care, as I am sure you shall, for much now depends on this meeting. I am the Prince's right-hand but I must serve his will, not dictate it. Antim, one last point before we meet his highness: I wish you to know that Tamanel has entreated me that Portaz should be executed but also that you would prefer to ensure he is treated humanely; I have convinced my lord of the wisdom of this. Resik can only heal through justice, not revenge.”
Oshanel led them through to a large circular chamber where Prince Panooq, who was seated reading a humble-looking book filled with handwriting, looked up at them as they entered. His viceroy approached first and, respect etched on his face, addressed his lord “Highness, I present the diplomats from Al-Rokh, who I hold in complete faith and trust.” The prince nodded and Antim and Sekar bowed deeply and took a step forward. He waved a hand and Oshanel instructed them to proceed. Antim took a deep breath and said “Your highness, we are honoured to be permitted this audience and will tell our master, Caliph Shamal Arpath, of the beauty of your fine city. We have grown to know some of it in the last few days and feel just as home here as we would in our own Al-Rokh.” He paused, very conscious now of his humble origins and inexperience in diplomatic affairs. The prince rose and took Antim's hand in his, shocking them. “You have brought me the wretch who murdered my only son, Stackan.” He led Antim to a chair beside him. “From what Oshanel has told me, Portaz and his father abused a fair number of my people for too long. I have been reading my son’s diary with fresh eyes; the apprehension of the one responsible for his death has lifted a weight from my soul. Stackan wrote for his love of this game chess but in my grief it has been a curse to my sight, rather than what I now perceive as my son’s true passion.” It was moving to see so powerful a man so conflicted with regret and Antim gathered his nerves and spoke. “Nothing can bring the prince back but we have been lucky enough to talk to some of your subjects and appreciate how they knew and loved him. I am told he possessed great skill for chess.”
Sekar glanced at viceroy Oshanel, who gave a subtle nod back to encourage him, then addressed Panooq, “My lord, I originally came from a village where our people use chess to resolve disputes and all important matters like the rite of passage. We never gamble over the game, since it is too revered for its own sake.” Oshanel stepped in smoothly, “Indeed, highness, those who control and profit from the gaming your people enjoy could not do so were the wagers themselves forbidden, rather than the pursuit of chess.” Discussion followed between the prince and his trusted advisor; Antim felt true satisfaction to see the way the two of them worked through establishing the policy with which they would govern gaming in Resik. Chess, it was eventually decided, would not only be permitted but encouraged in his city, with gambling allocated to strong regulation and taxation; moreover, the Resik Society of Chess Lovers would now become the Royal Resik Chess Society, on the condition that they provided as many as possible of Prince Stackan’s known game scripts and explained analysis of them, so his father could share that piece of his son’s life.
Tamanel cleared his throat and suggested “Your highness, the Society will be in raptures of delight over your decree and glad to comply, but there is maybe something which will, shall we say, illustrate it better than many hours with those tedious old men and their theories.” He smiled at Sekar, who still held the velvet-wrapped portrait, forgotten in his hands. Oshanel raised an eyebrow; his brother had refused to tell him privately what the package was; he was now thoroughly intrigued. Tamanel motioned for the viceroy to stand next to Panooq, while he helped Sekar carefully unwrap it, then they displayed the picture between them. The viewers’ expressions were priceless, the three friends agreed later: Leng had captured Stackan’s likeness perfectly, not just in the terms of the noble prince known to Resik, but with the tip of the hat that only a genius visionary could have given to another one. Sublimely, it was worth much more than days of poring over his dead son’s game notation – apart from showing an actual position of his, it revealed his mastery over his desires. The two rulers of Resik were so completely in awe of this that Antim nodded to Sekar that they should leave them to this private moment. He left the picture in Tamanel’s hands and they were turning away when the viceroy called out imperiously “Not quite so fast.” They froze but Oshanel was smiling mischievously. “Pray tell: did you travel all the way to Resik just to solve our headaches and meet our chessplayers?”
The companions both hesitated. Eventually, the silence was deepening and Sekar spoke “We were charged by the chamberlain of Al-Rokh to enter negotiations for a certain item owned by Resik, as a gift for our beloved Caliph, but it feels a little inappropriate compared to what your gracious selves are dealing with.” He faltered and Oshanel winked at him, “Go on, my friend, name it.” Sekar took a deep breath and said “We had heard rumours of a magical chessboard which could play against our Caliph, since he was risking his precious life playing in the marketplace and had already fallen foul of miscreants. Our chamberlain is distraught with worry for him and…” He broke off. “I am sorry, my lords, I did not mean to cause any offence,” for they were both looking impassively. The prince then exclaimed “Oh that old thing? Of course, I have no use for it, since I don’t play the game. Certainly I could be persuaded to part with it. What were you thinking of offering?” Antim started to fumble for the documents of authority they held then stopped, hearing a muffled noise: Tamanel, Oshanel and Prince Panooq were all suppressing mirth unsuccessfully. Tamanel recovered first and said “When I had said you were both on a mission for your Caliph, my brother deduced your objective was the chess set. Sorry, my friends, but we all needed some humour right now.” Sekar and Antim saw the funny side and shook their heads ruefully.
“Unfortunately, honoured diplomats, the item is not for sale,” answered Prince Panooq finally. They tried not to look crestfallen and nodded respectfully, but he continued, “I would of course consider it a simple gesture of goodwill to give it to our neighbour Shamal Arpath as a sign of the mutial love between our cities.” Again, laughter broke out; this time, however, Antim and Sekar were quick to join in. The viceroy clapped his hands and a servant came in, bearing an oblong box wrapped in red silk with a golden cord forming a bow. They spent a while, at their hosts’ invitation, telling of their adventures; when asked what they planned to do next, Sekar exclaimed “No more diplomacy, that’s certain; we shall probably take up juggling cobras in our retirement.”
Tamanel led them out and helped arrange conveyance back to Al-Rokh with another merchant caravan, this one owned by a business associate of his who treated them like family. Despite spending the few weeks journey in comfort and style, they both longed to walk Al-Rokh’s familiar streets. First on their agenda, when they returned, was to discharge their duties to Rabat. As it happened, Pezal the chamberlain’s page was waiting for them when they entered the city and he led them directly to “Uncle Rabat”, the guards not disputing their right to enter the Caliph’s palace. Pezal did explain that a courier pigeon from Tamanel in Resik had advised of their imminent arrival ahead of time, though without word of their success or failure. Rabat greeted them warmly, as ever, when they traipsed into his office. Pre-arranged, Antim and Sekar rummaged through their belongings and deposited the diplomatic papers, authority of exchequer and seal ring entrusted to them, then proceeded to chatter about Resik, its chessplayers and villains, the wondrous young artist Leng and a host of sundry things. Rabat waited as patiently as he could then sighed and enquired “Did any other matters slip your mind on your little jaunt?” Antim slapped his head theatrically and asked “Sekar, didn’t you have your eye on some pretty bauble in Resik’s market – did you get it in the end?” His friend looked thoughtful then dipped in his bag again. “Why yes, there was this I suppose,” pulling out the wrapped parcel entrusted by Panooq. “His highness wished the noble Shamal Arpath to accept this token on behalf of his beloved city of Resik.”
