Vince had told Felix that he was happy to hear that the Stroebeckers had offered Felix the choice of playing either the old or the new versions of chess. That meant that when Felix returned for his rematch, he could insist on the rule of the mad queen, which in turn would mean that he would have the full benefit of several hundred years of chess analysis.

What Felix hadn't been prepared for was just how confusing those chess manuals were. Reading them was like reading Egyptian hieroglyphics. If anyone actually could read them, that is; Felix was vaguely aware that Athanasius Kircher, the famous Jesuit scholar, had been working on that project.

Hours of poring over those manuals. Hours of playing chess at the club. The only thing that had kept Felix motivated was the thought of how much it would mean to Birgit if Felix could win her in the traditional Stroebecker fashion. Every time he read one of her letters, he felt inspired, and returned to his studies with renewed vigor.

Talking about letters . . . why hadn't she written recently? It had been . . . weeks. Had she found someone else? What could Felix do to remind her of his love?

Felix started rummaging through his room. There it was, his most precious sketchbook, the one he used in Halberstadt those few months ago. Now he needed a piece of wood. But wait. He could draw what he wanted readily enough, but he didn't have time to cut away all of the wood save for the parts he had drawn upon. Well, suppose he cut away the lines. That would print as white lines on black. Strange, but all that he could do in the time he had. Felix went to work . . . . * * *

Birgit was fretting. This coming Saturday would be exactly six months since Felix' ill-fated first chess game. Thus, it would be the first day on which he could formally demand a rematch in order to win her hand. But she had not gotten a letter from Felix in weeks.

Will he come? He said he was doing well in Grantville. He has illustrated a book. His last letter said that he met a duke, one who writes and collects books, and wants Felix to illustrate his latest work. So Felix now has commissions. Patronage. Will he want to leave?

He must be meeting rich merchants, and noblemen. And their daughters. He also wrote that he is giving art lessons in some sort of academy. Are those daughters taking lessons from him?

Birgit had a sudden mental picture of how such a lesson might evolve. The rich merchant's daughter pleads that she doesn't know how to hold the paintbrush. Felix comes behind her, and guides her hand with his own. Urgh!

He hasn't mentioned any girls in Grantville. Is that because he hasn't met any he likes? Or is he avoiding the subject? Perhaps he doesn't want to hurt my feelings, tell me that he has found someone else.

No that can't be. He loves me. On Saturday morning, I will climb the stairs of the Wartturm, the old tower where Bishop Arnulf imprisoned Duke Guncellin centuries ago, so I will see him as he comes up the road. And I will do it every Saturday morning, until he comes.

If he comes. He has traveled all over the world. What can he see in a girl who never traveled farther than Leipzig?

But no. He sees more than my pretty face. He enjoyed talking to me. He values my advice. He will come.

She trembled.What will I do if he doesn't come?

It was Monday, and Birgit wasn't surprised to hear a knock at the door. It was her friend, Anna. Birgit had been forbidden to go to Halberstadt, so Anna was Birgit's news source.

Her mother was out in the garden, and her father and brother were in the smithy, so they had some measure of privacy.

"Look what I have," said Anna. What she displayed was a white-on-black print, depicting three women and a man. Birgit gasped. It was virtually the same picture that Felix had drawn of Birgit, Anna, Barbel and himself, months ago. In fact, it was titled, The Judgment of Paris.

"Where did you get this?"

"Apparently they arrived in Halberstadt a few weeks ago. Went to one of the booksellers first, and they have been circulating since then." Birgit snatched the print out of Anna's hands.

"Hey, I'm in it, too!" Anna protested.

"You know what this means? It means that Felix hasn't forgotten me." Birgit sighed with relief. "Perhaps hewill be here this coming Saturday."

"So," said Hans Wegener jovially, "let's play chess. Sooner we play, sooner you lose, sooner you leave, sooner my Birgit marries someone worthy of her." Hans and Felix were in the town hall, where "marriage matches" were traditionally held. A large crowd had gathered to watch; such a match was a big event even under ordinary circumstances. But to see a rematch with an insistent suitor? One vehemently opposed by the father? Only the dead of Stroebeck were not in attendance. Felix' eyes went to Birgit, who, taking advantage of her father being turned away from her, blew Felix a kiss. Felix blushed.

