by Cameron Jace
And what better way to raise money but a chess event, where they played games on TV, the same way they played their own people in real life?
The world leaders sat, each at their own small table with a single chessboard upon it. Silence swooped over the auditorium as they began to organize their chess pieces. Of course, all the leaders chose the color white for the game.
Over one hundred and thirty presidents and prime ministers were ready to play. The idea was to accept donations with every move they made in the game. But the trickiest part was that they weren’t going to play against each other. They were going to play against one man.
Yes, you read that right. All the world leaders were playing against one man. They called him the Chessmaster, a genius Russian player who’d never lost a game.
“Did he really never lose a game?” the American president hissed to the British prime minister next to him.
“Shhh,” the British prime minister said. They called him Mr. Paperwhite because he only dressed in white paper instead of clothes. “Be silent. This isn’t an American football game.”
The American president rolled his eyes. The British were a bit too conservative at times. He turned to his left, facing another world leader by the name of King Dick, a flamboyant dictator who ruled a poor third world country with wealthy leaders, each of them richer than Bill Gates and Ali Baba combined.
“Hey,” the American president said. “Is it true the Chessmaster never lost a game?”
“What do you care?” King Dick breathed onto his recently manicured fingernails. “Americans can’t play chess anyways. You’ll lose no matter what.”
Mr. Paperwhite snickered at that comment.
“Neither can the Brits,” King Dick mocked him, and the British prime minister’s face flushed red. “Only the Russians are good at chess. And the best of the Russians is the Chessmaster.”
“But how can he never lose a game?” The American president gritted his teeth. “We Americans are big on winning. We’re always number one. But even so, we have to lose a game once in a while.”
“That’s because you’re not as good as the Chessmaster,” King Dick said. “Didn’t you ever hear about him winning the maddest game in the world?”
“Maddest game?” The American president leaned forward. “With whom?”
King Dick looked sideways then also leaned closer, his eyes bulging. “The Chessmaster is so good that it’s said that he won a game he played with…” He shrugged.
“With whom?” The American president’s eyes widened.
King Dick pointed upward. “With God himself.”
“God plays chess?” Mr. Paperwhite questioned from behind.
“Of course he plays chess. He is God. He can play everything.” The American president elbowed the prime minister back and said to King Dick, “Did God really lose a game to the Russian Chessmaster? How?”
“He cheated,” King Dick said, cupping his mouth with a hand.
“Of course. That’s it,” Mr. Paperwhite said. “You only beat God if you cheat.”
“You don’t get it,” King Dick said. “It was God who cheated first.”
“Get outta here!” The American president almost gasped.
“It’s what the myth says.” King Dick nodded. “The Chessmaster is too good. God had to cheat.”
“But how did the Chessmaster win that game?” Mr. Paperwhite asked.
“The Chessmaster cheated back, of course,” the American president said, gritting his teeth again. “Tell me, King Dick, does this mean that the Chessmaster knows God personally?”
“They don’t play golf together on Sundays, but of course he does,” King Dick said. “Why are you asking?”
“I am wondering if the Chessmaster could introduce me to him. We could have brunch in the White House. God and I.”
“Why would the American president want to meet with God?” Mr. Paperwhite mocked him. “He will send you straight to hell.”
“Hell is negotiable,” the American president said. “We could always fix a deal.”
“Then why do you want to meet God?” King Dick asked. “You’re not even good at chess.”
“You want to know why?” the American president said, smirking. “Imagine I knew God personally. Oh boy, we could do some business.”
Suddenly the host of the event interrupted the conversation, tapping his microphone, and the three world leaders straightened in their chairs.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the host announced. “I’m proud to present the man who never lost a chess game!” He waved his hands in the air and the crowd hailed. “The man who is about to play against one hundred and thirty world leaders at the same time—and promises he will win.”
The crowd was going crazy.
“The man who played with God himself and won,” the host continued. “Russia’s proudest son, the Chessmaster himself.”
And there, the Chessmaster appeared from behind the red curtains. To the three leaders’ surprise, the Chessmaster looked like nothing they had expected.
Prologue Part Two
World Chess Championship, Moscow, Russia
The Chessmaster was an old man. Partially bald, with flapping, uncombed, and stiff white hair sticking to the side of his head, even worse than Einstein’s. He had a small forehead, small eyes, but a long bridge of a nose. He was beardless but had an unusual mustache. A handlebar mustache that stretched sideways and curved upward like an eagle ready to take off.
He didn’t laugh, but he looked funny somehow. He looked childish, and as if he had a short attention span. In fact, he didn’t pay any attention to the audience. His eyes were focused on the chessboards he was about to raid with his unmatchable talents.
But one thing really stood out. The Chessmaster didn’t wear normal clothes. Not even weird ones. He wore the silver armor of a knight, just like his favorite chess piece.
Chin up, he strode toward his first opponent, the American president, and nodded, implying he wanted the president to make the first move.
