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The train compartment is sparsely populated to begin with, and to Magnus it feels even more empty than it is in truth. He’s said so many goodbyes over the past few days, and received so many well-wishes. First Garry, though that had been a good week ago. Then Magnus’ own team in Oslo, and finally his father at the gate where West Berlin met East Berlin. He wasn’t entirely alone - there was an old man from FIDE and a fellow Norwegian, but they were strangers. There was probably some deep irony that the only person he actually knew in the entire train carriage was a Soviet.

Dubov had seemed pleased enough to see him, and insisted it was entirely a coincidence that he was in East Berlin - some minor tournament that he’d insulted someone in Moscow enough to get sent to. Magnus wasn’t really in a position to argue, and it was nice to have a familiar face. For a Soviet, Dubov wasn’t bad. Brusque, but in a way that made him seem mostly human. The few times Magnus had actually been in the presence of the man he would be challenging Vladimir Kramnik had come off as more a machine than a man. He’d mused as much to Garry, and that had made the former World Champion laugh.

Kramnik, he said, was certainly a machine. He worked 24 hours a day, and if he came up with a new idea there was always the night as well. A quote from somewhere he’d said, but Magnus didn’t recognize it. It sounded to Magnus more like a recipe for burning out seconds than an efficient way of working, but Kramnik had access to a much deeper pool of seconds than Magnus to begin with. And Magnus for one doubted that the Soviet chess federation would look fondly on a player who refused the summons to second for their World Champion.

There were other things that Magnus wished he’d asked Garry about too, but with the former World Champion discussions tended to meander. Still, it was all advice that Magnus suspected would prove useful, even if it had been a good six years since Kramnik had taken Garry’s title. And six years was long enough. Magnus didn’t intend on leaving Moscow empty handed. He’d conceded playing there in exchange for a minor concession on the match format. Perhaps it wasn’t the wisest of decisions, but Magnus had always wanted to see Moscow for himself. To go beyond the Iron Curtain and see the land that gave birth to so many of the greatest players. Garry still spoke of the Moscow Chess Club with an odd sort of fondness, even with everything that had happened. Like it was a deeply sentimental place for him, almost a sacred one.

Perhaps that was how Magnus should frame it in his mind. He wasn’t being summoned to play the World Champion, he was making a pilgrimage to a place Garry held in such high regard.

There is a slight commotion further back in the carriage - the FIDE representative had spilled his drink or some such - and Magnus found himself glancing around once more. It felt so odd to be traveling without Peter Heine, and especially without his father. He felt exposed. These sort of train trips usually passed quickly enough with all the preparation that needed to be discussed. Here, he had no one to discuss it with (Dubov didn’t count), and Garry had told him not to bring any written preparation or books. Nothing that could give him away.

That hadn’t been Garry’s only piece of advice. Every phone would be bugged. Assume Kramnik is listening at all times. To some extent it seemed like the ravings of a madman. But all chess players - especially the good ones - were at least a little bit mad. Perhaps, Magnus mused, if he were a more introspective man he might figure out what insanity had been assigned to him.

The first thing that comes to mind is his openings. That’s what drives Peter Heine mad more than anything. The dubious openings. The ones that get his opponent out of prep. Garry found them entirely amusing, and seemed so disappointed that he wouldn’t get to see Kramnik’s face when Magnus played one. He’d been less amused when Magnus had converted that particular sparring match.

But for all Magnus had left his books and chess sets behind, he wasn’t coming with just a suitcase full of clothing. The travel chess set wasn’t his best one, but it was likely his most sentimental one. The pieces were a little worn from colliding with each other and from the countless games they’d seen, and Magnus liked them all the more for it.

They have just passed over the Oder River when Magnus finally finds himself done with his musings and beginning to grow bored. Fortunately, he has a sparring partner on hand.

Dubov accepts his invitation to play though he seems surprised by it, and they begin. The games aren’t timed, but they play in the spirit of rapid. Not too fast or too slow.

The games don’t go Dubov’s way, though Magnus isn’t sure how much of that he attributes to himself and how much he attributes to the fact that Daniil Dubov seems rather tilted, especially after the first two games. Those had been rather close, but Magnus had run away with it from there. Garry and his team wouldn’t approve - something about giving away prep to a Soviet that was a little too conveniently place in East Berlin to just happen to be the only available sparring partner on the train ride to Moscow - but Magnus hadn’t played any prep, just fun little lines that he’d come up with on the spot. Let Kramnik put his horde of greybeard drawmasters to analyze them.

He smirks at the thought, eyes raking over Dubov, and the Soviet makes another move, blundering mate in five this time. Oh, to be a fly on the wall when the old drawmasters read through the lines - or whatever approximation of them Dubov manages to recreate. They’ve played a good many games now, and Magnus certainly hasn’t been taking any notes.

They pass over the next great river - the Vistula - and Magnus finds himself hungry enough to let Dubov escape with a draw in their last match. For a Soviet, Daniil is a fun one. It would be a shame to break his spirit too much. And Magnus’ own concentration had begun to slip during the last two games anyways. It was a sort of anticipation simmering deep within him, urging Magnus to look outside though there was little to see. The sun had already set, and the lights of the towns were few and far between.

He ponders paying Dubov a visit once he finishes with his food, but that seems more a recipe to get a string of curses hurled in his general direction through the door. It was such a shame that Magnus couldn’t have Jorden along. His sweet Dutch boy always opened the door, no matter how badly Mangus had put him in the dirt over the chessboard. And the unshed tears glistening in his shining eyes made it all the better when he sank to his knees at the lightest brush of Magnus’ hand against his shoulder.

Magnus does retire to his own sleeping berth soon enough, visions of an imagined Moscow already dancing behind his eyes. Garry had spoken some of his own Championship matches, and they seemed entirely stressful. Perhaps that was one of the differences between Magnus and his sometime mentor. Because Magnus found himself positively looking forward to it all. To Moscow. To the prospect of the match. And to returning victorious. It was undoubtedly arrogant of him to think so, but the World Champion had pulled out of the last two tournaments that they’d been scheduled to play each other in, and their most recent match before that had been one in which Kramnik had escaped with a draw by the barest of margins. There wasn’t anywhere for him to run now. Magnus was coming to him.

Someone - probably the Norwegian minder - rouses Magnus when they arrive in Minsk to change trains for the last part of the journey. The one that will take them on to Moscow. He does sleep another few hours before the anticipation gets to him and he can sleep no more, instead staring as the countryside flashed past.

Dubov eventually does make an appearance once the sun starts to properly rise, though he sits out of Magnus’ easy eyesight today. Still licking his wounds from the drubbing Magnus had given him, but Magnus doubts he’d be able to properly concentrate today. Moscow awaits them, and he can think of little else.

It’s a rather inauspicious opening to it all when they arrive. The railroad bridge over the Moskova River is in need of dire repair and so the train cannot carry them on to the city, and the river itself is frozen. So it is on a ‘bridge’ - if one could even call it that - of haphazard wooden planks strewn over the ice that more delineate a path than anything else that Magnus Carlsen crosses to enter the city.

The FIDE man had handed him a paper with the fine details of scheduling and such, and Dubov plucks it from Magnus’ hand once they are on the new train, the one that will take them to the Moscow Chess Club.

Magnus gives a disgruntled noise, but Dubov merely continues pursuing the sheet, muttering to himself and making vague scoffing noises every once in a while. That was certainly the Dubov Magnus was acquainted with.

“They’re giving you Giri?” Daniil sounds confused and he reads the line again.

“Giri?” Magnus hadn’t read that far down the sheet before Daniil had taken it for his own.

“Tour Guide/Translator: GM Anish Giri.” Dubov tilts his head to the side, as if trying to make sense of it all, and makes a face that Magnus isn’t sure how to interpret. “He’s Kramnik’s

favorite

second. Our beloved World Champion must have really put someone’s knickers in a twist for them to give him to you.”

Magnus racks his brain for a moment. He should probably be contemplating how Daniil had made his pronouncement, but his mind is focused on Anish Giri in that moment, not the champion. The name does ring a bell, but not from recent tournaments.

It comes to him all too quickly. The fucking Wijk game. That had been Anish Giri. Sometimes Magnus rather wished alcohol did a better job of drowning his losses. That was one he’d certainly prefer to forget, but the game is clear as day in his mind, the moves replaying themselves even though he doesn’t want them to. What did Anish Giri even look like? Magnus vaguely remembers him being very young, but not his face. Only his chess.

Daniil’s sharp elbow breaks Magnus from his thoughts and they are off the train and walking through a great square to a building that Magnus has seen only in pictures.

They are through the doors and out of the cold soon enough, though there is a certain chill about the place that Magnus can’t quite put his finger on as he looks around. It is probably expected that everyone seems to be looking at him, but that doesn’t mean he likes it all that much, and he’s acutely aware that while he has his few minders trailing behind him, he has no entourage of seconds.

Still, he is here as the official Challenger, and Magnus straightens up, surveying the crowd. He finds a few faces he knows from chess tournaments - players and the occasional coach - but most of the crowd are strangers. Students, then, or theoreticians that didn’t play beyond the Iron Curtain.

Instead of dragging him through the crowd for introductions, Dubov half-hauls Magnus off to the side.

“Anish.” Daniil doesn’t shove Magnus in the direction of Anish Giri before he scampers off, but from his tone Magnus suspects he sincerely wanted to. “He’s all yours.”

Yes, on second thought it had been entirely too much of a coincidence for Daniil to be waiting for him in East Berlin, having just apparently won a tournament there but not bragging about it the entire way to Moscow.

“Hello. Nice to meet you.” Magnus greets his guide-to-be.

“The pleasure is all mine.” Anish has less of an accent as compared to Daniil, and he smiles in a way that sends a shiver down Magnus’ spine. In his head, Anish Giri had been the faceless little boy from Wijk, but the young man that stood before him could easily look him straight in the eye, even if he looked about as strong as a twig. And the young man was beautiful, even more so than Jorden. But not in the same way as Jorden. There was some quality about Anish Giri that seemed uncanny and almost unreal. Jordan was certainly pretty, but Anish Giri was more fair and fell than pretty. Like a fallen angel, almost.

Favorite. Daniil had said Anish was Kramnik’s favorite second, and he’d said it in a very particular way. Insinuations. It was all very Soviet.

Magnus extends his hand, and Anish shakes it firmly, like they are about to have a match.

“Shall we?”

“Lead the way.”

