At that voice, a pathetic lick of fear grips me – but I compact it like texts stacked on a shelf. When I fold on my heels, the Sepahbad holds up a hand, the courtly raven on his shoulder as still as a bone-stone relief.
‘At ease.’
‘Peace of death be unto you,’ I recite coolly.
‘And you,’ he replies.
The way he speaks is both sharp and soft. In our first encounter, I assumed the hint of warmth was a deceptive tactic, but here his voice reminds me of the monastery, of exchanging words in a gentle thrum between meditations. No wonder I thought him a monk; he speaks under a mask of peace. Seeing him here – unbeckoned – rattles the calm of midwinter.
‘Well?’ the Sepahbad prods.
‘I think so.’
His lips twitch. ‘You think so.’
‘My partner has not arrived.’
‘And if I were to ask to be your partner?’
My thoughts slow. Our encounter at the bathhouse was unintentional. This,here, is not. Yet now he chooses to acknowledge me after all my time in his city? Not with a blade against my neck or in the amphitheatre, but in the open air as if we’re companions? This catches me off guard.
‘You are my Sepahbad, you may ask of me anything.’
His hazel eyes, as beautiful as the gold sky, narrow. ‘That may be, but we mortals like permission. It lets us feel like we engage as equals. Even if the outcome is the same, the decision is sweeter cloaked as a choice, yes?’
There is something to his words. I keep my expression clear, like wiping a salt tablet clean of engravements. ‘Yes. Permission is an attractive concept.’
‘Assuming honesty, then, underling, would you like to play me in saktab?’ He smiles in such sudden charm that I frown, waiting for a condition. ‘I assure you, there is no consequence if you refuse.’
Any game of strategy allows one to deconstruct an opponent’s mind and discern their tactics. But it works the other way, too – both participants expose their stratagems.
‘Say no,’ No-Name hisses, but I cannot refuse.
To the Sepahbad, I lie. ‘I am not experienced in saktab.’
‘I harbour no expectations.’
I wave at the lines of grain beneath the sandblasted board as wind rustles between us, my dark curls blowing across my face. ‘Then I accept.’
He sits cross-legged, fingering the kilim.
‘Marble or brass?’ I ask. He spins a brass stone between his fingers.
‘An agreeable choice, my vizier.’
The objective of saktab is to apprehend an opponent’s strategy and anticipate their moves. For every push, there are a thousand paths; for every steal, a thousand captures. Saktab is a map of options, not only a path to triumph. And in our world of emperors, invaders and subjugators, it becomes a game of freedom and conquest.
‘Do not stare long at the board,’ No-Name snaps from my shoulder before she leans her head forward, parallel to me, studying the Sepahbad coldly. ‘He will read your intention.’
Strategies beat through my head like a chant.
‘You may go first.’ The Sepahbad splays his hand toward the pieces.
I roll a marble between my fingers before placing it. Without hesitation, he drives his own. At every turn, we increase speed. We pause only twice, attempting to interpret strategies. The furore begins when I surround his first three pieces. In saktab, one must capture territory around the patterned grains of sand. He does not react when I place the marble on the outside of his net formation.
The Sepahbad plays inside, instilling two separate interiors. The domain stops me from capturing his territory.
No-Name paces impatiently around us. The Sepahbad bends low, studies my fingers grazing pieces before I set a screen. A bead of sweat trickles down my neck when the Sepahbad places his brass away from liberty. Why, when he could have threatened to capture five of my squares?
