The Necromancer's Gambit: The Gambit, #1

The Necromancer’s Gambit

(The Gambit #1)

Nicolas Wilson

Table of Contents

Initiative

The Investigation

Interrogation

The Necromancer

Burger Time

The Cabin

The Preparation

The Spy

The Keep

Premature Commemoration

The Queen

The Bust

The VC

Elise

The Autopsy

The Other Knight

Wit No Han

The Swindle

Shadow Gambit

Arbiter

Cover

Daddy Issues

Check

Salem

Castling

Risky Business

Prodigal

The Pen

Fork

Overloading

Pin

Calm

Endgame

Trap

Run

Skewer

Mate

Doctor’s Office

Predators

Disarm

The New Boss

The Gambit

Epilogue: Haunted

Author’s Note

Other_Works_by_Nic

Initiative

I’m not going to tell you my name. Names have power. But we’ll get to that. For now, know that everyone calls me Knight.

It’s raining, but this is Portland, so that’s redundant. My hair is soaked, plastered to my head. I get it cut at a little shop in Hazel Dell. The owner is a gentle, older woman who decorated the place like it was her parlor: balls of yarn, old portraiture, and a pink, flowery wall paper that all give it a 1950s feel. Each time I go, she decides I look like a different celebrity from the 30s or 40s, and insists on cutting my hair that way. Right now I’m Gary Cooper, apparently. But I go there anyway, because she’s the only one who doesn’t disturb my cowlicks, and make me look like Alfalfa.

I check my watch. Rook’s late. That’s not a good sign- or maybe it’s just a character flaw- I don’t know her well enough to say.

I’m huddled under an awning to stay out of the worst of it. Some poor bastard in a beat-up pick-up left his lights on. If it was warmer, or drier, I’d leave it alone- and I should. Never draw attention to yourself. It was the closest thing to a maxim my mother ever had. But the idea of someone having to walk home in this downpour, fuck- being stuck in this city’s lousy enough.

I leave the coffee I'm holding under the awning, and walk slowly over to the truck. I hope a driver careless enough to leave his lights on maybe didn’t lock the doors. But that would make things simple, and this driver’s apparently a very practical moron.

Simplest unlocking spell I know involves sympathetic magic. You spit in the keyhole, to make the lock a part of you. Then you use an incantation to convince it that you both want the lock open; my favorite I learned from an Irish klepto who might have stolen my heart if she hadn’t made off with my wallet first.

Sympathizing a lock open always reminds me of that scene from Empire, where Luke can’t get his rocks up- because it only kind of works. Sometimes, you just look at the lock sideways, and it’s done. Other times, you can work a lock for hours, and nothing.

The Toyota’s lock has seen better days, and its owner isn’t gentle about shoving his key inside, so it's used to being manhandled, and gives quickly. I glance around. There are enough people on the sidewalk that I’ve definitely been seen, but nobody’s paying enough attention to care. I open up the door, and feel around for a second, just long enough to find the light switch and push it in.

The fuck are you doing in my truck? a man asks from behind me. He’s drunk; I’m not sure if the smell or the slur hits me first. I feel a hand on my shoulder, that works its way to the collar of my leather jacket. I turn around.

Just turning off your lights, I say, earnest.

You were busting into my car. I can’t be sure if he shoves me against his truck, or nearly passes out against his truck, and uses me to cushion his landing. Either way, it’s all I can do not to punch him right in the face. I take a breath.

You left your lights on and your door unlocked. I just wanted to help. I put up my hands, in surrender. He knows he’s ploughed, so he stops to think about it; he can’t decide if I’m telling the truth, and I’d guess it wouldn’t be the first time he drunkenly punched an innocent man, so he lets go of my collar.

Without my collar to steady him, he falls most of the way into his cab. He’s drunker than I thought. And even if I call the cops, they’d never get here before he was gone. I grab hold of his shoulders, to steady him, You don’t look so good. Maybe you should sleep it off. He grunts, and I know I’m not so lucky. I don’t quite remember which Greek or Latin root I need to finish off a drowsiness spell. I don’t dare guess, lest I Sleeping Beauty him- because I really don’t want to have to deep tongue kiss a man tonight- especially not this man.

I slam him hard against the steering wheel. Whoa, I yell, for the sake of a homeless man, half-asleep in a doorway with a clear line of sight. You okay, buddy?

He’s got a small cut in his forehead, and it’s drooling blood around his brow. Maybe, I, maybe I should sleep it off. He’s not unconscious, but he’s almost passed out from drink. I fold his legs into the cab and shut the door.

Got plans? Female voice. Haughty. Not authoritative enough to be a cop- but it’s nobody I recognize.

Excuse me? I ask as I turn around.

