“If you so much as blink, I’ll put a hole in your skull!” Greenleaf said, snarling like a cur.
“I’m just standing here, Sheriff.” He tried to keep his voice level and calm, but he wouldn’t have put it past the man to kill him. The hand holding the mullein was already slick with sweat. Ethan feared that at the first mutterings of a spell, Greenleaf would splatter his brains on the stone portico.
“What are you doing here? What sort of devilry did you use to escape my gaol?”
“No devilry at all. Colonel Dalrymple came for me at first light and took me to the Town House. Hutchinson has given me a day to find Gant’s killer.”
“Do you take me for a fool?”
“Not at all,” Ethan said, his gaze flicking between the barrel of the pistol and the sheriff’s face. “It’s the truth. You have only to ask one of them.”
“Thomas Hutchinson—the lieutenant governor. Do you really expect me to believe that he let you go free?”
“It’s true. He threatened to have me hanged as a witch if I didn’t find Gant’s killer.” When Greenleaf neither responded nor lowered the weapon, Ethan added, “Dalrymple didn’t believe me at first when I told him that Hutchinson had granted my release. But I convinced him. He gave me back my blade. It’s on my belt right now.”
“So, the lieutenant governor sent you off to find the killer and thus save your skin, and you came here. Why? For revenge?”
“For help,” Ethan said. “To ask you, as I did yesterday, to let me see Gant’s body.”
That seemed to reach the man. He regarded Ethan through narrowed eyes, and an instant later lowered the hand holding his pistol. Ethan closed his eyes and swallowed. He had seen more firearms in the past few days than he cared to recall.
“I remember you asking me,” Greenleaf said. “Why are you so eager to see Gant?”
Ethan hesitated, unsure of how much he wished to reveal. “There are ways for me to determine what killed him,” he said, trying to keep his answer as vague as possible. “And perhaps even who.”
“More witchcraft,” the sheriff said, his voice flat.
“Several times now, you’ve accused me of magicking, and yet you’ve never seen me do anything of the kind, have you?”
“I have a keen memory, Kaille. I recall the tales of what transpired aboard the Ruby Blade. There was talk then of you consorting with the devil himself and using witchery to bend men to your will. And since the day you returned to Boston, that talk has continued to dog your every step. This isn’t rumor. You’re a witch. And you won’t convince me otherwise just because you’ve managed to confine your mischief to shadows and alleys beyond my sight.”
They glowered at each other, Greenleaf still holding his pistol, Ethan with the mullein concealed in his hand.
Aware of precious minutes ticking away, Ethan asked, “Will you allow me to see Gant?”
“I shouldn’t,” Greenleaf said, smirking. “You say Hutchinson gave you a day. If you fail, I’m rid of you for good.”
“If I fail, you’ll still have a conjurer roaming your city, one who’s not afraid to use his powers to murder.”
The sheriff’s smile melted away. “You can find him?”
“Maybe.”
“And what do I gain if you succeed?”
Ethan knew he should have expected this. “What do you want?” he asked, feeling too weary to play games with him.
“How much are the customs men paying you to do this work you were talking about yesterday?”
“Ten pounds.”
Greenleaf’s face fell. “Ten pounds? You’re doing all of this for ten pounds?”
“Remarkable, isn’t it?”
“You’re even more of a fool than I thought.”
“Take me to see Gant. I can’t offer you much money, but you don’t want the man’s killer getting away any more than I do.”
Greenleaf eyed him for several moments longer. Ethan could see that the sheriff still didn’t believe him, but he hoped that he would hear enough truth in what Ethan had said to know that he couldn’t risk refusing. “Yes, all right,” he said, surrender in the words.
He didn’t put his pistol away, but he pulled the door to his house shut, muttering to himself about stupid thieftakers and stingy agents of the Crown. Ethan did his best to keep his expression neutral. And while the sheriff wasn’t looking, he slipped the mullein leaves back into his pocket.