Rabat blinked. “You did it? You scoundrels, teasing my poor weak heart.” He reverently touched the silk covering. “I probably don’t want to know but, more curious than anything, by how much did you beggar our coffers to secure it?” Antim looked serious, “Well, my lord chamberlain, we did commission a painting and rent a room. Plus our stay in the hotel.” Sekar interjected “And we had coffee while deliberating. Not to mention having our clothes pressed…” Rabat shook his head in disbelief. “I authorise you massive resources and you buy a picture?” Antim raised a hand, “My lord, it was a very nice picture.” Their friend laughed and replied with mock dismay, “Have you any idea how many centuries of government it took to establish fair valuations of a Caliph’s worth and the level of cost appropriate to any gift for him? I don’t know how I will report this in my ledgers.” Sekar answered him with aplomb, “Yes, chamberlain, but we did get our boots a little muddy.” Rabat laughed again and said “I’m sure you rogues did, in more than one sense. Come, let us not delay. Much as I love our gracious master, he is driving me wild with his forays out to play chess with strangers in the square and this should cut those visits down t oa level my poor nerves can cope with.”
He took them to the Caliph, who was sitting making notes from one of his many chess tomes and announced “Great lord, we have some visitors.” Shamal Arpath looked up and soundly berated them for being away seven weeks without attending him. “Rabat is insufferable, you know; he fusses and frets like a grandmother.” At his insistence, they told him of their journey to Resik and their tale brightened him considerably. They left out one detail and the shrewd old Caliph picked up on this, “Why on earth did you go there in the first place?” Rabat then took the red silk parcel from by the door, where he had placed it on entering while their lord was distracted; he placed it tenderly on the table and stepped back, saying “A gift from Prince Panooq of Resik; our friends here were kind enough to obtain it for you.” Shamal Arpath untied the gold cord and looked pleased with the ornate chess set inside; when Rabat explained that it was a fabled one and its properties, he was almost aghast. They set it up and it was true to its legend, the pieces moving in response to his plays and the four of them may as well have been a group of random chess enthusiasts, ranks irrelevant, as they clapped and considered how it thought. After one complete game with it, there were tears on the Capiph’s cheeks. He was nearly speechless but managed to thank them. “Rabat, Antim, Sekar: for three people who have already served me well, you then reach to honour me with this; how can a Caliph reward his subjects when they respond with such excess?”
His eyes shone and he went on to ask what he could give any of them that would bring them a fraction of the joy they had bestowed on him. Rabat and Antim refused instantly, for they had not done it for recompense but out of gratitude. Much as Sekar was of the same mind, he did hesitate. Shamal Arpath noticed and asked “My son, there is something, isn’t there?” Sekar could not raise his gaze but when he spoke his voice was thick with emotions of his own, “Sire, it is not for me I ask but for her own sake. The tiger Prindy, who is elderly: may I be granted the unique privilege of caring for her and trying to instill happiness in her again?” The Caliph could see Sekar was sincere but was himself a little confused. Antim intervened, “My lord, Sekar’s people venerate tigers and I believe Prindy is not expected to live long. He would ensure that what time she has left was comfortable and rewarding.” Rabat nodded at this and added “The house you gave them has a spacious garden with very high walls enclosing it. Maybe Laran the tiger keeper could say if it might be good for her.” Shamal Arpath agreed and they went to the tiger chamber, where he talked for a few minutes with Laran, who was more than enthusiastic about it. The Caliph said “Again, my friend Sekar, you humble me. You would risk life to bring something to make me happy but the only boon you request is to help another? There is no remote chance of our refusing this; we hope that she can settle with you and possibly even prosper, as Laran suggests.”
Arrangements were made: the weary old tigress was sedated with a herb concoction and carried up a ramp, where she was secured on a sturdy palanquin Laran had for moving his charges when necessary. He stayed with them at their house for the first few hours after safely transporting Prindy there, to make sure that she recovered adequately from the drug and was not too alarmed. He did explain to Sekar that, although she was basically a wild creature by nature, she had been brought up at the palace since a cub and had never showed any savagery but would still require caution. He did provide a special harness, should Sekar be able to exercise her outside the garden but recommended doing this at night when less people would be panicked by the sight of a giant predator roaming the streets. Antim was surprised at this, but Laran advised them that they did occasionally walk the tigers outside the palace, to stop them feeling too confined. Prindy did stir and Sekar was on hand instantly with something he had prepared by Bolika the maid: strips of lamb soaked in honey; the tiger accepted these with a low growl and settled down under a shady tree a dozen feet away, still slightly groggy.
Over the next weeks, Laran visited regularly and was pleased to see that Prindy was growing stronger and taking much more interest in life; this was not something totally unexpected, as old tigers did start to need space from the others, he told them. One day, as they were sitting in the garden playing chess, they looked up in surprise at a strange mewling growl, but nothing was amiss, far from it. The companions watched in fascination as the tiger playfully leapt around the garden, chasing butterflies.
The Chronicles Of Sekar
Chapter Six - The Worthy Gift
The Caliph made them promise to visit again to tell him of their adventures and Rabat ushered them out, till another day. Rabat, newly promoted to chamberlain, took them to the house formerly owned by his predecessor El Amah and they were staggered by the reward they had received. It was extensive in its rooms but best of all had a massive garden which stretched further than they could throw a stone. Sekar revelled in the feelings it evoked in him; it was not the jungle he grew up in but it was magnificent with exotic plants and birds everywhere. “Just as well,” joked Antim, “That you weren't still in your loincloth or our new neighbours would think barbarian hordes were invading.” Rabat left Antim and Sekar to explore their grand mansion and promised that once he was settled in his new duties he would give them a tour of the Caliph's palace. What did come as a surprise to them both was that there were two other people living there already: a pair of elderly servants, Sappen the gardener and his wife Bolika the maid. This was something the companions were not prepared for; they took some convincing from the staff that it was appropriate to be called “sir”. There was no question of not continuing to employ them, for the servants needed the work and somewhere to live, but Sekar did insist that they increase their meagre allowances and bring in occasional help for the heavier work.
The first fortnight in their new home was a joyous blur. Antim spent some of the time polishing up his notes of their travels. Sekar trained him further in the use of the sword and they played chess and discussed game positions. They were at a slight loss as to how their escapades together would continue, though; they had a fine house and enough money to last them a long time if they were careful – there seemed little point in risking life and limb for a few copper coins now. Sardonically, Antim saw that his dream of seeking his fortune had come to a sudden end. As his thoughts turned back, his old employer's face came into his mind. Grammal the merchant had been like family to him for years and on a nostalgic whim he had Bolika send a messenger to him, inviting him to visit. Grammal turned up in a hurry; Antim noticed from the window that his honest face was anxious and his hat was in his hands. He met him at the door, to the merchant's bafflement. “Antim, my boy, do you work for the chamberlain now? What business does he need me for, do you know? Am I in trouble?” Antim looked at him, flabbergasted, then realised: the messenger had passed on the address and his old employer had thought it was an imperious summons from El Amah. He laughed and waved at the quality garments he wore. Grasping Grammal by the shoulder, he half-dragged the confused merchant in. Some explanations later, seated in one of the sumptuous reception rooms, his former master was still dazed at Antim's rise to favour but allowed himself to be led around the mansion's grounds; by the time they got back to the opulent chairs they had started from they were chatting excitedly and naturally.
