Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by Jackson, D. B.

  “Go away, Kaille,” Dunc said, his voice thick. “We’re closed. It’s Sunday.”

  “You’re never closed. Not even on Sundays.”

  “Well, we are today.”

  He tried to push the door shut again, but Ethan jammed his hand against the wood, stopping it. “What’s with you today, Dunc?”

  With a heavy sigh, Dunc pulled the door open all the way. Dark purple bruises covered much of his face. His other eye was completely closed and badly swollen, and his left arm hung in a sling.

  “You look worse than I do,” Ethan said, chancing a grin.

  Dunc’s smile was thin and fleeting.

  “Was this because of me? Because of the questions I asked you the other night?”

  The Scotsman shook his head. “No.” But he didn’t look Ethan in the eye as he said it.

  “It wasn’t because of me, but it was related to what I asked you.”

  “Let it go, Ethan.”

  “Gant, or Sephira’s boys?”

  “It doesn’t—”

  “Gant, or Sephira’s boys?” Ethan asked again, his voice rising.

  Dunc, stepped back from the doorway, walked to the bar and sat. Ethan entered the tavern and after closing the door once more joined Dunc at the bar.

  “Do you want an ale?” Dunc asked.

  “No, thank you. Was this about the pearls?”

  Dunc gaped at him. “How…?” He shook his head. “I don’t even want to know.”

  “Was it?”

  “Gant came in here looking for them,” he said, the words muddied by the swelling of his jaw and lips and cheeks. “Thought I had them. I don’t,” he added quickly, correctly guessing what Ethan’s next question would be.

  “Why would he think you did?”

  The way Dunc looked at Ethan one might have thought that he had asked the most foolish question ever. And maybe he had. Just about every smuggler who came to Boston wound up here. It would have been the most obvious place to hide the pearls. Except …

  “But I thought Gant had the pearls,” Ethan said. “How could he not know where they were?”

  “Maybe he had a partner.”

  Ethan tapped a finger against his lips, considering this. For the first time since Geoffrey and Senhouse had shown up at his door, he thought he might have an idea of what all this was about. “Gant did have a partner,” he said. “Caleb Osborne.”

  “You know Osborne, too?” Dunc said. “Oh, right, of course. I bet you spellers all know each other.”

  “No, I never knew Osborne. And now he’s dead.”

  “Aw, come on, Ethan. I didn’t want to know that.”

  “Has Sephira been in here looking for the pearls, too?” Ethan asked.

  “Nigel and Nap have. Not long after Gant. They were more gentle about it than he was, but they threatened worse.” He wiped a trickle of spittle from the corner of his mouth. “I wouldn’t want to be there when Gant and Nigel meet up.”

  “Really? I would.” Ethan straightened and patted Dunc’s good shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Dunc. Stay out of trouble.”

  “I try. It seems to find me anyway.”

  As Ethan reached the door he paused and looked back at the Scotsman. “You don’t happen to know where Gant lives, do you?”

  “I doubt he has a place now, but I’ve heard people say that he used to live near here. On Hull Street, I think, behind a coppersmith’s shop. I forget the name.”

  “That’s all right. I’ll find it. Hull Street was where he lived before he left to join the war?”

  “Aye,” Dunc said. “Word was he had a brother who lived there after he did. The brother left soon enough; went back to England. I think the place has been deserted ever since.”

  “All right. My thanks.”

  “Kaille,” Dunc called to him, as Ethan opened the door. “Could you … You can heal, right? With witchery, I mean?”

  Ethan smiled. “Aye, I can heal.” He closed the door again and went back to the bar. He pulled out his knife, pushed up his sleeve, and said, “Why don’t we start with the arm?”