You know, if you’ve got a long night of date-rape planned, I can always come back in the morning. I’d hate to intrude on your evening. I realize then it’s Rook.

You’re late.

You must be Knight; Sister Magdalene said you were grumpy. I’m- I grab her wrist and squeeze. If she isn’t who I think she is, this is the point I get maced, or maybe a fireball cast in my underpants.

Don’t. I give her a second to react, and when she doesn’t I let her go. "Never use your name with anyone if you can avoid it. Names have power. Magic draws on connection. A name gives someone a piece of you, and a stronger connection, one they can use to burn you from a distance. Besides which, when the Salem Circle finally sets up its government, you’re going to be their castle, so you’ve already got a title. You’re Rook."

"But don’t titles also have power?"

Some. But less – for the same reason that saying goddamn the President isn’t nearly as effective as casting a diarrhea spell on Barrack Obama. Specificity is your friend- and your enemy. I pick up the coffee, and push it out to her. It’s cold.

As in ice, or you didn’t grab one of those sleeve things?

As in whichever extreme I ordered it at wasn’t enough to overcome your extreme tardiness.

I’d retort with a witticism about your tardedness if I‘d had my coffee already. She grabs the cup and drinks it like a shot. There’s a sigil on the bottom of it. Not a spell in its own right, just an activator; the sugar in her coffee is transubstantiated. The spell turns it back into an artificial sweetener, one that in significant quantities acts as a laxative. She doesn’t notice the mark- didn’t even check for one- which almost makes me want to activate the spell.

But I don’t. Because I’m trying to be diplomatic, and there are probably gentler ways to teach her caution. "I’m still not 100% on why you’re riding along with me. Our Castle is friendly enough, loves to talk tradecraft, and actually has experience relevant to your new responsibilities."

"I’m supposed to be Rook eventually. But right now I’m just another sister. Magdalene asked me to come and learn what I could about your gambit, so we could design our equivalent from a position of knowledge."

Magdalene? What is she, a first century prostitute?

Her eyes flash with a memory, and I realize she knows Magdalene’s real name and wants to tell it to me, then she says Names have power. I know it, too; Magdalene and I have a history, but Rook doesn’t need to know that. History has power, too.

She takes another sip from her coffee, then asks, So is this what a magical dick does? Sit around drinking old coffee? And why couldn’t you just wait for me to get here, then let me order for myself?

One, because this is the only block in Portland without a Starbucks on the corner, and two, because we have a case. The moment we're inside we're on the clock.

So that’s why you had me meet you outside the Cauldron. You didn’t strike me as a dance club kind of guy.

Am I that obvious? I kneel in front of my homeless witness from before. It takes a moment for him to recognize me, and he worries for an instant that I mean to shut him up, until he sees the green of a bill in my hand. Guy in the truck hit his head pretty hard. You want to keep an eye on him, for me? He mumbles something that sounds like ‘sure’ and palms the twenty; we both wish it was more.

The Investigation

Rook follows me to the entrance of the Cauldron. I can already feel the oppressive bass pounding from inside, and the heavy stink of sweat and smoke on the air. I hand our cover fee to a woman in her mid-thirties trying too hard to cling to her late twenties. Hand stamp? she asks, and I shake my head. You’re supposed to get a hand stamp, she says, bored but annoyed.

I peel a Hamilton and set it on top of the cover. She shrugs and waves us in.

Rook gives me a look. You don’t trust the ink? Her tone is skeptical. Exactly how green are the witches out of Salem these days?

Psychography- spirit writers. I’m having to talk louder than I like to overcome the music, but the crowd in the Cauldron is 60% mage; it takes more than a dry discussion of magic to turn heads in here.

I thought that was mostly the ideomotor effect- she yells back, like dowsing, or using a Ouija board.

Adepts can transcribe otherworldly communication- but that’s only half the craft. They use apothecary inks- magic distilled in liquid form. Generally, the covens like their magic fresh- fresh ingredients, fresh rituals- some bullshit about it being closer to the natural way of things, and more pure. Elixirs like apothecary inks never really caught on with them, especially in an isolated Circle like hers. You ever been spirit-written? I don’t recommend it.

I pull out my phone to send a text, tell Pawn that we’re here. It helps if you claim to have OCD? Like how vampires tell people they have porphyria. Helps explain away the little eccentricities- keeps people from getting too curious about things they wouldn’t understand.

Pawn sticks out as he pushes his way through the crowd. He’s in his late forties, early fifties, buzzed, thinning hair, short, stocky build. And he only sticks out more because he doesn’t recognize he’s at least fifteen years too old for this crowd. Body’s in the champagne room, he says, and spends a moment too long looking at Rook.

Body? she asks, pretending as a courtesy not to notice him leering.

