D. Jackson - A Plunder of Souls

“What are the two of you babbling about? What is that … that magicking you asked about?”

“A revela potestatem spell,” Ethan said.

“Yes, that. What does it do?”

“It’s a conjuring that allows us to see the residue of power from a spell that’s already been cast. Every conjurer’s power looks different-each has a unique color. This spell reveals that color.” He paused. “You’ve actually seen me cast such a spell. Last year, after Mariz was attacked, I used it to determine who had hurt him.”

Sephira nodded, looking far less certain of herself than she usually did. “I remember.”

“We can cast the same spell on Rowan’s damaged property. That would at least prove to you that I had nothing to do with it.”

“Do you know this spell?” Sephira asked Mariz. She gestured at Ethan. “I don’t trust him to do it.”

“I know the spell, Senhora .”

Still, she appeared uncertain. Ethan couldn’t imagine that she liked having to rely on conjurings for anything, and he was sure she didn’t wish to entertain the possibility that she had been wrong about him. But she was a thieftaker before all else.

“All right,” she said. She looked at Nap and Gordon. “You two, get my carriage ready. Nigel, Mariz, bring Ethan out front.” She glanced at Nigel. “Gently. I’ll join you in a moment.”

Yellow-hair and the conjurer escorted Ethan out to the veranda. A few minutes later, a large bay pulled Sephira’s black carriage around to the front of the house. Nap sat on the box in front, steering. At the same time, Sephira emerged from the house. She had put on her indigo waistcoat, and she carried a pistol.

“Nap will drive,” she said, starting down the path toward the carriage. “Nigel, Mariz, and Ethan will ride with me.”

Gainsaying her would have been unthinkable. Ethan climbed into the carriage; Mariz and Nigel sat across from him, Nigel holding his pistol loosely in his hand. The acrid smell of his burned coat filled the carriage. Sephira climbed in, glanced at her men, and sat beside Ethan. Nigel reached a hand out over the door and tapped once on the roof. Ethan heard the snap of the reins, and the carriage lurched forward, beginning the slow, jarring journey to the waterfront.

For a long time, no one spoke. Sephira gazed at the street. Ethan kept his eyes downcast, although he was conscious of Nigel watching him, his trigger finger no doubt itching.

It was Nigel who broke the silence.

“I thought you used your witchery to protect us,” he said to Mariz.

“I thought I had as well.”

“Then how did he light my coat on fire?”

Mariz’s gaze flicked toward Ethan. “Sometimes spells do not work as we wish them to. I am sorry.”

Nigel glowered.

“That old man you were speaking to when we found you,” Mariz said to Ethan. The man’s spectacles reflected the light from the carriage openings so that they appeared opaque. “Is he truly a conjurer?”

“Aye. His name is Gavin Black. He doesn’t cast much anymore, but he was a sea captain once, and an accomplished spellmaker.”

“How many of us are there in this city?”

“Too many,” Nigel muttered.

“I don’t know,” Ethan said. “Twenty? Thirty?”

Nigel stared out at the street. “Like I said, too many.”

“How many of them are strong enough to attack Rowan’s warehouse and destroy his goods?” Sephira asked.

Ethan shook his head. “I can’t know until I see the damage. But even if there are fifty conjurers in the city, no more than a dozen or so are accomplished spellers.” He thought of his sister Bett, who could have conjured if she wanted to, but had forsworn spells years ago, believing her powers to be evil. “Even fewer can cast as Mariz and I do.”

“Is that true?” she asked Mariz.

“I would think so.”

They lapsed back into silence. The scent of brine in the air had grown stronger, and the strident cries of gulls echoed all around them. They were nearing the harbor.

The carriage slowed to a stop, and there came a tap on the roof.

Nigel opened the carriage door, climbed out and held it as Sephira followed him. Mariz gestured for Ethan to go next. Once outside, Sephira led them out onto Long Wharf, which was crowded with wharfmen, sailors, and laborers. They walked past hulking warehouses and moored ships, until at last they came to a building with a sign mounted over the door that read “Christian Rowan amp; Sons.”

The door was open, and laborers worked within, sorting through goods that had been shattered and burned. Ethan spotted the younger Mr. Rowan, standing off the to the side, grim-faced, his arms crossed over his chest as he surveyed the damage. He wore a dark silk suit and looked as out of place in the warehouse as Ethan would have at one of the elder Rowan’s notorious fetes. Ethan glanced at Sephira and pointed toward the man. She nodded and strode in the young merchant’s direction, tossing “Wait here” over her shoulder.

The rest of them watched as Sephira greeted Mr. Rowan with a disarming smile and spoke to him for several minutes, occasionally gesturing at one part of the warehouse or another. Soon, she was walking back toward the front door, while the merchant gathered his workers and spoke to them.

“They’ll be vacating the premises shortly,” she said, as she rejoined them by the door.

“What did you tell him?” Ethan asked.

“Just that I needed to examine the damage for a short while before his men finished clearing it away.”

The laborers began to file out a second door at the back of the warehouse. Rowan, however, crossed to where Sephira, Ethan, and the others were waiting. As he neared them, he recognized Ethan, his eyes widening at the sight of him.

“Mister Kaille,” he said. “What ever happened to your face?”

Ethan reached a hand up to his split lip. “An encounter with a gang of ruffians,” he said, keeping his tone light. “It’s a common hazard in my line of work. There’s no avoiding the rabble.”

He heard Nigel rumble beside him.

“Well, you should really have a physician take at look at you.”

“Thank you for your concern, sir.”

“I must say that I’m perplexed by all this mischief and violence directed at our warehouse. My father and I make a point of trading only in North American goods, but somehow these agitators and the riffraff who follow them have got it in their heads that we are selling proscribed items, which I assure you is not the case.”

“Yes, sir.”

Rowan glanced at Sephira. “I didn’t know that you were helping Miss Pryce with her inquiry.”

“He’s not,” she said before Ethan could respond. “Ethan is still somewhat new to the thieftaking trade, and he’s … observing so that he might learn something of the craft for future inquiries.”

Ethan wasn’t sure whether to be angry or to laugh at her audacity. In the end, he just mumbled something about being happy to help in any way he could, and left it at that.

Sephira assured Mr. Rowan that he and his laborers would be able to resume their work in short order, and tried to send him on his way.

“I’m still not entirely certain why it is you need us out of here,” the merchant said.

Sephira cast a look Ethan’s way, but he refused to meet her gaze. She had essentially declared him her apprentice; it wasn’t his place to answer a question directed at her.

“You can be,” she said at last, her smile as dazzling as ever. “But I assure you that we will finish far sooner if we’re allowed to work without interruption or distraction. I assume that you wish to put this unfortunate incident behind you as soon as possible.”

“Well, yes, naturally.”