Hans pulled out a chessboard, and began setting up pieces. Felix wasn't too worried. He had spent a great deal of time playing chess with up-timers and down-timers at the Modi's Inn, solving chess problems in a book he had been lent, and reading books on the theory of the game. He had even been given the opportunity to spend some hours battling Josh Modi's "computer chess program."

Felix smiled at Birgit, and then mentally reviewed the opening repertoire he had been taught. He didn't pay much attention to Hans' movements until Hans leaned back in his chair.

Suddenly, Felix did a double-take. The board was too long. It was twelve squares by eight.

Hans caught Felix' look of dismay. "Haven't seen this one before? It is courier chess. Very old, dates back, oh, almost to the time of Barbarossa. You don't know it? Here are the pieces, rook, knight,alfil , courier,mann , king,fers ,schleich ,courier ,alfil , knight and rook. And twelve pawns in front. We each begin with the same four moves. Oh, no castling, assuming you know what that is." Hans smiled broadly.

"This is unfair," Felix protested.

Hans shrugged. "This is a traditional game."

Felix appealed to the Mayor. "This form of chess is not traditional where I come from. It is not fair that I have to play it."

The Mayor harrumphed. "It is not played in the Low Countries, perhaps, but it is played in Germany.

And most certainly in Stroebeck."

"But isn't Herr Wegener challenging me? In dueling, the challenged one has the choice of weapons, so I should have the choice of chess board and chess rules." Felix was worried. Different board, different pieces, forced opening; it undermined all his hard-won twentieth-century chess knowledge.

The crowd murmured. At this point, Birgit's quiet lobbying paid off. Her ally, the minister, said, "that seems reasonable to me." Hans scowled at the churchman. The latter added calmly, "Surely, Herr Wegener, your chess skills permit you to make this concession."

"Oh, very well." The Mayor offered Hans a more modern-appearing chessboard, and Hans set up the pieces. Felix then carefully explained his assumptions as to how all the pieces moved, when and how apawn could be promoted, and, exactly how castling was performed. Felixhad been warned how many different castling variations were practiced in his time.

"A chess lawyer," Hans commented. Hans pulled a pair of pawns, white and black, off the board. "I don't believe that the challenged in dueling has the right to shoot first." He put the pawns behind his back, shuffled them about, then brought both fists forward. "Pick your ill-fated army."

Felix tapped Hans' left hand; Hans opened it, revealing the white pawn. Felix would move first. Felix had questioned Duke Augustus, a down-time chess author who occasionally visited the Inn of the Maddened Queen, as to what openings and defenses were favored in the seventeenth century. Felix' up-time friends had helped him pick out and study an opening repertoire which would give a down-timer a shock. But they had warned him that it would only take him so far; he had to be able to improvise if he wanted to win against a good opponent.

In quick succession, the artist and the smith each moved out their king pawns. Felix attacked with his kingside knight; Hans defended with its queenside counterpart. Felix moved out his Bishop to the fourth rank.

Hans raised his eyebrows. "Well, someone has been giving you lessons. It is the Italian Game. I know it very well indeed." He, too, moved his bishop to bishop four.

Felix responded with Pawn to Queen Knight Four, offering his pawn up to capture by his opponent's bishop. It was the first move of the Evans Gambit, the darling of the great attacking players of the nineteenth century. According to all Felix' sources, it was unknown to the chess fans of the seventeenth century. Felix was nervous, however. How complete was the Grantville Chess Club's knowledge of seventeenth-century chess? They hadn't warned him about courier chess, had they? Could the Evans Gambit be well known to Hans?

"Pawn pusher!" said Hans with delight. "Didn't you see my bishop?"

Felix was also pleased, but concealed his reaction to Hans' outburst. He knew the story behind the Evans Gambit. Its inventor, Captain Evans spent many hours playing it against himself, and finally sprung it on the British champion, MacDonnell. Evans won; it was a great upset.

The gambit's great merit was that it allowed for powerful attacking combinations in the middle game. The problem was that if Black survived the onslaught, and held on to the gambit pawn, then he had the advantage in the endgame.

If Felix hadn't earned enough from his work in Grantville to pay the forfeit, he wouldn't have dared play the Evans Gambit. But the goal now was not really to satisfy Stroebeck traditions, but to impress Birgit's poppa. And that would more likely be achieved by bold attacking play, than by a cautious strategy.

Felix constructed a strong pawn center, and attacked vigorously. Hans tried to counterattack, and did not deign to protect his king by castling. He soon regretted this oversight.