They walked up Common Street to the old Workhouse, a large two-story brick building where petty thieves and vagrants were housed. Greenleaf led Ethan through the house to a small back chamber. There on the dirt floor, in the center of the small room, was a bulky form covered with a dingy, stained sheet. Greenleaf halted just inside the narrow portal, but he gestured with an open hand at the shrouded body.
Ethan glanced at him before stepping past and pulling back the sheet.
Simon Gant’s mismatched eyes were still open, staring sightlessly at the low ceiling. His mouth was slack, his red hair unkempt, his face white as a winter moon. He still wore the clothes he had been wearing when Ethan chased him from the Manufactory—brown breeches, a stained white linen shirt, and a heavy black coat, threadbare in spots.
Ethan began by examining his head and neck and the upper part of his chest. All were unmarked. There was no blood on Gant’s clothing, but still Ethan struggled to pull the big man’s stiff arms free of his coat so that he might make a more thorough examination. After a few minutes of this he looked at Greenleaf, hoping that the sheriff would offer to help. But though he sensed that the sheriff had been watching his every move, Greenleaf refused to meet his gaze, and Ethan went back to working the dead man’s arms free on his own. When at last he had Gant’s limbs out of the coat, he looked for wounds on the man’s chest and back. Nothing.
“There’s no obvious sign of what killed him,” Ethan said.
“I could have told you that.”
Ethan ignored the remark. “Was there blood on the ground where he was found?”
“Not that I know of.”
He looked over the corpse one last time, making certain that he hadn’t missed anything. Standing once more, he walked back to where the sheriff stood.
“Thank you,” he said. “I’m grateful to you for bringing me here.”
Greenleaf had been leaning against the wall, but now he straightened, alert and suspicious. “What? You mean you’re done already?”
“Yes,” Ethan said. “I’ve looked at him. I see no indication of what killed him. I had hoped I would but…” He shrugged and looked back at Gant.
“But what about your witchery?” the sheriff asked, looking both fearful and excited.
Ethan kept his expression neutral. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t talk to me like I’m a fool! You came here expecting to use your witchery in some manner. I know you did!”
Ethan stepped past him and walked out of the building. Greenleaf hurried after him.
“Kaille! Tell me what you were going to do to him!”
He shouldn’t have said a word, but Ethan found the man so tiresome that he couldn’t resist.
He halted and turned abruptly so that Greenleaf had to stop short to avoid walking into him. “Nothing with you there,” he said, dropping his voice. “I wouldn’t want anything to … happen to you.”
Greenleaf’s eyes went wide. “Happen to … What do you mean?” He licked his lips. “What could…? You mean it could … it could affect me?” He took a step backward.
“Not permanently,” Ethan said, resisting the urge to laugh. “At least probably not. But I didn’t wish to take the chance. These things can be unpredictable. Something might get out of hand and I wouldn’t even realize it until it was too late.”
“But this witchcraft—what was it going to do?”
Ethan shook his head and started away again. “It doesn’t matter. Good day, Sheriff.”
“Kaille!” Greenleaf shouted again. This time, though, E
than didn’t halt. At least not until he had turned two corners and was certain that the sheriff couldn’t see him anymore. At that point, he made sure that no one else was watching and ducked onto a small lane near King’s Chapel. He drew his knife and cut himself.
“Velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” Concealment, conjured from blood. With the hum of power, and the sudden appearance of Uncle Reg, came the odd, familiar sensation of the concealment spell—like a sprinkle of cold water washing down over him from head to toe.
He stepped out of the small lane, but paused to look at the old ghost.
“I don’t know who might be watching for me,” he said. “You can’t come along.”
Reg’s expression soured, if that was possible for such a dour figure, and he winked out of sight.
Greenleaf had planted himself outside the Workhouse, daring Ethan to return, just as Ethan had assumed he would. The sheriff swept his gaze back and forth over the street, his arms crossed over his broad chest, a fearsome look on his face. But he stared right through Ethan, as did everyone else on Common Street. Ethan crept past him, taking care to make no noise, and entered the building. Once inside, he returned to the small room where lay Gant’s corpse. Greenleaf hadn’t bothered to put the covering sheet back in place over the body, which made things a bit easier for Ethan.
