"If he's really good, I suppose he could play blindfolded."
"Never mind."
"I'm sorry."
"You are also ingenious. I am certain that you will figure something out by next time."
Martin nodded.
"Also, didn't these old places used to have sawdust all over the floors?"
"I believe so,"
"That would be nice."
"Check."
Tlingel searched the board frantically for a moment.
"Yes. I meant 'yes.' I said 'check.' It means 'yes' sometimes, too."
"Oh. Rather. Well, while we're here ..."
Tlingel advanced the Pawn to Q3.
Martin stared. That was not what Grend had done. For a moment, he considered continuing on his own from here. He had tried to think of Grend as a coach up until this point. He had forced away the notion of crudely and crassly pitting one of them against the other. Until P-Q3. Then he recalled the game he had lost to the sasquatch.
"I'll draw the line here," he said, "and take my month."
"All right. Let's have another drink before we say good night. Okay?"
"Sure. why not?
They sat for a time and Tlingel told him of the morning land, of primeval forests and rolling plains, of high craggy mountains and purple seas, of magic and mythic beasts.
Martin shook his head.
"I can't quite see why you're so anxious to come here," he said, "with a place like that to call home."
Tlingel sighed.
"I suppose you'd call it keeping up with the griffins. It's the thing to do these days. Well. Till next month ..."
Tlingel rose and turned away.
"I've got complete control now. Watch!"
The unicorn form faded, jerked out of shape, grew white, faded again, was gone, like an afterimage.
Martin moved to the bar and drew himself another mug. It was a shame to waste what was left. In the morning, he wished the unicorn were there again. Or at least the horn.
It was a gray day in the forest and he held an umbrella over the chessboard upon the rock. The droplets fell from the leaves and made dull, plopping noises as they struck the fabric. The board was up again through Tlingel's P-Q3. Martin wondered whether Grend had remembered, had kept proper track of the days... .
"Hello," came the nasal voice from somewhere behind him and to the left.
He turned to see Grend moving about the tree, stepping over the massive roots with massive feet.
"You remembered," Grend said. "How good! I trust you also remembered the beer?"
"I've lugged up a whole case. We can set up the bar right here."
"What's a bar?"
"Well, it's a place where people go to drink-in out of the rain—a bit dark for atmosphere—and they sit up on stools before a big counter, or else at little tables—and they talk to each other—and sometimes there's music—and they drink."
"We're going to have all that here?"
"No. Just the dark and the drinks. Unless you count the rain as music. I was speaking figuratively."
"Oh. It does sound like a good place to visit, though."
"Yes. If you will hold the umbrella over the board, I'll set up the best equivalent we can have here."
"All right. Say, this look like a version of the game we played last time."
"It is. I got to wondering what would have happened if it had gone this way rather than the way it went that it went."
"Hmm. Let me see... ."
Martin removed four six-packs from his pack and opened the first.
"Here you go."
"Thanks."
Grend accepted the beer, squatted, passed the umbrella back to Martin.
"I'm still White?"
"Yeah."
"Pawn to King six."
"Really?"
"Yep."'