The Necromancer's Gambit: Check
Nicolas Wilson
I make a few calls, and steal a nap after that.
For some reason, the idea of a concrete threat, something real rather than suspected, comforts me. And it gives me an excuse to get out of the Queen’s way. I’ve seen him like this before, setting up a gala over the course of a single day. He becomes the eye of a storm of ribbons, balloons and whatever you call the ugly little decorations you put in the middle of the table.
I wake up to an alarm I didn’t set with a change of clothes in a plastic bag at the foot of a borrowed bed in the Centre. On the bag is a post-it note that says, “Shower. You reek.” I do, and I do, quickly, and dress.
When I leave the bathroom Queen’s waiting for me. “Nice fit,” I tell him. “Did you divine my measurements?”
“Measured you while you slept. You seemed to mistake it for foreplay, and whispered some rather incriminating names.” I think he would tease me longer, but I’m struggling with my damn bowtie. He heaves a sigh, and walks over to me.
“I hate parties.” I say.
“Yet you look so dashing in a tux,” Queen says, finishing up the tie. “Just behave yourself. No punching anybody, even if they’re being shitheads. And try not to rip the tux, it’s a rental and worth more money than we have left in any of the accounts.”
“But why doesn’t Pawn have to dress up?”
“Because he isn’t allowed in the Centre while there are guests here. Not after last time.”
“In his defense it did turn out that his little tryst was consensual.”
“Yes, but that was after a month and a half of investigations and bad press. Anybody who stopped reading the Eyeblog after week 3 still believes he’s a date rapist- and that’s being generous. Besides, that’s overlooking all of the completely horrible things he said before sodomizing that girl in the men’s room. And I thought you sent him out on a little mission.”
“Yeah, but that was before I realized I was going to be miserable tonight, and would be less miserable if I wasn’t the only one suffering in a monkey suit.”
“And what about the King and I?”
“You two wear that kind of stuff all the time. It’s not”
“It’s just as uncomfortable for the both of us. We just don’t complain about it nearly as much as you two. Jesus, could you stop squirming? You make me feel like somebody’s mother.”
“Well, you are Queen. Plus, you love it.”
“Just a little. There. Your cummerbund’s straighter than you are. Go out there and break some hearts- just no fingers, they need those to reach for their wallets.”
“I know the drill. But… this all still seems awfully short notice.”
“Sometimes, the shorter the notice the better. If people can’t make it to an event, they’ll send a check, instead. And then you get the donation without the cost of the plate or the schmoozing.”
“Unless they’re off throwing their support behind the shadow gambit. I can’t believe they’re trying to steal your thunder.”
“The important thing is our announcement went out first. So they’re the ones playing catch-up, fighting for legitimacy, not the other way around.”
“And we’ll get a headcount of who’s already been poached, or at least who’s on the sidelines,” the King says, closing the door behind him. “We going to be good to go in a half an hour?”
“I’ve got Tim working the door,” I say. “He knows from riff raff, and he should be able to handle whatever might be thrown at him.” We exchange a look, because we both know there’s a caveat, there, but it’s better not to think about it. Tim really is the best man to have at the door, it’s just a fact that no defense is impenetrable.
I leave the room, running my hands over the rental, unable to feel comfortable. I stop at the top of the spiral staircase that leads down into the central hall. In just a few hours, Queen and a handful of helpers transformed the Centre into a banquet. A podium is arranged in front of the lobby desk, which functions as a small stage.
Rook is standing near it, but keeping a weather eye on the catering. I think she wants desperately to have some punch, but she’s trying to keep up appearances. When she sees me she blushes, and then looks self-consciously down at what there is of her dress, split so high up one leg every man in the room knows she isn’t wearing underwear. But she waits until I’m closer, so she can whisper. “When I agreed to let Queen pick up a dress for me, I had no idea it was so I could put the T & A into the gambit.”
“I think I’m in the same boat,” I say,” only people prefer their man-candy still in the wrapper.”
“Only some,” Queen whispers from behind us, and we start.
“You’re like a very effeminate ghost,” Rook says.
