Ratched always liked the Seattle tournaments.
The most interesting people turned out to watch. Like the guy sitting a few tables over. Ratched leaned over his own table towards his bored-looking handler who was reading something on his phone. “Specs,” Ratched hissed. “You see that guy over there with the purple hair?”
Specs, a rather large man with dark skin in a red-and-white striped sweater didn’t look up. “Focus, Ratched,” he said, his voice mild.
“But I’m ninety-percent sure this guy is hiding a bird down his shirt.”
Specs still didn’t look up. “The list,” he said.
Ratched frowned and slumped back into his chair, snatching a piece of paper off the table as he did. It was a list of all the players in this weekend’s tournament—his own name was fourth from the top. It would be higher after today. He shook the page. “What exactly do you want with this?” he asked.
“Mark the ones you don’t know,” Specs said, still scrolling.
“Why?”
Now Specs did look up from his phone. “So I can check them out.” He raised an eyebrow. “What is with you today?”
“What do you mean?” Ratched asked. His gaze wandered back to the guy with the purple hair who was currently putting a potato chip down his shirt, presumably for the bird he was hiding there. Did birds like potato chips?
Specs waved his hand in front of Ratched’s face. “Hello? Earth to Ratched. What’s wrong with you today?”
A small beak poked out the top of the man’s shirt and snatched the chip. Ratched grinned. “It is a bird! Shit. I love Seattle.”
Specs grimaced. “I don’t.”
“You don’t?” Ratched didn’t know why he was surprised—Specs didn’t seem to like anywhere they went. Which was unfortunate for someone whose job was to travel.
Specs scrunched up his nose and glared out the window over Ratched’s shoulder. Ratched followed his gaze. There wasn’t much sign of the sun, as per usual. “Seattle makes my skin itch,” Specs said.
Ratched dropped the list back onto the table. “It makes your skin itch? That’s weird, man.” He smirked. “Is that why you’re wearing that sweater?”
“What’s wrong with my sweater?”
“Nothing,” he shrugged. “You’re just wearing it over a plaid shirt.”
Specs frowned down at the plaid collar showing around his neck.
Ratched snickered, then pushed the list across the table. “I know everyone on the roster,” he said.
“You didn’t even read it.”
“I memorized it last night.”
Specs picked up the list and scanned it. “All forty names,” he said, disbelieving.
“Yep,” Ratched said, leaning his chair back on two legs.
“What the hell.”
“What?”
“When did you have time for that?”
He let the chair fall forward, then propped his elbows up on the table. “I couldn’t sleep,” he said. Which was mostly true. He hadn’t really tried that hard.
“You’re only going to play maybe four of them.”
He shrugged. “So?”
“So why didn’t you focus on those ones? Read over their past games?"
“I did that too.”
Specs stared. “You’re a little neurotic sometimes.”
“Hey.” Ratched pointed at the sweater. “At least Seattle doesn’t make my skin itch.”
Specs frowned, but otherwise ignored the jab. “You know everyone on the list? You’ve met them all?”
“There are two I haven’t met, but I’m familiar with their games. Carlos Olivera and Dancell Dawes.” They were ranked highly enough to have been invited to Seattle, but were both fairly new to the game, so Ratched wouldn’t have played them.
“Brazil and Canada?”
“Yeah.”
Specs pulled a pen from his pocket and marked their names. “Would you know them by sight?” he asked.
“Probably. I’ve seen pictures.”
“Would they know you?”
Ratched grinned and spread his arms out wide. “Everybody knows me.”
Specs rolled his eyes. “Not yet, kid. You need to win in Paris for that.” He pushed up his left sleeve to check his watch. “Olivera is playing at nine-thirty. Do you want to come, or are you too busy bird-watching?”
Ratched glanced over at the other table. The guy with the purple hair had taken out a book. He had it propped up against a water bottle on the table and was turning the pages with one hand. The other was cupped over the lump of the hidden bird, holding it against his chest. Maybe it was sleeping? Ratched shook his head. He was distracted today. “I’ll come,” he said. “He’s in the ballroom, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Perfect.”
The ballroom at the Washington State Convention Center was really several ballrooms combined—it was huge. And today, all of it was being used for The King’s Arena, a two-phase chess variation played on a larger board, with four suits of pieces. Ratched couldn’t help the grin that crept across his face as he and Specs entered the space. The familiar sight of the tables set with checkered boards and rows of pieces waiting for placement still made his pulse quicken. His earlier distraction vanished. Ratched had been playing at a national level for six years and an international one for almost two, but these big tournaments had never lost any of their thrill.
