Staying Dead (10 page)

A not-so-gentle cough from the client reminded her of why she was there, and the woman forced her gaze away from the seemingly endless planes and angles of the crystal and back to the job at hand.

Mage-sight wasn't one of her strengths, but she had enough to get the job done. Settling herself into a light trance state, careful to work over her defenses rather than through them, she blinked, then looked at the plain gray slab of marble sitting by itself in a corner. Part of her mind found it ludicrous that such an ugly piece of nothing was treated as though it were a piece of artwork, but the majority of her awareness Saw the glitter of magic that permeated the concrete, and knew its value.

It looked exactly the same as it had when she worked the original spell to remove it; red in the middle, where the original activation spell still roiled about, then blue surrounding it, and a paler green on the surface, where the retaining spell was weakest, shining through the concrete plug. Sloppy work there: she would have reinforced it with something a little less porous herself, if she had been the caster. But it was intact.

She was about to break out of trance state and tell the client that he was safe as houses when there was a flicker of light to one side. Frowning, she walked over to get a better line of sight on it. A crooked line of gold ran zigzag through the green, like a Navajo sand painting she'd seen once on display in one of those little art galleries scattered throughout the city.

“Well, well, what do we have here?” she wondered, reaching out with one finger to test it. Even as that one part of her brain told her that was an incredibly stupid thing, she made contact.

A sting of lightning ran through the nerve endings of her arm, straight into her brain. She convulsed once, like a bad sneeze, and a wave of vertigo shivered through her. Then it was gone, and she was standing in front of a perfectly quiescent spellblock, red and blue and green exactly in order.

“What happened? Did it do anything? What's wrong?” The client sounded like a rabbit, and the thought made her smile. The power still whispered through her, attempting seduction. It would be so easy to turn on him, take what was here and disappear…
And then never work again,
the practical portion of her brain reminded her.
The Council already has its eye on you. Not smart.

Blinking out of trance state, she turned to look at the client. “There was a slight disturbance,” she told him blithely. “But I corrected it. Everything should be fine now.”

The client didn't look completely convinced, but whatever she had done had apparently chased away the creeps, because he nodded, and offered her the blindfold again. She took it without hesitation, tying it around her own eyes. The less she saw, the better. She wouldn't give him any reason to turn that craziness on her.

The door closed behind them, and the room settled into silence once again. But deep inside the stone, the red spell energy was suddenly shot through by gold streaks of lightning. The red solidified, pulsing in a fashion unlike its earlier roil, and then stilled completely.

And a mage of moderate ability, listening intently, would have been able to hear a scream of rage and despair rise from the interior of the concrete block.

S
ergei looked at his watch, tilting his wrist slightly to catch the light. 10:58 a.m. He was exactly, perfectly on time. He could feel the slight pressure in the soles of his feet that indicated the elevator was moving him upward at a disconcertingly quick speed. It made him, he admitted, nervous. He was all for speed, and power, but he much preferred being the one determining how it was used.

Not that he didn't trust the Mage Council. He did. He trusted them to be cold, calculating, utterly ruthless and completely without a shred of human decency. Perfectly reasonable businessmen. Which was why he was here, in this elevator, instead of his partner. He could hold his own in negotiations, smooth-talk his way through the landmines and hopefully get out with what they needed, not having left too much of himself behind.

Sergei Didier knew from long experience that you didn't need Talent to deal with the mages. Only patience, and a great deal of self-control. His Wren, for all that she was exceedingly good at what she did, lacked a certain level of self-possession when it came to negotiations.

In short, she lost her temper. And everything always, but always, went downhill from there. That was why he was making this call, and not her. Normally, a non-Talent like himself wouldn't be allowed inside the building. The fact that they had allowed him entrance meant that they accepted him as Wren's surrogate. Unusual, but not unheard of.

The Council's old-fashioned, very 1950s patriarchal, except the role of the guy is played by the Talent, and all their dependents, nonmagically, are the wimminfolk and children, used for display to show you're a good provider, if they're allowed in sight at all.
Her disgust when she said this had been unmistakable. He hadn't realized, before the two of them started working together, how deep the distaste between lonejack and Council went. Fair enough, since he'd only ever heard rumors of the Council's existence before they hooked up. But they were still all
Cosa
and therefore protected by the rules of the game, such as it was. Because of that, he was perfectly safe here as Wren's surrogate. So long as he didn't do or say or start anything stupid.