That evening, as Antim showed Grammal out and watched him walk cheerfully away, a young boy in the livery of the Caliph's staff came running up to the door, carrying an envelope. He handed it to Antim and grinned at him. He stared for a moment then embraced the courier. “Pezal? Is that you, you rogue?” The boy nodded. “You have certainly come up in the world, my little friend.” Pezal cheekily cocked his head back at him and replied “As have you, sir.” They laughed and Pezal, the former street urchin who had carried a key message for Antim to Rabat, explained that the new chamberlain had adopted him as a personal servant and given him a place in his own home. “I call him Uncle Rabat; he scolds me if I do it in front of other people, but he is a good man.” With that Pezal winked and ran off again; Antim took the envelope through to the garden where Sekar was sitting and they read the invitation inside. Rabat, the note said, would be pleased to have their company the following day.
When they arrived at the palace the next morning, the guard at the gate briefly inspected the letter from the chamberlain and rang a bell for one of the staff to escort the companions to Rabat. They found him overseeing some repairs to a beautiful mosaic in the ballroom floor. He was glad to see them and proceeded to tell them about the palace as he led them through it; it was truly a marvel that spoke voluminously of power and wealth without being overly extravagant. Antim had only dreamt what the inside was like; for Sekar, brought up in a tribal village, it was unimaginable. They had seen parts of it before recently when they escorted the Caliph but had been passing through, with no time to appreciate its scale or majesty. Their minds were full of the awe and respect it was constructed to inspire by the point at which Rabat paused, in yet another ornate corridor. He turned to them and said “I thought we should finish up here; I knew once Sekar saw what was inside it would take all my guards to remove him.” He smiled enigmatically and opened a pair of double doors. This led into a massive airy room, with a glass ceiling and a viewing gallery running round the outside. As they stepped up to the handrail surrounding the central area, they saw that the floor was sunken and contained a myriad of plants and rough stone features like ledges. What drew their eyes though was the hulking form of a tiger staring up at them from the middle of the room. Then amongst the greenery Antim noticed and pointed out movement; another tiger came into view, then yet another.
Sekar was motionless, gaze fixed on the tigers his tribe idealised and almost not daring to breathe. Rabat was looking at the big man, slightly humbled by the reverence on his face. They stood like this for a few minutes, no-one speaking, till Sekar finally stirred and asked Rabat “Are they happy?” The chamberlain nodded, “We think so, for the most part. They have wooden balls and devices on wheels that they play with and seem content. They have their moods though.” Antim saw then something which did surprise him even further – a balding man, short and stocky, picking his way through the foliage. Rabat waved to him and he gestured back, before walking to the edge of the pit and climbing up a ladder fixed to the wall. “My lord chamberlain” he addressed Rabat, with no particular deference but no disrespect intended; next to the elegance and power of the tigers he worked with, all men were equal. Rabat introduced them both to Laran, the tiger master; Sekar was suddenly overcome with questions about his charges and the two set to animated discussion. They learned that there were six tigers in all; Laran led them round the gallery pointing out each in turn and naming them. He stopped at one last one, called Prindy, which was the least active of them: she lay listlessly in some shade. Laran explained that this tiger was old and ate only sparingly; she was not expected to be long for this world. Sekar gripped the handrail tightly, the emotions on his face broadcasting to all present. Antim explained to Laran that Sekar's people held tigers as sacred and the keeper nodded, understanding his distress.
Rabat thanked Laran for his time and took his friends to one side. “The Caliph has rewarded us all greatly,” he began, “For something that, heavens forgive me for speaking thus of him, we would have done for any common stranger.” Antim and Sekar nodded seriously. “With that in mind, I have been contemplating long and hard as to what could be done to thank him. Not an easy task; he has everything you could imagine. Now I hope I am not being too presumptuous here: I would like to ask your help.” Antim looked puzzled and replied “Of course, but we would not have any idea where to begin. What can you possibly get as a worthy gift for such a lord?” Rabat beamed knowingly. “I was talking to some merchants from far-off lands at one of the functions I now have to attend and I raised the subject of chess and how the Caliph is a great lover of the chequered dance. One of them laughed and mentioned his polar opposite: Prince Panooq of Resik, who has a complete hatred of the game. This would have been but an interesting anecdote except that the merchant went on to impart that this Prince was rumoured to possess a treasure which was totally wasted on him – a magical chess set. I pressed him for details; all he had heard was that it reputedly could play by itself and that Prince Panooq had refused all offers for it.” Sekar and Antim looked at each other and shrugged; they had previously encountered sorcery and were almost nonchalant about this part of Rabat's tale. Rabat knew about their experiences and gave a wry smile before continuing. “Now I feel this would be the perfect...worthy gift, as you put it. Caliph Shamal Arpath has been lonely for a long time and I would not rest easy if he went back to playing chess in the market square, no matter how good the disguise or how many guards I posted near him. Word would get out and something might occur. If we could secure this enchanted item he could play all the hours he wished. I believe if anyone can prise it from the vaults of Resik it would be you two.”
Rabat waited a moment while they processed this. He felt they would undertake the task but wanted to let them think it through for themselves. Sekar mused “So we can't buy it and we know nothing of what Panooq would want in exchange. Judging by the fact he has received offers for it, if theft were possible someone would have done it by now.” He looked at Antim's expression at this and raised his hands. “I'm just exploring options, my friend. Why look for a mate in six moves when there is one in two?” Antim glared at him and Rabat laughed. “I am sure that between you an answer will be found. I will supply you with documents of diplomacy which should assure your reception, along with an authority of exchequer and one of my official seal rings to vouchsafe any payments you need to make to accomplish your task. If this cannot be done, fear not; I only ask that you try.” They agreed, of course; this was, reasons like gratitude aside, the perfect excuse to see somewhere new and the alternative was waking up one day wondering what could have been.
The chamberlain arranged for berths for them with a trade caravan heading east to Resik, starting two days after their meeting, so they spent the time putting their affairs in order. They asked Grammal to hold their private wealth in trust and take care of anything the servants Sappen and Bolika needed, inviting him to feel free to stay at their residence while they were away, with further instructions in the event that they did not return. It was odd to think in those terms but they knew they had responsibilities now. Antim packed away his notes and a small chessboard, along with their finer clothes and the documents and seal Rabat had given them. There was also a breathtaking gold crafted amulet to be presented as tribute for Prince Panooq when they initially arrived at Resik to petition for an audience. Sekar had taken it gingerly but was assured by Rabat that an expensive “trinket” was commonly given in diplomatic dealings. They had decided that on the trip there they would keep the precious seal, documents and jewellery entrusted to them buried deep in their packs and wear simple everyday clothes till they got to their destination, in case bandits attacked. Their weapons were entirely in keeping with the assumed station in life as the out-of-work mercenaries they now purported to be. Even Antim, trained as a scribe, could pass off in this role; although he had killed the old wizard inadvertently those months ago, it had changed him subtly in his bearing.
