Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by Jackson, D. B.

  “All of these men were from Boston?” he asked.

  “Yes, why?”

  “There’s a name on here—Caleb Osborne—” He trailed off, shaking his head. It was possible that Osborne still had family here in the city. If so, they might not want it known among Boston’s clergymen that Caleb was a conjurer.

  “You know him?” Pell asked.

  “I’ve heard others speak of him. Is this his address beside the name?” Ethan asked, trying to read Pell’s scrawl. “Fourteen Wood Lane?”

  Pell looked over Ethan’s shoulder. “Yes, that’s right.”

  Ethan read through the rest of the list, but he didn’t recognize any other names. “All right.” He stood. “Thank you, Mister Pell, Mister Caner.”

  “Have you learned anything yet?” Pell called, as Ethan walked back toward the chapel entrance.

  “Yes,” Ethan said. “But I don’t understand any of it.”

  Wood Lane was back in the North End, near the waterfront and North Square. Number fourteen was a wheelwright’s shop, not a home, but a worn and rickety stairway along the side of the building led to a weathered gray doorway. Ethan climbed the stairs and knocked once.

  He heard quick footsteps and the click of the lock. The door opened a crack, and a woman peered out at him. She was pale and slight, with dark eyes, and brown hair that she wore in a tight bun.

  “Yes?” she said, sounding both suspicious and frightened.

  “Missus Osborne?”

  “Who are you?” the woman asked.

  “My name is Ethan Kaille. I’m a thieftaker, and I’m conducting an inquiry for the Customs Board. I wonder if I might speak with you. I won’t take but a few moments of your time.”

  “What do you want to talk about?”

  “Your husband.”

  She laughed, though the sound was as brittle as dried kindling. “I have no husband.”

  “Isn’t this the home of Caleb Osborne?”

  “Let him in, Molly,” a second woman said from behind the first.

  The first woman looked back over her shoulder. Another moment passed before she opened the door wide and waved Ethan inside.

  The room was as small and simple as Ethan’s own. A pair of beds stood near a window that looked out over the narrow yard behind the wheelwright’s shop, and a fire burned in a woodstove near the door. The floors were worn, as was the paint on the walls. A table stood on uneven legs, flanked by two chairs that looked as old as everything else, save for the brightly colored cushions resting on each one.

  The second woman stood beside one of these chairs, her hands clasped in front of her. Her eyes were hazel rather than brown, and she wore her hair in a plait rather than a bun. But she resembled in both complexion and stature the woman who had answered the door.

  “Did you say your name was Kaille?” this second woman asked.

  “That’s right.”

  “My name is Hester Osborne,” she said, her tone grave. She indicated the other woman with an open hand. “This is my younger sister, Molly. Caleb Osborne is our father.”

  A small, strangled sound escaped Molly, but she looked more frightened than sorrowful. Hester crossed to her sister and took her hand.

  “My pardon,” she said. “I meant to say was our father. This has been a difficult day.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ethan said. “Both of you have my deepest condolences.”

  “Why would the Customs Board be interested in him?”

  “They’re interested in learning what happened to his ship.”

  “I don’t understand,” the older woman said, still holding her sister’s hand.

  As before, Ethan wasn’t certain how much to reveal. “Your father’s death wasn’t the only casualty on board the Graystone. I’m wondering if either of you ever heard your father speak of a man named Simon Gant.”

  Molly flinched at the name and sidled closer to her sister. Hester put her arm around the woman.

  “That should answer your question,” Hester said.

  “What can you tell me about him?”

  “Not very much, I’m afraid. He and my father worked together for many years before going off to fight the French. Father didn’t tell any of us—my mother included—what kind of work they did, but I gather that it involved smuggling or thievery or some other kind of mischief. He and my mother fought about it sometimes.”

  “Is your mother—?”

  “She died some years ago.”

  “I’m sorry,” Ethan said. After a pause he asked, “Have you seen Simon Gant in the last few days?”

  Molly stared at the floor, wringing her hands.

  The older sister shook her head. “No, and to be honest I hope I never see him again.”

