“Well met, Kelf.” Ethan placed a half shilling on the bar as the barman set the tankard—now full—in front of him.
“That’s the Kent pale.”
“My thanks.”
“Diver’s in his usual spot,” Kelf said. He gestured toward the kitchen. “And Kannice is in back, workin’ on another batch of the chowder.”
Ethan sipped his ale. “I’ll be with Diver. She’ll find me eventually. She always does.”
Kelf winked, already grabbing a tankard for another patron.
Ethan wended his way to the back of the great room, slipping past knots of wharfmen and laborers, and tables crowded with men drinking Madeira wine and eating oysters. A few people looked up as he went by; fewer still met his glance or offered any sort of greeting.
More than twenty years ago, he had been convicted of taking part in the Ruby Blade mutiny and sent to the island of Barbados to toil on a sugar plantation. The conditions had been brutal: unbearable heat, food that was barely edible, sleeping quarters that were little more than jail cells crowded with vermin-infested pallets. A stray blow from another prisoner’s cane knife wounded his left foot; the resulting infection nearly killed him. The plantation surgeons removed three of his toes, and thus saved his life. But that was the least of what he lost during his fourteen years as a convict. His pride, his first and greatest love, the future he once had imagined for himself: all of this and more he left in the cane fields.
After enduring those conditions for fourteen years, he earned his freedom, returning to Boston in the spring of 1760. He soon established himself as a thieftaker of some minor renown here in the city. But those who remembered the Ruby Blade affair and Ethan’s role in it still regarded him with suspicion. Others who were too young to know anything of the Blade took their cues from those around them. And still others, who cared not a whit about Ethan’s past as a mutineer, might have heard rumors of his conjuring talents, and so shunned him because he was a “witch.”
Whatever the reason, Ethan had few friends here in the Dowser, and not many more beyond its walls. On the other hand, those he did consider his friends, he trusted with his life.
Among them, Diver—Devren Jervis—was the one who had known him longest. Diver was younger than Ethan by several years and though he was now in his early thirties, he still looked as youthful as he had nine years before, when Ethan returned to Boston from the Caribbean and almost immediately ran into Diver on Long Wharf.
At first, Ethan hadn’t recognized his young friend; Diver had been but a boy when Ethan was convicted. But Diver recognized him right off, and greeted him as he might a blood brother. For Ethan, it was one of the few bright moments in an otherwise difficult transition back to life as a free man.
With his unruly dark hair, his dark eyes, and a roguish smile, Diver was seldom without a girl on his arm. For years it had seemed to Ethan that it was a different girl every fortnight. But for many months now, since the previous autumn, Diver had been with the same woman: Deborah Crane, an attractive redhead who lived in Cornhill, near Diver’s room on Pudding Lane. The two of them sat together at a small table near the back wall of the Dowser. Seeing them engrossed in conversation, their eyes locked, their heads close together, her hand in his, Ethan faltered.
He found another empty table, also at the rear of the room, and sat with his back to the wall, looking out over the tavern and sipping his ale. A short while later, Kelf walked back into the kitchen and emerged again with Kannice, an enormous tureen of fish stew, or chowder, as Boston’s residents had taken to calling it, held between them. Ethan saw Kelf whisper something to Kannice. She looked up, searching the room. After a few seconds, she spotted him and they shared a smile. Just as quickly, her attention was back on her patrons and their empty bowls. She began to ladle out the chowder, saying something that made the men around her laugh.
Kannice was younger than Ethan by some ten years: a willowy beauty with auburn hair and periwinkle blue eyes. She once had been married, to a man who died of smallpox during the outbreak of 1761. She inherited the Dowsing Rod from him, and though barely more than a girl, managed to transform the tavern from a shabby, run-down haven for petty criminals and whores into a respectable publick house that turned a tidy profit. She had a simple set of rules: Anyone was welcome in the tavern, so long as they refrained from fighting, whoring, or discussing matters that were likely to lead to a brawl. With Kelf behind the bar, implacable, as immense as a mountain, she had little trouble enforcing her decrees, though in truth, Ethan had met few men who would dare defy her and thus earn one of her legendary tongue-lashings. Kannice was as savvy as any merchant in the city, and as clever as Samuel Adams and his fellow Whigs. She also had a sharp wit and could tell stories that would make the most hardened sailor blush to the tips of his ears.