Anish turns on his heel with a lazy sort of grace that Magnus hadn’t expected before pacing over to one of the doors that let away from the crowd. Compared to dealing with FIDE, a tour of the Moscow Central Chess Club sounded like a vacation.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Anish Giri winds his way through the halls of the Moscow Central Chess Club with a swiftness that gives Magnus no time to pause or look through any doors or windows. The place seemed like a maze, and it was all he could do to stay on his guide’s heels. They stopped abruptly in front of a window manned by a gruff looking young man who Anish addresses in smooth and beautiful Russian, and soon they are soon provided with a pair of overcoats, hats, and scarves.Magnus’ guide has no trouble with his own overcoat and is fully into it before Magnus even has the first button figured out. The look in his eyes is something between unreadable and appraising as Magnus secures the buttons and places the hat on his head. He’d not used to these hats in the Russian style.Anish’s long and elegant fingers adjust Magnus’ scarf ever so slightly before he leads them out through two doors and back into the cold.“I thought we were supposed to be touring the chess club.” Magnus stuffs his hands in the pockets of the overcoat, grateful for the warmth. It seems colder now than when he had arrived, and the snow is swirling in the faint breeze.Anish gives a nod. “We will. It wouldn’t be a good tour right now, what with all the greybeards in the way.” He stops and smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Unless you would prefer to be ogled by old men?”Magnus looks away for a moment, grateful he can attribute the flush in his cheeks to the cold. There is something about Anish Giri’s gaze that makes him feel like an insect in a shadowbox. Anish starts walking again.“Where are we going?” Magnus can make out the faint outlines of buildings, but the fog and haze make it seem like they are in an empty void of swirling snow and shadows.“To play chess.” Anish doesn’t stop, walking in a straight line, like he knows exactly where he’s going despite the sameness of their surroundings.“But the chess club’s back there.” Magnus is confused. He glances back to be sure, and the great black building still looms behind them.Anish gives a little chuckle and shakes his head, like Magnus’ confusion amuses him. Shapes begin to emerge out of the snowy gloom, and Anish abruptly stops.“You don’t speak any Russian?”Magnus swallows the icy air, suddenly more embarrassed than he should be. “I read a little.” Even that feels like an exaggeration. He can read enough for chess results. That’s it.Anish glances off to the side, and Magnus wonders if he does the same thing when he’s calculating a position. Whatever he’s pondering, though, it doesn’t take long. His hands slide out of his pockets, adjusting his own scarf so the insignia on his overcoat is covered. Magnus hadn’t even noticed it earlier. Then he reaches over to adjust Magnus’ scarf, revealing an insignia on Magnus’ own overcoat.“Just follow my lead, yes?” Anish sets off again without waiting for an answer, and Magnus is once again hurrying to keep up with his guide. So he’s not entirely sure when the bleak void of snow and shadows turns into a park. They pass by a few trees and benches before coming to tables that Magnus would recognize everywhere, even in the swirling snow of Moscow. Anish Giri had brought him to a park to play chess. He’s not sure what he should think, but his stomach does an odd flip.Anish stops abruptly in front of a table where a gruff-looking old man is sitting. His voice is jarring as he speaks. Magnus had heard the way he talked to the man at the coatroom. Anish Giri spoke normal Russian, and quite well (at least to Magnus' own untrained ear). But now Anish was speaking with an accent, one that even Magnus could tell was a poor one.What was he asking? And the way he was speaking seemed strange as well. Exuberant. Nothing like the smoothness he’d had when he’d spoken to Magnus. And when he turned to Magnus, the expression on his face was entirely different as well. Flushed and vivacious and full of life. Nothing like the calmly reserved Soviet Grandmaster that had greeted Magnus at the Moscow Central Chess Club. It’s like this is another man entirely that wears a mask with Anish Giri’s face.Magnus didn’t manage to respond before Anish spun on his heel again and sat down to play, brushing the dusting of snow off the seat.The game is a short one. To say Anish demolishes his opponent would frankly be giving the gruff man across from him too much credit. It’s a game with a brutal elegance to it, and one where the result was never so much as in doubt. Perhaps more like an execution than a proper game. But one with a beauty that he could appreciate. Anish Giri’s fingers moved the pieces with a practiced grace. A Grandmaster indeed. It was such a pity that they hadn’t crossed paths since the Wijk tournament all those years ago. Anish Giri seemed like the type of opponent that Magnus thoroughly enjoyed savoring.It’s only when they reach the endgame that Magnus realizes he probably should have paid a little more attention to the content of the game rather than just the way Anish played it. He still had the whole game in his mind, but not the little flicks of Anish’s eyes or the moments when he took a little longer to play, as if he were contemplating which option would bring him victory more quickly. This was Kramnik’s favorite second playing a game in front of Magnus. Surely there was information to be gleaned from such a thing. That’s what Garry would say. But before Magnus can think back to any sidelines or alternatives, Anish finds a checkmate and he’s speaking to his opponent in that same over-the-top badly accented Russian. Like he’s the foreigner and not Magnus. They can’t be discussing the game. There’s nothing to discuss. It had simply been a grandmaster having his way with a lesser player. There isn’t a nicer way to put it.Giri almost leaps to his feet and addresses Magnus in that same badly accented Russian again. He doesn’t wait for Magnus to give any kind of response before shoving him into the seat as the gruff man resets his half of the board. Anish’s hands are heavy on Magnus’ shoulders, even through the greatcoat. For all Magnus hadn’t understood a word of what Giri had said to him, the Soviet Grandmaster’s command was clear enough. Play.Magnus realizes three moves in that this was probably a horrible idea. He shouldn’t have played Dubov on the train. Kramnik’s seconds will undoubtedly pore over those games. And now he’s playing a game with one of Kramnik’s actual seconds over his shoulder. This is a horrible idea. Garry would be furious with him. Garry would probably also say that the gruff man was a plant as well. That Anish hadn’t selected him randomly.And for all Anish had made quick work of the gruff man, he seemed rather more stubborn as they continued through the opening. Perhaps it was simply that Magnus had played into something he was more familiar with, but it felt different. Magnus had been around a drunk Garry only once, and he hadn’t believed most of what the former world champion had said then. But now? Was this all a setup? The gruff old man throwing the game with Anish to lull Magnus into a sense of security? Anish present to recount the game to Kramnik later? Magnus’ guide didn’t have his hands on Magnus’ shoulders any longer. He must have put them back in his greatcoat. But Magnus could still feel Giri’s gaze as he played more moves. The gruff man wasn’t collapsing the way he had with Anish, even though Magnus caught his eyes flickering between Magnus and Anish a good few times.And Magnus was certainly playing worse than Anish had. Anish’s chess had been nothing short of gorgeous, while Magnus found himself mulling over worse and worse moves. He was better. He knew he was better. But the board said otherwise. A slight advantage, perhaps. Nothing like what Giri had managed. And now he was overthinking every more. Trying not to show anything that Anish might be able to tell Kramnik. Why had he agreed to play again? Part of him wonders what would happen if he just left, but then Anish’s hand is on his shoulder again and Magnus has no thoughts of leaving. He shouldn’t want to impress Anish. He’s just another Soviet Grandmaster. They seemed a dime a dozen sometimes. But there was something about Anish that seemed different. Kramnik’s favorite second. That's what Daniil had said. Just the type of person one might send to get a read on a World Championship opponent. Why had it been Daniil on the train, then? Daniil Dubov was decidedly not the golden child of the Soviet Chess Federation.Somehow, Magnus does manage to muddle through the middlegame without blundering, but neither does he manage to push his opponent around the way Anish had. The endgame is one that seems drawish, but it is just those sorts of endgames that Magnus loves most. The ones that have the commentators saying he can squeeze water from stone. It takes him longer than he would have liked to convert the game - the gruff man doesn’t give up without a fight - but in the end he cannot deny Magnus. An ugly win, but a win nonetheless. Magnus still doesn’t want to meet Giri’s eyes and he stands stiffly as Anish speaks that same badly accented exuberant Russian. Thanking the man for his time, presumably. Perhaps giving him a tip or two.But before Magnus can completely compose himself, Anish’s arm wraps around his own and he’s being pulled away as Giri continues in that same bad Russian that Magnus can’t understand.“And you’re supposed to challenge Kramnik?” They’re a good way out of the park when Anish switches to English, dropping the over exuberance as he does. It’s entirely disconcerting, like he’s taking off a mask. Gone is the grinning young man chattering to his heart’s content. This Anish is the same one Magnus had met in the chess club. And he’s not impressed with Magnus at all. The derision in his tone is almost palpable. Magnus had only barely beat a random man in the park. And he was supposed to be the one to dethrone the World Champion.“I play up to my competition.” Magnus’ retort is a poorly thought out one. He always did as a child, playing up to the level of whatever grown men he was put against. But now it practically invites Giri’s own retort.“Down as well, it would seem.” Anish pauses and adjusts their scarves again so the insignia on his own coat is visible while the one on Magnus’ coat is hidden. Magnus takes a moment to study the insignia on Anish’s coat a little more carefully. It’s not one he recognizes instantly, but one he thinks he’s seen before. A sword and shield together with a star and the ubiquitous hammer and sickle.“Victory is victory, no matter how ugly.”Anish looks decidedly unimpressed. “A victory like that would get you kicked out of Russian Chess School.”“Then what do they do to the poor souls who can’t even manage an ugly victory? God forbit, what if I had drawn?”Giri smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.“What indeed?”They are pacing through the same empty void again, though the snow isn’t swirling so much as it had earlier so Magnus can make out the other buildings better. They all seem the same, black and foreboding. “You’re Kramnik’s second?” Magnus isn’t sure what prompts him to ask the question, but he’s curious.“Along with every Grandmaster currently active in the Soviet Union.”Magnus imagines half a hundred old men crammed in a very small room as Kramnik gives out marching orders. Though it probably wouldn't be Kramnik. It would be whoever his coach was.“How would it work if the Challenger was a Soviet? No seconds for him?”Anish gives a dark sort of chuckle at that, and Magnus is rather pleased with himself for drawing it from the other man.“The powers that be usually arrange for a few. It rather depends. Moscow versus Leningrad. That sort of thing. Though the Champion gets his pick.”There is something about how Anish says the words that Magnus knows he should read into, but he isn’t quite sure what.They’re rapidly approaching the chess club once more, and soon climbing the stone steps. Presumably back to the door they had exited from, as while Magnus certainly preferred the warmth of the greatcoat now, it was rather cumbersome.“Who is Kramnik’s favorite? Who would he pick?” Magnus knows it’s a bold question, but he wants to know. Dubov had said Anish was Kramnik’s favorite, but what would Anish say?Anish Giri pauses and looks at Magnus. He looks amused now. Like Magnus might be back in his good graces even with the way he’d played in the park.“Not Dubov, that’s for certain.” He smiles and glances down before looking back at Magnus. “I do not have a favorite. Each has their own tasks. If they do as they are told, they are good. If they do not, they are bad.” Magnus almost wants to glance around to see if the World Champion had somehow snuck up on them. Anish’s impression is uncanny between the stronger accent and the blank facial expression. It probably also helps that he’s a step and a half above Magnus and can look down at him the same way Kramnik always seems to. The man is a giant among chess players in more ways than one.Anish gives a little smile - one that Magnus finds a touch unnerving - as he turns to start up the steps once more. They’re back in the building soon enough, and handing their greatcoats back to the attendant.“What now?” Magnus asks his guide as Anish adjusts the cuffs of his sleeves.“The Library.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The library’s ceiling is surprisingly low - nothing like the great vaulted cathedrals Magnus had seen in the West. The ceiling here is perhaps three meters high, and the shelves reach all the way up to it. Like a maze. The smell is the same as any other library - the familiar odor of paper and ink that Magnus would know anywhere. And the silence. Libraries tend to have a very specific sort of silence, one that is different from the silence of chess playing halls. Broken by rustling paper more than the occasional cough.

Magnus skims over the spines of the books as he follows Anish through the maze until they come to a sort of clearing - a small area with half a dozen little chess tables. And for what already feels like the tenth time, he wishes his Russian was better. The titles in Cyrillic seem to taunt him, and he wonders what knowledge is hidden within them. This is a chess library, after all.

“Anish?” The sound of his own voice is exceedingly loud in comparison to the silence all around them.

“Mmmm?” Anish hums softly, raising an eyebrow. But he doesn’t stop and soon they are out of the little clearing and back into the stacks. “Is there a particular book you’re looking for?” There is an edge to his voice that Magnus doesn’t like. Something faintly mocking. Because Magnus couldn’t read the spines that starred out at him, let alone the pages of the countless books that lined the shelves.

“Kramnik’s Greatest Losses would be a nice start.” It’s probably an immature joke at best, but Anish gives a little snort. As much as the Soviets always seemed entirely united behind their World Champion whenever they were in the West, here it seemed different. Dubov had wondered who Kramnik had offended. In the West, it would be the Federation that was terrified of offending their World Champion. Not so when there were half a dozen potential Challengers waiting in the shadows with knives, each of them more than equal to any of the National Champions in the West.

A head sticks out from the end of the aisle and glares at Magnus. The face is young, but not overly so. A boy, but almost a man. One of the students. Just the type of person one would expect in a place like this. It’s entirely hilarious how his expression goes from annoyed to terrified as his gaze swings from Magnus to the amused Anish, and then he’s gone. Magnus imagines him scrambling away though the carpet muffles any footfalls.

“Best we be a little more quiet, yes?” Anish’s voice is so soft that Magnus cannot imagine any other would hear it, and he can only nod in agreement. Libraries are supposed to be silent. Magnus knows he would have been annoyed if he were studying and someone caused a raucous.

Anish runs his fingers along the spines of a few books and sets out again, a little slower as he winds through the maze with the assuredness of a man who knew exactly where he was going. But instead of narrating the history of the building as one might expect in a tour, he says nothing. And so they pass through aisle after aisle, each containing more books than the last. More knowledge. Magnus wants to stop. To pull book after book from the shelf. To devour them. Because even if he can’t read a single word, surely they will have chess diagrams. Those, he can understand. He reaches out and his fingers brush against the spine of one book, then another and another. Anish’s pace doesn’t slow, and Magnus loses sight of him for half a moment as he turns a corner.

The area they are in now is another large study area, and unlike the first one this one is populated. A dozen students are dispersed throughout the area, some in pairs at tables while others are alone in giant chairs. Children, all of them, but in chess often the most terrifying opponents are small children. And these are the children that populate the Moscow Central Chess Club.

They certainly do have an unnerving sort of air to them, and Magnus can feel their eyes on him as he and Anish silently pass through the area. They’re watching but each time he glances at them they seem entirely wrapped up in their studies and paying no attention to their surroundings whatsoever. One pair has pieces on the table, playing out a Queen Endgame. Black is down two pawns, but Magnus would guess with best play it would be a draw. Though likely not a quick one, and the longer things went the more likely there would be a mistake. He wants to linger. To watch. To see if the scrawny boy with the black pieces manages to hold the draw. But Anish’s pace is unrelenting, and they are winding through the stacks once more a moment later.

The books seem physically larger and older. More elaborate as well. Ornate leather spines, and gilding in the letters that proclaimed what they were. Letters that Magnus couldn’t read. The carpet beneath their feet transitions to wood so dark Magnus can barely tell that it is wood, and then they are at a railing, looking down on what can only be the playing hall.

“The Playing Hall.” Anish confirms it, though his words are quiet as ever. They won’t carry.

“The match will be there, then?” Magnus’ own voice still sounds a touch loud.

“No, it’ll be in the 9th circle of Hell.” Anish deadpans, his voice coldly even as he leans on the railing, looking down at the dark and empty playing hall. Magnus counts a dozen playing tables visible, but none that is clearly the central one.

The look he gives Anish must be an odd one, because the Soviet Grandmaster gives a mirthful sort of half-chuckle.

“Yes. It’ll be there.”

He leans over further despite the lack of anything to see below, and Magnus finds himself studying Anish more than he had when he’d met his guide. His suit is essentially immaculate, and it doesn’t have that same look that most of the rest of the Soviet suits seem to have. The uniform one. Anish’s suit is different. Perhaps it’s the cloth - because the shade of black seems a bit darker, and the way it shines under the light is different as well, but that would be more texture than anything else. Magnus tries to remember exactly what Kramnik had been wearing the last time he’d seen him. Had it been similar?

Anish’s long fingers drum on the edge of the railing, and Magnus wonders if he does something similar during his games. Probably not - the noise would bring the ire of both the arbiter and his opponent, but the motion seems rather mesmerizing. Graceful. Practiced. He remembers how Anish had flipped the pieces in the game in the park. Everything Anish did seemed so beautiful. For all Magnus could flip chess pieces well enough - it was the sort of skill that all chess players picked up eventually - no one did it like Anish Giri. Anish was different, though Magnus wasn’t quite sure if he could find a word to properly describe how.

Anish’s dark eyes are blinking back at Magnus when his own eyes find them, and Magnus has the sudden urge to look down. He hadn’t meant to stare. And with Anish leant over the railing the way he was, it had to look like Magnus had been staring.

“You asked about Kramnik, yes?”

“Yes.” Magnus does manage to hold Anish’s gaze, and it is the Soviet who breaks it, setting out again through the maze of books.

Magnus follows, staying closer to Anish’s heels this time. If he were ever lost in this place he does not think he’d find his way out. But his thoughts are less on the books around him and more on the man in front of him.

Garry certainly called Kramnik by his surname, and usually with a touch of derision and annoyance. Like in his mind Kramnik was still some young upstart and not a man who had successfully defended the world title twice already. The Soviets, in contrast, tended to be much more respectful. He wasn’t Kramnik to them, he was Vladimir Borisovitch. And yet Anish’s tone wouldn’t have been out of place rolling off of Garry’s tongue. Perhaps it was just that they were alone, and in Moscow. Far from the West. Though even Dubov tended to be respectful of Kramnik, and when Magnus thought of the poster children of Soviet Chess, he didn’t think of Daniil Dubov. If anything, he’d more expect there to be some scandal that ended with Dubov’s defection. Anish Giri seemed rather more the type the Soviet Federation would adore. Beautiful English. Well spoken. Clearly skilled enough, though Magnus’ sample size of two games that he’d witnessed - one years ago at Wijk aan Zee and the other in the park - left a great deal to be desired. Still, for him to so clearly be in Kramnik’s orbit there must be something truly special about him.

Anish stops unexpectedly, and Magnus very nearly runs into him, half stumbling into the shelf and earning a questioning eyebrow from Anish. But the Soviet Grandmaster says nothing and instead flows to his knees in a motion that seems as graceful and practiced as the way he’d moved the chess pieces in the park or the way he drummed his fingers on the railing as they’d stood above the playing hall.

He goes through the titles, muttering under his breath as his fingers pass from one spine to the next until he pulls one book out, holding it up to Magnus.

