“Nor I.”
Pell handed him a piece of folded parchment. “Those are the names, along with their addresses.”
“My thanks, Mister Pell.”
“Am I to understand that you can see the ghosts only after nightfall?”
“Aye. But still, I can visit the families. They may be less afraid to speak with me when the sun is shining.”
“Perhaps,” Pell said, but Ethan heard skepticism in his voice. “Good luck, Ethan.”
“Sleep well, Mister Pell.”
Ethan left the churchyard and headed back to the South End. Kannice would still be awake, and would have welcomed him, but he had not stayed in his room above Dall’s Cooperage in several nights, and Henry, the cooper who let him his room, grew concerned if he went for too long without seeing Ethan.
But as he crossed Cornhill onto Water Street, he felt the thrum of a spell in the street. He recognized the conjuring straight away: a finding spell. It seemed to come from the south, which probably meant it had been cast by Mariz. Sephira’s men were looking for him.
The conjuring swept through the city, as relentless as a tide, and though Ethan drew his knife and cut his arm, the conjuring reached him before he could speak a masking spell of his own. It touched his feet and swirled about his legs, an invisible wave of power.
Mariz and the others were coming for him.
“Tegimen ex cruore evocatum,” he said. Warding, conjured from blood. His power pulsed as had the finding spell. Mariz would know with even more certainty where Ethan was, but at least Ethan was now protected from an attack spell. Reg had reappeared and was watching him.
“They’re close,” Ethan said.
The ghost nodded.
He hesitated, then cut himself again, deciding that a concealment spell might enable him to avoid Sephira’s men. “Velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” Concealment, conjured from blood.
Once more he felt the hum of power. The blood disappeared from his arm. But, he felt nothing more after that, and he saw Reg’s eyes widen.
“Nothing happened!” he said, gaping at the ghost.
He heard footsteps in the distance, approaching fast.
Chapter
EIGHT
He cut himself once more. “Velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” Concealment, conjured from blood.
He felt the rumble of the spell and watched to make certain that the blood vanished from his arm. And at last, he felt the cold sprinkling of power settle over him like a spring mist. The conjuring had worked. This time. But what in heaven’s could have happened with his previous effort? Had the same thing happened earlier, when he tried to cast the illusion spell near Murray’s Barracks?
Before he could think on it more, he heard voices. Even with the concealment spell in place, he took the added precaution of retreating into the inky shadows of a cramped byway.
“You said he was near here,” someone said. It sounded like Nigel.
“Yes, I did.” Mariz’s voice, his accent even more pronounced than usual. “I sensed him with a conjuring of my own, and I also felt him cast a spell. He has not gone far.”
He saw a bulky figure stop at the mouth of the alley, saw as well the glint of a gun barrel.
“Where are ya, Kaille?” Nigel called, sounding far too sure of himself. “We know you’re around here. Might as well show yourself.”
Ethan pressed himself against the stone wall of one of the buildings. There was a way through to the next lane if he could slip farther down the byway. But they would be listening for a footfall, and he didn’t think he could take a step without giving himself away.
“Miss Pryce wants a word, Kaille! She don’t like it when you meddle in her affairs.”
He would have liked to remind the fool that she was the one who stole gems and watches and dueling pistols from him, and who kept Ethan from completing his jobs. She had tried to interfere with his attempt to retrieve Ellis’s property, not the other way around. But he didn’t expect that any of them would listen to reason.
“I think he’s down here,” Nigel said, still lingering in front of the alley. “He’s hiding in the shadows. I can hear him breathin’.”
Another of the toughs joined him, a man almost as big as Nigel. Gordon, or maybe Afton. It was hard to tell in the darkness. “I don’t hear nothin’,” the second man said.
“That’s cuz you breathe like an ox.”
“He could be anywhere by now,” Mariz said. He joined the others, so that Ethan could see all of them. “He has used a concealment spell. He could be standing next to you and you would not know it.”