The caravan master was too busy organising his staff to inspect them closely anyway, when they joined up outside town. They were directed to the wagon they would be travelling in, shared with a trio of priests and an old lady. They were thrilled at first to be adventuring again but this died after a week on the journey, as monotony set in. The road to Resik, although far, was well-travelled by traders and was patrolled frequently by soldiers at either end of it with few possible places for ambush in between. Besides which, the caravan master was no fool and knew that the simple presence of the extra guards he employed would not only deter anything short of a small army of bandits but would also encourage richer people and goods to ride with him. The main diversion in the wagon was the chess they played, watched with varying degrees of comprehension by their fellow travellers. There was debate amongst the priests as they were of three different orders, punctuated by an unofficial competition between them to convert one of the lost souls with them – to Antim and Sekar's amusement the old lady pretended to be swayed by each of their theological arguments in turn, confiding in Antim at one rest stop that she was an actress in younger life.
After just over three weeks on the road, the convoy's mood started to lift – they were nearing Resik. They pulled up a little way out from the city and the caravan master invited all his guests to take some time to clean the inevitable trail dust from their persons. Refreshed, as much for the caravan's reputation as for their own well-being, the passengers were taken to the city gates where they parted ways. Trade goods started to get unloaded into little carts as Antim and Sekar stretched their legs and took in their surroundings. It was not cosmetically that different from Al-Rokh, with merchants displaying their wares in shops and on stalls, people bustling about their various personal affairs, guards patrolling the streets no more lax or vigilant than in Antim's home city. Were it not for the little nuances in clothing and accent, they might have thought they were exploring an unknown part of Al-Rokh. They were well aware though that they were carrying sensitive items and were also eager not to let down Rabat in this early test of his office of chamberlain.
The friends strolled for a while as they looked for a suitable place to stay. When they found an attractive hostelry they were met with disdain by the clerk on the desk who had assessed their mercenary garments and lack of rich adornment in one critical look. Sekar ignored his manner and pleasantly asked for a room with two beds for a week. The clerk airily quoted the price, expecting an end to the transaction; his demeanour altered smoothly as Sekar slapped two gold coins on the counter. He clicked his fingers for a boy to escort them to their room and they found themselves in some welcome comfort after their long journey. They sat around chatting freely for a while, for they had not been able to discuss their mission on the caravan trail. Having groomed and dressed in their best clothes, they departed; Antim winked to the hotel clerk, seeing his flicker of shock at their transformation. They did not need to ask anyone for directions to Prince Panooq's palace as it was visible from the whole city, set on the highest hill with domes and towers. They were glad they had left their weapons back at their lodgings when they changed, despite any misgivings they had about being unprotected, as their assignment here would hinge on good impressions. There were two guards at the palace gate attempting to remove a desperately begging woman waiting there, with minimal force; Antim and Sekar paused respectfully, expecting to be waiting for a while but a sharp-eyed sergeant behind the other guards caught sight of their finery and waved them over to one side. They showed the paperwork they had from the chamberlain of Al-Rokh, proclaiming them to be trusted diplomatic emissaries and he politely invited them to follow him to Prince Panooq's representative, viceroy Oshanel, who greeted them in warm and measured tones. He explained that “His highness has every love for the Caliph Shamal Arpath and his fine city, with which our trade is long-established and highly valued. He will be delighted to receive you for an audience but is presently hunting and entertaining guests at one of his many palaces. He will return in a few days time, when I shall entrust in him the news of your visit and insert you into his busy schedule.” Antim was impressed at this and thanked the viceroy, nudging Sekar to bring out the diplomatic trinket they had been instructed to bear. They left with an appointment to see the Prince four days later and a feeling of relief that they had not started any wars with ill-chosen words.
Sekar nodded his thanks to the guard sergeant as they passed through the gate, then froze; the beggar woman was sitting to one side, weeping. She did not appear to be harmed in any way – the guards had moved her out of the area of the gate but had not exercised any ill-will. Still, coming from a tribe whose fate was interlocked and communal, Sekar could not stand to see her plight. When they approached she looked up fearfully but Sekar gently took her hand and pressed some coin into it. She burst into even more tears at this but the companions could see that the cause had changed, as gratitude was engrained into her features. She blessed them and ran off. Antim slapped his friend on the back and asked “Now what? We have an audience with the Prince but we need a hook, something to convince him to part with the chess set.” Sekar shrugged. “It will take thought. Like our Caliph, he seems rich beyond imagining. That gift Rabat sent with us was mere courtesy. Panooq will want something money cannot buy.” They resolved to explore Resik and hope an idea would come to them. They wandered through the city, browsing its stalls and shop-fronts. There were beggars and raconteurs, jugglers and storytellers, with their respective crowds (or lack of them) proclaiming their skills; it was pretty much as they had expected. They got to a public park where people congregated, though; here their attention was aroused: people were playing games. There were dice, cards, contests with rings and poles, even a few board games Sekar recognised from his travels, but one thing was missing – chess. They could see no sign whatsoever of the one game that obsessed them both; strange indeed as chess was the universal game which the world shared. They watched an odd-looking game with dice and counters moving around some sort of miniature racetrack till Antim could contain himself no longer. “Do you not play chess here at all?” he asked one of the players. The man waved angrily at him to go away, but for a split second Antim was sure he saw fear on his face. Puzzled, he asked again “I am sorry, I think you misunderstood. I did not mean to interrupt your concentration, I just wondered if I could play chess anywhere here.”
What happened next made them wish they had their swords with them. The player he had spoken to and half a dozen others clustered round them, incensed and gesticulating. They were speaking loudly and quickly; with their different accents the visitors found it difficult to make out what they were being accused of but they picked out the odd word like abomination, mockery and treason. They protested and showed their empty palms but it was clear this was turning into a mob – most of the still-seated players were also looking at them with expressions ranging from disgust to pure hatred. There were some whose faces were expressionless; Antim noticed one tall man watching them thoughtfully. They were ready to back off and seek an explanation from safer quarters when a woman's voice cut over all the din, instructing to “Cease your hypocrisy, you fools!” All eyes turned to the source: to the companions' amazement it was the beggar woman Sekar had given some gold. She started rapidly berating the aggressors, poking her finger unafraid in the chest of the biggest one. They quietened down, except for the occasional outburst which was silenced by a steely glare from her. As she talked, Antim and Sekar learned that she was a widow who had been reduced to begging to try to abolish her son's debt from gambling at the games here, to prevent him suffering injury from his creditors. This drew some looks of shame from the game-players, which was nothing to how they looked when the old lady announced that Sekar, a stranger, had helped her out in her distress. The tall man who had been watching all this came forward now and calmly persuaded the players milling around to go back to their games and that he would deal with the situation. He clasped the woman's hands, thanking her, before turning back to the friends.
The tall man led them to a quieter area and introduced himself as Tamanel; they in turn gave their names and he paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He smiled then and said “Well, from your accent you are from Al-Rokh, I think.” Antim nodded. “But your companion here, now that is a different matter – further south, I believe, but influenced by much travel.” Sekar bowed to him, impressed, before telling in a few words of the Alma-Uti tribe he came from originally. Antim was still baffled by the reaction to his simple enquiry so ventured to ask “When I mentioned earlier about a certain pursuit popular in my home city...could you explain why it met with such a furore?” Tamanel nodded seriously. “There is much to tell but the version you hear depends on three things: who is telling, who is asking and who is listening. For now, let me say that it is outlawed in Resik these last few years and association with it would be unwise of these fellows you addressed. I do have business to attend to this day; I will try to make your acquaintance again, if you like?” They readily agreed; both of them were well aware of their need for any information that could help in their quest and Tamanel seemed an ideal contact.