She loved Ethan, and had suggested with ever greater frequency that perhaps the time had come for him to join her in running the Dowser.
“You could live with me,” she had said, the last time they discussed the matter, a few nights before. “We would share in the work and the profits, and you wouldn’t have to worry anymore about Sephira Pryce and her ruffians.”
It was never easy to say no to Kannice, and it was particularly difficult when she was resting on top of him, her smooth skin against his, her silken hair shining with candlelight.
“That’s a generous offer,” Ethan had said, taking care with his choice of words.
She smiled down at him. “But you’re going to refuse it anyway.”
“I’m a thieftaker, Kannice. It’s what I do.”
“Maybe. But you can’t do it forever,” she said. “Sephira can hire new toughs when the ones she has now grow too old. You’re on your own.”
“You’re saying I’m old?”
She ran her fingers through the hair at his temples, which had long since turned gray. “You’re seasoned.”
Ethan laughed. “And you have a silver tongue.”
“Think about it?” she said, a plea in the words. “For me?”
He kissed her. “I will. For you.”
They both knew that he would have done just about anything for her, except he would not marry her—after losing his betrothed when he was imprisoned, he had vowed never to wed—and he could not yet bring himself to give up his work as a thieftaker. Of course he hated contending with Sephira at every turn, and looking over his shoulder for Nigel and her other toughs each time he ventured out into the streets. And it was true: He couldn’t do this forever. He would be forty-three in October, and there were mornings when he felt every year in his bones and aching muscles. Odd as it seemed, though, he enjoyed thieftaking. The challenge of each new inquiry, the pursuit of those who had done wrong, even the danger—he found all of it intoxicating. In his heart, he knew that any other profession would bore him.
Kannice glanced up from the bowl she was filling and saw that he still watched her. Her cheeks colored, even as her lips curved upward again. After a moment though, her brow creased and she reached a hand to her jaw. She had noticed the bruising on his face. Ethan mirrored the gesture and gave a small shrug. Kannice shook her head, though with a touch of humor in her eyes.
“Are you trying to avoid us?” Diver’s voice.
Ethan turned. Diver and Deborah had halted a pace or two shy of where he sat.
“Not at all,” Ethan said. He stood and indicated the empty chairs at his table with an open hand. “Sit. Please.”
Deborah took the chair to Ethan’s left. Once she was seated, Ethan and Diver sat across from each other.
“I didn’t wish to disturb you,” Ethan said. “You appeared to be deep in conversation.”
She cast a look Diver’s way. Diver’s face turned red.
“That was kind of you,” Deborah said.
And at the same time, Diver said, “We weren’t talking about anything important.”
They looked at each other. Diver smiled; Deborah didn’t.
“You didn’t think i
t was important?” she asked.
Diver’s face fell. “I meant it wasn’t so important that he couldn’t have joined us. Of course it was imp—”
“You tell me if you think this is important, Mister Kaille. Derrey is thinking of asking the selectmen to appoint him as watch on one of the infected houses.”
“Pat Daily is doing it,” Diver added quickly. “He’s working just down the street at the Tyler’s place. And Ed Baker is doing it, too. They’re making good money at it. Three shillings and four for each of them. That’s per day,” he said, glancing at Deborah. “I was making less than half that at the wharf. And with these nonimportation agreements in place, a cove can’t even make that much.”
“Maybe,” Deborah said. “But at the wharf you don’t run the risk of being infected with smallpox.” She faced Ethan, looking very young and very pretty. “Don’t you agree, Mister Kaille?”
