The Initiate

by James L. Cambias

  * * *

  Sam called Lucas as soon as he could get to a disposable phone, and set up a meeting that evening. He rented a car and drove northwest, up into mountains covered with trees showing some brown after the hottest part of summer. It was a little startling how wild and empty the country was, just forty miles from Manhattan. They met at a diner right on the Pennsylvania–New Jersey border. Sam was on his second cup of coffee when Lucas slid into the booth.

  “I should have packed some food suitable for humans,” he muttered as he looked at the menu. He wound up ordering a Greek salad and ate only the olives. Just to needle him, Sam got a big gooey cheeseburger with extra onions.

  “I don’t know what to do about Moreno. He’s going to impose a truce,” said Sam between bites.

  Lucas looked around, muttered some words in Hittite, and all the noise and clatter of the restaurant faded away. Sam’s breathing seemed suddenly very loud. “Good. The other factions have crippled one another. The Circle of the West is down to just eight members. Two of them are oath-bound to me, and the others—excepting Roger himself—are more suspicious of each other than they are of me. All my pieces are in the right places on the board. This is the perfect moment for me to make a move, and ascend to the Circle of the Lamp. Forget about Moreno—your next task is to remove Roger himself.”

  “Are you sure the other Sages will make you the next Sage of the West with Roger gone?”

  Lucas picked out the last olive and pushed his plate aside. “In theory, they can select whoever they wish. In practice it would be most unwise to ignore the wishes of the Circle of the West. Especially right now, with so much chaos and bloodshed. They desire stability, and I can provide that.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  “Don’t worry. With Roger gone I am the obvious candidate for Sage. And once I ascend to the rank of the Illuminated, you and I will commence a campaign against the other Sages and bring an end to the Apkallu as an organization. Not that any of this will be simple. First I shall have to consolidate my own power.”

  Sam tried to keep the excitement out of his voice. “I need to know everything about Roger. Where does he normally stay, what spirits does he control, who are his allies—everything.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have very good answers for any of those questions. Roger spends most of his time in the Otherworld. I believe that is how he keeps his physical body from aging: He sleeps for years at a time.”

  “So why not just find out where he’s sleeping and blow him up?”

  “You are not the first person to have that idea,” Lucas pointed out. “Roger has outlived many rivals, and not through dumb luck. Wherever his physical form sleeps must be well hidden or heavily guarded, if not both.”

  “He showed up at my initiation.”

  “Yes—unexpectedly. Not even Feng knew in advance.”

  “Okay.” Something to investigate, Sam thought. “Assets?”

  “I’m sure he has vast amounts of money.”

  “Sorry, slipped into intel-speak. I meant what magic does he have?”

  “Roger is mighty. He has been Sage of the West for a century, and in that time he has beaten back some very powerful challengers. He commands demons who can influence entire nations. I am absolutely certain that I don’t know the extent of his power.”

  “Tall order, then.” He gazed off at the rotating display of pies by the cash register, trying to organize his thoughts. “So…what happens if someone dies in the Otherworld? I mean, can you die there? Or do you just bounce back to your meat body?”

  “‘Meat body.’ L. Frank Baum would approve. In answer to your question, no. You cannot die in the Otherworld—which means you can experience worse torments there than you could survive in the real world. A human soul is immortal and indestructible—except for those of us who are heirs to the bargain, of course.”

  There it was again: the soul, the afterlife, the bargain. And lurking in the background was the thing nobody ever mentioned, the thing they all pretended didn’t exist. He pushed it all out of his mind.

  “Okay, so I’ve got to find Roger in reality, or lure him out of hiding. Then I have to figure out how to kill one of the most powerful wizards in the world. Have you got some magical gizmo that can take him out?”

  “Not this time. Roger was one of my teachers. He was based in London, then, before the war. We were permanent guests at Syon House—the Percys, you know.”

  Sam had no idea what Lucas was talking about, but he resolved to look it all up later. “So his body is probably in Fort Knox or someplace, and he can beat any magic you know. Great.”