Magnus takes it gently. The cover and spine seem unassuming, though he does recognize three words on it. As non-existent as his Russian was, he did know the names of his opponents. And the author of this particular book could only be Vladimir Borisovitch Kramnik. He opens it without a second thought, flipping through pages of Cyrillic text until he finds first one diagram, then another. Some of the positions he recognizes - he’s certainly studied more than a few of Kramnik’s games these last few months - but others seem more foreign. Like he’s seen them before, but it’s been a good little bit. Historical games. For all Magnus was a diligent student of chess history, he’d focused on Kramnik and very little else these past few months, despite how beautiful Capablanca’s games could be.

He turns the next page, eyes flicking up for a moment as he did so, and he almost jumps back. Anish Giri is still kneeling on the floor, looking up at Magnus with a darkness in his gaze that Magnus doesn’t quite know how to read. He doesn’t drop the book, but it’s forgotten in his hand, and Magnus has the sudden urge to reach out and cup Anish’s jaw. That’s what he would do if it were Jorden. He’d stroke Jorden’s jaw with his thumb, then slide his thumb over Jorden’s soft lower lip.

Jordan had a sort of wide-eyed innocent beauty to him. One that Magnus always enjoyed corrupting no matter how many times he had the young Dutchman. In his bed or otherwise. Anish was an entirely different story. There was no innocence in the eyes that looked up at him. Anish was rather more the fallen angel, fair and fell in equal measure. Magnus swallowed, and his hand reached out of its own volition, cupping Anish’s cheek. His skin was warm in a way the book was not.

Anish’s eyes flickered down to Magnus’ hand, but he didn’t pull away, and Magnus found himself imagining Jorden once more. How pretty he looked on his knees. But compared to Anish, Jordan seemed entirely inadequate.

Magnus’ tongue darted out, wetting his lips, and Anish slowly pulled away from Magnus’ touch. Not with any sort of disgust or rejection, but with something else entirely. He flowed back to his feet with the same practiced grace as when he’d gone to his knees in the first place, and he plucked the book from Magnus’ hand, closing it entirely and returning it to its place on the bookshelf.

Anish’s eyebrow is faintly arched as he turns back toward Magnus, and his expression is something that Magnus can only describe as amused. Was this all Anish toying with him? Just as much a trap as the convenient man in the park or Dubov on the train? Magnus had no doubt that there were at least a dozen greybeard grandmasters that could have given him a gruff tour of the Moscow Central Chess Club in broken English. And instead they’d given him Anish with his beautiful English and even more beautiful body. This had to be some form of trap. A honeypot. But Magnus can only wet his lips again, thinking of how Anish had looked leant over the railing or kneeling at his feet. For all Magnus was usually a patient chess player, he was less patient when it came to life. Jorden could certainly attest to that.

Anish’s hand at the small of Magnus’ back feels heavier than it should considering how spindly the Soviet Grandmaster’s arms are.

“I believe you have a simul versus our local piranhas coming up?” Anish’s voice is soft and seductive. The words are totally incongruous to his tone.

Magnus blinks, entirely confused. Piranhas?

It draws a low and mirthful laughter from Anish, one that makes Magnus shiver as the Soviet Grandmaster leans a little closer.

“They’re still too little to be proper sharks, but I assure you our students have sharp little teeth. I did tell them there needed to be something left for old Kramnik, but you know kids…” he trails off, a faint smirk on his face, and Magnus finally puts the pieces together.

He’d agreed to play a simul against some students, he did remember that much. Perhaps it would be nice to play a bit of chess, though Magnus has half a mind to play all trivial openings. Let Kramnik and his seconds ruminate on that. He feels his own face contort into what Jorden would call his sharky smile.

“Lead the way.”

Anish obliged, and soon they are in a narrow staircase, descending steep concrete steps. Magnus wonders what awaits them. He doesn’t remember what exactly he had agreed to, and the Soviets seem willing to bend the rules when it suits them. So it won’t be a dozen five-year-olds waiting for him. More likely a dozen teenagers, all with the fire of youth in their eyes and daggers hidden behind their backs should he show so much as the slightest hint of weakness. Just like their elders did with Kramnik.

And what, then, of Anish? Would he be in the back of the room the whole time? Watching Magnus with his heavy, dark eyes? Being quietly distracting by his mere presence, by his beauty? Magnus wet his lips once more as they came to a door and Anish swung it open.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Instead of the dimmed playing hall that Magnus had seen, the door reveals a small classroom. It smells - not terribly, but in the way that spoke to there being a water leak that hadn’t been properly patched. There is a shallow arc of desks - eight in all - with a child seated at each one. They aren’t the small children that are more common at simultaneous exhibitions - all of their feet touch the ground, for one. Piranhas, Anish had called them. But what type? The little ones that were practically bait fish themselves or the gigantic black ones that would take chunks out of him? On appearances they seem more the latter than the former. Teenagers, not small children. No doubt freshly minted IMs and GMs-elect. No exactly typical fodder for a simultaneous exhibition. Then again, Magnus wasn’t exactly a typical grandmaster himself.

Each of the children has a scoresheet, so Kramnik will undoubtedly get the results. Was it the Soviet plan to have Magnus play so much chess before he even faced Kramnik that he would inevitably compromise all his opening preparation? Garry would no doubt think that it was, but Magnus is almost itching to play already. As much as he enjoyed crushing Jorden time after time, there was something utterly satisfying about beating a new opponent for the first time, and the Soviets had been kind enough to find him eight boys, even if they were scrawny. And no doubt still growing into their limbs. Without the lazy grace that seemed second nature to Anish Giri. Well, seven boys and one girl. It takes Magnus a moment to realize that the most diminutive figure of them all - Board 8 - is a girl rather than a boy. Her hair is chopped short like a boy’s, so perhaps he could be forgiven for that.

The boards are set already. The children will have black. Magnus will have white. No clocks.

The sound of Anish adjusting the chair he’d brought from somewhere - probably it had been against the wall of the classroom or else at the front - jars Magnus from his thoughts. The chair is facing away from the arc of desks. And Anish is standing beside it, expectantly. Holding a piece of black cloth in his hand, his eyebrow slightly raised. Silently telling Magnus to stop dawdling.

Magnus for his part doesn't remember agreeing to a blindfold simul, but he hadn’t really read that part of the agreement in great detail. Garry had been so paranoid about the championship match itself (and undoubtedly still was) - they’d gone over each word there with a fine tooth comb. Both the original Russian and the translation they’d been provided.

Anish didn't wait for Magnus to sit, taking the few steps so he was behind Magnus and setting about securing the blindfold. The material is just as silky as it looks and quite slippery, bringing half a shiver to Magnus’ skin, but Anish has no troubles with it. Magnus personally prefers the blindfolds that are more like sleep masks - if he were to try and secure this particular blindfold he’d no doubt fail miserably, but Anish makes quick work of it. It’s snug, but not overly so. And pitch black in a way that Magnus hadn’t expected. Most blindfolds were less than perfect things - enough that Magnus couldn’t see the chessboard, but they tended to let light in at the edges. The darkness wasn’t perfect.

Not so with this one. Magnus feels unsteady on his feet for a moment. Like he’s drifting in an endless black void. But no sooner does he feel himself sway ever so slightly than Anish’s hands are on him. One at his shoulder and the other at his elbow. Guiding Magnus gently but firmly through the black void.

The hand on his elbow disappears and the one on his shoulder presses down ever so slightly.

“Sit.” Anish’s voice is low and soft. Almost like he didn’t want anyone else to hear.

Magnus obeys, settling himself into the chair. It’s not the most comfortable thing, but it seems solid enough. He lets his hands rest on his knees for now. What to play?

A thought comes into Magnus’ mind that he just can’t resist, and he grins despite himself.

“Board 1,” he says “a4.” In his mind’s eye he can see Anish pushing the pawn with his long and graceful fingers. “Board 2, b4. Board 3, c4. Board 4, d4. Board 5, e4. Board 6, f4. Board 7, g4. Board 8, h4.” Magnus continues smoothly, giving Anish enough time to take the steps between the boards. Would the Soviet Grandmaster be calmly stoic or would he also be fighting a grin? Probably stoic. The Soviets tended to be that way. But Magnus indulges in his own grin a little more. He can’t be the first to do this, but he’s still enjoying it. Probably more than he should. Perhaps it would have been prudent to ask that the strongest players be put on Boards 4 and 5. Still, Magnus quite likes his plan.

Anish’s voice is softly lilting - beautiful - when he calls back the moves of the children, though Magnus can’t tell if he’s amused by Magnus’ choice of openings.

The openings proceed in that same way that they always do in exhibitions - slowly. The children to their credit always have moves ready and Magnus plays reasonably fast himself, but there are eight of them and Anish does have to walk back to Board 1 each time he finishes cycling down the line. As far as Magnus can tell, the Soviet Grandmaster is walking behind him, but he can’t hear Anish’s footsteps. It’s a little odd considering the rest of the noise in the room - the scratching of pencils on paper as the children notated the moves - the shifting of chairs, even the rustle of cloth - but with the way the Soviet Grandmaster moved through the library perhaps it shouldn't be surprising.

The games each take on their own character rather quickly, and Magnus loses himself in them. In the intricacies of it all. In the astral projections of the boards that he can see in his mind’s eye. In Anish’s voice, and how the boards shifted with it.

Board one is the first to falter. He’d seemed flustered in the opening, and had very quickly ended up down first one pawn and then two. Magnus wondered how it was the Soviets had assigned the boards. Was it random? Or were the children sitting in a particular order? Whatever it was, the boy at Board 1 certainly wasn’t the most skilled of the lot.

“Board 1,” Magnus tilts his head to the side, seeing the board clear as can be in his mind’s eye. “Rook takes e8. Checkmate.” A back rank mate too - not something that little piranha was likely to brag about to his friends, lest he end up as piranha food himself.

The noise of a chair’s feet scraping across the ground almost makes Magnus jump, and he hears the stomps as his opponent marches from the room, yanking the door open so hard that it slammed against its stop. Actions rather more expected of Western prodigies over Soviet ones, but on some level it was gratifying to know that at least one of them was human.

Anish makes no mention of it, smoothly announcing Board 2’s move. The boy was down two minor pieces already, but still he was tenaciously defending. An admirable effort, if a futile one. Magnus wasn’t the type to blunder at all, let alone twice.

When Board 2 comes around again, a voice that isn’t Anish’s comes. And as much as Magnus’ Russian might be almost non-existent, he knows those words. Usually Soviet Grandmasters announce them more coldly, not with the flicker of emotions that he hears in the boy’s voice, but they are still unmistakable.

“Board 2 resigns.” Anish translates anyway, moving on to Board 3 as he does. The boy who had been on Board 2 leaves, but he does so more quietly and peacefully than the boy at Board 1 had. Magnus imagines him a little dejected, but not apoplectically furious in the way that the boy who had been on Board 1 obviously had been.

From there the games settle more. None of the other kids seem the type to blunder their pieces. They’re rather more like the Soviet Grandmasters that Magnus is used to playing. Solid, but draw-ish. Though perhaps seeing how their compatriots had fared, Magnus should take it as a compliment that none of the kids were really trying to win anymore. Unfortunately, they all went to the Soviet School of Draws (as Garry had termed it) and so while Magnus knew from experience that he could and would grind wins out of them, it was not a quick process.

Anish’s hand on Magnus' shoulder - so light he can barely feel it - is a surprise and he sits up straighter, inhaling. Not so much of a surprise as Anish’s words, so low and soft that no other could hope to hear. The angel on his shoulder, or perhaps the devil.

“Kramnik is watching.” Magnus half turns his head despite himself, imagining the World Champion leaning in the doorway, surveying the scene. Surveying Magnus.

“Board 4-” Magnus conjures up the board in his mind’s eye, only for Anish to interrupt him.

“You’re on Board 5.”

Magnus nods, feeling a flush of heat creep up his cheeks, and he hopes they aren’t bright red.

“Board 5-” he tilts his head to the side, but quickly makes a waiting move and moves on to the next board. With Kramnik here in person he’ll second guess himself. Though, a small part of Magnus mutters, he should act like Kramnik is always behind him. Like it is Kramnik that is his guide instead of Anish.

It takes two more rounds through the remaining boards for Magnus’ nerves to properly settle and the image of Kramnik, leaning in the door in such a way that completely blocked it, to fade from his mind. He had chess to concentrate on, even if all of the kids were beginning to crack in earnest aside from Board 8. They were all defeated, it was now just a matter of whether they resigned first or if Magnus managed to catch them in a checkmate first. And so the moves became easier and Magnus’ mind wandered a little.

Was Anish giving the kids any advice? Pointing to a piece they should move, perhaps? It probably hadn’t been such a good idea to play with a blindfold and no arbiter. Though if the park had been anything to go by, then Anish wasn’t lending the kids any sort of hand. He was better than this. Much better.

Board 5 is the first to give in, resigning, shortly followed by Boards 3, 4, 6, and 7. Leaving only the girl. A surprise, but perhaps it shouldn’t be. If the Soviet men were quite dominant in the chess world, the Soviet women were something else entirely.

And even with his undivided attention the girl doesn’t falter as most would. The Magnus Carlsen effect, Jorden had termed it. And so the game continues.

Magnus wonders what exactly Anish was doing. Was he standing before the board as he would have been when he was making the lazy circles of a waiting shark, visiting each board in turn to announce the move and make Magnus’ own move? Or had he found a chair? Magnus wouldn’t blame him at all - they’d been on their feet a good while. And there were at least seven empty chairs in the room.

The girl tries to repeat moves a few times, but Magnus doesn’t allow it, pushing his pawns and going over to the attack. Enough with any clever plans. There were times in chess that one might have the material to deal with an attack on the board, but couldn’t quite find the best way to use it. That’s why Magnus much preferred to attack, to beat his opponents into submission, as opposed to sitting there and waiting for his opponents to falter the way a good many Soviet Grandmasters did.

Still, Anish’s announcement comes a little earlier than Magnus had expected. The girl seemed more stubborn than her fellow piranhas, but perhaps it was just that she had managed to take advantage of Magnus’ dubious opening in a way that the others either hadn’t or hadn’t had the opportunity to.

“Board 8 resigns.” Magnus nods, his fingers going to the knot that held the blindfold in place, the one that Anish had done. But it doesn’t want to come undone - Anish’s fingers were much narrower than Magnus’ own. So instead of taking the blindfold all the way off, Magnus pulls it down so it is around his neck.

The room feels entirely too bright even though Magnus knows the overhead lights are rather dim, and he glances over his shoulder at the doorway. It’s empty, both of any children and of Kramnik. But some part of him had expected to see his opponent there, carefully watching. Though why would he bother when it was Anish making Magnus’ moves?