"Mate in three," Felix announced. He smiled at Birgit, who gave him a thumb's up.

Hans studied the board, then sent it crashing to the floor. "Why must I lose to this idiot?" he complained.

Clearly, the Evans Gambit had won Birgit's hand, but not Hans' approval.

Birgit glared at her father. "That is no way to speak about my fiance." "That was an interesting game," the mayor commented. "I wish we had a way of reconstructing it."

Felix saw an opportunity to earn a few brownie points. "Actually, there is a method. In Grantville, where I am working now, the chess players have recorded thousands of chess games. I could teach the people of Stroebeck how to read these records, and how to notate their own games."

"Thousands of chess games? The commoners play chess in Grantville, too?"

"Anyone can play chess in Grantville. And they have records of chess games from hundreds of years of play." He looked slyly at Hans Wegener. "I could bring one of their chess books for you, Herr Wegener.

It is the sort of thing that a dutiful son-in-law would do."

"That is . . . thoughtful of you," said Hans. He paused. "I would like to have a few minutes to speak to my daughter alone."

"Of course," said Felix. He was confident that nothing Hans could say could diminish Birgit's love, or persuade her not to marry him, now that Felix had broken down the barrier set by Stroebeck tradition.

His only fear was that Hans might do something foolish, like try to carry Birgit off against her will.

Hans and Birgit went into an alcove, and Hans addressed his daughter. "I still don't like the idea of your marrying a painter. Yes, I know a few are honored and rewarded beyond measure by princes. But how many die forgotten, in poverty?"

Birgit stared at her father. "I have seen his work. It is very good. And it has been well received in this town of Grantville, which stands high in the regard of Gustavus Adolphus. True, he is poor right now. But he has good prospects of advancement. And, here in Stroebeck, we have a name for taking a reasonable risk, don't we? It is playing agambit , yes?"

Her father nodded, slowly.

Dear Sir

by Chris Racciato

Dear Sir: You do not know me, but a mutual acquaintance has assured me that you are a man of superiorintegrity and utmost discretion. It is because of this that I approach you in my hour of most desperate need.

My name is Kent Ketchum, and I am a resident of Grantville. I was brought here to this time and place by the hand of God in the event now known as the Ring of Fire. It was to my great misfortune that both of my parents were left behind. I am left with a terrible dilemma. My father, the Honorable Will Ketchum had a substantial contract to build roads for the state of West Virginia. The work had been completed already, and the funds were deposited in the Bank of Grantville two weeks before the tragedy struck us. Without my father here to claim these funds, they were held in an escrow account until the legal system here decided whom they belonged to.

As I was under eighteen years of age, I could not yet legally inherit it. And I have no relatives available to help with me with my predicament. I have been living like a beggar on the pittance of money allowed to me by the Bank Manager. Within the last month I have discovered that the Bank Manager and the Judge in charge of my case have been conspiring to steal my father's money out from under me. They had my father declared officially dead, but did so in such a way that prevented me from hearing about it until it was almost too late. Had it not been for a most Christian woman who works at the bank, I would not have found out what had happened until after the money was gone. The evil men that seek my father's hard earned fortune do not know that I have learned of their nefarious plans, so I must make my moves quietly and discretely if I intend to recover the money. I must raise one tenth of the total amount in the account in order to pay the taxes and free the money from the escrow account. If I fail to do so by my eighteenth birthday next month, it will all be declared forfeit, and be given to the Bank and the Government.

This brings me to why I am secretly contacting you. There is no possible way that I could earn that much money on my own in so little time. So I am willing to offer you a quarter of the 2500 guilder equivalent account if you would be able to help me pay the required taxes before the account expires. In addition, I would fully refund your two hundred fifty guilder investment as soon as the money in the account has the legal hold removed from it. Because both the Bank Manager and the Judge are involved, I would ask that you speak to no one of my dilemma and offer, lest they hear about it and realize that I know what they are doing. If they do, they will surely do everything in their power to thwart me and keep the money for themselves.

I thank you in advance for your assistance, and for taking the time to read of my plight. If you are unable to assist me, I do understand. But if you are willing, then I look forward to a highly profitable future for both of us.

Sincerely, Kent Ketchum

Officer Ralph Onofrio put the letter down and massaged the bridge of his nose. It was going to be one of those days. He found it almost impossible to believe that anybody would be gullible enough to fall for so obvious a scam. But he had long ago learned never to underestimate the power of greed. People were more than willing to talk themselves into doing anything if they thought that there was easy money to be made.