“It’s Ethan,” he told her, as he had several times before. “And I’m afraid I can’t agree with you entirely. Diver risks infection each time he leaves his room. All of us do.”
“But surely he would be in far greater peril were he to stand watch outside a house that had been visited with the distemper. Won’t you even agree with that?”
Ethan chanced a brief look at his friend, who sat with his hands folded and resting on the table, his eyes downcast.
“I’m not sure I want to answer, Deborah,” he said, meeting her gaze once more. “This is a matter for you and Diver to decide. I’ve no part in it.”
Her expression turned cold. “I see.” She cast a glance Diver’s way, her lips pressed thin. “In that case, I don’t have more to say to either of you. You should do as you please, Derrey. I believe you intended to anyway.”
She pushed back from the table and stood. Ethan and Diver both jumped to their feet, but she didn’t appear to notice. She walked to the tavern door without a backward glance and strode out into the night.
Diver stared after her, his mouth open in a small o. Once the door had closed behind Deborah, he turned to Ethan. “What should I do?”
“You should probably go after her.”
“And should I tell her I won’t take the job?”
“That’s for you to decide. I can’t help you.”
“I need the money, Ethan. There’s little work to be had on the waterfront right now.”
“I know.”
Diver stared at the door, a pained expression on his face. “I’m not very good at this.”
Ethan schooled his features. A year ago, this would have been the moment when Diver threw up his hands in frustration and moved on to the next girl. Deborah had changed him, and Ethan was glad. It seemed his friend was finally becoming an adult.
“You’re better at it than you think,” Ethan said. “Go on. If you don’t catch up with her soon, she’ll really be angry.”
A weak smile flickered across the younger man’s face. “Right. Good night.”
“Good luck.”
Ethan sat again, caught Kelf’s eye, and held up a finger. The barman nodded and reached for another tankard.
Long after Kelf brought him the second ale, Ethan continued to sit and gaze out over the throng of customers. The Dowser was more crowded than usual this night, which was surprising with word of the distemper spreading through the city. But at last, as the hour grew late, the crowd began to thin.
Kannice made her way to Ethan’s table, her cheeks flushed, wisps of loose hair falling over her forehead. Reaching him, she stooped and kissed him lightly on the lips. Her breath smelled of Irish whiskey, as it often did after a long night in the tavern, and her hair smelled of lavender.
“I see you’ve managed again to hit someone’s fist with your jaw,” she said, taking Deborah’s seat. She grinned to soften the gibe.
“Aye,” Ethan said, smiling as well. “I gave his knuckles quite a beating.”
“And who was this unfortunate soul?” Before Ethan could reply, she held up a hand. “No, wait. Let me guess. The yellow-haired one.”
“Nigel. Very good.”
She scrutinized the bruise, grimacing as she did. “Can I do anything?”
“I’ll heal it later.”
Kannice took his hand in both of hers. “You know, I was here all night, working. So was Kelf. And neither of us was hit even once.”
“Well, obviously you weren’t doing it right.”
Kannice laughed, throwing her head back.
Ethan dug into his pocket, pulled out the coins Ellis had given him, and placed them on the table in front of her.
Her eyebrows went up.
“My jaw will be fine by morning,” Ethan said. “And meanwhile I have this to show for my labors. And my bruises.”
“It could have been worse.”
“I passed the Tyler house on the way here. The flag is still out, and a man is standing watch on the street—a friend of Diver’s, I think. I don’t need Sephira and her brutes to make things worse.”
“I know that but—”
“Let it be, Kannice.”
She nodded, her gaze fixed on their intertwined fingers. “Deborah looked unhappy when she left.”
“Aye. Diver wants to ask the selectmen to put him on the watch.”
“To guard a quarantined house?” Kannice asked.
“Aye. And she doesn’t like the idea.”
“I can’t say that I blame her.”