  Ethan couldn’t help thinking that this was a common sentiment where Gant was concerned.

  “Well, thank you,” he said. “Again, my deepest sympathies to you both.”

  “Thank you, Mister Kaille.”

  Ethan turned to leave the room, but didn’t move. Facing the women again, he said, “You told me that Gant and your father worked together. Do you know if they had dealings with Sephira Pryce?”

  “Miss Pryce?” Hester said. “No, I would have remembered that. Father never mentioned her.”

  A frown creased Ethan’s brow. Each time he thought he had found some useful information he learned something else that left him even more confused than he had been before.

  “I see,” he said. “Well again, thank you.”

  He let himself out of the room, descended the stairs, and walked out onto Gallop’s Wharf with his hands buried in his pockets. Long Wharf lay to the south, bathed in the warm glow of the late-afternoon sun. The water sparkled, and gulls wheeled overhead. Regulars were still massed on the pier, arrayed in neat columns. Ethan saw no more longboats in the water. A train of artillery had been brought ashore as well, adding to the show of force.

  An officer stood near the men barking orders, his voice at this distance mingling with the strident cries of the gulls. Several other officers waited at the base of the wharf; Ethan wondered if the captain he had met at Castle William was among them. As the regulars began to march off the pier, officers took command of smaller units and led them into the streets of Boston.

  Ethan started back toward the South End, staying close to the waterfront so that he could mark the progress of the troops. For so large a force, they vacated Long Wharf rapidly. By the time Ethan had crossed back into the South End and was nearing King Street, the last of the regulars were marching through the city. They carried muskets fixed with bayonets, and they marched to the steady rhythm of several drums and the high sweet notes of a corps of fife players. Young men bore flags at the van, and behind the soldiers horses pulled the artillery pieces.

  Men, women, and children lined the streets to watch the procession. Most were grim-faced, although a few men near the Town House made their approval obvious, nodding ostentatiously, emboldened in their support of the Crown by the arrival of the troops. But what struck Ethan was the silence of the crowd. Few people spoke; he heard no cheers or jeers. Still, many in the throng followed the men. Ethan did the same, driven by his curiosity.

  The regulars marched to Boston Common, and while a group broke off from the main column and headed north toward Treamount Street, most entered the Common and there continued to march, seeming to perform for the benefit of those citizens who had accompanied them. Watching this, Ethan couldn’t help but think of Kannice. He wondered where all of these men would be quartered. Governor Bernard and the Massachusetts Council had been arguing the point for weeks, the governor threatening to seize control of publick houses and inns—like the Dowsing Rod—the council claiming that the regulars ought to be billeted at Castle William. So far there had been no resolution, and many feared that lodging the men among Boston’s citizens would lead inevitably to bloodshed. Ethan didn’t fear this might happen; he knew with cold certainty that it would.

  He continued to watch the regula
rs from a distance, aware that he should have been working but unable to ignore what was happening to his city. For so long he had counted himself a loyalist. To the extent that he subscribed to any political persuasion, he had been a Tory. The arrival of these men, though, changed everything. It was one thing to contemplate an occupation. Seeing it begin was another matter entirely. Yes, this was a colony, a holding of the British Empire. But these soldiers didn’t belong here. That was the thought that went through his mind over and over. This isn’t right. This shouldn’t be happening. They should not be doing this in Boston. Samuel Adams would have been amused, or perhaps encouraged. Kannice might have been proud of him.

  These thoughts consumed him so that he gave little thought to the tingle of power he felt in the soles of his feet, or to the lad who had appeared beside him. That is, until the boy spoke.

  “You’re Kaille.”

  It was an odd voice, and Ethan knew why as soon as he looked at the boy. He was perhaps ten, with golden hair and ragged clothes, and eyes that glowed like those of Uncle Reg.

  Ethan looked around, trying to spot the conjurer who had cast this illusion spell.

  “You’re Kaille, right?”

  This wasn’t the first time a conjurer had used the image of a child to communicate with him. Memories of those earlier encounters, with a cruel, waiflike creature named Anna, still haunted him.

  “Yes, I’m Kaille.”

  “Good. Come to Darby’s Wharf.”