None of the morning matches had started yet, so the room was abuzz with conversation. Some players were already sitting at their tables, mumbling the plays of the different suits of pieces to themselves. Others were still wandering the room, chatting with spectators and officials. Several people waved to Ratched as he passed them—he was well-known here, despite what Specs had said about Paris.
Ratched found Olivera’s table with no trouble—it was in the center of the ballroom and a rather large group of Portuguese-speaking spectators had gathered there. Olivera looked exactly as he did in his photos, except that he was a bit smaller than Ratched had expected. With one look at him, anxiously rolling the King of Hearts piece between his fingers, Ratched knew this match would be a short one.
“He’s playing Tonya, right?” Ratched murmured to Specs.
Specs nodded.
“If he starts with hearts against her, he’ll lose in twenty minutes flat.”
“Nah,” said Specs, shaking his head. “He can pull through with hearts. Unless Tonya starts with spades. But Tonya favors diamonds.”
“Sure.” Ratched shrugged. “But Tonya’s not an idiot. She’ll see right through him.”
Specs snorted. “I think your high opinion of Tonya has more to do with her pretty face than her brain.”
Ratched frowned. “Don’t be a dick. She’s really good. I’ll bet she’ll even beat me in a few years.”
“Oh, I’d love to see that.”
Ratched punched him lightly in the arm. “How about a bet? If Tonya wins, you buy dinner.”
Specs scratched at his head. “If she wins in twenty minutes?”
“Yeah.”
“You’re on.”
Specs held out his hand, and Ratched shook it with a grin. “Perfect,” he said. “Let me know how it turns out. And don’t try and fudge the times. I’ll check.”
“You’re not going to watch?”
Ratched glanced back at Olivera, still fumbling with the king of hearts. The poor guy was visibly sweating. “No,” said Ratched. “I’m going to find something more interesting.”
“Suit yourself.”
As Ratched moved to walk away, Specs grabbed his arm. “If you hear things about Swift while you’re wandering around,” he said, his voice low, “let me know, will you?”
“What sort of things?”
“Anything.”
“Will do.” Ratched gave a two-finger salute and turned to scan the room, leaving Specs to join in the conversation with the group of Brazilians. Apparently, he spoke Portuguese.
It was only a few minutes until nine-thirty, so many more players had found their seats. This was the first round of the day. Ratched didn’t play until the second, so he had plenty of time to watch. Anyone invited to the Seattle tournament was a decently good player, so there was a good chance he would see something entertaining.
On the south end of the ballroom, Ratched found Dancell Dawes seated across from a player he knew very well, a redheaded kid named Terry—though he went by Bug at the tournaments. Bug reminded Ratched of himself a few years earlier, only nineteen the first time he was invited to Seattle. He grinned at the kid as he approached their table.
“Watch out for that one,” he said to Dawes, nodding at the kid. “He bites.”
Dawes looked mildly concerned. Bug laughed.
“You still owe me a game, Ratched,” said Bug.
“Sure thing, kid. Tell me when and where.”
Just then, the sound of a bell came through the ballroom’s overhead speakers. There was a brief flurry of activity as the last of the players found their seats and as officials and spectators gathered around tables. Opponents reached across boards to shake hands, and conversations everywhere gradually hushed. Anticipation filled the space.
A moment later, another bell sounded, and the games began.
Ratched watched Dawes and Bug for the whole first phase of their match. Bug placed first, starting with diamonds. Dawes started with clubs. Ratched was a bit impressed with Dawes’ final setup—it was much more offensive than in the previous games he’d read. Even still he was certain that Bug would win this match, but he wouldn’t take it easily. Dawes would make him work for it. Good. The kid needed it.
Four turns in to phase two, Ratched could already see how the rest would play out. It was a challenge he often set for himself, seeing if he could figure out the games before the players did. It helped him to get in the mindset of thinking ahead in his own games. He would need that later today. When Bug moved his knight of diamonds exactly as Ratched had predicted, he grinned. He caught the kid’s eye and winked, then slipped out of the small crowd gathered around the table to find another match to watch.
Ratched wandered from table to table, playing out the matches in his mind. Olivera and Tonya had long-since finished, he noted with satisfaction as he passed their table. Free dinner tonight. But he didn’t see Specs anywhere, not until it was nearly time for him to head out for his own match. Ratched was heading for the ballroom exit when Specs came up behind him and snagged his arm.