It was only when they were a little way down the road away from the site of their near misadventure that Antim turned to Sekar and commented “We didn't actually tell him where to find us.” His friend shook his head slowly then observed “I don't think he's someone who needs to be told much; a man of certain resources, by his bearing and the glint in his eyes.” They strolled on, taking in more of Resik. Stopping briefly for refreshment in a little coffee-shop, Antim silently traced with his finger along the tabletop they were seated at. There was a sizable square section that evidently had been covered by something set shallowly into the surface, since there was no apparent aesthetic quality to the feature and deep old coffee-stains stopped at the edge of the sunken area. Sekar nodded. They realised that chess had almost certainly been played here until the Prince's ban. As they left, Antim speculated “I know it's not exactly our mission but if we could reverse a certain decision, it would probably return joy to a lot of kindred spirits in Resik.” They had a few days to wait for their audience with Prince Panooq, so it would do no harm to consider that problem alongside the one of convincing him to part with the desired gift for their Caliph.
They went back to their hostelry to change into something less conspicuous than their finery and left dressed more comfortably – not just from the casual clothes but also the reasssuring weight of their scabbards. Like in Al-Rokh, the authorities of Resik had no issue with its citizenry bearing arms: anyone who mattered had their own bodyguards and the rest had the city watch. Banning general carrying of weapons would only help facilitate crimes from those outside the law already. In a way, this simple change of appearance served to set their feet on a path that might not have been followed by ones in soft velvet slippers. They had just exited their lodgings and started on the main road to the city square when a green-and-gold rickshaw pulled by two strong young men came at a fair pace in their direction. One of the men glanced at them and, not seeing the gentry he would have taken them for in their early apparel, made no effort to slow but jerked his head for Antim and Sekar to clear the way. They hurried to the far side of the road, boots splashing through the mud just in time to avoid entanglement. Antim turned, indignant, to deliver an acidic comment to Sekar about some nobles and those who served them, only to see that his friend was crouched down staring at something low on the wall – what looked at first like a random white smear had a very striking resemblance to a scribbled e4 in chalk. The big man muttered “I wonder...” and meandered down the street. “What?” asked Antim, confused.
The tribesman carried on silently to the next side-street and scanned the buildings. “There” he declared with some satisfaction. Antim followed his gaze and his eyes widened; higher up on the wall this time, but in the same scrawl that was barely writing at all, was what could pass for c6. He drew alongside Sekar and murmured “We have a map it appears. Somebody who knows chess is leaving a trail only another player would recognise.” Sekar grinned. “That it starts at our particular residence here can be no coincidence. Best act like we are just out having a nice walk, Antim. That Tamanel did refer to depends who is listening. I do not think him one to dramatise needlessly.” They continued, chatting in an easy manner about the interesting sights around, pausing every so often as if not certain which way their whims would take them in their tour of the city; not that this was entirely untrue, as they discreetly sought out the next chalk markings in the sequence. These did appear, as the friends were sure they would. Antim found himself considering the game described in the notation; doing this helped him keep his thoughts calm and focused. It moved on, through the twists and turns of the alleys it led them along, from the opening into a classical middlegame with the white pieces aiming at the enemy kingside. Whoever had played or devised this conjured game was adept, from what he could visualise.
Sekar was still professing his admiration for the local architecture as they approached yet another junction, this one with five spokes from it including the one they had taken to reach it. They had travelled a fair distance on this intricate dance through Resik and Antim could only hazard a guess at just how far based on the relative position of the palace on the hill. The road to the left had a relatively obvious chalk sigil for Ne2 and they were about to carry on that way when Antim touched Sekar's arm, motioning him to wait. He made a show of adjusting the bootstrap on his ankle while his mind raced. This last move somehow didn't fit with the measured assault the player of the white forces had been coordinating. He must have anticipated that the c-pawn would drive his knight from the d4 square it had been nestled on; was his intention merely to weaken the centre and reroute the piece? No, this was wrong: it was just inconsistent with the player Antim had been studying on the journey there. He stood and airily said “You know, Sekar, we have been walking so long that I think we might be lost.” To his credit, there was not a flicker on his friend's face. They peered up each direction from the star-shaped crossroads as if simply trying to get their bearings and noticed obliquely that there was a chalk marking by each route they could travel. “A test then,” breathed Sekar.
Other than the Ne2 they had first noticed, the walls offered: Nf3 which did retreat but at least contemplated moving it back into the fray quickly; Nf5 which looked risky, giving up an active piece and finally the slightly bizarre Qg4. They were both silently considering the three newly-discovered options when Sekar rumbled “You know, back in Alma-Uti, we would have expected that reckless queen move from an untested youth.” Antim had to agree – he had tried to see some value in it but the more he looked at it, the move did seem like a lunge that would appeal to a novice player. “This is the nature of the test then, Sekar. Ne2 is passive and loses momentum needlessly; Qg4 is to weed out fools who only see power and not focus; that leaves us with Nf3 or the sacrifice. I really don't see the surrender of the piece achieving much, since black is restricted already. If he captures with his king's pawn he may have an uglier structure but he even gains space to maneuver and white is deficient by a vital soldier. It can only be Nf3.” Sekar led on down that road now, conscious of how long they had been loitering, answering “Maybe it is simply for us to demonstrate that we can responsibly plan and build our intentions, whether they be in a chess attack or in life. This is akin to the lessons Ramul seeks to inspirit the tribe with.” The more they studied it in their heads, the greater was their conviction that their way was as clear as if someone had stood waving a flag in the direction they were to go.
They were cautious at each crossroads now, in case they missed an alternate guiding symbol but the graffiti game did seem to unfold naturally. After another series of navigations, Sekar commented wryly “I'm betting all those other paths had some markings carrying on from them also, to lead off the uninitiated.” Antim laughed then faltered: along the quiet street they had turned into was a familiar sight, a green-and-gold rickshaw. “That's a coincidence,” he began but, to the puzzlement of both of them, the vehicle's curtain drew back and a rich voice called out “Well, what kept you then?” Antim flicked his gaze back the way they had come and saw that the two men who had been pulling the rickshaw earlier were standing at the mouth of the street; to his relief they were looking outwards: this was no trap closing on them, the strangers must be making sure their master had privacy. The friends carried on towards the voice's source, leaving their swords sheathed. Whoever this was could have dealt with them much more circumspectly if his intentions were malignant. Out from its shaded interior stepped the mysterious Tamanel they had encountered before. He warmly firmly shook both their hands in turn and waved them towards a nondescript wooden door to the building he had parked outside. Sekar said wryly “You know, my friend, a note delivered to us would have worked just as well.” Tamanel laughed merrily, “But where is the sport in that?”