  “Why?”

  “Now, Kaille. We have to talk.”

  “Who—?”

  The boy vanished before Ethan could finish the sentence. There were few people anywhere near him, and none seemed to have noticed the sudden appearance and disappearance of the lad.

  “Damn,” he muttered. Then, “Veni ad me.” Come to me.

  Uncle Reg appeared, his stance alert. Ethan half expected the ghost to reach for his sword.

  “Is my warding still in place?” Ethan asked.

  Reg nodded.

  “Good. Come with me.”

  Ethan left the Common and strode back toward the waterfront with Reg beside him. Darby’s Wharf was close by, which made Ethan wonder if this conjurer might not have been powerful enough to send an illusion spell as far as Ethan himself had sent his illusion earlier in the day, when he alerted Sephira to the attack on Mariz.

  When Ethan reached the wharf he found it deserted. Warehouses cast elongated shadows across the pier, chilling the salty air. Small swells from the harbor sloshed against the sides of the wharf, and the ropes tying a single moored ship to a pair of wooden bollards creaked faintly as the vessel shifted.

  He slipped his knife from its sheath and stepped onto the wharf, sweeping his gaze over shadowed corners.

  A radiant figure stood by a warehouse wall, perhaps twenty yards away. Glancing around one last time, Ethan started toward the image.

  It was a man, tall, brawny, thick in the middle. He had a roguish look—a handsome face with a crooked nose and square chin. His hair might have been red, his face ruddy. It was hard to say with the image glowing so. But even though the figure’s eyes gleamed brightly, Ethan could see that one appeared darker in color than the other. The figure glowed as white as the moon, rather than with the true color of Gant’s power. It seemed the thief wished to conceal that from Ethan.

  “Gant,” Ethan said as he neared the image. He looked around again, trying to find the conjurer.

  “Kaille,” the image said.

  “Why are we talking like this?” Ethan asked. “Show yourself.”

  The illusion shook its head. “I don’t think so. You’ve been looking for me. Why?”

  “Who told you I’ve been looking for you?”

  “Why?” Gant asked again.

  “You were supposed to be aboard the Graystone. You deserted. A good many people are looking for you. It’s not just me.”

  “Aye, well, we both know what would have happened if I’d been on the Graystone.”

  “Do we?” Ethan asked. “It seems to me that if you had been aboard the ship nothing would have happened.”

  “What?” The illusion stood stock-still for a few seconds, as if Gant had fallen asleep on his feet. Just as abruptly, it jerked into motion again. “Are you saying you think I killed all those men?”

  “Why don’t you tell me who you think did it? Maybe we can figure this out together.”

  “Stay away from me, Kaille,” the image said, the voice hardening. “Stop looking for me. Stop asking people about me.”

  “Like I said, I’m not the only one. Do you think you can keep Sephira Pryce from finding you? The British army doesn’t like it when soldiers desert. Do you think you can warn them away, too?”

  As he spoke, Ethan reached into his pocket for the pouch of mullein, hoping that Gant might not notice. But apparently Gant could see through the eyes of his illusion just as Ethan could through his.

  “Stop what you’re doing!” the image said.

  Ethan froze, but he didn’t remove his hand from his pocket. He had the pouch in hand, and thought that he could conjure without pulling out individual leaves. He might use more mullein than he intended, but he could buy additional leaves from Janna.

  “Let me see your hands!” Gant said.

  Ethan had had enough of this. He needed to know where Gant was, and so began to whisper a finding spell under his breath. But he only managed to get out the first word or two when he heard a footfall behind him. Directly behind him.

  Ethan spun, desperately trying to yank his hand from his pocket. He caught a glimpse of Gant’s face—one blue eye, one green eye. He didn’t see more except for the mammoth fist that connected high on his cheek. The blow seemed to lift Ethan off of his feet. Tiny points of white light erupted behind his eyes. The next thing he knew, he was lying on his back. Although not for long.

  Hands grabbed him by the lapels of his coat, hauled him off the ground. Gant dug a fist into Ethan’s gut, doubling him over and stealing his breath. Even as Ethan retched, yet another blow to his jaw sent him sprawling onto his back once more.