“If I’d had my druthers he’d have foregone the shirt entirely- anything to get our donors feeling generous.”
“Yeah, this dress is awfully generous with my cleavage. I feel like I should know the going rate for a half and half in this thing.”
“The line between politics and prostitution is a fluid one, and not easily sussed out. But I was very selective in picking your dress; it says ‘available,’ not ‘cheap.’”
“So I’m a high-priced whore.”
“Not at all. By now, people have heard there’s another woman working in the Gambit. We could have fought that, butched you up, but it wouldn’t fool anyone; it would feel fake, forced- like you and we with you lacked faith in your abilities. I chose that dress to showcase that you’re a lovely girl who’s confident and competent.”
“So the dress was chosen to show off more of my assets than just my ass-ets?”
“The dress is an ice-breaker, enough to make people wonder who you are. And when the King steps up to the podium for his speech, and they see your professional demeanor while you protect him, they’ll feel that much safer.”
Bishop emerges from a small crowd near the punch bowl, wearing something far less revealing. “Then why does she get to dress all conservatively- and with an actual bra and not boob tape?”
“Bishop already has a reputation. There isn’t a mage in this room who wouldn’t love to pick her brain. I’ll be surprised if she doesn’t bring in more monies than the two of you combined.”
“But you’re sure I’m not allowed to punch any of them? Not even the weasely guy who keeps touching the hors d’oeuvres and licking his fingers. Because he keeps talking into my cleavage. It’s not a microphone.”
“Maybe,” I start, “he’s just trying to get an echo-echo-cho-o.”
“Him I can hit, right?”
“We have to keep up decorum, so, once.” She does, in the arm.
“Since we’re trying not to feed her into gender stereotypes, does that mean I can hit her back?”
“Hush now, children. The King’s about to speak, and I need to be at his side, for solidarity. Do try to keep us alive.”
The King walks slowly to the lobby desk, making eye contact at least a dozen times, nodding, smiling. “Good evening. News travels fast, I know, so I have no doubt most of you are aware why you’re here. I’ve known some of you your entire lives. I’ve always tried to run a transparent gambit, because it’s important that you all know that this is your gambit, your representation, your protection. So I’m going to be frank. Some of you have already noticed the Arbiter from the National Gambit mingling, and I’m sure rumors are already afoot. But I’ll put them to rest, because here’s the full truth: there’s been a formal challenge to the gambit’s authority.”
“In the coming days, the usurpers may attempt to intimidate and threaten you. They would have you believe their thuggish behavior is necessary to usher in a new era. But they are no better than mobsters, a magus mafia. Together, we can,” but he stops, because he sees something, an instant before I do, “shit.”
Armed men, four of them, at the back of the room, aiming down the sights at the King. A fifth man is keeping Tim in line with a submachine gun, and is smart enough to keep him at a distance.
I fling myself behind the podium at the King as they fire. There’s a splash of warmth across my face, which means one of us is hit. I spend a few seconds on the floor trying to force air back into my lungs, and in that time I realize it wasn’t me who took the bullet.
There’s panic. I peak over the Lobby desk, and can see that even though the assassins are already filing out, people are surging for the exits. I should just let them all go, and stay to protect the King. But if we lose those people, the opinion leaders and the donors, then we’re sunk.
I leap to my feet and fire several shots from my revolver towards the door. I hit one of the attackers and he falls. Two of the others lift him up and carry him out. I run for the door, pistol still aimed. By the time I make it through they’re in a black truck, and they’ll be gone before I can close into an effective firing distance, but the audience is listening, so I pop off a handful more shots.
Pawn’s little Jeep pulls up to the front. He sees me firing at the Ford as it drives off, and he joins me in shooting. The left rear tire of the truck flattens, and it careens into a parked car, but still makes the turn. Pawn leans his head out the window as I jog up to it. “We going after them?”
“There’s five of them with automatic weapons. We only ran them off because they wanted to leave. Even if we catch them, we’re outgunned, and where they’re going, there’s even more.”
“Baldur.”
