Staying Dead

by Laura Anne Gilman

  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 tucke
d 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 grunt came back down the hallway that might have been agreement, disagreement, or completely unrelated.

  “They did, however, perform the original spell. Or at least they’re willing to take the credit for it.”

  “Told you so,” she yelled back, and he heard the sound of something heavy and possibly metallic hitting the ground, and her swearing faintly. When a moment passed and there was no further noise, he went into the kitchen and picked up the mug of tea that was steeping, waiting for him and then—having judged enough time had passed for her to recover from whatever minor disaster had occurred, joined his partner in the office. She was sitting on a short stool next to the filing cabinet-table on the other side of the room, fiddling with a large, ungainly lock that looked ancient. He sat down in the only other chair, at her computer desk. A screen saver of parachuting monkeys was activated, indicating that she hadn’t used it recently. He turned his back to the monkeys, swiveling around to watch her instead. He should get back to the gallery. Lowell had been borderline snide this morning about his “running off.” There was going to have to be a “me boss, you underling” meeting in the near future, he could tell. Christ, he so didn’t have time for that.

  “That means that nobody under the Council did the grab,” she said without pausing in her work. “And no member was approached to do the job, either—since the mark was one of their installations, they would have been bound to report it to the Council.” The same as she would, by courtesy, in a similar situation. Probably.

  “Would the Council then have told us, now that they officially know you’re working the job? And have gone through channels to ask for assistance?” He sipped the tea, chuckling slightly as he saw the logo—it was one of the gallery’s mugs, which he bought by the dozen to stock the kitchenette.

  “Good question. Probably. They’re as susceptible to bad press as anyone. More, actually. So they’d want it back in place too, you’d think, no matter what he and his have done to piss them off since then. It’s not like he was the original client, anyway, not unless he’s a lot older than his records claim.”

  “His grandfather, Frants the First. Is that why they’re so tight-mouthed on the original job they performed? Or do they just not like to be thought of as bragging?”

  She snorted. “Council. They don’t like to share the air with us, much less information. It’s the principle of the thing as much as the money. My gut, though, says if it’s a mage, he or she’s a rogue.”

  Sergei had heard her mention rogues before, but only in passing, and never with a lot of detail attached. “Is that common?”

  She gave the lock one last try, then put her tools down on the table next to it. “Common enough—maybe one Council mage every decade or so starts believing their own press, thinking they’re better than the others, able to sidestep the Council rulings, that sort of thing. When they catch ’em, which they always do, they kick ’em out—like you said, bad form to have members dissing fellow mages. Especially if they’re willing to work against other Council members.”

  “Yes. That was the impression I was given.” He tapped his fingers in a tattoo on his leg, less nervous than thoughtful, trying to sort the pieces in his brain.

  “Once they’re freelance,” she told him, “they usually fade out of sight. Nobody will hire them, which makes one unlikely in our case—unless the thief was taking it for his or her own reasons….” Sergei made a mental note to follow up on that possibility. “But the Council, natch, never admits that the mage in question ever even existed.”

  “Nobody wants a mage who works on his own?” That surprised him enough to still the finger-tapping. Lonejacks, Talents who refused to fall in with the Council, often worked freelance, like Wren. Although from what she had told him, most didn’t work at all, using their skills solely for themselves, or not using them consciously at all.

  Wren made an up-down motion with the flat of her hand, palm upraised as though she were weighing something. “Nobody wants a mage who’s already proven himself to be disloyal to the code. When you buy a mage, they’re supposed to stay bought. Would you want to hire someone your competitor might bribe away tomorrow?”

  “An excellent point.” He kept a list, carefully coded, of all their jobs as well. You wanted to avoid crossing your own path, if you could. “So we’re back to—”

  An ungodly noise interrupted him. Sounding like a cross between a scalded cat and a howler monkey, the screech came in through the window, rising from the street below. He dropped his mug, catching it again half an inch down, swearing as tea stained his pants. “What the hell—!”

  Wren went to the window, throwing the sash up and sticking her head out. “Leave it alone, damn it!” Catcalls responded, male voices, teenagers, probably locals from the accent. She shut the window in disgust. “Mornag.”

  “Mornwhat?”

  “Mornag. I swear to God, Sergei, someday you’ll get over that speciesist stick that’s stuck up your ass, at least enough to know who’s who.”

  “Or what’s what.”

  “Don’t be snide. Mornag’re about the size of a mutt, and about as smart as one too. There’s a pack that lives in the Park; P.B. uses them as messengers sometimes when he can’t get to me. Local kids are a bunch of punks, though. Anything on four legs is fair game. Makes me glad I don’t have a pet.”

  “Or a kid.”

  “Oh yeah. Although if any kid of mine started running with the sort around here…did I tell you about the newest joy added to my life? Bunch of Neighborhood Watch types, trying to clean up quote—the inhuman trash—endquote. Started I think with a couple of ranters on a street corner a couple of years back; didn’t take
them seriously, but they’re getting more sophisticated. Masquerading as a pest control outfit now, but they don’t want to know about your roach or rat problem. They’ve been messing with the sub-sentients mainly, mornags, a few piskies. But it sounds like they’re escalating.”

  Sergei didn’t seem too impressed by that. If a fatae couldn’t outwit a few kids, or well-meaning vigilantes, he should stay in whatever hole he burrowed into.

  Wren considered the window, then shrugged. “Well, if he was coming to see me, he’ll find a way in later. Business at hand. Your stuff means we wipe the Council itself off the short list.”

  “And you don’t think it’s a rogue.”

  “Nope.” She drew the shade again and leaned against the window, arms crossed over her chest. Her hair needed cutting again, he noted. Strands fell into her eyes and she scraped them back impatiently. “Not unless it was a personal thing, taking on a Council client to throw rogue status back in the Council’s face. But the setup doesn’t feel right. A rogue wouldn’t go for such a low-res deal. They like things a little flashier, something to justify their getting tossed. Very ‘look at me!’”

  “Or, if someone hired them, a juicy enough paycheck to justify the lack of flash. Even mages have to pay the bills.”

  “I guess. But it would have to be a major paycheck. Ego, Sergei. Mages are all about ego. In fact, the only way I see this as a magus deal is if the mage in question had a percentage in taking our client down, and if he or she or they did, they probably wouldn’t be letting us poke our little noses uninterrupted into—”

  The lights suddenly dimmed throughout the apartment, and Wren uttered a short, nasty word, diving across the room—almost tackling Sergei in the process—to pull the power cord to her computer. She lay on the floor, panting, the power cord in her hand. The screen saver flickered, then restored as the battery pack setup took over.