Chapter Text
Act One: Merano, Italy
Lan Wangji stood on the balcony of his expensive hotel suite, standing straight with both hands behind his back and pretending to be unaware of the argument still brewing in the room behind him. The balcony offered an astonishing view of the Alps towering over the small city of Merano, which had been blessed, or cursed, with the task of hosting the latest challenge against the reigning World Chess Grandmaster.
The match was being held in Europe, not China, because it was Western Chess, not Weiqi or Xiangqi.
And that World Champion Grandmaster was not Lan Wangji. Lan Wangji was the challenger.
The Grandmaster was an American, the son of a Chinese man who, rumor had it, fled to America during the Cultural Revolution, where he married an American. He named their boy Wei Wuxian, but his mother called him Sean Wei. That the current reigning Chess champion was the son of a traitor was a thorn in the side of the current government. The people who’d actually bragged about causing the accident that killed both parents had been discredited. But they’d left the orphaned child in the hands of the American foster system.
It didn’t help that grown up Sean Wei was as brash and obnoxious as only Westerners could be. Grandmaster Wei was also exceedingly popular, everywhere except China. He’d already been the subject of several excited interviews on the news, which Lan Wangji was studiously ignoring.
Lan Wangji had been approached for interviews also. Lan Qiren, his coach and one of his seconds—and, incidentally, his uncle—was against the very idea of publicity. He’d insisted that any interview had to be in Mandarin, so they’d only spoken to Chinese media. Actually both Lan Wangji and his uncle spoke excellent English, because the ceremonies around most Chess championship games were often conducted in English.
Lan Wangji took a deep, calming breath. The mountain air was crisp and cool. It reminded him of his childhood home in Gusu, waking a familiar ache. He hadn’t been back home for six years, ever since he’d won his way into a Western Chess program dedicated to producing a Chinese champion. Lan Wangji’s challenge to Grandmaster Wei’s reign was the culmination of years of rigorous training and behind-the-scenes political wrangling.
The Alps were were solid and imposing, unlike Gusu’s delicate peaks interrupted by mist and waterfalls. He wished briefly and fruitlessly for his home. These mountains had their own craggy beauty, though. He wished he had come to Italy for the scenery. He wanted to lose himself in the mountains, any mountains, and forget about Chess. He loved the game, but not the politics, and did not believe he was yet ready to challenge Grandmaster Wei.
But he was tasked with winning a World Chess Grandmaster title for himself, and glory for China. Or else . . .
Or else what? Punishment for losing had not exactly been specified, but it would happen.
He made an effort to apply his mind back to Sean Wei’s most recent chess match. The Grandmaster had, for no apparent reason, played against an aging Italian chess master he’d seemingly met at random. That game was the reason for the argument he’d walked out on. Lan Qiren had opinions about that game. And the government representatives who’d come along with them to Italy believed that those opinions meant that Lan Wangji’s victory was a foregone conclusion.
His thoughts were interrupted by a high-pitched female shriek, coming from beneath the balcony. There was a swimming pool down there, light sparkling off of deep blue water in the summer sun. A man and a woman, both blond and suntanned, were mock fighting in the water. He was trying to pull down her bikini top which, to be honest, was a waste of time, since it barely covered anything to begin with. Lan Wangji watched her shameless display dispassionately, finding his eyes drawn, not to the potential pale expanse of breasts, but to the sheen of water glistening on the man’s muscular back. It was best not to follow those thoughts too far.
He wrenched his eyes back to the mountains. It was not safe to be caught staring, though if any of the government representatives noticed, he could probably pretend it was the woman who interested him. His two bodyguards, Wen Chao and Jin Zixun, often made lewd comments about Western women, so that was probably permitted.
Lan Wangji knew he should go back inside to continue the study of the recent chess game with his uncle. Grandmaster Wei had almost lost to the old man, making a series of seemingly idiotic moves and then pulling the game barely back into his control. But Lan Wangji did not need to be inside in front of a chess board to replay the game. He already had it memorized. That was how he played chess, memorizing every move, and then all the possible responses, and following their path to checkmate.
He superimposed the image of the game over the mountains in front of him, and replayed it again, one move at a time.