“So try that findin’ spell again,” Nigel said.
“Yes, I will. You keep searching for him. I will cast the spell and let you know what I learn.”
“Yeah, all right,” Nigel said, growling the words.
He and the other big man walked out of view, heading west. Seconds later, a third man, smaller than the others, stepped past Mariz heading in the same direction. Nap. At the same time, Mariz drew his knife and pushed up his sleeve to cut himself. But though he held the blade to his skin, he did nothing more. Instead he stared after the others.
After a few seconds he said in a loud whisper, “It is all right now. They have gone.”
Ethan’s jaw dropped. He didn’t respond. He didn’t so much as draw breath.
The other conjurer took a step toward him. “Kaille, they are gone. But we have not much time.”
Ethan cut himself. “Fini velamentum ex cruore evocatum.” End concealment, conjured from blood.
Mariz glanced at Uncle Reg when he appeared, and he kept his knife over his arm, but he didn’t cut himself.
Ethan held his blade ready as well. “What is this about, Mariz? What are you doing?”
“We need to speak, you and I.”
“About what?”
“Let us begin with the spells you have cast this evening. You responded to my finding spell with three conjurings. I would hazard a guess that the first was a warding, and the last was the concealment spell you just removed. But what was the middle one?”
“What does it matter?” Ethan asked.
“It matters a great deal, and you know it.”
Ethan said nothing.
“All right,” Mariz said. “Let me tell you about a spell I cast earlier today. It was to be what my father used to call an unlocking spell.”
“Does Sephira have you gutting houses now, Mariz?”
The other man flashed a quick smile. “That is not important.” His expression turned grim. “What does matter is that the first time I tried the spell, it failed. I felt my conjuring as I always do. My guide appeared, and indicated when I asked that I had performed the spell correctly. But it did not work.” He paused, eyeing Ethan. “Just as I believe your first attempt at a concealment spell failed a short time ago.”
“Had this happened to you before today?” Ethan asked, an admission in the question.
“Not since I was first learning to conjure.”
“It was the same for me, although I will admit that this may have been the second time today one of my spells failed. I didn’t realize it until now.”
“Do you know why this is happening?”
Ethan started to say that he didn’t but stopped himself. “Before I answer, let me ask you a question. Have you and Sephira been robbing graves?”
“Graves!” Mariz repeated, his voice rising. “Never, Kaille! I would not do such a thing, and I do not believe Miss Pryce would either.”
He didn’t share Mariz’s confidence in Sephira’s scruples, but this, too, he thought it best to keep to himself. “Forgive me for asking,” he said. “There have been a series of grave desecrations in the city over the past several days. And I know of at least two families being haunted by shades.”
“Shades?”
“Ghosts.”
Mariz frowned. “And you believe that this has something to do with our conjurings?”
“I do. I have no proof, but
I trust my instincts, and that’s what they’re telling me.”
“Mariz!”
They both turned to look back at the mouth of the alley.
“That is Nigel. You should go, Kaille.”
“Sephira won’t be happy with you.”
“Sephira will not know, will she?” He grinned and so did Ethan.
“We’ll speak of this again.”
“Yes,” Mariz said, “we will.”
Ethan eased toward the far end of the byway. “Sorry for knocking you over the other night.”
“We will speak of that again, as well.”
Ethan smiled and slipped out of the alley. He knew better than to think that Mariz would have let him go had he not been concerned about the failure of his spell earlier that day, just as he knew not to expect such kindness when next they met. But he had to admit that he liked the man.
More, he was deeply alarmed by their conversation. He had to resist an urge to start visiting the names on Pell’s list this very night—propriety be damned. He knew, though, that angering the families of the dead would do him no good.
He cast another concealment spell and, accompanied by Uncle Reg, walked with speed and stealth to Cooper’s Alley, only to find that Nap and Gordon had planted themselves in front of Henry’s cooperage.
