Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [41]
“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