“Yeah. We’ll need a plan before we run into that hornet’s nest.”
“So what now?” he asks.
“Get out of the car. We have to go back inside, take our bow.”
“I hate that I can hear Whitney Houston in my head right now,” he says as he slams his car door.
Harry’s in the passenger seat, yawning. “Think I’ll stay here.” He’s avoiding the party- which explains why he volunteered to go with Pawn- because nobody ever volunteers to go with Pawn.
Tim meets us at the entrance. “I’m sorry, man, they put a gun in my face. Well, there were five of them, so they put five guns in my face, but still, I feel like a heel.” His face is tormented; he hates that it’s becoming a pattern, him being in the middle of things that go wrong.
“Not your fault.”
“No, it’s yours,” the Arbiter says to me.
“Excuse me?”
“Without a Castle the protection duties fall to the Knight. And attacking an event is certainly within the rules. Ungentlemanly, perhaps. But your failure to prevent it was due to a lack of imagination.”
“Two things: You ‘arbitrate’ any louder and it’ll be evangelizing for the other side,” nobody likes being told to shut up, no matter how politely it’s phrased, and he’s no exception. “Second, I don’t see any reasonable way to prevent that kind of attack. Our job is to make sure it’s a one-off.”
He’s not used to being questioned, but he listens pretty well, given that. “You’re right, on the former part; I’ll endeavor to be more discreet. And you did repel the attack, which I suppose is worth something. And you prevented me from being shot, amongst others. Though I dare say from the state of your King that things may not look well for you.”
I follow his gaze. Rook’s got a look on her face like she’d tear the skin off anyone who looked at King sideways, but he’s still on the floor. Bishop’s leaned over him. She looks up at me and I can tell she’s sick, she’s so damn worried. The King must be bleeding out.
Then the old man pushes her back, and gets to his feet. He smiles at the crowd, then he gives a little bow, and people stand up and applaud. Bishop puts his arm over her shoulder, and other people might not see it but he puts so much of his weight on her that she’s barely keeping him on his feet. But you wouldn’t know it from his face, red at the cheeks, his smile and eyes warm and genuine. She leads him out of the room, still waving. Those not used to recognizing blood soaking through black clothing might not even suspect how much of it there really is sopping up his jacket.
As soon as the guests stop clapping the Queen goes to the podium. “I want to thank you all for your composure. It’s not every day most of you have to cope with gunfire, but you comported yourselves well. That’s the point, though. You don’t have to deal with guns, and violence, because we do it for you. We handle criminals, and heavens forbid murder, so you can sleep safely in your homes, secure in the knowledge that your stores won’t be vandalized or burglarized on our watch.”
I start to edge away, not wanting to look like we’re abandoning the Queen to the crowd, but needing to get to the King. “That’s why we asked you here tonight. This gambit is a partnership. We can’t do this alone. I want to thank all of your for…” the Queen’s voice fades as I’m finally able to sneak into the King’s office. Pawn’s just a step behind me, unfolding a piece of paper. It’s the names I asked for, people who went to the other gambit’s rally.
Bishop has the King’s shirt off, and is using it to stop up the hole in his shoulder. “I told you to go after Baldur,” King says to me.
“We did, for all the good it did us.”
“Hey,” Pawn protests, “I found Baldur, didn’t I?”
“But for all we know, maybe this is because we were looking into the Kindred. And don’t be such a pussy. Pawn gets shot worse than that at least once a year.”
“Yeah, but he usually shoots himself.”
“One time,” Pawn interrupts. “That happened one time, and that’s because the jackass who modified my Judge completely fucked up the safety.”
“And the moral of that story was not letting jackasses modify your firearms.”
“Nope. I do all my own modifications, now.”
“So you didn’t learn the lesson at all, then,” I grin.
“Hello?” King says. “Bleeding. And angry. And quite capable of cursing the both of you terribly. Some manner of erupting taint boils.”
“Paramedics are on their way,” Rook says, “called them as soon as shots were fired.”
“In the meantime just try not to lose all your blood,” I tell him. “I’m not sure that’s something they’re trained to fix.”