He thought about putting them to sleep with a spell, and getting past them that way. But such a conjuring would not last long, and he didn’t want them trying to break into his room as he slept, or worse, breaking into Henry’s room and threatening the cooper.
After a few seconds’ consideration, an idea came to him, one that promised not only an escape, but also some amusement. Interested in a bit of sport? he asked within his mind.
Reg nodded, eager as a hunting dog.
What he intended could have been done with an elemental spell, but Ethan wanted to make it convincing. He pulled up a tuft of grass growing beside the road.
“Imago ex gramine evocata,” he said under his breath. Illusion, conjured from grass.
His spell worked on the first attempt. The image of himself that appeared between him and Reg looked quite convincing. This second Ethan was dressed in the same clothes, and even had the faint, yellowed remnants of a bruise on his jaw, from where Nigel had hit him two nights before.
Ethan, still concealed by his previous conjuring, scraped the sole of his boot on the cobbled street and made a small sound, like a gasp of surprise.
Nap and Gordon spun around.
“There he is!” Nap said.
Ethan sent his illusion running back up Cooper’s Alley toward Water Street. The two toughs followed, passing so close to Ethan that he could feel the brush of air on his skin.
Because he had used grass rather than air, or the thin mist hanging in the air over the city, he could maintain the illusion for some time and at a considerable distance. That insubstantial Ethan would lead them all the way back to Cornhill before he vanished. Sephira’s men would be searching the streets for hours.
He smiled at Reg. “My thanks. Good night.”
The ghost faded from view, still staring after the toughs, still pleased. Ethan made his way up to his room, making little noise, and eschewing the use of candles. He locked and warded his door, removed the concealment spell, undressed, and climbed into his bed. He was asleep in moments.
Despite being exhausted, he slept poorly, driven from his slumber again and again by odd, elusive dreams. Most of them slid by without leaving any impression, but one was more vivid than the rest.
He was back in the street, walking through the same narrow alley in which he had hidden from Nigel and the others. There was little light, but he soon realized that there were corpses strewn throughout the byway. All of them were naked, headless, handless, marked on the chest with the odd symbols he had seen in the burying grounds. All of them were missing three toes from their left feet. He should have stopped to examine them, but he was stalking someone, or something. At first he thought it must be Sephira, but eventually he saw her, leaning against one of the walls, looking as beautiful and alluring as ever.
“It’s that way,” she said to him, nodding in the direction he was already walking.
He had his knife out, and she glanced down at it before looking him in the eye again. “He has one of those, too.”
He said nothing to her, but kept moving. By now the alley had stretched into a long, narrow road that he didn’t recognize. At the far end, he thought he saw a flame, inconstant and dim. The color wasn’t right—it wasn’t a normal fire—but it struck him as familiar somehow. He couldn’t say why. He looked back and saw that Sephira was following him, a pistol in her hand. He started to ask what she was doing there, but even as he opened his mouth to speak the flame in front of them flared with such brilliance Ethan had to shield his eyes. Someone screamed. Ethan felt the heat from the fire slam into him like a fist. He turned, saw that Sephira was gone. He wanted to run, but before he could take a step, he felt a hand close around the ankle of his bad leg, vise-strong. He drew breath to cry out.
And woke to an emphatic knock on his door.
He was sweating, breathing hard. His bed linens were tangled around the ankle of his bad leg. Morning light streamed through his window. He extricated his foot with a mirthless laugh and rolled out of bed.
His visitor, whoever it was, knocked again. Ethan pulled on his trousers and drew his knife.
“Who’s there?” he called.
“A friend.”
He didn’t recognize the voice. “I’ll be the judge of that. Give me a name.”
“I bear a message from certain gentlemen who keep company with a dragon.”
