muttered.
“Or the Druid wanna-bes. You’d never know this place manufactured magic equipment.”
Just then something flapped quickly by us—something that wasn’t a bird.
“
Almost
never know,” I amended.
The office of Mandala Inc.’s owner and CEO was a quietly elegant place, with plush moss-green carpet, a few pots of discreet greenery (the ivy sort that doesn’t shed), and gleaming wood and chrome furnishings. A wall-length window looked out over the tranquil business park and a decorative lake. Disconcertingly clean office, I thought. Not a paper out of place. A neat desk is a sign of a troubled mind and all that. Or else Mr. Sinclair simply delegated
everything.
Just then the door opened and a slight man in a neat navy-blue business suit hurried in. His face was absolutely ageless, narrow and rosy-cheeked, unmarred by any lines: really good cosmetic magic or else incredibly clean living. His longish hair was pure white, possibly prematurely so, and he had the clearest blue eyes I’ve seen in a human. “Forgive me, agents. I was just inspecting the latest lot of thuribles. As you surely already know, I am Amadeus Sinclair.”
We duly shook hands, and he took his seat behind that gleaming, too-clean desk. “Please,” Sinclair said, gesturing to two of the leather and chrome chairs, “be seated. Now, you wish to ask me some questions.”
Of course he knew who we were without needing to check our IDs: Sinclair fairly radiated magic. But his magic seemed so utterly untainted by anything nasty that it
felt
downright wholesome.
“I wonder what Mrs. Ex thought about
him,
” I murmured to Raven.
Of course Mr. Sinclair had already heard of his rival’s death; it wouldn’t have taken magic for that, not where business was concerned.
“I warned him, many times I warned him. Put up a warding, hire some arcane guards, do
something
. Working in such an industry without any talents of his own—”
“He wasn’t killed by magic,” Raven cut in.
That stopped Sinclair dead in his tracks. “No? But—no?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Well, yes! I just never thought . . . It seems so, well, ignominious for poor Raymond to have been murdered by mundane means.”
Tearing off someone’s head didn’t strike me as mundane, but I wasn’t about to say that. Instead, I asked, “You’re not glad to see a rival removed?”
“Powers, no!” He leaned forward, and for the first time there was something sharp on his face, something that said
businessman.
“Look, I don’t deal with Darkness, but that doesn’t make me a saint. Dexter Arcane takes too many shortcuts, and their products undercut mine in manufacturing costs and distribution. If the whole company disappeared overnight, I wouldn’t exactly weep. But we’re speaking of a human life! How . . . how
did
he die?”
Raven told him, and I watched Sinclair shrink back in a shock that looked and
felt
genuine. “Good God, how horrible! Poor Eleanor. She’s had to put up with so much from him, and now this! And the children—terrible, terrible! Do they know? No? There’s a mercy. What spell could have caused—no, you said there was no magic involved. But—”
“I’m afraid we can’t disclose any more details.”
“Of course not, of course not.”
We let him dither on for a time. But all the while, like any good magician, he kept up a strong mental warding. We could only take him at his babbling words. And nothing in that babbling, for all our careful questions, revealed anything useful.
Except . . . “You and Mrs. Dexter are friends?”
“Social acquaintances. We saw each other at the same events, and only rarely spoke with each other, but I always knew she was unhappy.”
“Oh?”
Sinclair stared at us, taking a moment to interpret that monosyllabic question, and then burst into laughter. “Agents, please! First of all, she would never have had anything to do with a magician. And second, I’ve never had anything to do with
“Or the Druid wanna-bes. You’d never know this place manufactured magic equipment.”
Just then something flapped quickly by us—something that wasn’t a bird.
“
Almost
never know,” I amended.
The office of Mandala Inc.’s owner and CEO was a quietly elegant place, with plush moss-green carpet, a few pots of discreet greenery (the ivy sort that doesn’t shed), and gleaming wood and chrome furnishings. A wall-length window looked out over the tranquil business park and a decorative lake. Disconcertingly clean office, I thought. Not a paper out of place. A neat desk is a sign of a troubled mind and all that. Or else Mr. Sinclair simply delegated
everything.
Just then the door opened and a slight man in a neat navy-blue business suit hurried in. His face was absolutely ageless, narrow and rosy-cheeked, unmarred by any lines: really good cosmetic magic or else incredibly clean living. His longish hair was pure white, possibly prematurely so, and he had the clearest blue eyes I’ve seen in a human. “Forgive me, agents. I was just inspecting the latest lot of thuribles. As you surely already know, I am Amadeus Sinclair.”
We duly shook hands, and he took his seat behind that gleaming, too-clean desk. “Please,” Sinclair said, gesturing to two of the leather and chrome chairs, “be seated. Now, you wish to ask me some questions.”
Of course he knew who we were without needing to check our IDs: Sinclair fairly radiated magic. But his magic seemed so utterly untainted by anything nasty that it
felt
downright wholesome.
“I wonder what Mrs. Ex thought about
him,
” I murmured to Raven.
Of course Mr. Sinclair had already heard of his rival’s death; it wouldn’t have taken magic for that, not where business was concerned.
“I warned him, many times I warned him. Put up a warding, hire some arcane guards, do
something
. Working in such an industry without any talents of his own—”
“He wasn’t killed by magic,” Raven cut in.
That stopped Sinclair dead in his tracks. “No? But—no?”
“Does that surprise you?”
“Well, yes! I just never thought . . . It seems so, well, ignominious for poor Raymond to have been murdered by mundane means.”
Tearing off someone’s head didn’t strike me as mundane, but I wasn’t about to say that. Instead, I asked, “You’re not glad to see a rival removed?”
“Powers, no!” He leaned forward, and for the first time there was something sharp on his face, something that said
businessman.
“Look, I don’t deal with Darkness, but that doesn’t make me a saint. Dexter Arcane takes too many shortcuts, and their products undercut mine in manufacturing costs and distribution. If the whole company disappeared overnight, I wouldn’t exactly weep. But we’re speaking of a human life! How . . . how
did
he die?”
Raven told him, and I watched Sinclair shrink back in a shock that looked and
felt
genuine. “Good God, how horrible! Poor Eleanor. She’s had to put up with so much from him, and now this! And the children—terrible, terrible! Do they know? No? There’s a mercy. What spell could have caused—no, you said there was no magic involved. But—”
“I’m afraid we can’t disclose any more details.”
“Of course not, of course not.”
We let him dither on for a time. But all the while, like any good magician, he kept up a strong mental warding. We could only take him at his babbling words. And nothing in that babbling, for all our careful questions, revealed anything useful.
Except . . . “You and Mrs. Dexter are friends?”
“Social acquaintances. We saw each other at the same events, and only rarely spoke with each other, but I always knew she was unhappy.”
“Oh?”
Sinclair stared at us, taking a moment to interpret that monosyllabic question, and then burst into laughter. “Agents, please! First of all, she would never have had anything to do with a magician. And second, I’ve never had anything to do with
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