The president was infatuated with the Chessmaster, though he never expected him to look the way he did, and moved a pawn two blocks ahead.
The Chessmaster stared at the pawn with an expressionless face, then slightly raised his head to meet the president’s eyes.
“In how many moves do you want to lose?” the Chessmaster said in a cold voice that was as grey as cold souls. Appearances aside, this wasn’t a man to make fun of.
“I don’t want to lose,” the president said. “I want to win.”
“Who do you think you are?” The Chessmaster leaned over, hands behind his back. “Rocky Balboa in a Hollywood movie where you beat the Russian champion in the end?”
The crowd, mostly Europeans and Russians, laughed.
“I didn’t mean to insult you,” the president said, “but I want to win.”
“Fine with me.” The Chessmaster said. “If you want to win, drink one of the vodka shots next to the chessboard.”
The president hadn’t noticed the tiny vodka glasses lined up next to the chessboard. Seven glasses on each side. Seven for him. Seven for his opponent.
“It’s a Russian custom,” the Chessmaster said. “Make a chess move and take a vodka drink.”
“What’s the point?” the president asked.
“Each vodka shot will make you dizzier and compromise your judgment, so it gets harder to play along.”
“I see,” the president said. “If I do it, then I will have a chance to win?”
“A chance, yes,” the Chessmaster said, “but I never lose.”
The American president gulped the vodka. It was bitter, and it hammered his head so hard his cheeks reddened and his spine tingled.
The Chessmaster laughed at him. “This is going to be fun,” he said, addressing the hundred and thirty world leaders. “Now each of you has to drink after his chess move. That’s the rule. Let’s see what happens first. Will you get drunk before you lose the game, or lose the g
ame before you get drunk?”
And so the Chessmaster began to play against each leader, one after the other. It only took him a glance at the chessboard to make his move, while it took each opponent no less than an hour to pick his.
The crowd bit their nails with excitement, though most of the game was in utter silence.
It seemed that the Chessmaster was keen on playing the Pope’s representative, an Italian man who represented the Vatican. He’d replaced the Pope because the Pope didn’t drink vodka, and none of them previously knew of the drinking rule while playing chess. Though the New York Times had claimed the Pope refused to play because God had told him not to, being angry at the Chessmaster beating him earlier.
Who believed newspapers, anyways?
As the games advanced, world leaders began to sweat, taking their time with each move. All but the Pope’s representative, who looked in a hurry, picking a move and gulping his shot.
“That’s your sixth shot,” the Chessmaster told the man. “I’m impressed you’ve gotten this far without me beating you.”
“I win if I drink the seventh shot without you beating me, right?” The religious man smirked like a drunk on the street.
“You win, yes,” the Chessmaster said. “But—”
The man eagerly picked a seventh move and gulped his last drink. He let out a strong noise from his throat and stood up, raising his hand with victory. “I beat the Chessmaster!”
“You must be smarter than God.” The Chessmaster smiled at the shocked crowd. They couldn’t believe the best chess player in the world was losing. Not so easily, or…?
The Pope’s representative began to choke and stiffen. The world leaders watched him grow more and more flushed, reddened and unable to breathe.
“Oh,” the Chessmaster began, “I forgot to tell you that the vodka is poisoned. It’s the kind of poison that kills you once you drink the seventh shot. You could survive drinking six, but you’d be very sick.”
“What?” Mr. Paperwhite protested.
“You see, you have to beat me in six moves or you will die,” the Chessmaster announced. “And look at you, all the presidents and leaders of the world in one room. I may kill you all tonight. Isn’t that frabjous?”
Everyone stared at the madman with horror in their eyes, unable to believe what was happening. Why did the Chessmaster want to kill the leaders of the world? Who was he working for?
The Chessmaster didn’t answer any of these questions. He returned to staring at the choking man while pulling at his handlebar mustache. One stroke to the right. One stroke to the left.
Then he made his last move in the game. The move that killed the queen. He nudged the queen piece with the back of his middle finger and watched the Pope’s representative drop dead to his knees, and then stroked his mustache, saying, “Checkmate. Who’s next?”
1
Mr. Jay’s limousine, Oxford
I am sitting in the dark of the limousine, not quite sure of what I am doing. It still puzzles me why I agreed to go meet Mr. Jay, whoever he really is. Maybe somewhere inside my mad brain, I am still me—a loyal member of Black Chess.
Rocking to the bumps in the road, I don’t try to ask questions or make conversation with the unseen passengers inside. I already have so much on my mind. Forget about the choices and decisions for now. I still need to know why I had to kill everyone on the bus in the past. What was the purpose of doing so? Why was it essential to Black Chess that every student on it died?
I take a deep breath, also thinking about what happened to me after the circus. I am sure I saw the gathering of the Inklings in Lewis Carroll’s studio when I had my vision in the Garden of Cosmic Speculation. Lewis, the March Hare, Fabiola, Jack, and me. And the little girl; who was she? Most important is: when and how did I change and become the Bad Alice? What happened to me?