The Soviet Grandmaster is sitting on the seventh desk, having slid the board and pieces half onto the sixth desk at some point to make room, in such a way that he could have easily looked down at Board 8. The girl must have left quickly, or perhaps when there was only one board left Anish had dismissed her and played himself. Board 8 had very nearly held, and Magnus knew the urge of dearly wanting to play and play and play, especially against a specific opponent, so very badly.

“Well done. Alas the poor piranhas ended up as piranha stew.” Anish smiles in that softly enigmatic way of his as Magnus gets up, surveying the boards. They are as they’d been on the final move. None of them had been reset. A little odd, considering that students tended to reset boards on muscle memory alone at times.

Magnus smiles, pulling the blindfold off over his head in a way that will undoubtedly ruffle his hair, and he examines the knot. It’s as he suspected - one done by Anish’s long and elegant fingers, and not one well suited to being undone by Magnus’ own fingers. He doesn’t have large hands by any standard - compared to Kramnik’s own hands Magnus’ were closer to Anish’s if anything - but that doesn’t mean he’s going to have any more luck with the knot. So he takes the few steps to hand the blindfold back to Anish.

“Thank you.” As much as Magnus prefers his praise in the form of trophies as opposed to hearing old men prattle on endlessly about his talents, Anish Giri is no old greybeard. And the most proper form of praise comes from one’s peers regardless.

Anish tucks the blindfold into his pocket without undoing the knot and slides off the desk in a manner that reminds Magnus of a cat, after a fashion. A panther, not a housecat. Something sleek and beautiful and utterly dangerous.

Anish’s hand comes to the small of Magnus’ back and they are on their way again, out the door and into darkened halls. Soon in another narrow spiral staircase, so small that they can’t walk side by side. Magnus stops abruptly, blocking Anish’s way with his arm.

“Play me.” It’s an impulsive demand, but Magnus hasn’t had his fill. He wants more chess. And not some students - little bait fish piranhas the Soviets see fit to feed him. He wants the graceful shark that’s just on the edge of his vision, lurking in the shadows. And Magnus Carlsen gets what he wants.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Anish leads Magnus through first one door, then another, until they come to a different classroom. Sparser than the one the simul had been held in. There are only a few desks and chairs, all pushed against the wall, but Anish is quick to find a chessboard and a bag of pieces. It’s not one of the folding boards, but rather a sturdy and solid piece of wood.

It seems such a simple thing, but Anish flows with an almost preternatural grace as he sits on the floor, gazing up at Magnus expectedly. It had been Magnus that requested this, after all. Well, requested was too kind of a word entirely. Demanded, not requested.

And so Magnus sat opposite his opponent as Anish dumped the pieces out of the bag and began to sort out the colors. He would have white and Anish would have black based on the orientation of the board. The pieces are surprisingly heavy, and well made in a way the sets used by students weren’t. Perhaps the set was from the West, then. Won and brought back to Moscow as a spoil of war.

“Time control?” Anish asks before Magnus even has half of his pieces set up, as he is just putting the final touches on his own.

Magnus is rather confused for a moment. There is no clock to speak of - not a chess clock or even a clock on the wall.

“Blitz?” Who knows how long they will have here before Anish whisks Magnus along to wherever his next appointment is. Best to stick with blitz. Unfinished games tended to be things that irked Magnus greatly.

“In the spirit of blitz, then.” Anish tilts his head slightly to the side, and Magnus can feel the Soviet Grandmaster’s eyes watching as he places and adjusts his last few pieces.

Anish’s hand is cold when they shake, and then Magnus pushes his first pawn.

They move through the opening at a measured pace. Magnus finds himself pausing to consider positions for a few seconds longer than he typically would. He’s not a cautious player. Not like most of the Soviets. But Anish is a new opponent, and when caution is thrown to the wind it sometimes results in unnecessary losses that are more products of greed than true losses.

But whatever shadow-monster Magnus had sensed doesn’t materialize. Anish Giri plays just as one would expect - solid. A Berlin. The coldly solid chess that is rarely decisive. The type of chess that Magnus loves and hates. There are few things more satisfying than weaseling a drawmaster out of his fortress and putting him in the dirt, but even Magnus rarely manages such a thing. A disappointment, then.

“How have you found the weather?” Anish is still frowning at the board when he speaks.

Magnus shrugs.

“Perhaps more dry than usual.” The cold was hardly foreign to him, but the cutting painful dryness of the air was something he’d known to expect but hadn’t quite understood until he’d felt it when he stepped off the train for the first time.

Anish hums, finally making a move. For all they had played the first dozen moves in the spirit of blitz, the game was now something more akin to rapid.

“Oh? How so?” Anish still isn’t looking at him, and Magnus isn’t sure whether the Soviet is simply trying to distract him or if he’s making actual small talk. He usually hates small talk, and even the sort of trash talk that is expected in casual chess games doesn’t come easily to him.

“The snow.” The swirling snow of Moscow was powdery. Not like the thick wet snow of home.

Anish nods like he understands and doesn’t push, instead meeting Magnus’ probing question on the board with a typical sort of blunting deflection.

“I trust the train ride was a pleasant one.”

Magnus has half a mind not to answer - Anish hadn’t asked a question, after all.

“It was fine. Long, perhaps.” Nothing out of the ordinary. Magnus can only imagine that Anish has ridden more than a few trains himself. “Dubov was very accommodating.”

That seems to pique Anish’s attention, because the Soviet Grandmaster finally looks up, his gaze calmly accessing in a way that has Magnus staring at his own pieces a moment later even though it is still Anish’s move.

“That’s good to hear. Dubov can be-” Anish makes a vague gesture with his hand, and Magnus wonders if he’s found the word in Russian and is trying to remember the perfect translation.

“Prickly?” He asks.

Anish gives a little snort.

“That’s one way to put it.” He makes a move. A repetition. “And how was Berlin?”

Now it’s Magnus’ turn to be faintly amused, but his annoyance at the repetition means that he contains himself. It wasn’t quite a forced repetition, but without more time to calculate he would need to take it. The other two moves he could see both seemed dubious.

“I didn’t see much of it. Just the train station.” He’d seen more of Berlin on other occasions, but not this one.

Anish nods along as Magnus makes the repetition, and they shake hands once more.

“Again.” Magnus doesn’t let Anish replace the pieces on the board, instead picking it up and turning it around. Perhaps if he were a more polite guest he should have asked more kindly.

Anish Giri is faintly smiling. Amused.

“As you say.” He goes about setting the pieces up again.

There is something about how Anish sets up the white pieces that makes Magnus think he is more at home with them. The sort that prefers to lead the dance instead of following. He looks more at home making the first pawn push instead of responding.

Magnus gives the automatic defenses that Garry had drilled into him - for all he preferred to trust his own intuition, the Soviets were masters of choosing lines where nothing could be worse than listening to one’s own intuition. But as they go through ten moves, then fifteen, Anish’s moves continue to come quickly in the fashion that belies they are well rehearsed. Interesting. The Soviets in general tend to slow down before they reach the end of their preparation, and if Anish is the same then he will be a good few moves more prepared than most of the Soviets Magnus had dealt with.

“What tournament was it that Dubov played in Berlin?” Daniil had said there was one, but he’d never named it.

Anish continues playing with the same smoothness even as he raises an eyebrow and gives half a shrug.

“I wouldn’t know. Did he not say?”

“Something like that. He said he won but he was oddly subdued about it.” Granted, Soviet players tended to generally be more subdued in their celebrations, but Daniil Dubov was something of an exception.

Anish finally pauses. 23 moves. And it might even be more. All Grandmasters were prepared to some extent, but Anish was something else entirely. Not Kramnik’s sparring partner - in no universe did Magnus think he would be allowed to be in the same room as whoever Kramnik had chosen for that duty, let alone to play chess with him - but his opening theoretician. Perhaps not the only one, but certainly a very skilled one even by the standards of the Soviets.

“Daniil can be a melancholic soul. Perhaps it was the weather.”

Magnus nods, though he isn’t sure he agrees. Daniil is something of an oddball, at least among the Soviets. More along the lines of what he might expect from a Brit.

“Though-” Anish tilts his head to the side slightly, and Magnus isn’t sure whether he’s calculating on what to say or on which move to make. Surely even he must be out of his opening preparation by now. “Perhaps he was frazzled. He was a last minute replacement, I believe. It was apparently supposed to be Karjakin, but with him

unavailable

the powers that be all but threw Dubov on the next train.”

“Unavailable?” Magnus doesn’t remember hearing anything about Karjakin recently.

“There was an unfortunate accident. Apparently Sergey had a little too much to drink and stumbled out a window.”

Magnus finds himself frowning both at the board and at Anish’s words. He’d only met Karjakin a few times - all at tournaments - but the man didn’t seem like the type to drink so much he’d fall out a window. And perhaps Anish was still in prep even if he was playing more slowly now. His moves continued to force Magnus’ responses, giving him no breathing room to arrange a counterstroke.

“A tragedy.”

Anish gives half a nod and makes a move that must finally be one he had calculated instead of one he had prepared. Magnus exhales and shuts his eyes for a moment, planning his counterstrike. He’d be on a razor’s edge, but that was when he played his best chess.

They continue to play the moves, silently for a while. There was an oddness to the quiet. Usually it would be broken by the rhythmic sound of the clock, but not this time. Even the pieces were silent as they gracefully glided over the board. Anish’s fingers are nimble and graceful - almost feminine, but too long to be completely so.

Magnus finds himself pausing and letting his eyes fall shut to consider the position once more. He was at the point of no return. There was a path to victory - one he could see in his mind’s eye - but it had many pitfalls. He’d need to be careful. On the other side was a path to another boring draw. Anish’s eyes must be on him, but Magnus tries to put the Soviet Grandmaster out of his mind. Play the position, not the player. He can almost hear Garry’s voice. And he’s always been a greedy player. To the point that he overextends himself at times. And sometimes it is better to play the player, not the position. The trick was knowing when.

Anish Giri isn’t sitting across from Magnus when he opens his eyes, instead he’s standing and pulling off his blazer and tie, folding them in mesmerizing motions and opening one button of his collar.

Magnus must have a skeptical look on his face, because Anish seems amused.

“It’s a bit warm in here, yes?”

Magnus hadn’t particularly noticed it, but Anish was the Soviet and this was Moscow, not Oslo. Anish was probably more used to the cold. Magnus makes his move almost without thinking.

The slight hesitation gives away an air of surprise in Anish, and it’s only then that Magnus realizes he made the wrong move. The drawing one. He wants to slap himself. How could he have been so clumsy?

“Draw?” Anish’s voice has an air to it that is rather seductive, and Magnus falls for it, shaking Anish’s hand a bit more roughly than he should have. Better to take the draw now and play again instead of beating himself up over it for the next twenty moves.

For all Anish’s hands are spindly and graceful, they are unadorned despite him being about the age that Soviet Grandmasters usually acquire a wedding ring.

“Again.” Magnus doesn’t turn the board this time, and he certainly doesn’t wait for his opponent’s agreement before resetting the board. So it shouldn’t be a surprise that he finishes setting his side first, but after the speed with which Anish had set his pieces the first two times it somehow is.

The first ten moves pass swiftly once more, and a curious question comes to the back of Magnus’ mind.

“How did Kramnik take Karjakin’s accident?”

Anish pauses at the question, because he must still be in preparation.

“I heard someone from the Federation sent the widow flowers on the World Champion’s behalf. And I think he was at least partially responsible for the younger players getting a short lecture on responsible drinking.”

“I can’t imagine that made Karjakin any posthumous friends.”

Anish snorts.

“You could put it that way. Though with Dubov in Berlin there were only so many grumbles.”

Magnus wonders for a moment what he would have done if he’d been given a similar lecture. Probably rolled his eyes and demolished Jorden after a few beers to make a point. He’d need a new training partner when all was said and done. As pretty and sweet as the Dutch boy was, he didn’t put up much of a fight over the board anymore. Magnus had only to bare his teeth and he’d crumble into a trembling wreck.

“What about you?” Magnus plays a sharp move, eyeing Anish carefully. All Soviets are solid. How will Anish deal with decidedly more sharpness than he’s used to?

“Lectures are lectures.” Anish shrugs. “I can’t say I really knew Karjakin well. Just enough to know his reputation for self-importance was justified.”

Magnus plays another sharp move. Anish doesn’t have a fortress to hide his king behind.

“I think we met at Wijk. Some years ago.”

That earns him a raised eyebrow.

“Met is a rather strong word, Magnus. I don’t think we so much as said one word to each other.” Magnus finds he rather likes how his name sounds on Anish’s tongue. And he supposed there he had to concede the point. After a match such as it had been he hadn’t exactly been in the mood to discuss it.

“You showed a great deal of promise. And yet I didn’t see you again. Why?” It’s a direct question, but still less direct than the one Magnus poses with his pieces. Anish frowns, as if contemplating both.

“My

parents

found their way to an embassy during the twelfth round. The children of traitors aren’t exactly first in line to get assignments beyond the curtain.” Anish spits the word parents with a surprising amount of vitriol, shifting his rook at the same time. A blunder. Magnus will have Anish’s king a mating net within the next few moves.

Anish must see it too, because his expression goes from annoyed to angry for an instant and his fingers dart out to pluck one of Magnus’ rooks from the board, spinning it in his fingers.

The motion is so fluid that Magnus finds himself rather transfixed instead of being angry. He can easily imagine a game with Jorden that ended similarly, though his Dutch boy wouldn’t have dared pluck the rook from the board. He’d have played a few more moves because he knew well how much Magnus thoroughly enjoyed pinning his prey, and then he would have resigned with the glimmers of unshed tears at the corners of his eyes.

Magnus probably would have made Jorden crawl to him, and for a moment the image of Anish doing the same flashes in his mind’s eye. It seems rather wrong. Jordan was a little puppy that knew he’d done wrong. Anish seemed rather more the jungle cat, smooth and graceful and deadly. A far more rewarding opponent than the puppy, and one that would tear Magnus’ throat out if he got too close.

Anish makes no move to return the rook, instead standing and picking up his blazer, putting it back on in a single smooth movement.

“We’d best be off. There’s a schedule to keep.” He tucks his tie in a pocket, and he must put the rook there as well because Magnus doesn’t see it in his hand any longer.

The deflection is classically Soviet, and Magnus almost rolls his eyes as he stands. There was no way Anish would have decided they needed to be off now if it were Magnus that was about to be trapped in a mating net.

On a whim, he surges forward, tangling his hand in Anish’s hair from behind and tilting the Soviet Grandmaster’s head back to bare his neck.

