Though she knows she must, Miyu is loathe to reach out and touch any of the pieces. At the impatient look of the man opposite her, she begins unpacking them. Thankfully this is a task she could perform in her sleep, and her nerves do not get the better of her.
“I didn’t know what to expect, at first,” he says conversationally. Definitely loud enough to be heard in a room where the light click of tiles meeting the board is the only frequent sound.
She stays quiet as she arranges her opening, keeping her eyes from his face.
“A woman,” he says the word slowly, as though waiting for a reaction, “one from Fire, at that, triumphing over anyone in her path.”
Miyu settles her hands atop her knees and waits for the Daimyo to make the first move. He does so with a careless shove of a pawn, and she wonders if he will approach this with any strategy at all.
“I must admit, I built you into this terrifying brute of a thing the moment I heard that you defeated the Iron champion.”
Miyu makes her opening move, silent in the face of the Daimyo’s all-important monologue.
“You can imagine my… surprise, when I saw you this afternoon. To find that the ugly, hulking lady I had been expecting is in fact, very young, and quite beautiful.”
He makes his next move, and it’s not a terrible one. Maybe he isn’t horrible, and this talking is just a tactic to derail her focus. She realises he’s paused, waiting for her to speak.
“You flatter me, Daimyo-sama. I resent my small stature. Perhaps if I had been large and intimidating, I might scare away my opponents without any thought at all.”
She makes her next move, neatly cornering his exposed knight.
Someone snorts in the audience – a ninja, probably, and out of the corner of her eye she sees a noble woman lift a hand to her mouth, shoulders shaking.
He misses the insult beneath the light jest, his brow twitching as he shifts his knight out of the perceived line of fire.
“And then I thought – I must play you. If I can beat the best shogi player in the nation, no enemy could ever hope to face me.”
Miyu keeps her gaze on the board. Surely he’s not so stupid as to tell the entire room of his intentions. Because if it hadn’t been obvious before, then there’s no doubt about it now – she will lose here because she must.
They can’t even play at this being a legitimate match.
Gods, he really is a buffoon.
She sees the board shift, pieces blurring before her eyes. Eight moves. She could end this farce easily. Remove herself from the situation.
Maybe that won’t be as painful as sitting through this.
She makes the first move of the eight, capturing a seemingly random pawn, and watches his face.
It twists briefly in displeasure, but he hurriedly attempts to reassume his line of defence. Exactly as she had expected.
“Why are you unmarried?”
Keeping her focus on the board rather than his stare, Miyu takes the next piece in her attack.
“I couldn’t possibly spare time for a husband and children, Daimyo-sama,” her tone is light and playful, “shogi is my life.”
“Hm,” he’s looking more and more displeased as he tries to figure out what to do on the board. The pin has just started, and his floundering is oddly satisfying.
He moves his knight seemingly at random. It won’t delay her at all.
She makes the third move of the sequence, and waits with her hands folded in her lap.
The Daimyo is staring at her intently. Then he pushes up and away from the table to stand. For a moment she lets herself hope that he had tired of their match.
And then he begins to circle the table, and she can’t tell whether he’s looking at the board or her. Miyu stares at the board and waits.
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He stops out of her line of sight and she masks how much this unnerves her by scanning the front row attendants.
Makishima is front and centre on her left, giving the board an unreadable look. On either side of him sit other foreign delegates, and she realises with a sense of foreboding that they will all be reporting this back to their Daimyo.
“Pretty,” says the man behind her, and there’s a sudden tug on her hair.
She stiffens, but remains still as her hair tumbles free down her back. A lady gasps quietly, a small, muffled sound, and Miyu sees Makishima’s face pinch in displeasure.
The clatter of her hairpin on the table to her left almost startles her. She lets her eyes rest on the finely crafted trinket for just a moment before she looks up to meet Makishima’s eyes.
There’s an uncanny understanding between them, after playing each other for years. She must lose this. They both know it.
But his eyes are burning brightly in his stony face, and they are screaming at her to win.
“I think myself a practical man,” the Daimyo sounds like he’s gloating. About what, she has no idea.
“Though I do love beautiful things. To find something both beautiful and functional? It’s simply art.”
He’s opposite her again, staring down at the board.
“Nothing compares to an artfully crafted shamisen. Or a perfectly balanced sword.”