He cut himself once more, and marked Gant’s body with blood. “Revela potestatem ex cruore evocatam,” he whispered. Reveal power, conjured from blood.
Feeling the thrum of his spell, he glanced back toward the doorway, though he knew that Greenleaf wouldn’t have sensed anything. Reg, who had reappeared with the casting of the spell, glared at him from the far side of Gant’s body, but Ethan ignored the ghost and stared down at the corpse.
He had known what he would see, had guessed the instant he heard from Greenleaf that Gant was dead. Still, the sight of that bright orange glow spreading from the center of Gant’s chest over the rest of his body made him wince, as from a physical blow. It was the same color he had seen on the dead sailor aboard the Graystone, and also on Mariz after the attack that left him unconscious. Ethan had been following the wrong person all this time. It had never been Gant.
What else had he gotten wrong? What other assumptions had he embraced without thought, without question?
He considered leaving the spell’s glow on the dead man’s body. He could imagine Greenleaf walking back into the chamber and shrieking like a little girl at the sight. But he didn’t wish to frighten anyone else, nor did he want to give the sheriff any new excuse to pay him another visit.
“Vela potestatem ex cruore evocatam.” Conceal power, conjured from blood. Reg looked disappointed.
Ethan exited the Workhouse, and snuck past Greenleaf once more. A part of him—perhaps not the wisest part—wanted to remain on the street and, while still concealed, toy with the sheriff for a while. But his better instincts prevailed. Instead, he made his way to Sephira’s house.
Several times now—during the night, again as he argued with Hutchinson in the Town House, and once more just now as he saw that orange glow on Gant—it had occurred to him that there was one other conjurer in Boston whom he had yet to factor into all that had happened in the past day. If Gant was dead and Osborne alive, where did that leave Mariz, who had seemingly hovered in between life and death the last time Ethan saw him? If death could be feigned, so could unconsciousness. It seemed too convenient that Mariz should be incapacitated all this time.
Afton stood by Sephira’s doorway as Ethan neared the house. Ethan had not yet removed the concealment spell, but he made no attempt to mask the sound of his footsteps. Hearing him approach, Afton stepped away from the door and planted his feet at the top of the small stairway leading up from the stone path. He scanned the street, frowning, cocking an ear toward the path, trying to figure out where Ethan was.
Ethan didn’t give him the chance. Without breaking stride he said, “Dormite ex gramine evocatum.” Slumber, conjured from grass. Power flowed through the ground and the stone, and Reg fell in step beside Ethan, ethereal in the silvery light.
Perhaps recognizing the cadence of a spell from the time he had spent with Mariz, Afton threw up a hand to ward himself. A second later he staggered back against one of the grand marble columns outside Sephira’s door. As the spell began to take effect, he slipped down to the ground, his eyes closing, a contented smile touching his lips. By the time he tipped over onto his side, he was slumbering deeply.
Before pushing the door open and entering Sephira’s house, Ethan reached for his knife, rolled up his sleeve, and cut his arm yet again. Yellow-hair and Nap were in the common room, and they leaped to their feet at the same time. Nigel brandished his pistol, Nap his blade. Both of them gaped at the doorway, waiting to see who had come. Seeing no one, Yellow-hair opened his mouth, no doubt to call for Sephira.
The words of Ethan’s spell were on his lips before the big man could get out a word. “Dormite ambo ex cruore evocatum!” Slumber, both of them, conjured from blood.
The men swayed, dropped their weapons, and toppled to the floor, Nigel smacking his head on the wood boards with a satisfying thud, Nap—appropriately named—landing on a colorful rug.
“Nigel?” Sephira’s voice.
Ethan dragged the blade over his forearm again. “Fini velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” End concealment, conjured from blood.