He shot the cuffs of his suit, straightening his shoulders so that the suit jacket fell smoothly, the way his tailor had designed it. The finely cut wool slid against the ironed cotton of his shirt, and when he looked down, the cuffs of his pants broke exactly right over his polished dress shoes. Clothes might not make the man, the way his father had always insisted, but they did make the man feel more confident. He was going to ace this.
Keep it cool, keep it easy, and keep it under control. Don't let Wren down.

The elevator slowed, and then came to a stop. The doors slid open smoothly, without a ding or beep to indicate he had arrived. There were no floor indicators inside the darkly paneled box, no call boxes or emergency phone. You got in because you were here to see the Council, and you got to the floor you needed to reach because they wanted to see you.

A solemn young man, carefully groomed and expensively dressed in a subtle gray suit and cream-and-gray herringbone tie, waited to greet him in the equally dark-paneled, gray-carpeted empty space that would have been the reception area in an ordinary office. They looked like nothing so much as two proper high-risk investment bankers, junior and senior, plotting a merger. Or world domination.

“Mr. Didier. Follow me, if you would.”

He was led down a hallway that, like the young man, whispered of power and wealth. The young man could be dismissed. But Sergei believed in those other whispers. The gathered power of seven generations of mages had built the place, and they maintained it to this day. The young man was nothing, merely one cog in the workings of a greater whole. This building embodied the whole.

You're letting your imagination get the better of you, part of his mind tried to tell him. But the rest of him knew the sensation to be true. These were the real halls of power. And Power.

His guide opened a door, standing to one side in order to usher him into a conference room, then shut the door behind him. “Nice to have met you, too,” he said to the door, unable to resist. Sarcasm wouldn't be helpful here. But it made him feel better. Had he been like that before Wren? Or did she merely bring it out in him? And why was he chasing that thought now? Impossible questions. Mind on the job, Sergei!

Turning, he took an almost unnoticeable breath, girding himself for battle. The room was not empty. Four people waited for him in the lushly-appointed space; three men, two elderly, one middle-aged, all wearing variations on the young man's grayness. And a woman, white-haired and serene, wearing a deep-blue suit with a large opal pin on the lapel. Sergei recognized the woman at once—KimAnn Howe. She had married a wealthy businessman back in 1968, and therefore been photographed many times in the social papers, keeping her hand in even after the businessman died. She had won herself a seat on the Mage Council fair and square, he recalled, through a combination of ruthless Talent and even more ruthless backstabbing. Petite, but with an air of strength, and graceful, even seated; she was a woman you'd be proud to bring home to Mother, if Mother was a black widow spider.

The others he did not recognize, but it wouldn't have mattered if he did. In this place, at this time, they were not individuals, but the voice of the Council.

KimAnn's presence was unexpected. He was being honored. Or rather, Wren was. He made a note to remember to tell her that. For whatever it was worth. Odds were she'd not take it as a compliment.

“Why have you come before us?” one of the older men asked, after gesturing to one of the four empty leather chairs pulled up to the long polished board table. Sergei waited until they all had taken their own seats before folding himself into his, less a courtesy than an acknowledgement that he sat only by their grace.

A deep breath, as much a centering as he could manage. “I seek awareness.”

Not information, for that would give too much weight, too much importance to what he was seeking. Not an action, nothing that would require them to exert themselves on his behalf. Not a favor, for you never, ever requested a favor from a mage, much less the Mage Council itself. Instead, he was asking for awareness: an understanding of an existing situation. And by asking, implying that they had at least a finger in the situation, for why else would he come to them unless they had knowledge, and how would they have knowledge without involvement? And if Sergei—or, more to the point, any Null, came knocking, the situation couldn't be a good one. Flattery and warning, with neither overshadowing the other. He hoped. Byzantine was only one word for Council politics, but it was an accurate one.

A bead of sweat formed at the back of his neck, just under the hairline.
Tiho,
he told himself. Easy, keep it easy…

The four mages sat there, looking at him. He didn't want to put more on the table, not until he had some kind of reaction from them. Some indication which direction the wind was blowing.
Were
they directly involved in the theft?

He had asked the client beforehand, of course, when the initial approach was made. Standard procedure. But the client could have lied. Stupid, but always possible. Not everyone was as careful as they should be all the time, not even him. And he had asked only about the action they were being asked to perform, nothing about the deeper history of the situation. Nothing that wasn't immediately and directly relevant. Had his desire not to know too much in case he needed deniability later put Wren—all unknowing and despite his best intentions—into a direct clash with the Council? It was the one thing she had always feared, always been so careful about avoiding….

Sergei could feel his fingers twitch, and forced them to still. He relaxed a little further into the chair, allowing his exhale to release all tensed muscles, and waited.