She doesn’t know where he’s going with this spiel and she doesn’t really want to know. He’s continued walking again, so close to her now that his robes brush against the hem of her own.
“Knight to one D.”
It takes her a moment to realise he’s dictating his move to her. She converts her twitch into a reach for the piece, and neatly takes one of her own pawns for his keeping.
He leans down then, and uses a sweet-scented hand to shift her hair from her shoulder. His too-soft fingers skim along her jaw, leaving a burning trail as he strokes down the side of her neck.
It takes clenching her hands into the fabric of her sleeves to stop from shoving away from him. Surely he can feel her heart beat as it quickens in fury.
Because he has taken her hair down in the middle of his court. He is touching her without her permission, smug and stupid and -
“But sometimes,” his fingers are at the edge of her kimono now, lingering at her collar bone, “that which is beautiful isn’t meant to be anything more.”
She can’t stop the involuntary clench of her jaw, but it is the only reaction she has to his insult.
“Wise words,” she says evenly, “though you’ve brought another thing to my attention.”
“Hm?” He finally pulls away from her but her back stays ramrod straight, hyper focused on his figure in her peripherals despite her gaze on the board.
“You talk of beautiful, useful things. And things that are just beautiful.”
He resumes his seat opposite her and she raises her eyes to meet his.
“It’s a shame that some things are neither.”
She watches his thin lips pinch together, and a deep pang of satisfaction strikes low in her gut. Unrelenting, she makes another move to lock him in. It’s clear to anyone that understands shogi that this game is hers. The Daimyo is being shepherded as easily as livestock.
“I’m thirsty.” He announces, voice level, but his eyes do not leave her face. He looks annoyed now.
She doesn’t have it in her to feel regret.
But she does know that the game will have to end soon. Alas, her pieces will be ready, and he will have no choice but to execute the moves she is forcing him to make.
An attendant brings a tray laden with tea. The Daimyo keeps looking at her even as a cup is set before each of them and the attendant moves to fill them.
The scent of oolong drifts from the pot as the Daimyo’s cup is filled.
The attendant begins to pour hers and – she sees it happen with extreme clarity.
The Daimyo lazily reaches out, knocking his cup onto the feet of his attendant. At the feel of the hot water and breaking ceramic, the poor man jerks away involuntarily.
The tea which had been pouring from the pot into her cup diverts directly onto her with a messy jerk. It misses her neck only by centimetres as she shifts back, but the scalding water spills down the front right side of her kimono and onto her lap.
It burns only briefly, the thick, quality layers of her kimono protecting her from the brunt of it. The attendant splutters his apologies, hands trembling as he tries to help, but the rest of the room is disturbingly quiet.
Everyone is frozen, aware that this is exactly what the Daimyo intended.
“It’s alright,” Miyu soothes the attendant, “it’s not a worry.”
Her hair is half wet and her expensive kimono is soaked. The skin on her upper thighs and along the side of her torso stings, but it’s nothing major.
“Please,” she brushes the attendant away softly, “it’s not worth the trouble-”
The stillness is broken when, with a sharp movement, Makishima stands. His delegation stands a moment after him, some visibly confused.
Without any form of acknowledgment to the Daimyo, the shogi player turns and leaves the hall. Miyu presses her lips together, trying to shove down her dismay at the sudden loss of his support. Worry churns in her gut as she watches the displeasure on the Daimyo’s face.
It’s easy enough to play her next few moves. Methodologically, she shepherds the man opposite her into taking her king.
Anyone who looks at the board will see that the only way the Daimyo won is because she let him.
“Well that was rather easier than expected,” he gloats, pushing to his feet. “I thought you’d be more of a difficult opponent.”
Miyu stands gracefully, tense with the effort it’s taking not to shake in anger.
“I would never presume to be a threat to one as noble as you, Daimyo-sama.”
She can feel eyes on her and has to forcefully push down the embarrassment of the moment. Miyu takes extra care in ensuring her chin stays level and strong.
“It must have been difficult to face your Daimyo. I’m quite dangerous when it comes to strategy, evidently.”
His eyes meet hers and she gives him a polite smile so false it makes her teeth ache, and says in a perfectly dry tone -
“It was a true challenge.”
She definitely hears a snort, and from the corner of her eye she sees someone with a spiky ponytail get elbowed. A Nara, then.
“Thank you for the honour,” she bows low to the Daimyo, and then to the audience, and takes her leave.