Alone in his room, Ethan grinned. Gentlemen who keep company with a dragon. Samuel Adams and his fellow Sons of Liberty had for several years used a tavern called the Green Dragon as a meeting place. Still gripping his knife, Ethan unlocked and opened his door. The man on the landing wore the clothes of a craftsman: a linen shirt, worn breeches and waistcoat, a tricorn hat. He looked respectable if not well-off. He was closer to Diver’s age than to Ethan’s, with dark brown eyes, red hair, and a freckled face.
He handed Ethan a folded piece of parchment and turned to leave.
“Did Adams himself send you?” Ethan asked.
The man started down the stairs without looking back. “All you need to know is in the message.”
Ethan watched the messenger leave before unfolding the parchment.
Mr. Kaille,
We would very much like to speak with you regarding a matter of mutual interest and benefit. Please meet us at the sign of the Green Dragon at your earliest convenience.
S. Adams
He had last spoken with Mr. Adams the previous fall, as the occupation of Boston began. And they’d had dealings several years before, at the time of the Stamp Act riots, during Ethan’s inquiry into the Berson murder. He couldn’t imagine what he had done this time to earn the man’s attention. His curiosity piqued, he washed himself with the tepid water that had been sitting in his washbasin and dressed.
As he did, he considered the dream from which he had awakened. Most nights, he didn’t put much stock in such visions; even conjurers could dismiss as nonsense most of the images that disturbed their sleep. But something about this one troubled him, something more than just the mutilated cadavers. Why had the color of that fire looked so familiar? What had Sephira been doing there, and why had she seemed to be working with him?
Upon leaving his room, he heard Henry hammering at a barrel in the cooperage below. As he had business with the cooper that couldn’t wait, he went first to the workshop.
Dall’s cooperage had been built in 1712 by Henry’s grandfather, and had withstood more than fifty years of storms and fires. A sign over the door read “Dall’s Barrels and Crates,” and another beside the door said “Open Entr.” Before Ethan could heed this second sign, a gray and white dog bounded up to him, tail wagging, tongue lolling. She ran a tight circle around him and yippe
d happily before allowing Ethan to scratch her head.
“Well met, Shelly,” he said.
She licked his hand.
Shelly had been a constant companion to Henry for several years now. She once had a mate: Pitch, a black dog who was as sweet as she and as protective of both Ethan and Henry. But several years before Ethan had been attacked by a conjurer who threatened his life as well as that of Holin, the son of the woman who once had been Ethan’s betrothed. The conjurer was far more powerful than Ethan, and had been on the verge of killing him when Pitch appeared. With no other hope of surviving the night and saving Holin, Ethan cast a spell, sourced in the life of the poor dog. The conjuring incapacitated his enemy and allowed Ethan and the boy to escape. It also killed Pitch. To this day, despite knowing with certainty that he’d had no choice, he considered it the darkest deed he had ever committed, the one he regretted above all others, including those that had earned him his conviction. Every time he saw Shelly, he felt he ought to apologize to her.
He patted her head one last time and let himself into Henry’s shop.
The cooper sat on a low bench, his face damp with sweat, his shirt soaked through. But he smiled at Ethan, exposing a gap where his front teeth should have been.
“All right, Ethan?” he said, before taking a sip of water from a metal cup.
“I’m well, Henry. And you?”
The cooper shrugged. “All right, I gueth,” he said, lisping the word as he always did. “Saw Sephira’s men out in the street last night. They wasn’t givin’ you trouble, was they?”
“Not really,” Ethan said. He crossed to the bench, fishing in his pocket for the coins he had gotten from Andrew Ellis. He counted out a pound and handed the coins to Henry. “That should pay for my room through the end of September.”
Henry closed his hand over the coins, a look of concentration on his face. At last he nodded. “That’s how I figure it as well.” He put the money in his pocket. “My thanks, Ethan.”
“Well, you have my thanks for letting me pay you late for June.”
Henry waved away the words. “You pay me in advance more often than you pay me late. It was no matter.” He stood and picked up the cloth-covered mallet he used to hammer hoops in place on his barrels. “You working on something these days?”
A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles) Page 12
