D. Jackson - Thieftaker

“What did you hear?”

“Not much. I heard o’ th’ killin’s. That’s all.”

“His latest victim was Jennifer Berson.”

“Her father’s th’ rich man?”

Ethan nodded, reached into his coat pocket, and pulled out the small bundle containing Jennifer’s brooch. “This is what was taken from her.”

Janna took the bundle and unwrapped it, whistling at the gem. “Nice,” she said. “Cut yourself, an’ put some blood on it.”

Ethan hesitated.

“I’m too old t’ be cuttin’ myself for your jobs.”

He did as she instructed.

Janna muttered something under her breath and an instant later, there was a small flash of blue light round the brooch. But that was all. The glow vanished as quickly as it had come. Ethan thought he glimpsed a pale blue figure standing off to the side, but by the time he turned to look, it had vanished. Janna stared at the gem for a moment, and then frowned.

“Nothin’,” she said, handing the brooch back to him. “You have somethin’ else?”

“No. But I saw her body. There wasn’t a mark on her. I knew that a conjuring had killed her, and so I tried a revealing spell.”

“And?”

He frowned. “And I didn’t learn anything. I thought the glow would pool at the spot where the spell struck her, and I thought it would reveal the color of the conjurer’s power, but…” He shook his head. “I suppose my spell didn’t work, or whoever killed her managed to conceal his conjuring.”

Janna sat forward once more. “Why? What did you see?”

“Her entire body glowed. The effect of the conjuring didn’t seem to be concentrated anywhere.”

Her dark eyes narrowed. “And what color did you see?”

“Silver, like starlight. There was really no color at all.”

“Damn,” Janna muttered. She sat back again, scratching her forehead.

“What is it, Janna?”

“This speller might o’ concealed th’ color o’ his power, but tha’s all. You saw just what you were supposed t’ see.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That ’cause you’re not thinkin’, Kaille. You’re assumin’ that she was killed by a spell.” Janna shook her head. “She wasn’t. She was killed for a spell.”

It made so much sense that Ethan’s first reaction was to be furious with himself for not realizing this on his own. His second was to be horrified.

Conjurers generally spoke of three kinds of casting. Elemental spells, the simplest, were fueled by one of the elements-fire, water, earth, even air. Living spells, which were more difficult and more potent, demanded blood or hair, leaves or bark-anything that came from a living creature or plant. All the conjurers Ethan knew relied exclusively on elemental and living spells.

But there was a third kind of conjuring, though some said it was merely a type of living spell taken to its most dangerous extreme: killing spells. Some called such conjurings sacrifice spells, but it was the same thing. A killing spell had to be fueled by the death of a living creature; any creature, though most powerfully by the death of a human. For a conjurer willing to take a human life there were few limits to what castings could accomplish. A living spell might draw a cup of water from the ground. A death spell could bring rainstorms to an entire countryside. A living spell could be used to murder a man. A killing spell could wipe out hundreds.

The real question, though, as Janna would have been the first to remind him, was not what could killing spells do, but what had they done in these two instances?

“This conjurer would have t’ be workin’ some mighty spells,” Janna said, breaking a lengthy silence. “Somebody’d notice.”

“You would think. You ever used a killing spell, Janna?”

“Killed a goat once. For a love spell, I think it was. Some wealthy man wanted a girl, an’ she didn’ wan’ him. Took all th’ power I’ve got.”

“Did it work?” Ethan asked.

Janna glared at him. “All my spells work.” After a moment, she gave a small jerk of her head, pointing at him with her chin. “What about you? You ever use a killin’ spell?”

Ethan shook his head. “No, never. I went a long time without conjuring at all-when I was a prisoner-and I’m not as accomplished at casting as I should be. To be honest, the more powerful conjurings scare me.”

“They should. Spellmakin’s nothin’ t’ play at.”

“Have you heard anything? You usually know what’s going on in the lanes, especially if there’s conjuring involved.”

She regarded him sourly. “You still not offering money?”

“I still don’t have any,” he said, chuckling. He quickly grew serious again. “You said it yourself, Janna. This conjurer would have to be casting some pretty potent spells. Dangerous ones, and not just for the people he’s killing. If you know anything, you need to tell me.”

It was like getting a street urchin to admit that he had stolen from a peddler. “It’s not much,” she said after a long time, sounding annoyed that he was making her tell. “Might not be anythin’ at all.”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“It’s been a while now. This was back in the fall.”

“On Pope’s Day?” Ethan asked.

“Before then,” she said, clearly irritated by the interruption. “It was th’ day those two people got themselves hanged.”

“The Richardsons?”

“Yeah, that’s them. The ones who didn’ take care o’ their little ones.”

For close to a year, since their hanging in October, Ethan hadn’t given a thought to Ann and John Richardson. Now they had come up in conversation twice in two days. Odd. And perhaps important.

Janna pointed toward the southern end of the Fat Spider. “Their hangin’ was right over there,” she went on. “Right by th’ town gate. Big crowd came t’ watch. An’ that day, right in th’ middle o’ the hangin’ I felt a spell. A strong one,” she said, her brow wrinkling. “Stronger even than I can do. I’d bet everything I got that it was another killin’ spell. Nothin’ else feels like that.”

“And the victim?” Ethan asked.

“That’s just it,” Janna said, shaking her head. “They never found one. I didn’ tell anyone, ’cause I don’ need that kind o’ trouble, if you know what I mean. But so far as I know, they never found anyone.”

“Maybe it wasn’t a person.”

“Thought o’ that,” Janna said. “But a spell that strong…” She shrugged.

“So you think he’s killed three times, not two.”

“And tha’ means he’s cast three powerful spells. You find out wha’ those spells did, an’ you’ll find your speller.”

Ethan considered this. There had been times when he’d wondered if Janna wasn’t a bit mad, but there could be no disputing her logic in this instance. She was right; the spells were everything.

He drank a bit more of the watery Madeira, then placed his cup on the table and stood.

“Thank you, Janna,” he said. “Next time I come I’ll make sure to have a few shillings in my pocket.”

“You do that,” she said without a trace of humor.

He started for the door.

“Wait.” Janna stood, walked behind the bar, and stepped into a back room. Ethan peered into the small room, wondering what she wanted with him. When at last she reemerged, she carried a small cloth pouch, which she handed to him.

It was light, and held some sort of leaf, an herb of some kind, with a sharp, unpleasant smell.

“That’s mullein,” Janna said. “Powerful protection.”

It was more than that. Mullein might have been the most potent of all warding herbs used by conjurers. It strengthened all spells, but it was especially effective as a shield against hostile conjurings. It could also be added in small amounts to tonics for coughs and fevers, and in poultices for wounds. This was as generous a gift as he had seen Janna give to anyone. Perhaps she liked him more than he thought.