Staying Dead - Laura Anne Gilman [42]
“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.
It wasn’t until he was out of the building entirely that he felt the muscles in his neck and shoulders relax.
“Christ. I need a drink.” But first, he had to hand off the bad news.
“That was fast.”
“They’re not exactly the type to invite you to stay for tea.” Sergei draped his coat neatly onto the hanger and hung it in the narrow hall closet. Another month and he’d have to send it into storage for the summer. He made a mental note to remind himself of that in three weeks. He closed the door and turned to see Wren standing in front of him. Hair for once pulled out of her eyes with a barrette, her face was scrunched in the “you’ve got to be kidding me” look he was far too familiar with. Her arms were crossed, her head tilted back—the better to glare at him—and he was struck with the sudden but not unfamiliar urge to touch the tip of her ever-so-slightly upturned nose with one finger, the way you would an inquisitive house cat. Wanting to keep his hand intact, he again squelched the impulse.
Best to get it over with. “They’re clean.”
“Clean?” The word, parroted back to him, carried a wealth of disbelief.
“Not responsible for this particular occurrence,” he said, amending his earlier words. “In short, and if I’m reading the clues correctly, they don’t know who stole it either. And they’re not happy about it.”
“The theft, or the not knowing?”
“Yes.”
“Damn. Some answers would have been convenient.” She shrugged, and headed back to her office, presumably where she had been when he arrived. The faint strains of Coltrain rose from the speakers. He frowned, recognizing the CD as one that had gone missing from the gallery last month. A twist of his mouth was the only outward sign he gave of that knowledge. If you were going to work with a thief, you had to accept certain…inconveniences. She couldn’t help it. He’d already bought another, anyway.
“Reading between very carefully worded lines, the Council didn’t authorize any moves against our client,” he told her, aware that she could hear him even over the music. “Apparently, there isn’t any profit in undercutting each other’s work.” He shook his head, his mouth twisting in appreciation. “Nice noncompetition deal they’ve got there. Wonder if we can get the Justice Department in to investigate?”
A muffled