He took them into the house, which had a short hallway followed by stairs where the noise of some gathering below chatting and moving around carried up to them. Their guide nodded and they stepped on down into a large well-lit basement with about fifteen people clustered in it. A few were standing in discussion but more significantly most of them were seated at tables playing chess. “Ahh” sighed Antim and the friends moved to watch the play as inobtrusively as they could. Nobody looked alarmed at their presence; Tamanel no doubt had indicated he was bringing them here. Their host let them browse the games for a few minutes then approached them again. “Welcome, my friends, to the Resik Society of Chess Lovers. Everyone here is vouched for and none would betray your presence to others outside.” They eagerly entreated him to tell them more of why the city had literally forced the game underground, so Tamanel ushered them to some armchairs in a corner of the room and told them the tale:
Resik is a beautiful, cosmopolitan city as you have seen. It was well-known for its tolerances and, in a way, this level of permissiveness led to the current situation. On every street corner, people would play games and gamble on the outcomes – all manner of matches and wagers. Prince Panooq smiled on this, for he is at heart a good man who only wished happiness for his people. Six years ago, though, tragedy struck. The Prince's only son, Stackan, was an avid chessplayer, with some fair talent and I myself had many enjoyable contests with him. One such was the very game that led you to this door. He would play as many difficult opponents as he could and would always accept any bet on the outcome; he did not need any money or added thrill from the stakes but confided in me that he felt it was the only way some people would play their best against him – he could not bear the thought of sycophants seeking favour by losing to him. His skill had grown, as had the respect with which the other serious chessplayers of the city viewed him.
There came a day, though, when he was seated on his modest reed mat in a cool, shaded street when he was spied by a rogue named Portaz, spawn of the villainous local crime lord Koltark. This Portaz was an arrogant man who resented those born to titles and legitimate power, while at the same time unafraid of consequences, since his own family had a strong grip of their own on Resik, controlling all its gambling interests. Portaz challenged Prince Stackan to play and wagered a large sum of gold on the outcome. Those present have since indicated that Portaz was influenced by drink and his own hubristic nature, for his ire was seen to be quickly building as his position in the game deteriorated. Price Stackan was oblivious to this; when he played, his entire attention was always on the board. He had told me once that he was constantly searching the patterns for an absolute truth he could seldom divine, not just within the confines of what the other person played; such was his character, seeking purity of thought. With checkmate looming, though, Portaz stood and started ranting that the Prince had cheated. His highness was totally bemused at this, snapped out of his contemplations abruptly. Portaz must have, in his fury and intoxication, misread the reaction for it further enraged him and he drew his dagger and plunged it into the Prince's neck.
The scene was frozen for a few moments then people nearby rushed to try to aid the heir to the city but it was futile, he was dead before anything could be done. This sobered Portaz and he issued a string of threats against disclosure of his identity on behalf of his father's thugs, then ran off. Witnesses did relate privately to confidants what had happened but this escaped the authorities under the young man's father, Prince Panooq. This ruler hardened overnight, understandably; having heard that his son was murdered over a chess game he instantly outlawed it in Resik and playing of all other games was banished to designated parts of the city. If anything, this served to tighten the grip of Koltark and Portaz's monopoly over the gambling on public games since all such activities could be watched more readily. The chessplayers who loved the game, however, banded together in secret, as you see here. In tribute to the much-loved Prince Stackan, it was agreed by all present that gambling would not again feature in our chess games.
Sekar and Antim were both shaken by the impact one single match of chess had wrought, for all that they had seen it in a number of aspects already. Then Sekar asked “These criminals are so feared, then, that nobody would move against them or at least notify Prince Panooq of the truth?” Tamanel nodded, “That and the fact that it would be hard to prove anything, nor would it bring back Prince Stackan or even be guaranteed to salve the ruler's grief. For now, we have been biding our time and hoping that the facts would reveal themselves or that the balance of power would shift in the murk of the criminals of Resik, such that they could be dealt with. I, like many others here, have loved ones and businesses in this city that would bear any retribution of Koltark's displeasure at an attempt to take his son from him.” Tamanel did look ashamed at this admission of fear; Koltark must indeed be darkly influential to intimidate the man, Antim reasoned. “You know, Sekar, we have a few spare days on our hands. Think we can do something to resolve this predicament?” His friend smiled wolfishly, “I am certain of it, my brother.” He turned his gaze on Tamanel and asked softly, “Will you tell us as much as you can of this Portaz? I would like to discuss matters of penance and redemption with him.” Tamanel took in what was being offered and came to a decision. “I am not intimately aware of his movements but I know one who might be. In fact, you have met her yourselves. The widow Jafresa, who you gave some coin to for her son's debts, knows Portaz and is motivated to help in this: the one you seek is the main enforcer for his father, the very rogue who her son is indebted to. She is a brave woman and I will ask for her help.”
They stayed a while and played a few chess games with the Resik Society, then thanked them for their hospitality and departed, after arranging to meet Tamanel the following afternoon. They decided that rest was in order, since there was not much they could do that night and might need their strength and wits the next day. The sun had set a while ago but their host had given them directions for a route along main streets; besides which, they had no fear of footpads. The clerk at the hostelry looked tired but gave them a warm welcome appropriate to the men of means he knew them to be. They slept well and set out early the next day to consider what they could do regarding their actual mission and build up their impressions of Prince Panooq through observation of how his city flourished. They had certainly learned that he was a good leader; maybe helping deal with the source of his grief would let them establish a base of good relations, to negotiate on behalf of Rabat for the gift for the Caliph. Beyond making that bond, they could not see what they could possibly offer; Resik was as prosperous as Al-Rokh and there was nothing money would purchase that would be remotely as worthy as the magical chessboard.
They had enough of an idea of the layout of Resik now and confidently strode its streets till they found the area they were looking for, having decided the true diplomatic value of the amulet they had presented the previous day to the viceroy was not in weight of gold but the quality of its making. They wondered if anything could be designed that might be unique enough to touch the Prince's heart, so would browse artisans' wares for inspiration. This revealed itself as more difficult than they had thought: pieces produced by the master craftsmen were either functional, which they dismissed, or decorative. After some hours perusing and discussing, they chanced past someone posing for a portrait to be painted. He looked like a simple fisherman to their honest eyes but the slim, unkempt young man furiously stroking pigments onto a canvas was evoking a spectacle of a great sea-captain of old, commanding his magnificent warship from the prow, through an apocalyptic tempest. Antim's gaze met Sekar's; they had found the adept they needed. They stepped away to let the young artist work and debated details. Plans made, they waited patiently till he stopped for a rest to sip some wine and contemplate his labours, then approached him. They asked the talented youth, Leng, to perform a special commission the next day; he named his price and they trebled what he had ventured, to his delight. He eagerly agreed to be ready for them in the morning at the place they had encountered him. From there, they sought out a room nearby that they could rent for the next few days for the project they had in mind, then some supplies the painter would use.
Satisfied, they turned their minds to the other endeavour they had undertaken and proceeded to the tavern to await Tamanel. When their new friend arrived, he was not alone: the widow Jafresa was with him. Tamanel had briefed her on what was required and Antim was able to jot down considerable detail that she supplied on places Portaz generally frequented and the contingent he would be expected to have with him, for she had been forced to seek him out a number of times in either pleading for her son's safety or making instalment payments on his behalf. She stopped talking at one point, gripped Sekar's forearm and told him calmly “Kill him.” Sekar took her hand and replied “Good lady, there will be no such mercy shown to him. We intend to give him to the palace for the most heinous crime in the land; he will wish he was dead, I surmise.” Antim blanched a little at this: death was something he had accepted as a matter of course as punishment for Portaz but his friend had starkly brought a number of images to his mind. Tamanel noticed this expression on the scribe's face and made eye contact but Antim gathered himself and nodded grimly; they would only deliver the wretch for justice to be done and could not dwell on his assuredly deserved fate. Jafresa was satisfied though; she continued then “Of the routines I have referred to, the best one to take him unawares would probably be after his midday meal, when Portaz typically likes to sits under the shaded canopy on top of a house overlooking the street with most of the city's brothels; he likes to spy on the pretty girls. He will have two thugs with him but they would generally guard the door to the house, at ground level.” They thanked her for what she had done and she slipped away.