  “I never promised any of this would be easy.”

  Chapter 24

  He spent an afternoon at the Public Library, looking through all the newspapers for a month on either side of his own initiation. Feng had been surprised when Roger turned up at the ceremony. What had brought Roger to New York on the equinox? The news was the usual mass of things which already seemed trivial after just a few months. A plane crash in the Alps, a shooting in Denmark, another in Kenya. Washington politics were full of drama, but none of it seemed important enough to demand Roger’s personal attention. Islamists had blown up some ruins in Iraq, which might be significant—but that would surely be the Sage of the Mountain’s responsibility.

  Had he come to New York for the St. Patrick’s Day parade?

  Roger didn’t seem to handle political matters personally—at least not matters as trivial as who was president or which party controlled Congress. So Sam decided to ignore anything the subur news media might consider important. And given that Roger was one of the seven secret Masters of the world, he probably wasn’t going to be showing up in New York hoping to score Hamilton tickets or catch a special exhibition at the Met. So eliminate anything like that as well.

  “It’s got to be personal,” Sam said to himself as he left the library that evening. “He would only show up for something he couldn’t control.” But what couldn’t Roger control? Even death could be delayed for his convenience.

  At the food court underneath Grand Central Station the answer came to him. Death was within Roger’s control—but not birth.

  Sam spent the next morning checking records for the previous spring at the city’s most expensive private hospitals. At Lenox Hill Hospital’s Maternity Care Unit he found what he was looking for: the arrival of little Pierpont Bleecker Warren IV on April 27—christened at Trinity Church on April 30, according to the Times. Samuel was willing to bet that the name bestowed on the baby at his actual christening wasn’t quite the same as that given in the paper.

  Research about the Warren family was intriguingly unproductive. Sam could only get their home address by using magic to command a Lenox Hill Hospital employee to give him access to the billing records. Pierpont III, the infant’s father, didn’t show up in any of the city’s professional directories, nor on the staff or board of any companies—but he did live in an Upper East Side townhouse which cost at least twenty million dollars. His ethereally beautiful Ukrainian wife Kara had been a model until they married, at which point she basically ceased to exist as far as public information was concerned.

  He checked with Lucas. “Warren? There was a Pierpont Warren in the Manhattan Circle back in the fifties. The talent seems to have faded out in the family after him. But, yes, they have Apkallu connections. Why do you ask?”

  “Just testing a theory.”

  If Roger did take a personal interest in the Warrens, how could Sam make use of that? Threaten them somehow? The idea gave him a queasy feeling. It made him recall a particular purple crayon drawing.

  * * *

  Moreno sent him a text. “Taking vacation. See you in 1 wk.”

  Sam called him back immediately. “You’re serious?”

  “Absolutely. I’m at the airport right now. In just a couple of hours I’ll be sitting on a beach. Think you can handle stuff while I’m gone?”

  “I guess so. Sure. You deserve a
break.”

  “I figured you’d say that,” said Moreno.

  “What about the Mitum?” Sam asked, trying not to sound as eager as he felt.

  “Sorry, Champ. I’m the Mitum-bearer, not you. It goes with me. If anything comes up that you can’t handle, get hold of Dr. Greene. The truce seems to be holding, so you probably won’t have any problems.”

  It was only after Moreno clicked off that Sam realized he had no idea where in the world he was going.

  * * *

  He was sitting in a pastry shop on Madison Avenue when he felt a tug on his jacket. Isabella stood behind him holding an enormous chocolate eclair. She had chocolate on her face and for some reason wore a Girl Scout uniform. “What are you doing?” she asked.

  Everyone in the shop was suddenly ignoring the two of them. “I’m flying my drone,” he told her. “I want to check out a house near here.”

  “What for?”

  “Well…can you keep a secret?”

  “Sure!”

  “This is a real secret, so I can’t tell you everything. Someone might use magic to make you tell. Anyway—do you remember Roger? He was at our initiation.”