The reverberation of this spell was still dying away as Ethan strolled into Sephira’s dining room. She sat at her long table before a sumptuous breakfast. Her hair was down, and he could smell her perfume from the opposite end of the table.
Her eyes blazing, Sephira started to rise. But Ethan had cut himself once more, and he shook his head, his blade pointing at the welling blood. “Don’t,” he said.
“Where are Nigel and Nap?” she demanded, her voice higher than usual.
“Sleeping in your common room. I expect Nigel will have a bit of a headache when he wakes.”
She sat back in her chair, glaring at him, no doubt biding her time. “And Afton?”
“Napping outside. Where are Gordon and Mariz?”
Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “No idea.”
“Ignis ex cruore evocatus.” Fire, conjured from blood.
The spell thrummed, and the eggs, bacon, and bread on her plate burst into flames.
“I’m not playing games. Where are they?”
“What are you doing here, Ethan? You must know that I would be justified in killing you for this. Not now perhaps, not while you have your knife out and blood on your arm. But eventually. So, what could possibly lead you to do something this stupid?”
“Desperation. Fear of something more dangerous than you.”
Oddly, that seemed to set her at ease. She nodded and reached with a steady hand for the wineglass next to her blazing platter of food.
“Is this going to burn out on its own, or do you have to magick the flames away?”
“It will burn away, just like any other fire.”
“What a shame. It was a fine breakfast. I could have offered you some.” She sat back and regarded him through narrowed eyes. “You don’t look well. The past few days haven’t been kind to you.”
“Where are Gordon and Mariz?” he asked again.
“Gordon is away on an errand. Mariz is upstairs.”
“Take me to him.”
She sipped her wine. Then, “No.”
“Humor me, Sephira,” he said, his knife still poised over his bloodied arm. “Pretend for a moment that I’m not myself, that I’m so exhausted and frightened and frantic I might do something crazy, beyond conjuring my way into your house. Pretend that I’m just foolish enough to shatter every bone in your hand or use my ‘witchery’ to squeeze your heart until it stops beating.”
She considered him for another few seconds, drained her cup, and stood. “This way,” she said.
He followed her into the common room. She paused, looking down at her men and giving a small shake
of her head. Stepping over them, she walked to the broad, curving stairway they had used the other day, when he and her men brought Mariz back to her house from New Boston. Reaching the top of the stairs she led him down the same corridor, and into that same small bedchamber.
Mariz lay in the bed; as far as Ethan could tell, he hadn’t moved at all since the last time he had been there. His color was better, but in all other ways he was unchanged.
“He still hasn’t woken,” Ethan said in a whisper.
“No. The doctor seems confident that he will, but he doesn’t know when. It could be any day now.”
Blood continued to flow from the fresh cut on Ethan’s arm, but he barely noticed. He sat in a chair near the bed and stared at Mariz.
“Perhaps you should leave now, Ethan. Like the fire on my food, your sleeping spells won’t last forever, and when Nigel and the others wake, they’re not going to be very happy with you.”
“Tell me about Gant and Osborne,” he said.
She laughed. “I’ve told you before—”
“Please,” he said, turning to look up at her.
The first quirk of her mouth he recognized—the beginning of her usual mocking smile. But she didn’t answer him right away, and when at last she did it was with a question rather than another refusal.
“Who’s after you?”
“Thomas Hutchinson,” Ethan said. “He’s threatened to put to death every conjurer in the city if I can’t give him the information he wants by tomorrow morning.”
She blinked. “You’re serious.”
“Yes. I don’t expect you to tell me everything. I know better, and I won’t believe half of what you do tell me.” He held up his bloodied forearm again. “But I need answers, and I’m not feeling particularly patient.”
Sephira stood unmoving; once more, as the last time he had spoken with her, he could almost see her weighing the risks and rewards of helping him. At last, though, she gave a small shake of her head and a breathless laugh. “You’re mad,” she muttered. “There’ll be a price for this. You understand that, don’t you? I can strike at you any time I want, and I don’t have to come near you to do it. You have friends, and I know who they are.”
Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles) Page 26