Pawn leads us past a bouncer, into the back room. There’s a corpse in the middle of the floor. The body’s charred, and mangled, in an unnatural pose. I’ve seen similar, from falls- particularly somebody who fell without trying to catch themselves.

Pawn stalks around Rook, seeing if she’ll respond to his assertion of dominance. When she doesn’t he figures she’s just a piece of meat. So this is the rookie, huh? Gotta say, she’s a sight prettier than you when I trained you.

Yet you just keep getting uglier and fatter, as the years pack on, I say. He grunts; from her look, I can tell Rook feels bad for him, but only because she doesn’t know him.  It’s burnt to hell. You have a vamp sniff it out?

Was a vamp that brought it to me, one of my CIs.

And I had my money on you pocketing the informant stipend.

There’s a hint of pain in his expression before he buries it- he doesn’t appreciate being shamed in front of the new girl, but plays it off. I take my cut, but the informant’s good. Never had a problem with him before.

Bring him in. I’ll want to know what he does. Witnesses?

Just the vamp.

The bouncer?

Tim. He was outside. Heard a crack, then the thump. Presumably the port, then the landing. Room was empty at the time. But he got the vamp to check it out.

You like the bouncer for it?

"Nah. He’s a solid citizen. Worked here for better of a decade. Never thrown me out on my ass- which is something. Always pays his taxes. Besides which, bartender corroborates him being outside when she heard the sounds, then him fetching my CI."

I’m not so sure. Still, grabbing the vamp-

Cauldron’s been a hangout for most of his tenure. This ain’t his first dog and pony.

Pawn’s being uncharacteristically thorough, tonight, but for some reason that puts me more on edge. Get him in here anyway.

The bouncer is a few inches north of six foot, and with his shaved head looks like Mr. Clean. He has a sternness to him, like he’d prefer to crack your skull to talking, but there’s a childlike glee in his eyes- he enjoys playing the heavy, but play is all it is.

Did you touch anything in the room? I ask it flat- not quite mean, just cold. I haven’t figured out what kind of witness he’s going to be just yet.

No. He’s incredulous, almost laughing at the implication he’s involved.

Not even the victim? Not to check for a pulse?

He slows up, recognizes someone sizing him up, and levels his eyes at me- not menacing, but fixing me with his eyes to tell me he’s being polite right now instead of talking with his fists. He’s a kebab. I also didn’t check my bacon at breakfast for a pulse- or my burger at dinner.

Bacon and burgers? Not going to live long that way. His eyebrows shoot up. Pawn laughs, because between the two of us we justify keeping a Burgerville open 24 hours- the manager on MLK told us as much one night- whereas Tim's built like a Finnish underwear model.

And who was here? 

Just the stiff.

Why was the room empty?

In this economy, we don’t always staff the champagne room. Bringing in girls who can’t make cab fare during their shift - let alone cover the stage fee- that’s not fair.

Stage fee?

Yeah. It’s pretty standard. The venue charges a dancer a flat stage fee to perform, to me always seemed more honest than taking a cut. A lot of the clubs in Portland will hold the good shifts hostage unless girls commit to working dead weekday shifts. But they’re more dependent on dancers than we are. We cater to a slightly more diverse crowd.

So you’re not just the bouncer.

Part owner, now. I started bouncing, and back then room and board was part of the compensation. Then the recession hit and things started going lousy, Trish began paying me in shares of the club. Eventually I just owned half- so now it’s half mine and I work here for a cut of the profits- which is usually just enough to cover my tab at the bar, plus the cot and hots.

Was all that before or after you started shtupping Trish.

He blushes a little, which is even easier to tell with his cue ball head. Uh, I think I had about a 40 percent stake, then. We’d worked together for seven years or so. She tends bar, and I bounce, seven nights a week. Spend that much time with somebody and you either really get to appreciate them, or really start to hate them.

So you’re plowing the bartender, congrats, Pawn says, but he’s distracted, nods to himself that something finally makes sense. The amount of time he spends here, he certainly hit on her- and now he thinks he knows why she shot him down. That part of your compensation package make up for the lost pay?

I could pop you like the hairy little zit that you are, Tim says, without ever losing the glee in his eyes. I bet he could- and it kind of makes me want Pawn to keep provoking him.

But when he doesn’t, I continue with the questions. That does muddy the waters, though. If your girlfriend is your alibis for not being in the room when it happened.

Ask around. The place wasn’t exactly empty when it happened. Just about any table should have at least one person who can vouch for me. I nod at Pawn and he heads back to the main room to find out.

You weren’t in the room. What’d you hear?

"Loud pop. Like a car backfiring, or a gunshot. I actually got a little scared it was a gunshot."

This place got a gun?