  “The Sage of the West guy.”

  “That’s him. I need to get in touch with him, but he’s not easy to find.”

  “He lives in the Otherworld,” she said. “I visit him there sometimes. He’s kind of boring, though. He doesn’t do anything but talk to dead people and fool around with succubuses. What do you want to tell him?”

  “I want to meet him in the real world.”

  “He doesn’t like it here. He says everything’s too loud. But I can take you to him in the Otherworld.”

  “No—not now. Remember, this is all a secret. Do you know where he is, in the real world?”

  She shook her head. “He won’t tell anyone. Not ever.”

  An idea tickled Sam’s mind. “Isabella? Would you do a favor for me? It won’t take more than half an hour or so. I’ll take you out for a milk shake afterward.”

  She looked at him with good-natured suspicion. “I thought you were mad at me.”

  “I was. I guess I still am, a little. If you don’t want to help, that’s fine. I’ll figure out something else.”

  “What kind of a favor?” she asked, and he knew he had set the hook.

  “I want you to go to a house near here, knock on the door, and ask if they need a babysitter.”

  “I don’t like babies.”

  “Don’t worry, they won’t hire you. Be sure to take all of your friends along.”

  Her face took on a mischievous air. “Mr. Ace? Are you going to kill Mr. Roger?”

  “That would be going against the oath we all swore to,” he said.

  “Yes, but are you?”

  “If I tell you, you might have to stop helping me. Do you want that?”

  “No!” she said and laughed. “I really like helping you. What kind of milkshake?”

  “Any kind you like. There’s a great place up on Eighty-Third.”

  “The candy shop? I love that place! Okay!” She cupped her hands around her mouth and whispered to him loudly. “It’s okay if you do kill Mr. Roger. I like you better than him. When you’re not being all bossy you’re pretty nice. He’s just boring.”

  Sam gave her the address of the house he’d been surveilling, and she turned and walked out. The crowd of people in the pastry shop parted even though none of them seemed to notice her.

  He bought a postcard, wrote “I need to speak to Roger” on it, with one of his phone numbers, addressed it to the Warren house, and dropped it off at the nearest post office. Sam spent the next day at home, staring at that phone, trying to will it to ring.

  Evidently local mail delivery on the Upper East Side took more than twenty-four hours, because it wasn’t until Sam was in the shower two days after buying Isabella’s milk shake that he heard his phone ring. He nearly broke his neck scrambling for it, and stood there dripping on the floor, hands trembling, as he pressed Talk.

  “Who are you and why do you bedevil a blameless family?”

  “I need to talk to you—sir. I found out something important. I know who’s behind all the murders.”

  “Well, say on.”

  “I want to meet you. I want to make a deal.”

  Roger’s answer was so long in coming Sam wondered if his phone had lost the connection. Then he spoke again. “Tell me who you are. If I cannot see your face, at least give me the favor of a name.”

  “I’m called Ace. I don’t want to say my real name aloud. Someone might be listening.”

  “A new-made brother of the Gate, are you?”

  “That’s right. You were at my initiation last spring.”

  “Yes, I know you now. Passing strange for one new weaned to be making demands of a Sage.”

  “I’m scared. I don’t know who I can trust. Please, sir. Can we meet in a church? I’m afraid I’m being watched.”

  “Whatever you will. St. James’, then, in an hour’s time.”

  Shrewd guy, Sam thought. He picked the place, and didn’t give me time to set anything up. Can I really take down a guy who’s survived more than a century of cutthroat rivalries and power struggles? I guess I’ll find out in an hour.

  He dried off, dressed, and thought carefully about what to bring along. Assume Roger would be able to sense any magic: If Sam brought along his most powerful spirit servitors, it would put his target on alert. He had to look like a scared novice in over his head, not a threat. In the end he brought along his protective spirit, the sleep spirit bound into a ring, the lock-picking spirit, a wind elemental imprisoned in a tin whistle, and a poltergeist he had sealed inside a small glass bottle.