“Anything about Swift?” he asked quietly.
Ratched shook his head. “Do you want me to be asking about him?”
Specs frowned. “No. Just keep an ear out. Are you going to the conference rooms?”
“Yeah. Are you coming?”
“No, I’ve got a few more things to do here. I’ll come later.” He paused, tilting his head to one side. “Only three to Paris,” he said.
Ratched grinned. “Easy-peasy.”
Specs briefly tightened his grip on Ratched’s arm. “Stay focused, all right? Good luck.” He didn’t wait for a response before melting back into the crowd.
The highest ranked players were playing in the conference rooms down the hall from the ballroom. There were three rooms set up with just one table each—the high-ranked players tended to draw a big crowd. While other players seemed to do their best to block all the spectators out, Ratched enjoyed them being there. They made him push harder than when he played in private. He liked to show off.
Ratched’s first match was against a guy named Fulton. He had played him a couple of times before, and had always won. Ratched wasn’t worried about him. His second match with Jim Everette would be more of a challenge, but he had something up his sleeve for that. If he beat Jim, he’d get to play Isolde—he’d lost to her twice before, but he had improved a lot since the last time. He felt pretty good about today. Beating Isolde meant an invitation to Paris, as well as a final match against The Starling.
The Starling was good. Really good. It had been years since anyone had beaten him. But he was also a huge jerk. Ratched was apprehensive about the prospect of playing him. As a rule, you didn’t talk once play started, but this guy had a way of getting under your skin without ever saying a word. Overthinking it wouldn’t do him any good though. As Ratched walked into the first conference room and caught sight of Fulton already sitting at their table, he tried to shake off all thoughts of The Starling. Focus, he thought. Three to Paris. That’s all you need. He took a deep breath, plastered on a smile, and approached the table.
The match with Fulton was a breeze, as he had expected; it was over in half an hour. Jim Everette was much longer—they broke for lunch in the middle of it. Ratched had no idea where Specs was, so he went alone to the grilled cheese food truck on the corner outside the convention center. After lunch, the game with Jim took another hour. It was refreshing to be so challenged. After Ratched won, Jim shook his hand.
“I’ve studied all your published games. You did something different today,” he said.
“I like trying new things,” Ratched said with a shrug. “Thanks for a good game.”
Jim nodded. “It was a good one. Have fun in Paris, kid.”
“I’ve got one more game to go before Paris.”
“You’ll get it.”
Ratched grinned. “We’ll see,” he said.
Isolde was as hard as Jim. Halfway through their game when Ratched lost his queen of diamonds in a silly play, Ratched started to regret his lack of sleep the night before. Despite the fatigue, he still managed to pull through in the end. When he finally took her king of spades, Isolde eyed him over the rims of her glasses with a wry smile. “Damn,” she said. “I’d like to see what you can do when you’re not fighting to stay awake the whole time.” She held out her hand, and he shook it. “Go get a coffee,” she said.
Specs wandered into the conference room then, passing Isolde as she left. He had a Red Bull in his hand, which Ratched accepted gratefully when offered.
“You made it to Paris,” Specs said, sounding pleased.
Ratched opened his drink. “Do you like Paris?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
“Why am I surprised? Are you going to stay for The Sparrow?” Ratched asked.
Specs nodded. “The two of you will draw quite the crowd. Are you ready for him?”
“Not at all,” said Ratched, lifting the Red Bull.
He was even less ready for The Sparrow than he’d thought.
Ratched had played him once before, last year in this same room. The Sparrow had beaten him in twenty minutes. This year, he did it in fifteen. The bald man in his clean-cut suit didn’t say a word as he stood to leave. He gave only the slightest shake of his head. Ratched tried not to let it bug him.
After shaking a lot of hands and accepting both congratulations for Paris and sympathy for The Sparrow, Ratched found Specs leaning against the wall by the door, phone in hand.
“That sucked,” Specs said cheerfully.
“Thanks a lot. What are you so happy about?” Ratched asked.
He waved his phone. “I lost a bet.”
“Another one?”
“Yeah.”
“And you’re happy about that?”
He shrugged. “It was a deal I didn’t think would happen. But I’m glad it did.”
Ratched didn’t bother asking for clarification. He knew well enough by now that he’d get none. “So, dinner?” he asked.
Specs pocketed his phone. “Let’s go.”
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