  Addled, unable to see for the white light, unable to catch his breath, he heard Gant take a step toward him again. Forcing his eyes open he saw a blade glint in the fading daylight.

  “You should have listened,” Gant said.

  He tasted blood and cast the first spell that came to mind.

  “Ignis ex cruore evocatus.” Fire, conjured from blood.

  Ethan couldn’t direct the spell with any precision—he felt as though the entire wharf were spinning—but he did manage to set Gant’s sleeve ablaze.

  Gant swore, slapped at the flames with an open hand, his knife clattering on the ground.

  Blood still flowed from the cuts in his mouth, and Ethan cast again. “Pugnus ex cruore evocatus!” Fist, conjured from blood.

  Gant staggered the way he would have if Ethan had landed a physical blow on the side of his head. By now, the brute had extinguished the flames, but rather than casting a spell of his own, or renewing his assault, he fled. He didn’t even bother to retrieve his blade.

  Ethan made no attempt to chase him. He lay on his back, his eyes closed, trying to control the sensation that he was spinning. When at last he opened his eyes again, Uncle Reg stood over him, grinning.

  “You find this amusing, don’t you?”

  The ghost nodded and started to fade from view.

  “No, you’re staying with me,” Ethan said.

  Reg frowned, but grew brighter once more.

  Ethan staggered to his feet and gingerly touched his fingers to his jaw and cheekbone. Gant’s blows hadn’t broken anything, but if left untended his bruises would look terrible come morning.

  He walked back along the wharf to the street, weaving a bit at first, but soon finding his stride. Reg watched him, but Ethan ignored the ghost, pondering what Gant had just done. Why would a conjurer use an illusion spell to call him to the wharf, use another to speak with him, but not use hi
s spellmaking powers to attack? Gant must have known as well as Ethan did that he was strong enough to beat Ethan to within an inch of his life without resorting to conjuring. But he hadn’t even warded himself against Ethan’s attack spells. It made no sense.

  Still turning these questions over in his mind, Ethan returned to his room. Upon reaching it, he used two mullein leaves to place a warding spell on his door. Then he lay down and took a long breath.

  “Dimitto te,” he murmured. I release you. He felt a small pulse of power and knew that Reg was gone.

  Some time later, he awoke with a start. His room was completely dark, but beyond that he had no idea of the time. He sat up with some effort, and allowed a wave of dizziness to pass. His bruises felt swollen and fevered and the inside of his mouth felt like he had been chewing on glass.

  Without bothering to light a candle or look in a mirror, he cut himself, marked his injuries with the welling blood, and cast a healing spell. The pulse of power still thrummed in the walls when the throbbing pain in his jaw began to abate. He couldn’t keep himself from bruising a little, but he could keep the injuries from bothering him as much as they might if he did nothing.

  When he had finished, he opened his door and stood still, listening. Strains of laughter reached him from the south. Closer by, two men were singing an off-key version of “Vain Is Ev’ry Fond Endeavor,” sounding forlorn and very drunk. Ethan assumed that it was late, but not overly so. He left the room and walked to the Dowser, his stomach rumbling.

  As he neared Treamount Street, he saw in the distance a cluster of regulars, and heard shouted arguments and raucous laughter coming from a crowd of men who had gathered not far from the soldiers. Rather than pass too close to what appeared to be a dangerous encounter between troops and the citizenry, he circled around through Cornhill and along Brattle Street and approached Kannice’s tavern from the north.

  He had expected to find the mood in the Dowser subdued. Most of those who enjoyed Kannice’s ales and chowders also tended to share her political leanings. This should have been a sad day for them all. But upon opening the tavern door, Ethan was buffeted by sounds of celebration. The great room was packed with men and more than a couple of women, all of whom were laughing uproariously and singing “Jolly Mortals Fill Your Glasses.” As Ethan stood in the doorway, Tom Langer, one of Kannice’s usual crowd, climbed onto a table and straightened with some great effort. He raised his tankard, spilling ale on his shoes, and shouted, “God bless Elisha Brown!”