Antim addressed Tamanel now “I do not wish to implicate you further with details on that actual plan, but there is another matter we would appreciate your help with.” He looked appalled, “You are moving against one of the most powerful criminals in the city and you also have another trifle on your mind?” Sekar laughed, “Just the very reason we were sent to Resik, my friend.” They outlined the gift they had in mind for Prince Panooq and the artist they had engaged. When Tamanel understood what they required, he was delighted to aid them. They agreed to meet at the room they had rented for the artist Leng to use, where Tamanel would also bring a vital item.
Sekar and Antim had just under a day to prepare so, more out of thoroughness rather than any distrust, verified what the widow had said about Portaz's habits by locating him at other haunts she had expected him to visit at certain times of day and were relieved that his movements seemed unworried, even complacent. His bodyguards walked with the easy swagger of bullies who never had to face any particular challenges. This done, Sekar purchased some rope, a sack and a bludgeon while Antim wandered along the street with the brothels that Jafresa had told them about. They met up again at their hostelry, ate a light meal then journeyed after dark to the alley behind the house Portaz would likely be on the next day. They scaled the side of it unnoticed, surveyed the area so they could act swiftly when the time came and secured the rope to the back of the building – it would not draw attention, they hoped. They were familiar enough with the street and the building; Antim had observed that each brothel had at least one heavy of its own but had not seen any of the city watch: they would be bad for “local commerce” and likely that each establishment's muscle would only concern itself with its own interests. They walked part of the route they planned to take after the deed, on their way back to their beds.
Antim and Sekar awoke in the morning, well rested and clear-headed. They went their separate ways as arranged – Antim to meet Leng the painter and Sekar was to prepare the rented room which would function as a studio. The tribesman found Tamanel already waiting for him with a large brown cloth-covered package under one arm, though Sekar noted inwardly that despite his casual stance, the man's elbow gripped the parcel tightly. Inside the room, the shutters were left closed for privacy. Tamanel unwrapped the plain brown cloth and spread it across the centre of the floor then carefully laid out the chess set it had concealed, pausing at times to consider placement of the wooden pieces. Sekar chuckled softly as he had recognised the pattern created as one from the game their friend had chalked on Resik's walls. Antim arrived with Leng, carrying the artist's easel, paints and brushes between them. Leng looked impassively at the chessboard displayed and asked what they wanted from him.
Tamanel took the lead and said “Fear not, we will not get you into any trouble over this but the nature of the commission would need the game to be included. We would like you to paint someone at the chessboard and I will direct you for certain aspects of it.” Leng took this in his stride, “Frankly, I couldn't care less about the ban on the game; which one of you is the subject of the composition?” Antim smiled and replied, “None. You will be painting this person” and brought a hand-crafted plate into view. Leng did pale at the sight of this though, for the image fondly yet basically commemorated on it was of the late Prince Stackan. Sekar pulled a chair over so the trembling artist could recover. Tamanel gently explained that the picture was to be a gift to Prince Panooq, in an attempt to reconcile him with the death of his son, who was a great enthusiast for the game and a truly gifted player. When he went on to add that Leng did not have to sign his name on it, the painter looked offended, confusing them. “That is unthinkable: to let another, even infamously, take credit for my work...never. I shall do this, gentlemen; if I die for my art then let it be a masterpiece!” Antim exchanged a look with Sekar; this seemed melodramatic to them but they had seen how deep emotions ran in troubled Resik.
Tamanel bade the visitors carry on with their other business while he dealt with things here; as Antim and Sekar left, they heard him enthuse to Leng, describing Stackan's posture and demeanour when the Prince had played him at the game. The companions had some time before the rogue Portaz was expected to be at the brothels area and headed straight there, to be ready. Not long after, they watched as Portaz and his thugs sauntered down the street, so the plotters made their way to the alley nearby. The plan unfolded perfectly: the villain who would be a victim had just settled down on the roof when Sekar reached the top of the secured rope from the alley unseen and ruthlessly knocked him unconscious with the bludgeon he had in his palm. While Sekar loaded Portaz into the sack they had brought, Antim kept an eye on the two bodyguards in the street but all was fine as they were concerned, since they were blocking the only entrance to the stairs. He scurried back, crouched low, to his friend and helped him hoist the subdued and enveloped Portaz onto Sekar's back as he climbed back onto the rope. Seeing them safely reach the bottom, Antim untied the rope from the rooftop and looped it round his waist before carefully using a drainage pipe and some ledges that he had studied earlier to descend. There was no trace left of their activity – this should confuse the bodyguards a little when they checked on their master.
They faced now only the minor matter of getting tall, well-built Sekar with a large sack slung over his shoulder through the streets of Resik, without drawing too much attention and at risk of Portaz waking. They walked briskly; they knew exactly where they were going and did not hesitate. The palace was almost always in view and, though understanding the gap was closing, seemed to be tantalisingly far away. They had travelled for about fifteen minutes and were two-thirds of the way to the palace when they spotted a group of rough-looking men coming down the street behind them, some of their number stopping briefly to interrogate locals. They were obviously agitated and the companions smoothly turned into a side-street to try to evade their gaze. Antim and Sekar slowed their pace a little, to make themselves less noticeable but, to their dismay, a pair of the searchers followed and hailed them. There was nowhere to run, had they even been able to with Sekar encumbered; Portaz was beginning to stir also. They paused and turned to wait for the ones who had called them; Antim stepped forward with an open honest expression and greeted them “Hello there, can we help you?” It was no good, though; these were evidently Koltark's gang and they were suspicious of everyone, having realised their leader's son had come to mischief. They stopped a few feet away from the companions, hands on their sword hilts and asked if they had seen anything unusual. Antim frowned, pondering and was about to ask what they meant when the contents of the sack kicked out as the enraged Portaz came to awareness. Swords were drawn now, first by the thugs then by Antim and Sekar also, having resigned to having no simple way out of this and heavily dropping Portaz to be better prepared. Their foes were wary and backed off from the menacing giant Sekar; one called out and the other gang members started to flood into the street, fanning out.
They all stood for a few moments then someone dressed in much more expensive tunic, trews and cloak appeared behind them: Koltark, judging by his men's deference. He took in the situation and offered in a pleasant voice with a smile that was fooling no-one, “Give me my son and we can discuss this like civilised people.” Sekar deduced that the would-be rescuers were holding off since the vulnerable Portaz might be used as a hostage and, while he made no move to threaten their prisoner, did stand significantly with him at his feet and sword drawn. Antim found that he was calm and his thoughts unusually clear; it hit him that like in chess, it was not about how many forces you had in the area but how well placed they were and what ones you were prepared to lose. In this case, Koltark would have to consider the risk to his most important one. The crime lord approached them, his own weapon sheathed, “Now then, I don't know who put you up to this but I am sure I can offer you more than they are paying. Name your price.” Antim narrowed his eyes and stated coldly “If you value your son, then you would have more use for him alive than as meat. Walk away and there might be a chance he can speak to you again.”
