The Bookman - Lavie Tidhar [44]
An empty chair waited on the side of the table opposite the Turk.
"Please," the voice said. "Sit down." There was a short, mechanical chuckle. "I have been waiting for you for some time."
The Turk's mouth did not move. The voice seemed to emerge from somewhere around his midriff.
"Please, sit."
He sat in the chair. It was high-backed and once grand, but now the paint was peeling and the cushions had been eaten away by insects. When he sat, he was at eye level with the Turk. The chess pieces were arranged on the board. He sat on the side of white.
"Play with me. Please."
Though the tone of the voice never varied there was something almost desperate, a lonely quality to the voice. Orphan surveyed the board. The pieces had once been lovingly crafted, he thought. But now they were chipped, the white king was missing half its crown, and the pawns looked battered and scarred like ageing mercenaries.
On a whim, he moved a white pawn two squares. "E2 to E4," he said.
The Turk gave another wheezing chuckle. "A good opening," he said. "It frees your queen, and your bishop, and gives you early domination of the centre. Very good."
The Turk's right hand moved jerkily across the board. "E7 to E5."
The two pawns faced each other across the board.
"Queen to F3," Orphan said. Somehow, the game was important. He said, "What do the automatons want?"
"Knight to C6," the Turk announced. The artificial eyes blinked at Orphan. "The right to exist. Freedom."
"But you are machines," Orphan said, and the Turk's head turned in a slow odd shake, left to right to left.
"So are you," it said.
"Bishop to C4," Orphan said. "Byron said something similar to me. But you are constructs. Created by human hands."
The Turk's response was a loud snort. Then, "Knight to F6."
The thought suddenly occurred to him and made him uncomfortable. How old was the Turk? The one simulacrum he had met, Lord Byron's, was manufactured by the Babbage Company. It was a recent construct, the product of an entire scientific age… He said, "Weren't you?"
"Play," the Turk said.
Orphan looked at the board. "Knight to E2."
"Bishop to C5," the Turk said, his pale slender hand moving almost languidly across the board. Then, "What do you know of Jacques de Vaucanson?"
"A2 to A3," Orphan said, moving his leftmost pawn. "Was he a poet?"
The Turk did laugh now, a full-throated, lasing sound full of scratches and distant echoes. "D7 to D6."
No piece had yet been taken.
"Who was he?" Orphan said.
"Play."
Orphan examined the board. The space between his king and rook was now empty. He said, "Castling," and moved the king and rook so that his king was now safe behind a row of pawns.
The Turk nodded its head. "Ah, Rochieren," he said. "Very good. Bishop to G4."
The black bishop now threatened the white queen. Orphan didn't pay it attention. He said, "Vaucanson?"
"Let me tell you a story," the Turk said. "Which is relevant, perhaps, to your quest." The machine's eyes looked at Orphan's. They were like a blind man's eyes, void of depth, white and unseeing. "You came here for help, no?"
"I'm looking for the Bookman," Orphan said. Now that the words left his mouth they seemed to hang in the air for a moment, unburdened by weight. The Bookman. I am coming, he wanted to say. And the image of Lucy rose in his mind, clear as if she were standing beside him, so vivid that he almost turned and reached for her.
The bulbs seemed to dim, their feeble light fading.
"The Bookman…" the Turk said. "That great invisible Machiavelli." Again, that chuckle. "Do you think I can help you find him?"
"Do you think I can win this game?" Orphan asked in return, coming back to himself. He motioned at the still chess pieces.
"It's unlikely," the Turk said. Then, "I take your meaning."
"So you can help me?"
"Let me tell you a story. But first, play."
"Queen to D3." Orphan moved his queen away from the bishop's threat.
"Knight to H5." The Turk's hand fluttered and settled on the