“How strange,” Merrick said. “I’ve never thought of chess as a game. To me it’s really more of a religion. Every aspect of life, distilled into sixteen pieces within sixty-four black and white squares, which from a distance actually appear gray. Of course, there are more than a mere sixty-four squares. The smaller squares taken in even numbers form larger ones, creating a total of two hundred and four. Most people miss that. They see only the obvious. Few have the intelligence to look deeper to see the patterns hidden within patterns. That’s part of the beauty of chess—it is much more than it first appears, more complicated, more complex. The world at your fingertips, so manageable, so defined. It has such simple rules, a near infinite number of possible paths, but only three outcomes.
“I’ve heard some clergy base sermons on the game, explaining the hierarchy of pieces and how they represent the classes of society. They correlate the rules of movement to the duties that each man performs in his service to Maribor. Have you ever done that, Your Grace?” Merrick asked, but he did not wait for an answer. “Amazing idea, isn’t it?” He leaned over the board, his eyes searching the field of black and white.
“The bishop is an interesting piece.” He plucked one off the board and held it in his hand, rolling the polished stone figure back and forth across his open palm. “It’s not a very well-designed piece, not as pretty perhaps as, say, the knight. It’s often overlooked, hiding in the corners, appearing so innocent, so disarming. But it’s able to sweep the length of the board at sharp, unexpected angles, often with devastating results. I’ve always thought that bishops were underutilized through a lack of appreciation for their talents. I suppose I’m unusual in this respect, but then, I’m not the type of person to judge the value of a piece based on how it looks.”
“You think you’re a very clever fellow, don’t you?” Saldur challenged.
“No, Your Grace,” Merrick replied. “Clever is the man who makes a fortune selling dried-up cows, explaining how it saves the farmers the trouble of getting up every morning to milk them. I’m not clever—I’m a genius.”
At this, Guy interjected, “Regent, at our last meeting I mentioned a solution to the Nationalist problem. He sits before you. Mr. Marius has everything worked out. He merely needs approval from the regents.”
“And certain assurances of payment,” Merrick added.
“You can’t be serious.” Saldur whirled on Guy. “The Nationalists are sweeping north on a rampage. They’ve taken Kilnar. They’re only miles from Ratibor. They will be marching on this palace by Wintertide. What I need are ideas, alternatives, solutions—not some irreverent popinjay!”
“You have some interesting ideas, Your Grace,” Merrick told Saldur, his voice calm and casual, as if he had not heard a word. “I like your views on a central government. The benefits of standardizations in trade, laws, farming, even the widths of roads are excellent. It shows clarity of thought that I would not expect from an elderly church bishop.”
“How do you know anything of my—”
Merrick raised his hand to halt the regent. “I should explain right away that how I obtain information is confidential and not open for discussion. The fact is, I know it. What’s more—I like it. I can see the potential in this New Empire you’re struggling to erect. It may well be exactly what the world needs to get beyond the petty warfare that weakens our nations and mires the common man in hopeless poverty. At present, however, this is still a dream. That is where I come in. I only wish you came to me earlier. I could have saved you that embarrassing and now burdensome problem of Her Eminence.”
“That was the result of an unfortunate error on the part of my predecessor, the archbishop. Something he paid for with his life. I was the one who salvaged the situation.”
“Yes, I know. Some idiot named Rufus was supposed to slay the mythical beast and thereby prove he was the fabled Heir of Novron, the descendant of the god Maribor himself. Only instead, Rufus was devoured and the beast laid waste to everything in the vicinity. Everything except a young girl, who somehow managed to slay it, and in front of a church deacon, no less—oops. But you’re right. That wasn’t your fault. You were the smart one with the brilliant idea to use her as a puppet—a girl so bereft from losing everything and everyone that she went mad. Your solution is to hide her in the depths of the palace and hope no one notices. In the meantime, you and Ethelred run a military campaign to take over all of Avryn, sending your best troops north to invade Melengar just as the Nationalists invade from the south. Brilliant. I must say, with things so well in hand it’s a wonder I was contacted at all.”
“I’m not amused,” Saldur told him.
“Nor should you be, for at this moment King Alric of Melengar is setting into motion plans to form an alliance with the Nationalists, trapping you in a two-front war, and bringing Trent into the conflict on their side.”
“You know this?”
“It is what I would do. And with the wealth of Delgos and the might of Trent, your fledgling empire, with its insane empress, will crumble as quickly as it rose.”
“More impressed now?” Guy asked.
“And what would you have us do to stave off this impending cataclysm?”
Merrick smiled. “Pay me.”