Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [40]
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