010

Inspired by Marc LeBlanc

'The Voyant'

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The game had been going on for an hour, but my mother needed more time, so I picked up my remaining knight and examined it - pinching the horse’s neck between my fingertips. “It’s so lovely,” I sang.  And It was. I wanted to steal it.  Why not? I had folds enough in this ridiculous dress.

 

“It should be. The figures are Roylish waterstone,” bragged the young Marquess. His voice was a chirping version of his father’s, though not drunken, thank heaven.

 

The set was exquisite. Each piece was delicately nested within a yew cuff that protected its true identity from the opponent, leaving only a tiny glass window that faced backward. Within it was the piece’s real rank, annotated as K, R, N et cetera, no matter what the sculpture above portrayed.  In play, bishops could be rooks, pawns could be queens.  This was Masquerade

 

This board had clearly lain as dormant as the books here in the Duke’s library, and dust had collected in the seam between the wood and stone on many of the pawns.  Decorative, unmoved; surely no one in the house touched it in years.  The Marquess may have fiddled about and smashed the knights against each other, but he seemed to understand only the most basic rules, and hid his ignorance with feigned boredom. 

 

He had hid his preparation terribly: I had instantly seen that most of these pawns had simply stayed pawns.  There was no need to fear them.  

 

I couldn’t let on that I knew this, however; my mission was to keep him here as Mother rifled through maps in his father's office.  The Duke was away riding, or drinking, or drinking and riding, and it would be nightfall before he returned.  So I had to draw it out. 

 

If the game were over too quickly - meaning if I crushed the little snot the way I wished to - or, if I bored him for too long, he might go whining to his nanny, Ms. Able, about me.  The woman had the sharpest eyes in the house, and more than once I had seen her leering at me with catlike attention.

 

So I played at thinking through moves and guesses, making faces as if vexed by his cunning, teasing him with the joy of my defeat. But it was frustrating. I could have checked him ten times over by now.

 

The rook in his King’s corner had sat untouched for turn after turn; it was clearly his King, and he was unwilling to risk playing the role it needed to play. 

 

The boy tapped the table, annoyed.  “Did you forget who you are?” 
 

I quietly bit my cheek to keep from slapping him. “So sorry your lordship; it’s a devilish game.”

 

He was picking at the edge of an encyclopedia. “You can always concede.”

 

Not on your life, you prig. “Just a little longer.”

 

He shrugged. I couldn't look away from the rook.  I wanted so very badly to unveil it.  

 

The special pieces, the voyant and the assassin, waited next to the board. With the first, I could peek at the true identity, the coeur, of any of his pieces, which, if I hadn’t been dead certain of his king’s placement, would be the natural next move.  With the latter, though, I could win the game. 

 

All I had to do was place it next to that damned rook and topple it to reveal the K at its base.  If I were wrong, I would lose.  But I wasn't wrong. I knew it.  And yet I had to continue with putting on this dreadful act.  It was galling.

 

The Marquis turned a page as if he were distracted, but I felt his eyes fixed upon me.

 

I reached for the assassin.

 

“I think you mean the other one,” he croaked, suddenly attentive. “The girl with the spyglass.” He sat up, pushing the book to the floor with a thump, and picked up the piece.  He handed it to me. This is the voyant - that’s what you want. The other one - the dagger - that’s the assassin.”

 

“Oh, of course. So silly of me.”  I turned the pewter girl in my fingers until her gaze was level with mine.

“An easy mistake to make,” said my mother from the doorway. “Your lordship is kind to have pointed it out. My daughter loves games, but she sometimes lacks the patience to truly learn them.”

 

“Of course, m’lady,” said the Marquis, affecting his fathers’ dismissiveness. “Some can never learn, I suppose.”

 

I gritted my teeth, turned to her, expecting a sharp look.  But instead I saw understanding in her eyes, and the slightest, saddest smile.  Then, to the Marquis she said: “Perhaps we all might  walk the paddock before sunset?  Your father tells me you keep the most fabulous mare.”

 

The boy leapt up with great enthusiasm, suddenly very childlike. “Oh, I do!  Do you want to meet her?  She was brought from the Royal Mews, raised by the Queen’s own stableman...” He prattled on as he ran out the door. “Come on! She’s ever so smart!”

 

My mother waited for me, and I stood to follow, when through the warbling glass of the casement window, I caught a glimpse of Mrs. Able as she darted back inside the house from the yard. 

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A chill ran through me. How long had she been standing there, and what had she seen?