“What is it you wish to understand?” the younger man said finally, allowing him this one small victory.

“A casting has been disturbed,” he said, not looking at any one of them in particular while speaking to them all at once. Wren had tutored him on this when he first became her partner, drilling him endlessly on the proper procedure. He'd only had to use it once before, when he hadn't fully understood the danger. There were forms to observe, procedure and protocol to follow, and letting himself think of them as four, when they thought as one, would guarantee his failure. “An act of current—” never but never refer to it as magic in front of a Council member; magic was for children and mountebanks “—has been interfered with. Before we take action on behalf of our own client, we seek clarity that this is not as the Council wished.”

He was rather proud of that wording, having worked it out on the cab ride uptown. By not giving details, he was implying that of course they knew what had occurred, that he need name no names, make no specific references. Implied as well was the fact that, were it something the Council had decreed, the lonejack involved would of course back off.

And she might. Or she might not.

And if the Council somehow did
not
know what he was referring to, that would tell him much as well.

But he didn't think that was going to be the situation. Wren had once, at three in the morning, exhausted and riding a post-job high, divided the unTalented world into three types: Kellers, those who were blind and deaf to the magic around them; Players, those who were involved in magic, even if they themselves could not manipulate it—himself included—and Jonesers, wannabes and fakes who didn't have a direct connection to the magic but wanted it. Mages, on the other hand, classed everyone as either a Talent or a Null. It was a matter of course that they keep tabs on everyone who counted as a Talent. And yet a wealthy businessman like Frants, who was not only willing to use spells other people could cast but able to afford even the most outrageous fee, would certainly rate a blip on the Council's radar. Even if he was—according to what both he and Wren had discovered—currently on their proscribed list for behavior unacceptable.

And of course they knew who currently employed the lonejack called The Wren—thinking they didn't insulted their entire organization. Especially when the situation apparently involved work performed by a mage, no matter how long ago. Any job a mage undertook was, by default, an act of the Council.

Sergei could feel the weight of the air in the room increase, pressing against his skin as though the humidity level had increased dramatically. That was how the use of active magic felt to him; passive magic, or what Wren called potential, didn't register with him at all, nor did active current outside his immediate, physical reach. KimAnn's face remained calm, composed, but the rapid, seemingly undirected eye movements of the others in the room suggested that they were in some kind of communication.

It was, he supposed, too much to hope for that they would discuss anything in a fashion he could eavesdrop. He merely folded his hands in his lap, and allowed his breathing to settle. It wasn't all that different than letting a buyer sell him- or herself on a painting. If you push, they become defensive. Act coy, and they're suspicious. Act as though you know they will come to the proper decision, and eight times out of ten, they will.

“The originator of the first casting held membership within the Council,” KimAnn said finally, her fine-skinned brow creased with the hint of a frown. What might be causing that frown, he could only guess. The first middle-aged man looked sulky, the gray-haired older man downright mutinous. Only the white-haired man seemed tranquil, as though what occurred in this room had no bearing on his existence at all. So far, KimAnn was only confirming what he had already said. No help there. Or was it?
Don't think right now,
he cautioned himself.
Listen, and absorb. What they're saying may not be as important as how they're saying it.

“That mage has since discarded this existence—” died, Sergei translated, as opposed to wizzing or otherwise becoming a disgrace “—and any records of his work have since been purged.”

It took Sergei a moment to catch up with what they were saying, matching it with his own understanding of corporate-speak and the endless ways to avoid admitting anything. Purged didn't just mean they had dumped files; they had destroyed the actual
memories
of the mage his- or herself.
Intense punishment, if they're all as much ego-hounds as Wren claims.

“And the second spell-casting? The removal of the original work?” If they were willing to take responsibility, Wren would insist on dropping the assignment, and he wasn't sure right now he'd blame her. For certain, no one in the
Cosa
would.

“It is not in the interests of the Council to condone discord within.” The look in her eyes suggested that Sergei had best figure the rest out on his own. The interview, such as it was, was over. With a careful incline of his head to her, and equal-but-lesser nods to the other men—risky, but he felt that KimAnn would enjoy it, and buttering her up seemed a worthy risk to take, especially if it left them squabbling amongst themselves over perceived slights or favors—he gathered himself up out of the chair and left. The young man met him outside the door and escorted him back to the elevator, which was also waiting. Sergei stood tall as the lift took him down to ground level, eyes straight ahead, hands perfectly still at his sides although he longed for the cigarette case tucked inside his jacket pocket.