By midday, three people had fallen ill from becoming too absorbed in their games, two had erupted into a fight after crying foul over cheating, and one child had tripped after crashing into a spectator.
The number of people at the main venue fluctuated constantly — some came back two or three times over.
"That guy's gotta be cheating, right?"
Maomao said, watching the man come around for the fourth time.
"Nope."
The one who responded to Maomao's murmur was
Raban.
The organizer of this whole festive circus wore an enormously pleased expression.
Maomao shot a half-lidded look at his curly-haired round spectacles.
"Making me work for free, why don't you."
"I'll pay you properly once we've confirmed we're in the black."
No wonder he was in such a fine mood.
"That person just now was
a professional.
Well, that said, these days he's the kind who haunts the corner of a tavern, earning his drinking money."
"Huh."
Maomao made a show of checking the remaining stock of steamed buns and bowls, radiating complete disinterest.
"C'mon, couldn't you at least try to play along? Something like 'Oh wow, so impressive!' or 'My, you really do know everything!' You're not very cute, you know."
"Even if I said it, they wouldn't exactly feel flattered."
"No. They'd think I was making fun of them."
In other words, clumsy flattery was best avoided from the start.
"Besides, in your case, the more someone's able to sweet-talk, the less you should let your guard down around them."
"You've got that right, dear sister."
"......"
Maomao ignores him. He was the kind of man who might as well have been born from his own mouth. Even if she argued, he'd only start yakking again.
Raban spreads both hands wide and shrugs, as if to say that's boring in its own right.
"He makes a living playing Go for wagers now, but back in the day, he used to teach Go to the upper classes."
The past tense was somewhat expected.
"So you're saying he lost his position because some insufferable old man trounced him?"
"Precisely right. A certain wealthy patron wanted to break Father's pride, so he arranged a match. The result was a crushing defeat, and there he is."
"Poor thing."
It must be exhausting, climbing up again and again only to be beaten back like that.
A sudden, unpleasant thought crosses Maomao's mind.
"...Could it be that the reason there are so many challengers in this tournament is that people who hold a grudge against that old man have all gathered here?"
If that were the case, the heavy security of armed officers made sense too.
"Half correct. They keep the guards up in case he gets stabbed at any moment, and unless someone pierces his heart for an instant kill, Great-Uncle will handle it somehow."
"Don't go calling the old man over something so trivial."
Maomao steps on Raban's toes.
"Ow, ow, ow! Stop it, stop it!"
She has no interest in increasing her own workload by adding to the injured count, so she moves her foot off.
"And the other half?"
Maomao calmly continues the conversation.
Raban raises one foot and conspicuously rubs his toes.
"...Almost no one can beat Father at Go—perhaps only a Kisei. Even in the form of a challenge, a victory means Father has acknowledged you."
"Acknowledged him, he says."
The man who could only see other people's faces as Go stones. Even something that minor could be put to good use as some kind of bluff.
"And then, that rumor twisted around—"
Raban narrows his already thin eyes behind his glasses until they're nothing but threads.
"It seems the story has become something like: 'If you beat Kan Rakkan at Go, he'll grant you one wish.'"
"......"
Maomao's jaw dropped and wouldn't close.
"Who was it? Who was spouting that kind of nonsense?"
"Now who could it be?"
Raban averted his eyes.
Maomao was nine-tenths certain that this man was the source of the rumor. Since capital was on the line, it seemed he was willing to do whatever it took to recoup his money.
"...Surely there aren't actual people gullible enough to believe that kind of rumor."
"Is the registration here?"
A voice drifted down from above, like music from the heavens.
"......"
She looked up.
A man wearing a stifling mask was smiling, his eyes narrowed to slits.
On top of the registration table, vouchers for three victories were lined up.
Raban studied the man intently, looking somewhat disappointed about the mask—even with his face hidden, Raban could probably tell who it was.
"Please, go ahead. This is a participation prize."
Maomao set down the tea and moon cakes.
"I'll take the tea, but I don't need the sweets. My companion will bring some along later, so just have it ready then."
"...Yes. Please line up over there and play your match."
Since she knew exactly who she was dealing with, all she could say was "yes."
Raban was grinning. As long as someone was easy on the eyes, he had no standards, man or woman.
"There are quite a few people gullible enough to believe rumors, you know."
Raban looked positively smug, as if to say "See? What did I tell you?"—and that was what finally made Maomao stomp on his toes once more.