“I accept your resignation.” He speaks the words softly but viciously, just by Anish’s ear.

The Soviet jerks free a moment later, his face contorted into something akin to a snarl, and Magnus’ eyes register the door past Anish. It’s almost shut, but not quite. Cracked open. And come to think of it, he doesn’t remember any click when Anish had closed the door after they’d entered. There might have been one, but Magnus had been anticipating the chess too much to listen for such a thing. To care.

Anish walks quickly, pushing the door open and moving with a purpose down the darkened hallway. Magnus has to half jog to keep up, and he catches Anish just as he opens the door to another stairwell, and then they are descending again.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Magnus catches up to Anish as his guide swings open another door. But instead of leading out of the darkened stairwell and into another hallway illuminated by the same harsh lights as the ones that had come before it, the room they enter is just as dark as the stairwell. Only barely enough light to see by. It’s a wonder that Anish still seems to know exactly where they are going. And it stinks. Of grime and sulfur and rot and decay. Magnus recoils, but Anish only barely pauses, half glancing over his shoulder before he sets off again into the gloom.

“Anish?” Magnus starts after him, holding his nose as best he can. But that doesn’t seem to help at all with the smell. And the ground is slippy, covered in a thin layer of slime. Magnus almost reaches out for the walls, but they are patched with what looks to be the same slime.

“Anish?” His own voice echoes strangely off the concrete walls. It sounds distorted, like he isn’t saying Anish’s name at all. “What is this?” Have they reached the sub basement of the Moscow Central Chess Club? This hadn’t really been what Magnus had in mind when he’d agreed to have a tour. He’d thought he’d see the playing hall. The library. Maybe some classrooms. The usual things that chess clubs had. Not the sub basement. Especially with how smelly it was.

“Anish?” He reaches out, catching Anish’s shoulder, and his guide finally halts and turns.

“What?” Anish sounds more than a little annoyed, and Magnus releases him. Was Anish still smarting from their games? Those had all been in good fun. And Soviets usually took losses rather well compared to Magnus himself. Why would Anish be annoyed at him?

“Where are we?”

Anish tilts his head slightly to the side.

“The Moscow Central Chess Club?” He says the answer like it’s obvious. Like they’re in the heart of the playing hall and not in some darkened sub basement. Before Magnus can ask another question he’s turning on his heel and they’re off again.

The walls seem to close in as they navigate through a maze of concrete spotted with the slime and muck. Magnus will need to clean his shoes afterward. And perhaps the hems of his pants as well. Though for all there is a liquid sheen to the slime it doesn’t seem to be splattering.

Anish walks quickly, and Magnus does his best to take in the walls around them while keeping up. Forget the library - if Magnus were lost here there was no way he’d ever find his way out. Libraries, at least, had some organization. The books would be in a specific order. And if given enough time, Magnus could always find that. But here? The walls were concrete, without so much as an indication of which way the stairs were. And the light - what little there was came from tiny flickering lights on the ceiling. The library had been warmly lit. Not like the cold and harsh lighting of the classrooms.

But through it all, there was something. The narrowness of the passages between the concrete walls. They were narrow like the shelves had been. And the way the passages opened up to present confusing intersections that Anish didn’t so much as hesitate at - had this been the library, once? It seemed old - what with the grime and the smell and the bare walls - but new. Not in the style of the Tsars.

Anish stops abruptly, holding out his hand to block Magnus.

“Anish?”

Magnus is silenced by a glare from Anish. As much as he’d seemed annoyed before, perhaps that was all an act. He seemed coldly calculating now. Ferocious too.

“Listen.” He murmured, and Magnus did. He can hear his own breathing, his own heartbeat. For a moment, that is all. There isn’t even the distant drip-drip of water that one might expect in a place like this one. But then he hears it. The faint sound of a carrying voice. And not just any voice.

“Best be silent, yes?” Anish more mouths the words than speaks them, his expression contorting into something that Magnus would almost call playful, but for the cruel coldness in Anish’s dark eyes.

Anish moves more slowly now, his footfalls silent even on the concrete. Magnus does his best to mimic the graceful Soviet, but he still hears each of his own steps and can’t help but to wince.

The voice grows a little louder as they round each corner, erasing any little doubts that Magnus had. Vladimir Borisovitch Kramnik was close. And he wasn’t happy.

It tended to be hard to read anything from the simple sound of Russian words, but Magnus had seen and heard a number of Kramnik’s interviews firsthand. This wasn’t a victorious Kramnik listing out a line, this was the Kramnik that was smarting after a draw, insisting that his opponent had just gotten lucky and that had the game gone on he would have been victorious in the end. Kramnik was not a good loser. Then again, Magnus didn’t exactly have a leg to stand on there. The Soviets at least tended to lose stoically. Magnus just preferred not to lose at all. The taste of defeat was a bitter one, and one that he’d never grown used to.

The second voice does eventually come - higher pitched than Kramnik’s, so it hadn’t carried nearly as well. Magnus imagines a cowering official. Next to Kramnik, everyone looked small. He was giant among men - Goliath, proud and tall. Magnus can’t help but to smile at the thought. Goliath, ready to fall.

They must be speaking in Russian, but with the way the concrete distorts voices Magnus can’t be entirely sure. Whatever the language is, he can’t understand the words.

Anish turns another corner and the voices grow louder once more. The sight in front of them is a familiar one. A railing. Not ornate wood, though. This one was a plain metal thing. Coldy brutalist. Anish’s arm stops Magnus from stepping any further forward, and he nods in the direction of the railing.

The voices filter up from below. Like the would into the library if one were speaking in the playing hall. Is there another playing hall beneath them? One as dilapidated as the maze of concrete?

The hand in Magnus’ hair, yanking back and forcing him to bare his neck, is none too gentle and something of a surprise. He barely manages to suppress the annoyed hiss at the back of his throat as Anish hauls him backwards a few steps, wrapping his arm around Magnus’ waist as he does.

They’re the same height. Even through the layers of their clothes Magnus is acutely away of Anish behind him, most of all by the faint feeling of Anish’s warm breath by his ear. Once, and then again.

“He’s insane, this western boy. Utterly insane.” Anish’s words in his ear are soft, almost gentle. Incongruous to their meanings and to the harsh Russian that filters up from below.

“Insane, but a genius. The two are not mutually exclusive.” Anish switches to Magnus' other ear as Kramnik speaks again, and it is only then that Magnus realizes Kramnik and his unnamed companion must be talking about him. He supposes it’s a compliment for the World Champion to think that he’s a genius.

“Insane all the same. He’ll be locked up in a madhouse soon enough. Pity they didn’t do it earlier.”

Kramnik laughs, and Anish hums. Magnus wonders who the other man with Kramnik is. A faceless bureaucrat? An arbiter? The whispers that he was mad weren’t news to him, but they tended to be muttered in hushed tones behind his back. Never so blatantly. Then again, Kramnik and his companion didn’t know they had company. And for all Magnus wasn’t the type to admit that he liked Vladimir Borisovitch Kramnik, the man was defending him. From a certain point of view.

“And you think that will matter? Or are you just disappointed that your little piranhas fared so poorly? Next you’ll be complaining that he was rude.”

Magnus wonders who had termed the students piranhas. Had it been an invention of Anish’s? One that Kramnik had picked up on? Or had it been a quip of Kramnik’s that had stuck with his gaggle of seconds?

Anish’s hand in Magnus' hair starts to relax, gently carding through Magnus’ locks now in a motion that is almost soothing.

“He was rude. Beyond rude! Disrespectful. Nothing more than a flashy capitalist pig with the luck of the devil.”

Anish sounds amused as he translates Kramnik’s companion’s words, and Magnus finds himself annoyed. He’s not the sort to deny that he does tend to be lucky, but even poker is a game that involves some level of skill. And while chess might have some level of luck when it came to exactly how well opening preparation tended to match up, that was only the barest hint of luck.

“And you’d be calling him even more disrespectful if he’d make one move against each of your little piranhas and resigned.”

“You almost sound like you like him.”

Kramnik laughed again.

“It’s nice to have a refreshing opponent. Playing one's own seconds too many times gets boring.”

Magnus thinks of poor Jorden. His own sweet second. Kramnik was right - playing seconds was often incredibly dangerous, especially given how many rating points could be at stake even for a draw, but Jorden had never managed to figure Magnus out in the way that seconds usually did for the player that they worked for. And so his Dutch boy got beatdown after beatdown. Magnus never let up on him, and there was no question that it had started to affect him. He didn’t fight anymore. Not like he used to. He took his beating over the board and then thanked Magnus for it. Like a broken dog. No wonder Garry had been hounding Magnus about getting a new second. One that could give a proper fight.

“Refreshing? He’s a freak of nature. Each hurdle we put in front of him he clears with ease. He’s some odd sort of demon.”

“Really? You needed to put hurdles in front of him to tell that much? Have you not paid any attention these last few years? Tournaments in the West might not be the Soviet Championships, but they aren’t something to dismiss. You didn’t have to waste Giri’s time to find that out.” The way Anish says the words they sound sarcastic, but Magnus can’t tell from Kramnik’s voice if the World Champion is being genuine or not. Soviets tended to be rather deadpan, and even when Magnus could see their faces it wasn’t always clear.

“Now unless you want to waste any more of my time…” The World Champion trails off, and Magnus imagines his companion shaking his head.

There is the sound of a door somewhere below them, but Anish doesn’t release Magnus for a good minute afterwards, carding through his hair with deceptive gentleness the entire time.

And Magnus wonders. How much had Anish told the truth? There hadn’t been any names - save for Anish’s - and no chess terms. Nothing that would give Magnus so much as a hint as to whether or not Anish had altered what was said to suit his own ends. Was he playing up how highly Kramnik thought of him? The times that Magnus had seen the World Champion in the West the man tended to be rather stoic, even by the standards of Soviets.

Anish does release Magnus at long last and Magnus lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, pacing forward to the railing and looking down. There was a concrete floor below, and no playing tables or chairs in evidence. No evidence at all that there had been people there.

He almost jumps when he turns to the side. Anish is entirely too close, and his eyes seem more unnerving. Not quite entirely human.

“What do you think?” Magnus leans over the rail, looking down at the not-playing hall. Looking for something, anything that would show it as more than what it appeared as. A bare concrete slab. One that was only just visible in the gloom. “Am I insane?” It’s hardly the first time anyone has called him as such, but it’s one of the insults that he’s not able to shrug off as easily. Because he’s too young to know for sure. Perhaps he will end up in one of those places in the future. And no matter how much he tries to avoid it, the thought is frightening.

“No more than the rest of us.” Anish’s words are the balm that sets Magnus at ease. It’s what he wants to hear. What he needs to hear, perhaps. Because ultimately the opinion of Karmnik’s companion is irrelevant. It’s Kramnik’s that matters. And Anish’s. They are more of Magnus’ world. They understand.

“You think in a very interesting way, though.” Anish hums as he speaks, as if considering his words. “There is an order to your thoughts, but it is an ordered chaos. Organized to you, but chaos to everyone else.”

Magnus finds himself nodding. Ordered chaos. Anish isn’t the first to tell him that. But perhaps he should be concerned. It usually took his teachers the better part of a year to come to that conclusion. Anish had managed it in what? A few hours? Perhaps aided by some extra time spent studying Magnus’ games beforehand, but that would only help so much. Could Anish read Magnus like a book? Had he somehow divined Magnus’ secrets? Would he tell Kramnik everything?

He sees Anish lean over the rail next to him, likewise inspecting the concrete slab visible below. But only for a moment before turning to Magnus, a sort of sparkle in his eyes that does nothing to set Magnus at ease evident.

“I’d love to see how your mind works.” Innocuous words. But Magnus has the feeling that Anish means more that he’d love to poke at Magnus’ brain literally like some sort of demented surgeon. He slides slightly to the side, away from Anish.

The Soviet raises an eyebrow but doesn’t follow, instead standing up and walking back into the gloom. Magnus is on his heels soon enough.

Then they are in a staircase - one that mercifully only smells of must instead of that slime - and descending again. What could be below the sub basement? Magnus finds himself rather scared to ask. Anish had made a quip about playing in the 9th circle of hell. Did the Moscow Central Chess Club extend that far? And he’d have to climb back up all these stairs at the end of it all.