Under the bar.

And you didn’t get it?

He smiles, that kind of smile that says he knows he did something foolish. "Well, I’m four steps down the hall when I think I should get the gun. But then you have me turning tail away from trouble- which never looks good- a bouncer lives or dies on his reputation. And it would showcase me second-guessing myself, which makes me look like an indecisive fool."

In front of Trish.

He blushes all over again. "Yeah. So I tell myself I’ve never had to pull the shotgun before, tonight can’t be the night I’ll need to. Denial to save my pride- and I’m sure Trish will give me an earful tonight about it. But I bust in. And there’s the corpse. I’m relieved, actually, not to have a gun in my face. So I come out all calm, shrug at people looking to me for some kind of information, and tell Trish we’ll want to put in a call to you. But then I see somebody at the bar, somebody I remember seeing with your stout friend, so I tell her to hold off a sec." He nods at where Pawn had been standing a moment ago.

The vamp? Pawn comes back in, and nods that he’s got confirmation.

Yeah. So the vamp sniffs out the area, and of course there’s magic in the air. But before I can even get back to Trish to put through a call, your Pawn shows up.

Before?

Hey, I was in the car, in the area. On my way to a strip club, if you need to know, but I wasn’t more than three minute’s distance when I get the nod from my CI. That seems too convenient. But I’d seen enough of Pawn’s expense reports to know he probably didn’t have a CI he didn’t wine and dine in strip joints.

So am I done here? Tim asks.

I think so, I tell him. But we’ll need to get the body out. You mind doing the honors?

"I was hoping to go home not smelling like old jerky tonight."

And I was hoping not to catch a corpse. Tonight seems to suck all around.

Shouldn’t we analyze the crime scene? Rook asks.

This isn’t the scene, just where they dumped the body, I say. But there’s something hopeful in her voice, so I decide to give her the remedial lesson quickly.

I kneel beside the body, and use my pen to move what’s left of his pant leg away from his shin. Look at the burns, melted skin, charred muscle. Heat of this kind would have destroyed this room, but the carpet isn’t so much as singed. Point of fact, there’s no blood, no melted skin, nothing in the carpet. He was well-done before he ever got here.

"The other reason we won’t find anything is here: look at the ankles. Snapped, but through the burnt flesh- you can see the difference between the meat on the outside and on the in; body fell post-mortem. And you smell the brimstone- sulfur, rotten egg stink? Killer teleported it in here, and either fucked up the transport spell or didn’t give a shit, because the exit was too high. Corpse came in in an orthostatic position- standing; the fall caused the compound fractures, probably to the tibia. Best we’re going to get will come from the corpse itself, but we’ll have to get it to the lab to analyze it. I turn to Pawn. Bring my car around." I toss him the keys.

I unfold a wedge of silk and lay it flat next to the body. Tim helps me roll the corpse up in it like a burrito, and I put my coat on its shoulders. Now help me lift the bastard. I get most of the weight in the legs, and Tim lifts the head and throws that over my shoulder.

We make our way across the dance floor muttering apologies. He’s a little drunk. Excuse me. My friend’s sick. Can you let me through? We’re lucky it’s nearly last call, and everybody’s either hammered or looking to get laid. Rook’s an appreciated distraction, and makes two men carrying a body through the club less seedy than it should be. Tim stops at the front of the club, waves, then disappears back inside.

Pawn pulls up, and Rook opens the door. I set the corpse in the front seat with a little difficulty, belt him in.

Rook gets in the back, and Pawn saunters off. What was that about a vamp? she asks as I start the car and pull out into traffic.

"That’s right, Salem doesn’t have a colony. Vampires can smell magic. They’re not too specific; this guy could either be magic or have died by it, but it at least lets us know when to look into things, and when to just leave it for the normal cops."

So where are we taking the body?

Bishop’s lab. That didn’t seem to be enough for her. "You could call Bishop a renaissance man- but she’d probably say that’s sexist. She’s our resident polymath."

She?

Her coven likely told her we don't allow women into gambits, which isn't strictly true- it isn't the norm, either. Yeah. We recruited her from a Seattle coven, when our old bishop, Alfil- the elephant- quit. Back when I started, we didn't think he’d retire. He never used to forget anything, but his mind started to go. First little things, incantations, names of spirits, but it got worse, until half the time he’d forget I wasn’t a pawn anymore.

"About that. Pawn said he trained you. But unless I’ve got things backwards, you basically outrank him- at least as far as a gambit can be said to have ranks."

It’s a long story. And since you’ve only met him tonight, a little too early to tell. But that long story short, I took his spot, he took mine. 

In other words, he got demoted, and they promoted you. Almost too bad she isn’t looking to be a horsey. Seems to have the chops.