He’d studied every move in every game Sean Wei had ever played. In fact, he’d memorized most of them. It was difficult. The Grandmaster followed no discernible pattern, always moving in unexpected ways, to the downfall of every challenger for the past two years. The game with the old man was more erratic than usual. The Grandmaster had made three wildly irregular moves that any beginner would have known were terrible. It was possible that he was loosing it mentally, as Lan Wangji’s Chinese team thought, but the moves seemed almost calculatedly ill-advised.
Lan Wangji came to the same conclusion he had come to all the other times he’d replayed the game. Sean Wei had played badly on purpose, possibly just to see if he could get away with it. And he had.
The balcony door slid open behind him. Lan Qiren did not bother to step outside to resume the argument. “That game made no sense,” he said. “Grandmaster Wei is clearly a lunatic beginning to crack under the strain of another challenge.”
Behind him, Wen Chao rubbed his hands together in glee. “The next Chess Grandmaster will be Chinese,” he said. Wen Chao was in Italy ostensibly as Lan Wangji’s bodyguard so, much as he wanted to, Lan Wangji could not kick him out. He was the least intelligent of the sons of Wen Ruohan, the CEO of Wen Corporation and the financial power behind China’s interest in Western Chess. As bodyguards, he and Jin Zixun were staying in the room right next door, and it seemed that one or both of them were always lurking somewhere nearby.
Lan Wangji stepped back inside. He was certain that Wen Chao was reporting his every move back to Wen Ruohan, and almost certain that there would be major consequences back home if he stepped out of line. His brother had been forced to stay behind in China. It would be a mistake to let them think that the Championship would be an easy win. He said, “Not a lunatic. He’s playing a game.”
Wen Chao sneered. It was not much of a change from his usual expression. “Of course he’s playing a game,” he said, as though explaining to a child. “It’s called Chess.”
The two Lans ignored that. Lan Qiren raised an eyebrow minutely at Lan Wangji. “You’re saying that you think he’s trying to tell us something?” Lan Qiren asked.
“Yes.”
“What, exactly?”
Lan Wangji didn’t know how to answer that. He didn’t know how to explain that his opponent, even though he channelled chaos both in game and in life, was a dangerously skilled Chess player. Sean Wei’s unpredictability would be no match for Lan Wangji’s own solid, stolid game. He looked down at the thickly carpeted floor. “Telling us that he doesn’t even have to try in order to win?”
“He won’t win,” Wen Chao said. “His unprincipled, American laziness will be his downfall.” His statement held all the arrogant certainty that Lan Wangji’s had lacked.
Lan Wangji wondered how Wen Chao could be so sure.
Wen Chao’s father was also convinced of Chinese superiority, and desperately wanted to demonstrate it to the world. He wanted this win so badly that Wen Ruohan had sent, not only his son, but also his niece along with them to Italy. She was a skilled physician, beautiful but fierce, and they’d all but promised her to Lan Wangji if he became the next Grandmaster. He wondered, not for the first time, why they thought that would help him win at Chess. Now he worried that they might have a plan to somehow incapacitate his opponent.
“Don’t let him rattle you,” Lan Qiren said quietly. It was not clear whether he was talking about Wen Chao or Grandmaster Wei. Then he added, in a flat voice, “The world is watching us.” Perhaps he meant that China would certainly shine in the eyes of the world. Or perhaps he had the same suspicions as Lan Wangji, and was reminding Wen Chao to be discreet.
Fortunately, FIDE, the International Chess Federation, monitored these championships with rules and protections to keep such interference from happening. All sorts of things—from hand signals to intimidation—had been tried in the past. No nation, seemingly, was above helping their player cheat.
There had already been a meeting between the Chinese and American teams, conducted by the FIDE Arbiters. The competitors were not included in these negotiations. Nobody could possibly have gotten this far in chess competition without knowing the basic ground rules, but there were always minor details to be ironed out. Both sides had to be assured of the safety and comfort of the venue, as well as the precautions set in place to prevent cheating. Neither side was really satisfied with the concessions made, but they’d agreed on fourteen games and scheduled the first seven.
The first match was in thirty-six hours.
Lan Wangji went back to studying his chess board, unnecessarily moving the pieces into position, so that Wen Chao would know that he was busy.
*