A clear case in point was the indignant nobleman in front of him. He stood there in front of the desk at the police station shouting at his poor interpreter and gesticulating wildly. From what the interpreter had said, theRitter had sent the requested funds to a post office box here in Grantville. And then never heardback from the young mister Ketchum about getting his reward for helping him.

He sighed and turned to the man's interpreter. "Can you ask him if he has any other information about this Mr. Ketchum other than the address?"

The interpreter, a young man named Wenzel, spoke in rapid-fire German to his employer. The nobleman spat answers back even faster. Between the speed and dialect, Ralph barely caught a fraction of what was said. He was forced to wait until the tirade wound down.

"He said that he never actually met Herr Ketchum, but they have had a written correspondence for several months now. He has brought all of the letters with him to prove it." Wenzel handed a thick sheaf of papers to Officer Onofrio.

"And is there any particular reason that he sent two hundred fifty guilders worth of gold coins to person neither of you had ever seen? Wouldn't a bank draft or letter of credit have been safer?"

"As I told you before. We were planning to do so. Herr Ketchum insisted on it for our mutual assurance.

But in his last letter he expressed his concern that the manager of your bank was becoming suspicious. It would not do to have all of our careful planning undone at the last moment. Herr Ketchum said that we might have to, I believe the term he used was 'call the whole thing off.'"

"So why didn't you?"

"TheRitter insisted. We had come so far. He didn't want the boy's inheritance to be stolen."

"Mmmm hmmm . . . And lose his share of the money?"

"Well, he was going to be making a substantial investment. Besides, the boy said that he was happy to pay some of the money not to lose it all. So theRitter sent the gold by courier."

TheRitter spun Wenzel around by his shoulder and began shouting at him again, pointing first at the letters and then at Officer Onofrio. Wenzel nodded when he was done and turned back to the police officer. "TheRitter von Dingelberg demands that Herr Ketchum be brought here immediately, and be forced to pay the money he promised. The total was agreed to in the last letter."

Ralph took a deep breath and rubbed his face wearily with his hands. Definitely one of those days. "I would truly love to get my hands on your Mr. Ketchum. But I'm afraid that it would be next to impossible."

The young man blanched and relayed this information to theRitter . The nobleman turned purple as he listened to his translator, and began shouting and pounding on the desk. As he sputtered to a stop, Wenzel turned to Officer Onofrio.

"TheRitter would like to know why you will not bring this boy in. He owes a substantial sum of money.

TheRitter was under the impression that no one was above the law here. Not even someone who now has a large fortune at their disposal. Part of which, I must add, does not belong to him."

"He's correct. Nobody is above the law here. And I'm sure that there is money due to your employer.

The problem is that the boy doesn't exist."

If Wenzel had gone pale before, he went positively ashen when he heard that. "W-w-what?" hestammered.

"This isn't the first complaint that we've had about this." He opened a file from his desk. "We have had several other people show up here looking for Mr. Kent Ketchum. Or Ms. Ida Ketchum. Or Ms. May B. Ketchum. Or any of about a dozen other names. The post office box that your employer sent the money to is a mail drop. It gets forwarded to a house in Jena. We talked to the old couple that lives there. They gave it to a wandering tinker twice a week. From there, we lost the trail. Nobody knows where the tinker went. He hasn't been seen in a couple of weeks." he paused. "I hate to tell you this, but it was a scam. Any money he sent is long gone."

"A scam? What do you mean?"

"I mean that your boss there was taken for a ride. He was duped. There is no Mr. Ketchum. There is no money being held by the government. There is no evil bank manager or judge. Our laws don't work like that. Anything that belonged to the people who were left behind was given to their next of kin within a few months of the Ring of Fire. The only money in this whole deal is whatever your boss put in. We caught a couple of junior high school students trying this out for fun about six months ago. They were all busted, and forced to give the money back. But it looks like somebody else has gotten into the same racket since then. It was an old scam up-time."

Wenzel translated all of this to his employer. The man's mouth worked open and closed like a fish out of water. After Wenzel was finished, theRitter shook his head and started to walk out of the station.

"Hey, wait!" Ralph called after him. "You need to make a statement."

Wenzel translated, but the Ritter didn't even slow down. He muttered something in German and waved over his imperiously shoulder to his man. And with that he was gone.