  After easing the pain in Dunc’s shoulder and healing the worst of his bruises, Ethan left the Crow’s Nest for Hull Street. He soon found the coppersmith’s shop and, making sure that he wasn’t seen, walked around the side of the building to the yard in back. The moment he stepped into the overgrown grass, he felt the cool brush of a conjuring on his face. Another detection spell. Had Mariz left this one, too, hoping that he would find Gant returning for the pearls? Or had this one been left by Gant, to warn him of intruders? Ethan reached for his knife again, and stood still, waiting for the first pulse of an attack spell. None came, leading him to think it must have been Mariz’s detection conjuring. It seemed that Sephira’s conjurer still hadn’t recovered from Gant’s assault.

  A small shack, its wood weathered and gray, stood before him. It had a single window along its side, though the shutters had been broken. The door in front stood ajar, its hinges rusted. Beyond the house sat an old cart, its wood bleached as well and one of its wheels broken, so that it leaned heavily to one side. Ethan was certain that the house and yard had been deserted for months, at the very least. Stepping up onto the small porch at the front of the structure, he pulled the door open with some effort. The wood scraped the porch wood and the hinges creaked.

  The house looked as bad within as it did from outside. A table rested on two legs and one of its sides; the other two legs lay in the middle of the room beside two broken chairs. A bed stood in the corner, its ropes so slack that they drooped to the floor. The floor itself was covered with straw and rat droppings. But Ethan could see as well signs left by a recent visitor: streaks of warm color where the broken furniture had been moved, scraping the ancient planks and clearing away the dust and dirt. At least one floorboard had been ripped up.

  He scanned the rest of the house, including a second, smaller room off the back of the first, but there was little more to see. He could have torn up the rest of the floor, but if Gant hadn’t—and he assumed that it was Gant who had come most recently—he saw little use in doing so himself. This had been a waste of time, something he didn’t have in abundance.

  As he crossed back to the door he heard voices. He considered another concealment spell, but this space was too small. If the men were coming to search the house, it wouldn’t take them long to find him. Instead, Ethan stepped outside, his knife poised over his arm.

  Nigel, Nap, and Gordon halted at the sight of him. Nigel reached into his coat pocket, but appeared to think better of pulling whatever weapon he had hidden there.

  “Kaille,” he said. “What are you doin’ here?”

  “Same thing you are. Looking for Gant. He isn’t home.”

  “Was this Gant’s place?” Yellow-hair asked, with what Ethan assumed was an attempt at feigned innocence.

  Ethan didn’t bother to answer.

  “Miss Pryce won’t be happy that you were here,” Nigel said. “She don’t like it when you stick your nose in where it don’t belong.”

  “Aye, well, when I start caring about Sephira’s likes and dislikes, I’ll be sure to let you know.” He started past the men, although he never turned his back to them, and he kept the blade edge poised over his forearm the entire time. “Gant isn’t here,” he said again. “There’s nothing to see.”

  “We’ll be the judge of what’s worth lookin’ at,” Nap told him.

  Ethan had hoped they would say as much. He would have wagered the twenty pounds Geoffrey had promised him that they were looking not for Gant, but for the pearls.

  “Suit yourselves.”

  They watched him go, but didn’t follow, and once Ethan was beyond their sight, he hastened toward Wood Lane. He and Sephira were after the same man. And for now at least, he was half a step ahead of her.

  Chapter

  FOURTEEN

  Ethan approached Number Fourteen Wood Lane warily, making sure that he wasn’t seen and searching the street and the ne
arby alleys for Simon Gant or more of Sephira’s toughs. Seeing no one who struck him as suspicious, Ethan climbed the ramshackle stairway again and knocked at the door of Caleb Osborne’s daughters.

  He heard footsteps within the room and a woman’s voice called, “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Ethan Kaille, Miss Osborne. I wonder if I might ask you and your sister a few more questions.”

  A long silence met his request.

  “Miss Osborne?”

  “Hester isn’t here right now.”

  “Well, perhaps you can tell me what I need to know.”

  Again, she didn’t respond.

  “Miss Osborne? Molly?”

  At last she pulled the door open and gazed out at him. If anything, she looked paler than she had the last time he saw her. She was dressed the same, her hair up once more, her dark eyes wide and alert. She glanced past him, even rising up onto her toes to look down the stairway and into the alley.

