Another Excerpt from "A Tale of Two Princes"

In the East Courtyard of Trietus Mansion, two figures sat amidst the gardens and ponds with a table between them, and upon that checkered table were chess--pieces. The air had rather a bit of chill, and the two figures were dressed accordingly: one was bundled in a black greatcoat and gloves, while the other favored worn leather and a scarf. On a smaller table beside them rested two empty cups of tea, still breathing steam into the fall air -- the drifting aroma of the steaming tea-leaves mingled with that of the flowers in the surrounding gardens, and together with the soft gurgle of a waterfall striking the nearby pond, and with the singing of birds, this lent to the scene a most pleasant and tranquil atmosphere.
But on the contrary, the atmosphere at the chess-table was quite tense.
It was Alphonse's move; he sat perfectly still, scrutinizing the board most intently -- the tremendous strain of such hard thought clearly showed on his face -- while Balthazar sat equally motionless, his icy blue eyes glinting with a hint of amusement. When Alphonse, after excruciating deliberation, made his move, Balthazar's response came after only a moment or two.
Again, Alphonse was left to puzzle over the board. He tried watching Balthazar for some indicator of emotion or thought, but his face was an unreadable mask; his eyes betrayed nothing of the plan that had formed behind them. And so Alphonse returned to his scrutiny of the board. It was not so full of options as it had once been: almost every Black piece -- in one move -- had been pinned to its square, and the choices that remained were not at all favorable. He sighed, massaging his temples. "I don't see what I can do," he admitted at last. "It's useless."
Balthazar laughed; Alphonse cocked an eyebrow.
"My dear Alphonse," he tutted, "you surely know why I'm laughing."
A servant rushed over at the casual wave of Balthazar's hand, refilled their teacups, and promptly darted off again.
Alphonse confessed that he did not.
"You've finally stumbled upon a correct answer, but in a situation where it provides no help." Balthazar chuckled as he sipped his tea -- this produced a strange, muffled echo in the cup. He set it back on the side and laced his gloved fingers together, resting his elbow on the edge of the chess-table. "By chance, did you see what I was planning?"
Alphonse was tired of confessing his own ignorance, and so as a response he contemplated his tea.
"I apologize, then -- I gave you too much credit. Here, let me show you..."
And he set about, with visual demonstration, explaining the few possibilities that gave Alphonse the slightest hope of a draw -- "...at this point, it was all you could have hoped for, you know..." -- and listing, for each, the lengthy multilayered counters and eventual victories which Balthazar had conceived and formulated. Such was the length of his explanation that both brothers' teacups were again empty when he finished, and the sundial nearby -- which had read two o'clock when he began -- was now very near to half-past two.
"Do you see now?" he asked finally, setting the board for another game.
Alphonse, watching the sunlight breaking and twisting in the ripples of a nearby pond, stifled a yawn. "O told you before,m Brother, that I already saw the pointlessness of continuing. It doesn't make it any clearer to know every reason why. If anything, I'm more confused now that I was half an hour ago." He stood, shook the stiffness out of his limbs, and gave Balthazar a nod. "I should be making my way to Caulsen-square now."
"To see Julia?" Balthazar smiled.
"No; to see an opera. She's been anxious to immerse me in theatre."
"I'm thrilled for you. Be sure to tell me what you both think of it later."
With that, Alphonse turned and left.
Balthazar, watching his brother depart, pondered their last chess game. Every position was systematically arranged in a mental list: every aspect, every motive behind each move, every piece's role, every square's importance...
From his coat, Balthazar produced a journal and fountain-pen, and began to write.

The opera house in Caulsen-square was not very much like others of its kind -- in fact, its extravagance and novelty begged the question of whether there really was another of its kind at all. Of course it followed the conventions of grand mahogany doors, lamplit crimson drapes on the exterior, and a sculptural fountain on either side of its entrance, but in every other respect it strove to defeat the other opera-houses of Ambros with its magnificence.From the bar-lounge, where patrons smoked and drank and discussed their relatives' health during intermission, to the restrooms set in marble, and to the main hall with delicate chandeliers all over -- even to the flying buttresses and the upper balconies, each a work of art in and of itself -- the opera-house in Caulsen square took no reserve in announcing itself -- or, of more importance to the patrons, its high price.
It was to this opera-house that Julia Khomnus had invited Alphonse Trietus, to see the theatrical adaptation of her favorite novel (Qualis Artifex Pereo by Robin Fischer).
They arrived twenty minutes early in Alphonse's coach, adn when they stepped out, it is fair to say that they caused quite a commotion -- Julia, in keeping with what was fashionable in Ambros and what was not, had advised Alphonse previously in choosing an outfit ("But what would I go in!" he had groaned, pacing the stone walls of a pasture neat Trietus Mansion. She had given him a smile and sighed: "It the easiest thing in the world, once you know what people expect"...). And so, to avoid the crowd that was forming in the square, Alphonse had taken Julia inside the opera-house, where they purchased their tickets and hid in the lounge.
Julia was laughing as she found a sofa by the fire and seated herself. Alphonse followed suit, sweeping back the tails of his coat as he did so.
"What were you thinking, bringing me so early?" She fanned herself with one hand, a smile on her face.
Alphonse shrugged. "I had to escape my brother."
Julia paused for a moment, as if wondering why, and then, remembering Balthazar, nodded. "I can understand that."
A man strode over from behind the bar. "Would you like anything to drink before the show? Perhaps try our latest import?"
Alphonse looked up. "Red or white?"
"Red, sir."
"Then I'll be glad to try it."
"And you, ma'am?"
"I'll have a glass as well."
"Excellent. Just a moment." And he returned with two cups of crystal a few seconds later.
"So," Alphonse began, once the man had been paid and returned to the bar, "what should I be expecting? Tragedy? Epic? Comedy? Romance?" he swirled his wine and sipped it.
Julia waved a finger at him. "In this city, you can't take anything for granted. If I were to tell you about the novel, what we see tonight may turn out to be a radical interpretation, something altogether different."
"You don't seem to be expecting much," he mused.
"Quite the opposite, actually. I'm expecting great things -- I just don't expect that they'll necessarily be the same great things exhibited by the original work."
They shared a look for a moment. Then: "That's fair."
Julia smiled. "Suffice it to say, the novel doesn't belong to any of the types you seem to anticipate. It's a masterful blend of the four."
"I'll take your word for it."