The door has a label - unlike all those that had come before it - but Anish makes no mention of it. Instead swinging the door open. Come to think of it, it was rather strange that none of the doors they’d encountered so far had been locked. Anish hadn’t had to produce so much as a single key.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The gloom seems less, though Magnus doesn’t notice an appreciable change in the lighting. It’s still rather dark. Dark enough that he’d get lost without Anish, and dark enough that he doesn’t know how Anish has been finding his way. But he found it surely as ever, opening a few more doors until they entered a larger room.At first it seemed blank and bare - just a concrete floor and faintly visible concrete walls - but as Magnus looked up he realized where they were. The banister and the square cutout in the otherwise uniform ceiling. This is where Kramnik had stood. A playing hall of sorts, if one that was entirely bare. A room stripped of all that would have made it a proper playing hall.It was in some way appropriate. The Soviets detested flashy chess. Theirs was a cold and solid method. Impersonal. On some level playing all the Soviets felt the same. Not in totality - Dubov was something of a maverick and he couldn’t be the only one - but in the same way that hotel rooms tended to blend together into one uniform shade of beige, Soviet Grandmasters blended together into a cold old man that was almost robotic. Things were different in the West. Each player or at least each camp had their own personality. It was often more tedious to prep, as instead of simply prepping for the Soviet style one had to deal with a dozen different styles at tournaments. Magnus for one enjoyed the challenge of the different styles a great deal, but only when he was playing. That much prep was always so tedious, not helped by Garry’s opinion that the only thing better than four hours of prep was five hours of prep. It was an interesting crux of it all, in a way. Garry was a product of the Soviet school. Magnus was not. Were there children in the Soviet school that could have played more like Magnus and less like their peers if they hadn’t been beaten into the mold of the proper Soviet chess player? Dubov made one think the answer was yes. What of Anish Giri, then? Would he have played in some different style if he’d been given the chance? Or was he one of the Soviets that was more a robot by nature as well instead of just by nurture?“Anish?” Magnus looks away from the gap in the ceiling. Anish is just a few steps away, not looking at anything in particular. “Did you always play the Soviet style?”Anish looks confused for a moment, and Magnus realizes that his question must be something of a non-sequitur. But the Soviet answers.“I suppose I did. Why?”“Nothing, I was just-” Magnus makes a vague gesture with his arms. “Curious, I suppose. I was thinking of how preparation usually goes. And about something that Garry said.”“Kasparov.” There is no question, and for a moment Magnus thinks he’s made a grave mistake. It might have been years ago now, but Garry Kasparov’s defection had rocked Soviet chess to its core. Not perhaps the wisest of topics to bring up given his current predicament. Though better here with only Anish Giri for company than in a room full of stuffy bureaucrats.“Yes. He goes on about the uniformity of the Soviet style. About how it’s more taught than natural.” Anish must know this, but Magnus says it anyway.“It’s true, from a certain point of view. Not to the extreme that Kasparov would say, but they teach us all the same. The same classes. The same principles.”Entirely different from the West where each aspiring prodigy would have a teacher of their own. Though perhaps there was something to be said for the Soviet style. For how centralized it was. No prodigies would be wasted by stagnating with a single incompatible teacher, but on the other hand if there was one bad teacher at the central academy all the prodigies would receive bad lessons. And then there was the issue of compatibility. In the West leaving a teacher was never ideal, but it was a fact of life. Students outgrew their teachers the same way that small children outgrew their clothes. Magnus cannot imagine it is the same here. No, everything seems more regimented. More routine.He imagines the schedules too must be regimented things. Class at a certain hour. Exercises. Sleep. Magnus preferred to make his own schedule, however much Garry disapproved. He played football when he felt the need. He slept when he chose to. And Jorden was always so sweetly accommodating.Magnus isn’t sure what strikes him in that moment, but he lays down, sprawling across the concrete floor. Looking up at the gaping hole in the ceiling. The ceiling of the next level wasn’t visible, so it was like he was staring into a void of sorts. Anish hadn’t commented on it, but Magnus imagines his guide must be a little confused. Then again, chess players were always a little eccentric. Even Soviet ones. Their school never did beat that out of them. And on some level, it felt like the Soviet ones could be more eccentric than all the others. That with such regimented chess they ended up different from each other in other ways.“Does anyone ever push back against the Soviet style? Make one of their own?” Magnus half glances over at Anish, but he can only really see the Soviet grandmaster’s feet. He probably should get up. Who knows how long it has been since the floor here was cleaned? But the dark void above seems oddly enticing, and so Magnus remains sprawled across the floor.“Dubov, but you already knew that.” Anish’s tone is matter-of-fact, and Magnus wonders what antics he’s seen from other Soviets over the years. “Kramnik, from a certain point of view.” Anish paces a little closer. Until he’s standing by Magnus’ head and can lean over to look down at him. “Karjakin as well, after a fashion.”Magnus knows it is Kramnik that he should ask about. Kramnik is his opponent, after all. The only one that matters in the end. The one he will see across the board. But when Anish mentions Karjakin, his mind spins of its own volition. He hadn’t known Sergey Karjakin well. He’d been in favor enough to get some assignments in the West, but he wasn’t the sort to fraternize with non-Soviet players. He’d seemed for all the world a typical Soviet grandmaster. So it had been quite the shock when news of his sudden and tragic death had spread. He’d been young, and by all accounts he was healthy enough. Not the type of person one would expect to simply drop dead. Magnus had wondered a great deal at the time, but details had been vague. They always were beyond the Iron Curtain. Did Anish know more? Probably. Certainly, even. Karjakin’s death had only been a few months ago, even if the chess world had marched on. As much as he’d been a skilled player there was no shortage of Soviet grandmasters.Anish had mentioned him earlier, but only in passing. And the answer had seemed like a rehearsed one.“What ever happened to Karjakin?” Magnus finds himself very curious, but he tries to sound nonchalant. Garry had speculated some, but none of Garry’s theories had seemed all that reasonable to Magnus at the time. They seemed more the ravings of an overly paranoid man than anything else.“In short? He fell out a window.” There is something about the way that Anish says it that makes Magnus’ blood run cold. Insinuations within insinuations. Anish seemed the type that was very careful with his words, regardless of what language he was speaking. There was a difference between falling out a window and jumping out a window. There was also a difference between falling out a window and being pushed out a window.“Fell?” Still, it all seems so confusing. Karjakin could hold his liquor as far as Magnus remembered, though the Soviets tended to party with other Soviets. Perhaps Karjakin drank more with his countrymen.“Fell.” Anish’s tone is calmly certain. He knows exactly what the word means. He’d chosen it on purpose. Sergey Karjakin fell from a window.“A tragedy.” Magnus’ words sound canned even to his own ears. He’d never been good at offering condolences, and it doesn’t sound like Anish particularly mourns Karjakin regardless.“I suppose so.” Anish cared for Karjakin even less than Magnus had originally thought if his tone was anything to go by. There were so many Soviet grandmasters. And now that Karjakin was dead it would mean less competition for Anish. “Though he was something of a heretic.”Anish’s statement seems completely out of the blue, and Magnus finds himself more than a little confused. A heretic? Were they talking about the same Sergey Karjakin? The man that Magnus remembered could have been a poster boy for Soviet chess in every way imaginable.He played defensive chess - annoyingly defensive chess, really. Enough that Magnus had been rather sure he’d be on Kramnik’s team. The Minister of Defense, he’d been called. Magnus wasn’t sure who it was that had termed him as such, but the name was appropriate. His was the type of chess that irked Magnus above all. He’d been better than Sergey. From the first time he’d played the man, he’d always been better. But actually winning a game against him was always infuriating. His defense was too solid. Too Soviet. Just the sort of thing that made Magnus overpush in ways he shouldn’t. No, it made no sense at all. If anything, Karjakin seemed the furthest thing from a heretic.“Heresy?” Magnus looks at Anish. His guide had taken a few steps away so Magnus couldn’t see his face anymore. “What type of heresy?” A bold question, perhaps, but the walls were concrete and it seemed like they were alone. Just them, the concrete, and the black void that led to a ceiling somewhere above them. Anish gave a little hum, like he was considering his words very carefully.“Zealotry gone too far.” Each word only conjured more questions in Magnus’ mind. Zealotry. The word seemed strong, but perhaps it was a reasonable one for Karjakin. As much as he’d always been one of the more performative Soviets, it had never felt fake in the way that it did whenever Dubov tried to act normal. “Orthodoxy gone too far?” A guess, but a reasonable one. What else could the answer be? Karjakin was the last person Magnus would ever expect to hear about defecting. Had he tried some sort of anti-defecting? Did such a thing even exist?“That’s one way to put it.” Anish’s tone seems almost playful. Like he’s running Magnus around a simple truth and into the weeds of implications and plots for fun. Magnus sits up to get a better look at the Soviet. Anish’s expression isn’t devious, but there is some sparkle in his eyes that Magnus doesn’t like. He smiled at Magnus. It was an unnerving thing that didn’t reach his eyes. “He was very confident he would win at the Candidates. Certain-” Anish hums, making a gesture as if he’s looking for a word. “ Steps were taken. Prematurely. The powers that be were displeased.”Another mystery. Karjakin hadn’t won the Candidates. He hadn’t even been close. Not that it mattered. Second place at the Candidates and eighth place had the exact same thing to their names, that being nothing at all. Well, Magnus supposed they had different sized piles of money.Still, there is so much that can be read into what Anish said. And what he didn’t say. How had Karjakin overstepped his bounds? Because that much was clear. Karjakin had overstepped his bounds. Challengers always needed their seconds. Had he made premature overtures? Sometimes it did take time for negotiations to be complete. Other times it was a very quick thing - Magnus’ own ‘negotiations’ - if they could even be called that - with Jorden had been only a few hours. But that was rare, and more typical of youngsters. Theoreticians were a different matter, and coaches took the longest. But weren’t such things controlled by the powers that be, as Anish had put it? Each answer he got only seemed to raise more questions. Best not to get too lost in the rabbit hole.“How does one fall out a window?”Anish nods. An implicit instruction for Magnus to stand. He does, and soon he’s following Anish again. Expecting to have to ascend a great many flights of stairs - because they must be deep underground now. But instead Anish only opens one door, then another. And finally, they come to a window.It’s larger than Magnus had expected. Large enough for a man to fall out of. The outside world is white, and the misty glass reveals nothing as Anish glances back at Magnus for a moment before opening the window latches.The blast of cold air that comes as he does takes Magnus' breath away. It’s sharp. Burning. Nothing burns like the cold. But before he can even get over that, Anish is behind him. One hand resting at Magnus’ hip, the other on his shoulder. The touch is firm, and Magnus is grateful for it. He can’t see anything but the swirling white outside. They must be high in the sky, then. But how? Each stairway had taken them further and further down. It made no sense.Anish shuffles them a little closer to the open window, and Magnus realizes it’s wide enough for a man to step through. Tall enough as well. He wouldn’t even have to duck.How does a man fall out a window? He can feel Anish’s hands firmly at his shoulder and hip. Keeping him close. Secure. The Soviet grandmaster was stronger than he looked. Right now he was keeping Magnus firmly in the window. But if his hands shifted - If he pushed - Magnus wasn’t certain he’d be able to catch himself. Anish walks him back a few steps and then releases him, securing the window latches as Magnus catches his breath. Falling out a window indeed. Perhaps Anish was being a bit too kind to himself. Perhaps Karjakin had fallen out a window. After he’d been pushed . They are on their way soon only a moment later, Magnus dutifully trailing behind Anish, wondering what they’d come to next. With how things were going he was half expecting to somehow end up on the roof next. If they showed him the sub-basements - or whatever the last two levels had been - then surely they’d show him the roof as well. But with how bad the wind coming from the window had been, perhaps not. It wouldn’t do if Magnus made it all the way to Moscow for his match only to fall off the roof during his tour of the Moscow Central Chess Club. The chess world would throw a fit. Anish opens another unmarked door, and they begin to descend again. What would there be next? Another sub-basement? Some sort of mine? Would they end up back in the library? If they did Magnus would be firmly of the opinion that the architect who designed the Chess Club was a madman. Then again, all chess players were mad to some extent. He’d fit right in.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The stairwell Anish leads Magnus into is a spiral one, and the steps seem oddly steep and sharper than the past stairwells. It’s enough that Magnus reaches out to touch the dark walls a few times. There are no railings here. Anish isn’t descending overly quickly, but with the steepness of the steps it still feels too fast to Magnus.

They run into Daniil Dubov - almost literally - a few steps below a small landing with a bench. Anish hadn’t so much as glanced at it, though part of Magnus had certainly wanted to stop. It is probably good that Anish was the one leading - Magnus surely would have stumbled into Daniil and they both would have gone tumbling. On a staircase like this a tumble seemed like practically an invitation for a broken neck. But Anish had managed to stop in time with ease, and had quickly half-hauled Dubov back up to the little landing before sitting him on the bench.

It hadn’t been as obvious in the dim light of the staircase, but the pale flickering of the bare lightbulb above the little bench makes the marks on Dubov’s face look stark against his pale skin. The blood from a gash by his lip is almost black, and there are hints of red and purple in his skin.

“Dubov?” It’s definitely Daniil, but Magnus hadn’t thought to see him here. They were so deep already. And Daniil had run into Anish. Was he on the way back up? From where? And Magnus would also have to climb back up all those stairs in time. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to it.

Daniil’s eyes flick up to Magnus. They seem wide and frightful. A man entirely different from the Dubov that had met Magnus on the train. He opened his mouth, but winced in pain and quickly closed it. The gash by his lip, probably. Even with the lighting as it was it looked deep and painful, splitting Dubov’s lip. And the blood was still faintly oozing from the wound. It had to be fresh, and Magnus sincerely doubted that Daniil had fallen on the stairs.

Anish’s hand on Magnus’ shoulder nudges him out of the way, and then Anish is sitting beside Daniil on the bench and opening a small box. There is gauze, and Anish gently dabs it at Daniil’s injuries in a way that almost looks gentle. But perhaps it isn’t, because Daniil flinches away badly and his eyes are so terribly wide. Like he’s frightened of Anish Giri despite the gauze in his hand.

Anish merely hums and sets the gauze off to the side, picking up a thread and a needle with his long and graceful fingers. It’s not until after he has the needle threaded that Magnus begins to understand. Daniil’s head shakes, and he tries to open his mouth again. This time he’s stopped by a single finger at his lips, long and graceful. Anish has such beautiful hands. Perfect for maneuvering chessmen or perhaps for playing the piano. Entirely unsuited for fighting. Even if Anish hadn’t been with Magnus for hours and hours by now there was no way he could have been the one to beat Dubov. Because Daniil does look beaten. Perhaps it had been a heavy ringed fist that opened his lip like that.

“Stay still.” Anish’s voice is softly musical as he adjusts himself and grasps Daniil’s chin. All Magnus can see in Dubov’s eyes is terror in that moment, then pain as Anish puts the needle and thread to use.

Magnus can’t bring himself to watch, and his eyes dart away to gaze at the floor. It’s of little use - they find a black spot that can only be Daniil’s blood, and he can still hear the nervous way Daniil shifts and the almost disturbing way Anish hums a merry little tune.

The tune cuts off abruptly and Anish makes an exasperated sound.

“Do you want me to kiss it better, Danya?”

Daniil Dubov is glaring at Anish with a mixture of fear and hatred when Magnus looks up. No, he doesn’t want it to be kissed better.

Anish smiles in that disconcerting way of his.

“Then stay still, yes?”

Magnus looks away as Anish’s fingers return to their work. For all he likes looking for pain and tears in his opponents over the board, he’s still a bit squeamish when it comes to things like blood. He could never be the one sewing Daniil up, but Anish seems rather nonplussed by it all.

“All done.”

Anish is standing when Magnus looks up, though his gaze is still on Daniil. The young Soviet Grandmaster looks a little better now, though the spidering of black stitches against his pale skin is oddly eerie. The stitches extend further than Magnus thought they would, and he winces. It’s not that Anish quite sewed Daniil’s mouth shut, but Daniil certainly wouldn't be talking much until the stitches came out. They looked so painful too.

“Off you go.” Anish’s musical voice is in stark contrast to the look on Daniil’s face, and Daniil gives Magnus one last look before continuing up the stairs.

Anish waits for a moment as they listen to the steady sound of Dubov’s steps on the stone, but then he’s looking to Magnus and nodding to the stairs that descend further.

They spiral around once in silence, then again. Then again. Magnus isn’t really counting. The stairs seem endless, and he can’t hear Daniil’s footsteps anymore.

Evidently, neither can Anish.

“You’d think little Danya would learn eventually. He’s the one that goes to tournaments in the West. What’s that saying? Snitches get stitches?”

Magnus gives a little grunt, but decides the question is a rhetorical one. He doesn’t want to think about the way the stitches looked on Daniil’s face.

So Magnus wills his mind elsewhere, letting the seemingly endless stairs and the rhythmic footfalls lull him into an almost trance. It was so odd being alone. Not having his own team present. Because as much as Anish was with him physically, Anish wasn’t Magnus’. Not in the way that Jorden was. His sweet Dutch boy wouldn’t dream of leading Magnus anywhere, instead content to follow his footsteps, waiting dutifully in his shadow. There to play training games or check lines. Nothing too difficult.