Koltark studied them. He did not get to maintain his status in the criminal underworld by being cowed in difficult situations, nor through indecision. He unhurriedly drew his sword and challenged Antim “Fight me then: single combat. If you win my associates will have no cause for dispute with you; if I defeat you then your friend gives me my son.” Antim flicked his eyes to Sekar, who slowly nodded. Antim knew that there was no way they could leave without some conflict and, though the odds were the group might be even more motivated to kill them if less concerned for Portaz with his father gone, it was still a better chance than they had against them all. He stepped forward a couple of paces and adopted a simple ready stance. Sekar had taught him a fair bit about swordplay but it was hard to assess his actual prowess since they did not fight for blood; this would be wildly different. One thing he did know was strategy, from many years of facing opponents at chess and he decided to make Koltark beat himself as many had done against him over the board. Antim started to inexpertly sway his sword fractionally from side to side as if trying to cover the area and make himself more safe.
Koltark closed the gap and bowed mockingly; Antim retreated a step, looking fearful. Koltark offered again, in a silky voice, “Sure you wouldn't just like to give me my boy back?” Antim appeared confused and started to turn his head towards Sekar; Koltark lunged. Antim was waiting for this and spun away nimbly, bringing his own blade swinging round with the momentum of his body's rotation; the edge cut into his adversary's thigh and the younger man danced away, no trace of his apparent earlier clumsiness showing now. He realised that he had developed considerable skill with the blade sparring with Sekar – in constantly attempting to match up to his warrior friend and judging himself by the number of times he had failed to break his defences, Antim had missed that most people not only did not have such a talented one to regularly test against but also numbed what skills they held, developing bad habits and sloppy techniques. Doubt flickered on Koltark's face as he felt the injury's effect on his mobility, before setting his expression again in a grim mask. Antim moved the mind-play up a notch by coolly asking “No more games then, gambling man; we understand each other?” The crime lord gave a curt nod. He could not retract his own challenge now, even if Portaz was free; he had nearly a dozen of his best men in a close range to witness that he had singled out the weaker of the two yet might still struggle.
While the two combatants watched each other warily, Sekar called out “Koltark is a fifth rank pawn. Deal with him accordingly.” Antim almost outright laughed as the meaning dawned on him. Chess might just save his life yet again. There was a method for dealing with isolated pawns that taught to follow three principles: Restrict-Blockade-Destroy. For the frustrated opponent, the apparent insult and the enigmatic smile that answered it pushed his temper over the edge. He still did not rush in but his next swings lacked any finesse. Antim dodged the first, parried the second aside and shoulder-charged Koltark, making him retreat on his weakened leg. The pain inflicted was not the point, though; Antim noted in cold analysis that he was keeping him off-balance and pushing him towards the nearby wall. He said softly “Restrict.” Antim swiftly curved his sword up in a rippling arc, forcing Koltark further, his back now touching the wall. “Blockade,” slightly louder this time. Antim began turning away from his foe again and Koltark clearly judged in that split second that the swinging maneuver, with the impetus of the spin driving it, was coming again and raised his sword to hack down desperately. He was wrong: as Antim glimpsed the sword raised, he paused his turn and hurtled his body back into Koltark, safely avoiding the weapon now cutting down in front of his sight, his own sword reversing in his grip and plunging deep behind him. “Destroy,” he almost screamed at the watching gang. There was an eternity of stillness with a dying groan from Koltark and the muffled howls from his son in the sack as the only noise.
The companions could not have said afterwards which way things would have gone, since Antim's savage annihilation of Koltark had shocked the gang and, with neither of the two leaders in a position to command, the rest were far from being of one mind. As it happened, though, they all started to look over Sekar's shoulder and the friends became aware of other movement in the street behind them. To Antim's astonishment, Tamanel's rich baritone instructed the milling gang to take the corpse and withdraw before the city watch arrived. He had good reason to speak with authority: it seemed the entire Resik Society of Chess Lovers had accompanied him. In the face of such uncertain outcomes, Koltark's former men melted away with his body. There was no more trouble on the way to the Prince's palace; the guards looked uncertainly at the delegation approaching the gates but the Society members let Antim and Sekar go ahead alone with their prisoner, now out of the sack and spitting in a blend of fury and fear, alternately issuing threats, curses and pleas. Antim requested to speak to viceroy Oshanel and the guards evidently were relieved to have responsibility for this situation taken from them. The viceroy's reaction changed from astonishment to see the two diplomats delivering a bound man to shock as he realised who the prisoner was, then finally delight when they told him that Portaz was the one who had murdered Prince Stackan and of the death of Koltark. At his suggestion, he would send word for them once Prince Panooq returned and they would have their appointment immediately then.
Outside, Tamanel hugged them and there were grins all round the Society's members. They had risked a lot by appearing publicly together, if anyone realised they were all chessplayers, maybe remembering them from before the ban. Truth was that they were all sick of skulking around and delighted to make a show of strength against the murderer who had brought chess in Resik to such low repute, compounded to the fact that most of them had known Prince Stackan personally. As the euphoria wore off, though, Antim suspected that many were glad to slip back into the shadows for now. Tamanel escorted them back to where the painter was working; they used the walk to settle their thoughts over the last hour's turmoil. Antim quietly drew strength from the understanding looks his friends both gave, for he had not known himself capable of what now felt like slaughter.
Leng had taken a simple chess set and an image of the late Prince and composed a scene of brooding power: Stackan lifting a knight, with eyes fixed out at the viewer. The sense was that he was about to capture his opponent with the piece rather than a symbol or a square. Leng himself seemed very subdued; Sekar asked if he was concerned about using the Prince's image and was touched to see tears in the artist's eyes as he murmured “Nothing I ever do will surpass this.” They agreed to collect the portrait the next day, since Leng was mesmerised, drinking in detail his innate genius had mysteriously completed, in his fervour. Walking them back to their lodgings, Tamanel confided that Leng had insisted on being taught the game before his brush even touched canvas, to better fathom what he was to evoke. He wished them well at their appointment with the Prince.
The new day came, Antim waking first. He pondered, as Sekar snored nearby, everything that had happened. The viceroy had said that Prince Panooq was to return soon. What they had done would surely help cement relations with Resik but whether their actual mission, to retrieve the gift for their Caliph, would succeed was in the wind. Events had cascaded into one another but, while they had commissioned the painting for the Prince, they had not done this in any sense as trade for the chessboard; it felt right, no more. He laughed, then – they had a gift for Shamal Arpath, regardless: a fine tale to tell. Sekar woke to his friend's chuckle and smiled back at him. “Come, little brother. Let us lay out our finery in case we are summoned, then go see Leng.” When they got to the rented studio, Stackan's portrait was wrapped in velvet and the artist was tranquilly sketching away, cross-legged. They had been standing there for a few moments, in the doorway, before he noticed them; his face shone with joy when he did. “Come in, come in. I have had an epiphany.” He explained that so many of his past works of art had been conjured from visions he guessed his patrons would want to behold; the picture they had needed was of an essence to be extracted. In learning the game and quizzing Tamanel about Stackan, he had begun to truly see. He made to refuse the payment but they would not hear of it, since they would be taking the wonder he had created away from him. “Ahh, my friends, very well; know, though, that the true marvel is the one you have woken in me.” He had decided to carry on renting this place they had found for him and would throw open the shutters so the world could glimpse its reflections as he worked.
(May have to continue this in next post due to length.)