“It pays well,” Ethan said. “And every job carries some risk.” She started to object, but he raised a finger, stopping her. “Even running a tavern. There are fewer regulars in the city now, but remember how worried you were when the occupation began. If General Gage had chosen to billet his men in Boston’s publick houses, it might have put you out of business.”
He saw that she wanted to argue. They both knew, though, that he was right.
“It’s not quite the same,” she said after a brief silence.
“No, but a man has to make a living.”
“I know.” She pushed herself up out of her chair. “I’ve a bit more to do in the kitchen.” She canted her head to the side, candlelight in her eyes. “You’re staying the night?”
“You don’t mind sharing your bed with a bruised old man?”
“Not any more than I did last night.”
He grinned. “In that case, I’ll stay.”
“Good.” She started back toward the bar before facing him again. “If you find yourself without anything to do, you can join us in back. There are a few dozen bowls that need cleaning.”
He lifted his tankard. “I’ll be working on this, I think.”
“Aye, I’m sure you will.”
Chapter
THREE
Ethan slept fitfully, awakened several times by what he thought were pulses of conjuring power shuddering in the walls of Kannice’s tavern. He couldn’t tell if the spells were real or if he had dreamed them, but imagined or not, they troubled his sleep. He woke for good early the next day. He had expected to slumber through much of the morning—it had been late when he and Kannice finally went to sleep, and he was exhausted from his recent inquiry. But though he did not feel refreshed when he woke, he could not fall asleep again. He lay still, not wishing to wake Kannice. And his thoughts churned.
For all of his certainty about not wanting to give up thieftaking, he also knew that jobs were harder to come by now than they had been as recently as a year before. The arrival of British troops in the city had frightened away some of Boston’s less desirable citizens. And, of course, Sephira had used every tool at her disposal to take the lioness’s share of those clients who still required the services of a thieftaker. Despite Ethan’s success the previous evening, he knew that his prospects were not good. Before Ellis hired him, he had gone two months without conducting an inquiry. Now that this one was finished, he wondered when he would be hired again.
He could live for some time on the coin Ellis had paid him, but he owed a month’s rent to Henry Dall, the cooper from who
m he let a room, and would owe him again come the middle of July. He didn’t dare express his concerns to Kannice, lest she take this confidence as a sign that he was thinking of leaving Henry’s shop to come live and work with her in the Dowser.
It occurred to him that he, too, could earn some coin watching a quarantined house. He couldn’t ward himself against smallpox, but if Pat Daily and Ed Baker managed to take on these duties without being afflicted, so could he. Were it not for Diver’s determination to secure one of the appointments, Ethan might have tried. But there weren’t many watch postings available, and Diver needed the money more than Ethan did. For now, at least.
Work will come, he told himself. It always does. The king’s army had not driven away every thief in Boston, and Ethan was not willing to concede every client to Sephira. He needed only to remain patient.
On this thought, he swung himself out of bed, taking care to make no noise. He dressed, let himself out of Kannice’s room, and descended the stairs to the tavern’s great room.
There, he walked back into the kitchen and took some bread and butter from Kannice’s larder. He dropped a few pence in the bar till, and took a seat at the nearest table. He was just finishing his piece of bread when Kannice descended the stairs, dressed, her face still puffy with sleep.
“I’m sorry,” Ethan said. “I tried to be quiet.”
“You were. I just can tell when you’re gone. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. Restless.”
She nodded. “I can make you something. There’s bacon, or a bit of last night’s chowder.”
He shook his head. “My thanks, but no.”
Kannice narrowed her eyes. “You paid for that, didn’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Ethan—”
Before she could say more—no doubt about how she didn’t like to take his money—there came a knock on the tavern door.
They shared a look.
“Kelf?” Ethan asked.
“It’s too early for Kelf.”
He thought back on his encounter with Sephira Pryce the night before. It wasn’t like her to knock, but again, she was never one to limit herself to doing what was expected. He drew his knife and pushed up his shirt sleeve.
A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) Page 3