And even calling the training games as much was a little dishonest on Magnus’ part. Jordan might try and fight, but he never stood a chance. Once in a blue moon he might manage a draw if Magnus wasn’t paying enough attention, but it was typically a question of whether Magnus would win 30 moves or 50.

There must be some sort of masochism in the Dutch boy to do it over and over again as he did, especially as he thanked Magnus with a smile on his face after every game. A smile that always begged for more. Sometimes Magnus would indulge his second. Other times he’d send his pretty boy back to the books.

Magnus had never really pondered it before. What it might be like to play someone when deep down you knew they were much better than you. Perhaps the first few games with Garry he might have pondered it, but he’d played Garry for the first time when he still had the undimmed fire of childhood in his eyes. And he’d done well enough for himself. As brilliant as Garry was, there was no denying that father time was catching up with him. Magnus had been better than Garry for a good while now, even if they didn’t play that often.

On a whim, he ponders his guide. Had Anish ever felt as Jorden must? Did he often drag himself back to Kramnik for beating after beating, thanking his master after each and every one? Almost reveling in the way he hurt himself each time? Begging for his beatings?

Magnus is so lost in his thoughts that he almost falls when they come to the next landing, but he catches himself on Anish.

“Lost in your thoughts?” Anish steadies Magnus, raising a single questioning eyebrow.

Magnus shrugs.

“It’s weird being here without my team. Dubov almost reminds me of Jorden.” Magnus realizes a moment later that Anish likely has no idea who he’s talking about. “Van Forrest. He’s my second. One of them, anyway.”

“Do you often beat your second?” Anish’s tone is even, and Magnus winces. For all he likes to see Jorden’s tears he’d never raise a hand to him in anger. But the way Anish says it - does Kramnik raise his hand to Anish in anger?

“Only over the board.” Perhaps Magnus says it a little too quickly, because there’s something knowing in Anish’s eyes that makes him want to look away.

“Of course. Why would there be another way for you to beat your seconds?” When Magnus looks up Anish looks rather concerned, and Magnus finds himself tripping over his thoughts.

“Sometimes I play football with them.” He half-sputters the words. It sounds reasonable enough.

Anish gives a little half shrug.

“Kramnik isn’t really the footballing type. And he has so many seconds. There are always more. He’s a busy man.”

The words seem just the type to set Magnus on edge. Always more seconds. So much so that they could spare Anish to walk Magnus around. If the Championship was in Oslo he wouldn’t dream of telling Jorden to walk Kramnik around the chess club.

But before Magnus can ponder it more, Anish is off again, leading Magnus down the stairs. Mercifully, he goes a little slower. Less mercifully, the steps seem steeper. What was at the bottom? Where were they going now? Jorden had made a few jokes as Magnus was leaving to be sure to avoid any interrogation rooms after he won. The match hadn’t even started yet. Magnus hadn’t even finished his tour of the chess club. He knew that he shouldn’t be nervous, but what could possibly be down so many floors?

And they’d already seen all the important bits of the chess club. If they were anywhere else Magnus would have expected the little tour to stop after the library, the playing hall, and perhaps a classroom. But this wasn’t an ordinary chess club, now was it?

Magnus shook his head and tried to put his growing doubts out of his mind. There couldn’t be too much more to this, and he was alone in the Soviet Union. Best not to anger his hosts unless he really did want to end up in some secret police interrogation room.

“Do you have a favorite opening?” Maybe talking to Anish about a more reasonable subject will help.

Anish doesn’t turn around, only barely turning his head.

“I play them all.” His answer is coldly non-committal. The exact sort of thing that Magnus would expect from a Soviet Grandmaster. Still, he tries to remain undeterred.

“I think the Bongcloud is my current favorite, but it changes sometimes.” He tries to keep his tone light.

That does get a reaction from Anish. The Soviet stops, half turning back to Magnus with a somewhat disbelieving expression on his face.

“The Bongcloud?”

“The Bongcloud.” Magnus tries to keep his face as serious as possible.

Anish clearly doesn’t buy it.

“That’s not a serious opening. It’s an insult to the game of chess.” Anish does sound genuinely insulted, and Magnus feels an odd pang of guilt. He’d just been trying to make a joke. It wasn’t that deep.

But Anish doesn’t give him the chance to respond, instead turning on his heel and continuing down the staircase. Magnus hurries to follow, annoyed at himself for asking the question in the first place. It was usually an easy one between chess players. How had he managed to mess that up?

A little voice mutters in his mind that the Soviets tended to take things like openings very seriously, and as a theoretician Anish would undoubtedly take them even more seriously than most. He should have thought of that before he said the Bongcloud, then.

In a way Anish’s reaction rather reminded Magnus of the kid at the simul - the one who had stormed out after Magnus had backrank checkmated him.

“What will happen to the student? The one who stormed out of the simul.”

Anish gives a vague and non-committal shrug.

“That rather depends on the teacher that disciplines him. Most have their own little pet punishments. But it’s not like he flipped the table or anything. And with the opening you played they’ll consider the loss punishment enough, I think.”

Magnus finds his mind drifting back to a story he’d been told. Not by Garry - though Garry was at the center of it. It was not the sort of story that one ever asked Garry about. Who had Magnus heard it from? He wasn’t quite sure. He’d probably been several drinks deep already at an Olympiad party. Because it was the sort of story that tended to come up at an Olympiad party.

World Champions flipping the table - even it was probably accidental - always made for decent stories. Magnus hadn’t believed it the first time that he heard about it, but after meeting Garry he understood a little better.

“Did you ever hear about the time that Garry flipped the table at the Olympiad?”

Anish makes a vague sound.

“Soviet chess teachers didn’t like that one much either. I heard some of them actually wrote to him and scolded him for being a poor example.”

Magnus snorts, holding back the laughter.

“But he won that game.”

“And that’s why the teachers forgot about it. You best believe it would be talked about far more if he’d lost. The poor little student would get a full lecture on how not to be like Garry. But Garry won, and so it’s not the example they like to use.”

“Ugly victories are still victories.” Magnus has never been one to discriminate. If he has a trophy in his hands he rarely cares how the games that got him there look.

“And still ugly.” Anish doesn’t miss a beat as he continues down the stairs. “The best chess always has beauty to it. Artistry.”

“Victory has a beauty all its own, I think.”

Anish starts humming instead of responding again. The notes echo strangely on the stone walls of the spiral staircase, but the sound has a beauty to it. An odd sort of beauty to be sure, but there is something about the sound that Magnus can’t quite put his finger on.

For all the staircase had seemed never ending, it did eventually end, and abruptly at that. Anish swings the door open with the same effortless ease as he had each one that came before it, revealing a small room.

The room was mostly bare - there was only a table, two chairs, and a great mirror that occupied most of one wall of the room. One of the chairs made something of an awful scraping sound as Anish pulled it out and sat down, smiling at Magnus and gesturing to the other chair.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Magnus didn’t take the offered seat, instead taking a step closer to the large mirror and trying to peer through it. But if there is anything beyond the smooth glass it’s shrouded all in darkness.

“What is this place?” He has a sinking feeling in his gut. But he wants Anish to say it.

Anish shrugs in the mirror, but the gesture seems performative and catlike. Anish Giri knows exactly what this place is.

“A room for conversations. But I have it on good authority there’s been a chessboard in here before.” His tone is light, and if anything it sets Magnus even more on edge. There’s something wrong with this place, but he can’t quite name it.

Magnus turns back toward Anish. As he does, his eyes catch a few dark spots on the floor. Blood? What sort of

conversations

was Anish referring to?

“What sort of conversations?” Magnus doesn’t want to guess.

Anish tilts his head to the side in a way that seems almost condescending.

“Difficult ones. Sensitive ones.”

“And what sort of games?”

“Generally games of chess. Why do you want to know? Were you planning on cheating?” Anish’s tone is matter-of-fact and completely incongruous with the accusation that rolls off his tongue.

Magnus sees red in an instant, and his hands ball into fists as he takes one step toward Anish, then another.

“Say that again.” He spits the words with a great deal of anger, but Anish only seems amused as he rises from his chair in a lazy flowing motion, holding his hands half up in a submissive gesture as he steps toward Magnus then gently taking his hands.

“Relax, Magzy. It’s only a joke. I suppose I should know better than to joke with westerners.” Anish’s words sound sincere enough, but they don’t feel sincere. There’s something in them that is mocking, but as Anish’s thumbs gently brush over Magnus’ fists his hands relax.

“But-” Anish’s smile is back, and it’s not a kind thing. One of his hands comes up to cup Magnus’ cheek. “You’re not bad to look at, Magzy. The World Champion has a type. And the arbiters are dirty old men.”

Magnus’ anger was back in a moment and his hand shot out, grasping Anish’s slim throat and slamming him against the wall.

“Shut up.” Magnus snarled the words as he watched Anish wince, one hand coming up to the back of his head.

“Not so rough, Magzy. That hurt.” He winced and muttered something in Russian, moving his hand to his forehead as he did, and Magnus felt a sudden surge of guilt. He’d wanted Anish to be quiet, but he hadn’t wanted to hurt him. Anish was the one who would lead him out of here, after all. And so he released him, taking a nervous few steps back and wondering what he should say. He didn’t want to apologize.

Anish moved back to the chair, sitting more slowly this time and rubbing a point below his ear, near where Magnus had grabbed him.

“You’ll forgive me if I don’t really think you’re the type that would be any good at flattery. The Soviet school is different from the western one, and even beyond that Kramnik is so particular. One needs to know what to say, and even then he’s so suspicious.” Anish snorted, but then winced, touching his own neck again. Had Magnus hurt him more than he’d implied?

“It’s such a fine line. If you don’t praise him enough it won’t work and if you praise him even the slightest bit too much then he’ll suspect you. And he’d be suspicious of

you

anyway. No, I don’t think any sort of flattery would work for you.”

Anish touched the back of his head one last time before looking up at Magnus. He seems tired, like his mask is slipping ever so slightly, and he gestures to the other chair. Magnus sits.

“I hear you’re looking for a new second.”

Magnus tenses. Garry probably knew, but that was it. Well, Garry and Peter. And Fressinet had probably deduced it. Which meant that Jan might have as well. And come to think of it, Jorden’s performance had slumped. Perhaps it was just a logical guess on Anish’s part.

“Why? Do you want to throw your name in the hat for the position?”

Anish smiled at that, looking down as he did. Like he considered the thought flattering.

“I don’t know about the West, but we rather frown on simony here.”

Magnus' confusion must show on his face, because Anish gives an amused snort before grimacing and touching his jaw again.

“I suppose it’s not quite simony, but I’ve always found chess has a certain religious air to it. Promising positions for services.” Anish’s tone is even this time, but Magnus’ ears strain for even the slightest hint of something. Anything.

He tries to scoff. To play it off as just another joke.

“What are you going to accuse me of next? Bewitching Kramnik through some fell sorcery? Turning him into a bear?”

The thought is something of a comic one. Karmnik’s nickname was mostly due to his size. What if he did become a bear but retained his mind? How would it go if Magnus were sitting across the chessboard from a giant bear? Probably not well, but the image is still an amusing one.

“I’ve heard bears are fairly dexterous creatures. If he still had his mind I think he’d play. Though perhaps I’d go to the arbiter about his claws.”

Anish nods vaguely.

“I suppose so. Though I do hope you’d be more creative, Magzy. You’re supposed to be the Mozart of Chess. It’d be so disappointing if all you managed was some sort of bear joke. Make the sorcery interesting.” Perhaps he’s trying to needle Magnus, but it doesn’t work this time. If Anish has some deep point to his words then Magnus misses it.

“But dreams are only dreams, Magzy. And if Kramnik were a bear he’d tear you to pieces. Literally. And I don’t think FIDE even has any regulations against the use of sorcery. Bribery, on the other hand …” Anish makes a vague hand gesture and trails off, eyes fixed on Magnus.

Magnus can’t help but to roll his own eyes. It’s ridiculous. The Soviets were the ones that bribed FIDE. Everyone knew that. It was how they got away with match fixing or the shady norm tournaments.

“Bribery? Me?” Magnus scoffs. “Not all of us are funded by the state.” There is more truth to the point than he’d like to admit. The Soviets had everything it seemed they could ever want - a horde of juniors, respect, money to travel or study. Meanwhile Magnus would be lucky to get a pat on the back from a local politician most of the time.

And that was without even mentioning that there were more than a few rumors of just how the Soviets managed to be so favored by FIDE. Just about all of them involved sums of money changing hands, though more than a few emphasized the sheer number of Soviets in FIDE. Magnus’ own coach was the one who liked to call it nothing more than a junior branch of the Soviet Chess Federation.

“What are you going to do next? Call me a drawish hypocrite?” Magnus tries to sound matter of fact, but he hopes the words cut deep. All Soviets had reputations for drawing, and specifically for pre-arranging their draws.

Magnus had solved that little problem by simply winning all his games. It rather put a damper on any match-fixing efforts. And the looks on the faces of his competitors were always memories he cherished more than he perhaps should.

“But I’m not drawish. And between us, you’re the piece thief.” Magnus thinks back to the rook Anish had swiped from his board during their impromptu blitz match.

Anish’s expression darkens for a moment and Magnus feels some deep-seated sense of triumph. For all Anish Giri seemed to be something of a magician with his words, Magnus wasn’t terrible with them. He just preferred to let his chess do the talking instead of weaving some great web of words in the Soviet fashion.

And come to think of it, the piece was probably still in Giri’s jacket pocket and probably felt like it was made of lead right now. Good. Let Anish remember how badly Magnus had beaten him, and how he’d resorted to cheating because he couldn’t bear the loss. Anish shifted slightly in his chair, glaring daggers at Magnus but saying nothing. Was that all it took to shut him up after all?

“And all this talk of flattery and seduction - Kramnik is so suspicious. He’d never believe so much as a word I said. But you-” Magnus’ eyes raked over Anish Giri’s lithe form. “You’re his trusted second. Well, as much as he trusts anyone.” He stood, leaning over the table toward Anish. “You’re his councilor. He’d listen to you. Were you planning on giving him bad council, Girinho? On telling him to play lines I’ve mastered?”

“He has half a hundred seconds, Magzy. Why would he listen to me over half a hundred other grandmasters?” The words sound innocent and lighthearted enough, but Magnus can almost smell the weakness and he pounces.