  The only other thing he brought along was a two-foot length of two-hundred-pound-test fishing line, with a thick wooden handle at each end.

  Fifty minutes later Sam walked up the steps of St. James’ Church on Madison Avenue. He nodded politely to the two big men wearing sunglasses and trying unconvincingly to look as if they were just hanging out by the door of the church. Neither nodded back, but they did watch him very closely.

  Shrewd guy indeed, Sam thought.

  Inside the church was lovely, a wonderful 1920s version of a Gothic cathedral. The inevitable childish-looking modern banners didn’t clash too much with the serenity of the place. It smelled of incense and furniture polish.

  Two more large men waited just inside the entrance of the sanctuary. “Security check,” said one of them, stepping back while the other one waved a metal-detector wand around Sam. He wasn’t carrying enough to make it beep, so they let him pass and then sat down in the rear pew.

  Roger occupied a pew on the left side, a couple of rows back from the front. A little brass plaque on the end noted that it had been donated by Merton P. Warren in 1924. Sam found himself wondering how much of the Warren family tree consisted of nothing but Roger under various aliases.

  The incredibly handsome man himself sat very comfortably in the pew, arms spread along the top of the backrest, legs extended. He looked as if he was waiting for a performance by his favorite comedian, or maybe a particularly good stripper. All he needed was a beer in one hand. As Sam approached Roger smiled at him and gestured at the seat. “Join me, if you please.”

  Sam sat. “Please, um—I’m sorry but I don’t know how I should address you.”

  “’Tis simple enough: You should not address me unless I bid you speak.” Roger turned to face Sam and spoke quickly. “Eresikin William Phillips Hunter iginudug Ruax. Speak only the truth to me now and forever. Segah.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Sam. The sheer force of Roger’s personality almost made Sam obey him even without the magical command.

  “Now I bid you, tell what do you purpose here.”

  “I came to tell you that Lucas is the one behind the murders,” said Sam, and he didn’t need any acting ability to sound nervous. “I think he knows I’m on to him and he’s trying to get rid of me. I need your
protection. I’m afraid.”

  “Are there any men left in these sad days, either among Apkallu or subur? I do not see them,” said Roger. “Still, you did at least dare to seek me, and that I shall not forget. Speak on, if you will. Tell me what else you know of Lucas’s plot.” He stared up at the ceiling again, looking bored.

  Sam improvised. “I think he believes the Apkallu are evil, and deserve to be destroyed. He wants to become Sage in order to bring the whole thing down.”

  “Others have sought the same end.”

  “Sir? May I ask you something?”

  “You may ask. I do not promise any answer.”

  “Then…why do you tolerate so much evil among the Apkallu? You have incredible power. You run this city—you can influence the whole country. Think of all the good you could do!”

  That got Roger’s attention, and he looked at Sam again, this time with a lazy smile. “Aye, but why? We alone among all men need fear no judgement. What cause have we to do any thing but what we please?”

  “Wouldn’t you rather live in a world where people are happy? Without crime or war? You and the other Sages could do that in a couple of weeks!”

  “Again I ask you, why? So long as I keep the fires of war from my own roof, and can slay with a word any who would rob me, what is it to me that others suffer? You say to me I do evil, and countenance it in others, and I will not call you a liar. But what of it, man? What reason can you give, that I should do good rather than ill to any man? I do as I please, and I fear neither man nor God. Why should my will be denied in any thing?”

  “Because what you’re doing is wrong!” His voice raised faint echoes from the Gothic ceiling high above them.

  “You but repeat yourself: You say that the evils I do are evil, and therefore I should not do them, for they are evil, and it is evil to do evil. I ask a third time, why? Why should I seek to do good, if it please me not?”

  “This is why,” said Sam, and lunged for Roger with the garrotte in his hands.

  “Stop!” Roger commanded, but by then the line was around his neck and Sam was pulling it tight.