  “Hester isn’t here,” she said again.

  “That’s all right. You can answer a few questions, can’t you?”

  “I suppose I can.” She peered down the stairs again and retreated into the room. Ethan followed and started to close the door.

  “Leave it open,” the woman said.

  “All right.”

  She sat and picked up some sewing that had been left on the floor beside her chair. The fabric with which she was working bore a floral pattern that was as bright and cheerful as the rest of the room was gloomy.

  “What are you making?” Ethan asked.

  Her smile transformed her face. She was quite pretty when she didn’t appear to be terrified. “More cushions,” she said, pointing at the one on the chair nearest her own. “We sell them to some of the shops here in the North End.”

  “You do good work.”

  She beamed. “Thank you.”

  “The last time I was here, I asked you if your father had ever worked with Sephira Pryce.”

  “Yes, I remember. And we told you that he hadn’t, at least not as far as we knew.”

  “Hester also mentioned that your father and Simon Gant had been involved in smuggling.”

  Molly stared back at him, defiant. “That’s right. Our mother didn’t like it at all. They fought all the time. When he went off to war it was … well, it was a blessing.”

  “I understand. But I wonder, did your father or Gant ever bring their smuggled goods into your home?”

  A single line creased her forehead. “I don’t know.”

  “Did your father ever mention what sorts of things he was smuggling?”

  “Don’t answer that.”

  Ethan turned. Hester Osborne stood in the doorway, bearing a small canvas sack. Ethan could see that it held a loaf of bread and some vegetables.

  “Good day, Miss Osborne,” he said.

  She glared at him before stepping past him and kneeling beside her sister.

  “Are you all right?” she asked, sounding so concerned one might have thought Ethan had brutalized the girl.

  “Yes, I’m fine. He’s been asking more questions about Father.”

  The older sister looked back at him over her shoulder, her expression still stern. “Yes, I gathered as much.” She stood and faced Ethan. “I think you should state your business, Mister Kaille. And then you should go.”

  “All right. I came to ask if either of you knew anything about a parcel filled with pearls that your father and Simon Gant might have stolen some years ago, before they left to fight the French.”

  “Mama talked about pearls.”

  “Hush, Molly!”

  The younger woman flinched.

  “What did she say about them?” Ethan asked.

  “What is your interest in this?” Hester asked him. “Do you want these pearls for yourself? Or is there some reward that you hope to claim as your own?”

  “If you must know, neither.” Corporal Fowler would have been disappointed to hear Ethan say this, but it was the truth.

  Hester’s laugh, however, was harsh, disbelieving.

  “I’m trying to find out what happened to your father and the ship he was on,” Ethan said. “That’s what I’ve been hired to do. I believe that the pearls have something to do with his death, and I believe that Gant and Sephira Pryce’s men are out there right now, searching for them.” He looked at Molly before meeting Hester’s gaze again. “And I’m afraid that eventually their search is going to bring them here.”

  Molly gave a little gasp. Hester laid a hand on her shoulder, but didn’t look away from Ethan.

  “You’re trying to scare us,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” Ethan admitted. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

  They stood in silence for several moments. A dog barked in the distance and a gust of wind rattled the open door and stirred the loose strands of hair that had fallen over Hester’s brow.

  “I remember Mother speaking of pearls,” the older woman said at last. “It was during another of their fights. I don’t recall anything specific. But I do think that Father had them in the house, at least for a short time. Mother got very angry with him whenever he brought any of his … she called it his ‘sinner’s bounty.’” She grimaced at the memory. “Anyway, she grew angry whenever he brought it home.”

  Ethan looked around the small room. “Was there a particular place where he kept his goods?”

  This time, both women laughed.

  “Did I say something funny?”

  “This was in our old house, Mister Kaille,” Hester told him. “Molly and I moved to this room after Mother died. Father had debts and once Mother was gone, we couldn’t pay them off and keep the house. So we sold it and moved here.”