“You expect me to believe you’re not special?” Dubov’s words come to mind. “Aren’t you Kramnik’s

favorite

? Weren’t you chosen for this specific task? I wonder why you aren’t looking at lines? Is Kramnik suspicious of

you

, Anish? Did you give out assignments to less capable minions that you should have done yourself?” It’s entirely a shot in the dark, but despite Anish’s mostly even expression Magnus is fairly certain that it lands. Interesting.

“Kramnik is suspicious of everyone, Magnus. From the students that get sent to play simuls with him to the old greybeards they pulled out of retirement to the young sharks he knows are nipping at his heels even if they are nominally in his service. I’d be more concerned if he weren’t suspicious of me, Magzy. Because then I’d have to go tell the powers that be that Kramnik might have been replaced.”

The note of humor present in Anish’s voice should tip Magnus off that Anish has somehow tipped the tables once more, but it isn’t until the young Soviet gracefully stands and Magnus takes an unconscious step back that he realizes it.

“It would be so very awkward for the World Champion to be discovered in some re-education camp, wouldn’t it?”

Anish leans back and lazily rounds the table before perching himself on it.

“But you’re missing the most important part of it all, Magzy. You’re so confident in your honesty. You know what the truth is. But-” He looked down for a moment, then back up. And it was like the smug graceful Anish who had been Magnus’ guide was gone and now there was some doppelganger in his place. One that was teary eyed, scared, and so very young.

“Please, Sirs. I heard it all through the door. The arbiter is paid off. He saw me through the window and caught me.” Anish’s trembling hands reached up to caress the place where Magnus’ hands had rested not so long ago. “He said he’d kill me if I breathed a word of it to anyone. Please, Sirs. You have to believe me.”

Magnus feels his heart drop, and he has no doubt that he’s leaning back as far as he can in the chair. But Anish still feels far too close for comfort.

His Soviet guide’s face changes again, this time dissolving into laughter. There is no music in it, and the sound is cruel and mocking.

“What’s the matter,

Magzy

? You look a little pale. Have you seen a ghost? I’m afraid there was a student who hung himself in the library a few years ago. He just couldn’t handle the pressure. And one of the guards shot himself a year before that. Memories of the war or something of that ilk. And a few of the old drawmasters who teach class around here might well drop dead during any given lecture. So perhaps the building is a little haunted.”

Each word that rolls off Anish's silver tongue is an insult, and each cuts deeper than the last. Magnus has the urge to punch Anish the same as he’d had before, but his hands are trembling, and he somehow knows that if he balls his fist he’ll never be able to throw the punch. But he’s not sure what changed. How was this Anish different to the one he’d shoved into the wall mere minutes ago? And it would be easier this time. Anish was right in front of him, and there wasn’t a chair to support him.

“Cat got your tongue?” Anish’s tone is more mocking than insulting.

“Shut up.” Magnus tries to say the words with some conviction, but they sound pathetic to his own ears. He doesn’t sound anything like himself.

“Rude.” Anish tutted and slid off the desk in a way that reminded Magnus of a great cat. He made something of a show of inspecting his nails before reaching out to touch Magnus’ cheek.

Magnus tried to flinch away but Anish Giri’s ice-cold fingers caught him with ease and with a strength that one would not expect for fingers that seemed rather more spindly than strong.

But as soon as he has Magnus in his grasp the Soviet grandmaster releases him.

“I suppose you are only a Westerner. The rudeness is to be expected.” He hummed a note and circled around behind Magnus’ chair before walking over to the door.

“We’ve dilly-dallied long enough, Magnus. Come.”

Anish opens the door - the same door that they had come in not so long ago - and Magnus scrambles after him.

But instead of the endless spiral staircase that had brought them here, there is only a dark expanse. Magnus glances left and then right. He’d been following Anish without paying overmuch attention when they’d arrived. Was there another door they’d had to go through before entering whatever that room had been? But before he can even ask the question he’s scrambling after Anish once more before the Soviet can disappear into the gloom.

The steps they come to are vast - Magnus can’t see walls on either side of them - and they are not the steep steps from earlier. If anything these steps are almost gentle despite there being so many of them.

“More steps?” Magnus doesn’t even want to think about how they are going to get back up all these steps soon. And he’s in better shape than most chess players. Dubov for one was a twig. How long had it taken him to climb back up all those stairs?

Anish laughed. The sound could only be described as having a musical beauty to it, and he paused, half-turning back toward Magnus.

“These are the last ones. I promise.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

As much as the black stone steps seem endless as Magnus looks out over them, he and Anish reach the bottom rather quickly. The light is almost gone - there is just the faint hint of it coming from behind them. Enough to not trip over the steps, but not enough to begin to illuminate the cavernous room around them.The floor is odd as Magnus steps onto it. Appearing at first like shining black stone, but the texture is all wrong. A floor like this should be slippery, but the one beneath his feet is anything but. He shuffles his feet slightly, and the sound that comes seems all wrong. Like it’s ice.Anish hasn’t gone far, so Magnus chances kneeling down for a moment to touch the odd floor. It’s icy cold when he does, and he quickly withdraws his hand. Nothing burns like the cold. And the cold is coming in all around him. He hadn’t noticed it so much on the stairs, but it’s freezing. Not that it was overly warm on any of the last few floors, but Magnus’ suit jacket had done its job. Here it seemed freezing in a way it hadn’t been even when they’d been outside.Magnus rubbed his arms unconsciously.“It’s freezing.” His teeth don’t chatter but he hopes Anish Giri hears the accusation in his tone. Magnus takes a few more steps toward Anish, gazing down into the dark floor again. There’s a shape in the gloom, almost embedded deep within the floor. Beneath it. Magnus cranes his head, but with how dim the cavern is he can’t make much out. Just the vague blob. He scans back and forth and another catches his attention.“Anish?” He looks up to his guide, then back down to the shapes beneath the floor. “What’s that?”Anish took an elegant few steps over and followed Magnus’ gaze for a moment before meeting Magnus’ eyes. There is an odd light in Anish’s eyes - something that Magnus can’t quite put his finger on. And almost by his presence, the cavern seems just a little brighter. It’s odd and entirely disconcerting, but Magnus doesn’t get any time to dwell on it.“Ah. That. Perhaps a little more light is in order.” Anish’s words are slow and measured. And when the word light passes through his lips, the cavern is at once illuminated.Not from above, below, or the side. The light seems disembodied and radiating from everything and nothing at the same time. Laying everything bare in crystal clarity.The floor is perfectly transparent in the light, and the dark shapes within are unmistakable. Daniil Dubov is the first one that Magnus recognizes. He’s perhaps a meter below the surface of the ice, and his face is contorted into an expression of frozen agony. But there are others, and Magnus finds his eyes darting from one to the other and his heart flutters faster and faster. Peter. Garry. Jorden. The old man from the park. Even Karjakin.He takes a deep breath as he stumbles back a few steps and his frantic eyes find Anish again. His guide has taken off his black suit jacket though Magnus doesn’t see it anywhere and now he’s slipping a pale blue one on. And his trousers too - they’d been black before. Matching the jacket. Matching everything. Now they're the same pale blue as the jacket that Anish settles on his shoulders.Whatever expression Magnus has on his face must amuse Anish, because his guide gives half a chuckle as he takes slow steps toward Magnus. There’s a quality to him now that makes Magnus nervous. Everything he does seems slow and lazy, but elegant and controlled. Magnus tries to take a step back, but his feet are firmly rooted in place. There’s nowhere for him to go.He can’t even turn as Anish slowly circles him like a great shark, picking the perfect moment and place to strike.“Would you rather I had a little red beard and horns?” The question, asked as Anish passes behind Magnus again, is almost mirthful. The finger that trails from Magnus’ spine over his shoulder and part way down his arm might well be made of the same ice as the floor. It traces right back up Magnus’ arm, over his collarbone, and under his chin as Anish comes to stand in front of Magnus, growing colder with each passing moment.Anish looks different, though Magnus isn’t quite sure how. He’s beautiful. Fair and fell in equal measure. And there’s a light that almost seems to shine from his face, or at least from his eyes.“No, I don’t think you would. You like beautiful things, Magzy.” There is nothing kind in the smile that curves across Anish’s face for a moment. He released Magnus’ chin only to circle around Magnus once more. His hands are just as cold as his finger had been as one rests at Magnus’ hip and the other slides up Magnus’ chest to his heart as Anish hooks his chin over Magnus’ shoulder. “And what could be more beautiful than an angel of light, music, and knowledge?” His icy lips caress Magnus’ ear and for a moment Magnus can’t move at all, but then Anish releases him without warning and he’s almost stumbling once more with his feet no longer rooted in place.Magnus catches sight of the figures deep in the ice once more. They’re unnerving. The visages are too perfect. Too sharp. It’s like they’ve all been frozen mid-scream.A snort breaks him from his thoughts.“Even now, all you can think of is playing?” Anish’s tone is something between mocking and amused. Magnus follows his gaze to a small playing table, set with a board and chairs of what appears to be the same perfectly clear ice as the floor. Had he been thinking of chess? He wasn’t sure.Anish walks over the board and takes one of the seats.“Fine then, Magzy. Let us play.”Magnus panics for half a moment after he sits down. The pieces are different - his own are of the perfectly clear ice while Anish’s look frosted. But which are black and which are white? Anish answers the questions with the push of a pawn. Magnus has black, then.From the first move the game feels strange. Like Magnus is underwater and he can’t see, hear, or think clearly. His hand wants to hit the clock, but there is none. Only the opponent sitting across from him. And the board between them seems so small.The pieces still dance well enough, even if they don’t feel right in Magnus’ hands. They’re cold, but more than that they’re heavy. Heavy in a way that ice shouldn’t be. It’s more like playing with solid metal pieces. Magnus’ well-practiced moves seem clumsy. The type of thing that one might expect of a beginner who is just learning the game. Anish, meanwhile, is just as graceful as he’d been in the park or across the board they’d played blitz over. Every bit the grandmaster. Every bit the master theoretician. Magnus knows he’s being toyed with, but he can’t seem to see any of the moves. It’s like he’s a child again, struggling to beat his older sister.And failing miserably, time after time. In a classical game Magnus would get up. He’d pace to and fro, and check the other games that would be going on. But it’s like he’s rooted in place. He couldn’t get up if he wanted to. He has to sit and play and endure each and every move as the pieces shift over the board.Magnus is quite sure he’s losing, but he can’t see how. It’s like his visions, his skill - they’re all gone. The weaknesses he’d seen in Anish in their blitz games had vanished. Now it was Magnus that was outmatched. And hopelessly so. It was only a matter of time before Anish decided to stop toying with him and finish the job.But he doesn’t. As much as Magnus knows he lost and that it must end soon, the agony continues. On and on as his stomach sinks lower and lower. He doesn’t want to look at the board. He just wants it to be over. To see the inevitable checkmate that’s coming and be done with it. But each time he hears the sound of Anish’s piece moving into place he looks up and the game still continues. Like a never ending ballet of misery and torment. But that’s rather the point of it, isn’t it?“Why am I here?” His words sound hollow on his own ears. What did he do wrong? He’d never been a nice opponent or even a nice person, but there was a difference in throwing barbs at the ever obedient Jorden and being damned for all eternity.Anish looks up and his expression contorts into something that is both bemused and condescending.“Sven Magnus Øen Carlsen, you’ve dedicated your life to chess to the detriment of everything else. Your family. Your education. And chance of being a well rounded-human being. You’ve given your heart over to chess. Where do you think the heart of chess lies?” His tone is calmer and more even than Magnus had expected, and his pronunciation of Magnus’ name is unnervingly perfect.For a moment Magnus’ thoughts race. As much as Anish had asked more than a few rhetorical questions, this wasn’t one of them. Where was the heart of chess? Moscow, some part of him mutters. With Kramnik. With Garry. All sensible answers. But Magnus wasn’t always a sensible man. And any good chess player had a healthy dose of arrogance in them, World Championship Challengers more than any others.“With me.” Magnus brought his hand to his chest.Anish smiles at that. He’s amused. Still predatory, but clearly amused. “Pride over treason, then. A man after my own heart. Though one so often begets the other. And you’ve wanted to go to Moscow for so long. To walk the hallowed halls and feel at one with such a sacred place.”Magnus feels his hands balling into fists. He has the sudden urge to reach out and punch Anish. To wipe the smile off his face. There’s no arbiter here to disqualify him. And he’s already lost anyway. If anything, it seems like a great idea. Something that might finally wipe that infuriating smirk off of Anish’s face.So Magnus swung. He was stronger than Anish. It didn’t take some sort of scientist to see that. For all Anish was about the same height as Magnus, he was as skinny as a twig. Hardly a physical threat.But Anish catches Magnus’ fist with ease. Without so much as a grunt or any sign of strain. He twists as he pulls Magnus closer, so that when Magnus is finally close to him, it is Magnus’ back that comes into contact with Anish’s icy chest. The layers of suit that are between them seem to offer no comfort or warmth at all, and Magnus gasps.“Rude. But I accept your resignation.” Anish’s words are matter of fact, almost singing. And beautiful. The angel of music indeed.“And as for your sins-” Anish’s grip on Magnus is stronger than iron or steel. Stronger than adamant. There is no escaping it no matter how much Magnus fights as Anish drags him over to the place where he’d seen Garry in the ice.Garry’s still there, but now Kramnik is beside him. Kramnik hadn’t been there before. Magnus was sure of that. It had just been Garry perhaps four or five meters under the ice. But he doesn’t have time to think on it before Anish is kicking Magnus’ feet out from under him and pinning him to the ice. It’s cold against his cheek in a way that takes his breath away once more. He tries to move, to fight, but Anish’s grasp is utterly unyielding and painful to the extreme as he presses Magnus into place, holding him down.The ice too seems solid, just as it should. Painfully so - Magnus is all too aware of what must be Anish’s sharp and boney knee on his spine.But then the ice isn’t solid. It’s dragging Magnus in. Slowly, but little by little the cold creeps up his cheek and over his face. Burning itself into him. Painful to the extreme. That’s why Dubov’s face had been one of agony, some part of his mind whispers, But amidst the world of pain, there is little for him to notice.Except the rattling. Why is the world rattling? It had been so still, so unnaturally quiet. But now the world was shaking even as the cold continued to climb up Magnus’ body as he sunk slowly into the ice. Magnus started violently, breathing heavily as he did. His cheek is cold, and there is a print of what is unmistakably his cheek on the window of the train. The rattling train, his brain supplies. He stands, stretching as he does. He’s stiff and cold. More so than he should be even after an unintentional nap in an awkward position. Dubov is a few empty rows further up the compartment.“Daniil? How long-” Magnus trails off. Where are they? He’s not sure.Dubov gives Magnus a skeptical expression.“About three hours to Minsk.”