“Mr. Jay will be pleased to meet you,” the woman in the dark tells me.
I say nothing. What’s to say? I don’t say I am pleased to meet him too, but I have questions that are eating at me.
“He has always believed in you,” she continues. “Never has he doubted that you would embrace the darkness inside you.”
“Did he say that? I mean, most people think they are on the good side of the scale, even when they are the most evil.”
“Not Mr. Jay. He loves evil, embraces it, and is proud of it. That’s why he is the head of Black Chess. But you must know that.”
“I haven’t remembered everything yet.” I play along. “But I am sure it will come to me. Can you remind me what Black Chess really wants?”
“That, you will have to remember for yourself. We never talk about it.”
“Ah, we’re after the Six Impossible Keys.” I am pulling her leg.
“Not exactly. We’re after what the Six Keys are for.”
“Of course,” I say. “Can’t wait to remember. How long until we arrive?”
“Not much longer,” she says. “We should be there in about—”
Her words are chopped off by a sudden crash against the vehicle. It’s a deafening echo of metal scraping against metal.
“What the hell?” she says, panicking.
I try to grip something in the backseat, but there isn’t anything, so I rock to the left and smash my head against the window. The blood on my forehead alerts me of the fact that the car is flipping over and looking outside the limo’s window, I realize we’re on the edge of a cliff.
2
Darkness and panic aren’t good friends at all. The unseen men and women inside the limousine are screaming and the smell of blood is making me nauseated. I have no idea what’s happening. I can only see outside the limo, but not inside. I’m not really sure how this is possible, but I am not going to argue with death knocking at the door right now.
“We’re about to fall off the cliff,” the woman screams in the dark.
“No shit,” I mumble, surprised with her lack of grit when she is working for the darkest organization on earth. “Hey, driver! Unlock the doors.”
“I think he is dead, and the car has security locks to keep you inside,” the woman says. “Those were Mr. Jay’s orders since he suspected this would happen.”
“You think I did this?” I snap but try not to move as the car begins to ease over the gravel underneath, skewing toward the cliff. “I just met you on the street. No one knows I am meeting Mr. Jay.”
“How about the Pillar?” The woman grunts.
The suggestion makes me feel better. Who knew? Now that she mentioned the Pillar may have caused the accident, I find myself feeling better.
“But don’t think we’ll let him save you,” she says. “The limo has an emergency system. Reds are on their way. They should be here before your stupid caterpillar comes.”
The car takes another heavy jolt and the others in the limo panic again. I don’t. I try to see if I can kick the glass open without affecting the car’s balance. I am not going to die in Black Chess’s limo.
And even if it’s the Pillar who planned the accident, I am not going to wait for him to save me.
“Shut up!” I tell the others, carefully crawling toward the window.
The car seems stable, so I get closer, now thinking of what to break the window with.
Peeking outside, I can’t locate where we are. There is a river below the cliff, but it’s unrecognizable to me.
A sudden bang freezes me in place. However, the car isn’t moving. Then I hear a couple of footsteps on the roof.
“It’s him,” the woman says. “The Pillar!” She grabs me by the neck, trying to choke me. “I won’t let him have you.”
I struggle, fighting her while the car bounces in every direction. “Stop it or we’ll die.” I elbow her in the face and hear her scream.
The car’s window suddenly breaks, its shattered glass splinters inward, and I have to shield my face with my hands.
“Damn you, Pillar!” the woman shouts.
A smile forms on my face
when I glimpse the Pillar’s shadowy hand stretching toward me.
I stretch mine back, but when I do, I am shocked to find it’s not the Pillar. In fact, it’s a Red.
The woman laughs behind me. “Told you my men will get you first.”
3
Margaret Kent’s private mansion,
Kensington, London
Margaret Kent was staring at her son’s picture, counting the days until she’d have him back from the Queen of Hearts. The vicious Queen who stopped at nothing to get her hands on the Six Impossible Keys.
Margaret gasped. It had been a long and painful road to find her son. And it seemed like it was only getting longer. She prayed that her plan would work out in the end, and she decided to start by answering her private phone that had been ringing all morning.
“Yes?” She picked up, doing her best to sound collected and as brutal as she’d like everyone to think of her.
“It’s me,” the voice said. “Carolus.”
“What do you want? Didn’t I say I’m taking the day off?”
“It’s important. I have someone who wants to meet you, Duchess,” Carolus said. “He says his name is Inspector Dormouse. He is head of the…”
“…Department of Insanity,” Margaret said. “What does he want?”
“He says he has critical information that you need to know.”
“What kind of information?”
“Carter Pillar.”
“What about him?”
“The Inspector says he’s discovered something about him.”
“Something that I don’t know?”
“He says he knows who the Pillar really is.”
“Nonsense.” Margaret gently rubbed her son’s picture. “I know all I need to know about the Pillar; all the way back since the days in Wonderland.”