THOUGH the Mages continued to debate—with Lycaelon and with each other—Lycaelon could tell that their words were merely a cloak for the furious debate each Mage was having with himself.
What was Lycaelon’s
Every Mage here knew about the arrests and the resignations that had followed them, of course. All of them were shocked—as Lycaelon had been—that such a thing could happen, and fearful of how far the treasonous taint might have spread. If Mageborn could conspire against Mageborn, then no one was safe.
Further, each one of them—none better, in all the City—had seen what disaster their ill-considered support of Lord Volpiril’s plans had led them into. Now it seemed that Lycaelon—and Anigrel—were poised to lead them out of it, to undo as much of the damage as
“How did Lord Anigrel discover the traitors?” Lord Ganaret asked, after a full bell of debate.
Lycaelon smiled sadly, and spread his hands wide. “My lord, it is with regret that I cannot disclose Lord Anigrel’s methods as yet. You see, I am not entirely certain that the entire cabal has been uprooted.”
“But… they were arrested…” Lord Ganaret gasped.
“Boys making umbrastone,” Lycaelon said, scoffing. “Terrible in itself—but my lords, who told them to make it? Who put that idea into their unformed minds? Who nurtured them in rebellion and then covered his tracks so flawlessly? Could mere boys have come up with such notions on their own? Could they have known where to find the proscribed instructions so easily, had they not had experienced help? I have prayed—I have hoped—there was another answer. But I can find none.”
“Because there is none.” Ancient Lord Vilmos spoke, his quavering voice cracking with certainty. “Lord Lycaelon, you are right. This conspiracy touches us all. We must have Lord Anigrel on the Council.”
“Yes—appoint Anigrel to the Council and make the City safe again,” Harith said. “Discover the traitors and Banish them!”
Lycaelon allowed himself a small nod of approval. Clever of Harith not to be the first to suggest Anigrel’s appointment. That would look too pointed.
“My lords, do you wish time for further discussion?” Lycaelon asked. “Or will you vote now?”
One by one, the assembled High Mages placed both hands, palm down, upon the table before them, each signifying his readiness to vote.
“Then I call the vote,” Lycaelon said. “Admission of Undermage Anigrel to the High Council.” He raised his hand, palm out. Assent.
One by one, the nine remaining High Mages copied his gesture.
The vote was unanimous.
Anigrel was to be admitted to the High Council.
—«♦»—
IN the antechamber, Anigrel waited. It took all of his skill at concealing his true nature to disguise his nervousness now. Lycaelon was a master of manipulation, and after the events of the night before, the Council was a pack of nervous frightened old men begging for decisive leadership, whether they knew it or not. But it was still far from certain which way the vote would go.
Either way would serve his—and his Dark Lady’s—ultimate goal, of course.
If the Council accepted him, he would have a direct voice in the ruling of Armethalieh. He would be able to put forward his ideas himself, and not have to manipulate Lycaelon into coming up with them.
If the Council rejected him, it would enrage Lycaelon, and make the Arch-Mage that much easier for Anigrel to manipulate. But the son of Torbet Anigrel, himself the son of a tradesman—Torbet Anigrel, who had died in obscurity, spurned with contempt by the highborn, pure-blooded Mageborn—would burn with hatred and humiliation at the rejection. Not even his adoption into House Tavadon would salve that wound.
And either way, he must go before the Council and hear their verdict to his face.
At last—it seemed as if eons had passed, though Noon Bells had not yet rung—a Journeyman came to