  “And where was the old house?”

  “In New Boston, on Green Lane. Our mother is buried there.”

  Ethan felt himself sag. Of course. He should have anticipated this. Sephira wasn’t half a step behind him; she was days ahead.

  “Near West Church?” he asked, unable to keep the weariness from his voice.

  “Not too far from it. Why?”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Can you tell me the number?”

  “Twenty-eight. But the house burned to the ground two years ago. It’s since been rebuilt, but anything that might have been ours has likely been lost.”

  He should have expected that, too. “I see.” He turned to leave. “Thank you both for your time. I’m sorry to have disturbed you.”

  He descended the stairs in a daze, feeling as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. This was why Mariz had been in New Boston, and Gant as well. Ethan doubted that either of them had found the pearls there—otherwise, why would Sephira’s men have been at the shack on Hull Street, and why would Gant have beaten Dunc? But he also doubted that he would find anything at the site of the old Osborne house. Both Gant and Mariz would have searched there.

  He had wandered down a blind alley, and he had no idea where to go next.

  He made his way out to Fish Street, and began the long walk back to the South End, his thoughts roiled and chaotic. Already it was the second day of October; it had been three days since he had gone out to the Graystone and two since his conversation with Thomas Hutchinson, and still he knew little more than he had when he began his inquiry. Each time he thought he was close to finding Gant, or at least being able to tell the customs agents how they might find him, something happened to throw him off the path. At this rate, not only would he lose the offered reward to Sephira, as he did too many other rewards he tried to collect, but he would doom every conjurer in Boston to the hangman’s gallows.

  And yet, even as he contemplated the unthinkable, the kernel of an idea began to form in his head. It carried risks, and not just for himself. But as far as he could tell, it was the best option he had left. As he crossed over Mill Creek, he turned toward upper Cornhill rather than heading toward his room.

  Nearing Dock Square, though, Ethan halted in his tracks. There wer
e regulars posted at the corners of Union and Cornhill Streets, all of them dressed in full uniform, the red seeming to glow even in the dull light of an overcast day. Their muskets were fixed with bayonets, and though they stood at ease, speaking among themselves or chuckling at a comrade’s joke, their mere presence chilled Ethan’s blood. He shouldn’t have been surprised to see them. They hadn’t occupied the city so that they could hide from view. This was what the king and Parliament and General Gage had had in mind. Still, knowing this and actually seeing armed soldiers in the streets were two different things.

  He continued past the men, but began to look for others. And doing so, he saw them everywhere. They stood at other corners, they walked the streets in small groups and patrolled near the waterfront. There were dozens of them outside Faneuil Hall and the Town House, where Kannice had told him they were to be garrisoned.

  Ethan tried to tell himself that he had nothing to fear from them. He had never allied himself with Adams, Otis, and the others. But he didn’t like that the men were there.

  He buried his hands in his pockets, lowered his head, and walked, trying to avoid making eye contact with any of the soldiers he passed. And with his shoulders hunched, he made his way to Diver’s room.

  His friend lived on Pudding Lane—which was now called Devonshire, though Ethan still thought of it by its old name—in a room much like Ethan’s own. It sat above a bakery, and the woman who owned the property had taken a shine to Diver. She was old enough to be his grandmother, and doted on him as if she were. She gave him loaves of bread almost daily, and occasionally left more expensive treats for him. It was one more way in which Diver was the most fortunate wastrel Ethan had ever known.

  The building itself was newer and sturdier than Henry’s cooperage. The old building had been completely destroyed by the great Cornhill fire of 1760 and rebuilt of brick, as mandated by city law. Diver’s room was located at the back of the building. It was simple and small, but warmer in the cold months and cooler during the summer than Ethan’s. Still, they paid about the same in rent.

  On most mornings this close to midday, Diver would have been at the wharves already. But this was Sunday, and the shipyards at which Diver labored tended to work their men on Saturdays and give them Sundays off. Reaching Diver’s door, Ethan knocked, waited, and after some time knocked again.