What I can’t do is manipulate the wills of others, affect the weather, communicate with or raise the dead, turn base metal into gold, see into the future, or any of the other skills other sorcerers turn into a way to make a living. Not that I haven’t tried a few. I think the words “young” and “stupid” went a long way toward explaining those efforts. I even tried pyromancy once, but I almost set fire to my cat. It was at least six months before he didn’t run every time I struck a match.
I couldn’t see Quentin anymore, but it didn’t mean I didn’t know exactly where he was.
“He’s inside,” I told Phaelan. “And he didn’t set off any wards.”
“You make it sound like a bad thing.”
“It’s not good. Quentin’s employer either had Nigel’s wards disabled ahead of time, or Quentin has a ghencharm.”
Phaelan didn’t exactly look enlightened. “Which is?”
“A talisman that disables wards. Quentin could walk straight through every ward in that house and not make a sound. Problem is you have to know ahead of time what wards are being used. Whoever keyed it would need inside information.”
Phaelan shrugged. “So someone bribed one of Nigel’s servants. So did you.”
“I just got the household routine. Quentin apparently got the house. Someone in there really doesn’t like their boss. Nigel’s not going to be happy.”
“So he’s not the lovable type. I’d imagine not many necromancers are. Can you track him?”
I nodded absently. I was seeing more than just Phaelan.