A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by D. B. Jackson

  “I believe so, yes. But they both died years ago, not long after Ramsey died, if I’m correct. What do they have to do with all of this?”

  “To be honest, sir, I’m not sure yet. I have one last question, and I’ll leave you to your work here. And I hope you’ll forgive me for the indelicacy of this. But have you recently lost a loved one?”

  Wise recoiled. Clearly this had been the last thing he expected Ethan would ask. “No, I haven’t.”

  Ethan had been so sure. “No one?” he asked. “Not in the past half year or so?”

  “Not in the past four years. My father died back in sixty-five, but since then, thank the Lord, we have been quite fortunate.”

  Ethan nodded. He knew that he looked troubled by what should have been glad tidings, but for a moment his confusion allowed him no other response. At last he managed to say, “Yes, sir. I’m glad to hear that.”

  “But you were expecting me to say something else.”

  “I was,” Ethan admitted.

  “Can you tell me why?”

  Ethan rubbed a hand over his face. “It would take me some time to explain it all, sir, and you have more pressing matters to which to attend. Suffice it to say that I thought that your connection with Ramsey might be one of several things you would have in common with others I’ve spoken to in the past few days. I was wrong.”

  “I’m not sure I understand,” Wise said. “But as you say, I have other matters to occupy my time.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be going. Thank you for answering my questions.”

  Ethan left the warehouse, tipping his hat to Robert as he walked past.

  From Burrel’s Wharf, it was but a short distance back to the Rowan mansion on Ellis Street. For the second time in less than a day, Ethan knocked on the door and was admitted to the great house. Before long, he stood in Alexander Rowan’s study, shaking hands with the old man.

  When Ethan asked him about the elder Captain Ramsey, Rowan indicated that Ethan should sit in an armchair set before the empty hearth. He took the chair beside Ethan’s.

  “I remember Nathaniel well. I was shocked when I learned of his death. He was a decent man, and a fine sailor from what I understand.”

  “Did you and he have extensive dealings?”

  “For a time, yes. But at the risk of being too candid, he turned to smuggling in the final years of his life, and I wanted no part of that. I told him so, and we stopped doing business.”

  Ethan hadn’t expected this, either. “Did you know Isaac Keller and Deron Forrs?”

  Rowan’s expression turned shrewd. “You know more about this than you let on, Mister Kaille. Forrs and Keller were among those who bought smuggled goods from the man.”

  “Yes, sir. And did you do business with them as well?”

  The old man laughed. “With Isaac and Deron? No. They disliked me and I felt the same way about them.”

  Ethan started to ask another question, but was interrupted by the thrum of a distant spell, one so powerful that he could feel it vibrating in his chest. He closed his eyes, trying to gauge how far the pulse had traveled, where it was headed. He couldn’t tell what sort of spell it was, but he had an inkling of who had cast it. He needed to leave—there was too much he didn’t understand. But first …

  “Mister Kaille? Are you well?”

  He opened his eyes once more. “Aye, I’m fine. Thank you, sir. Tell me, do you feel about Sebastian Wise the same way you felt about Keller and Forrs?”

  “Sebastian the younger, you mean?”

  Ethan nodded. In his impatience to be moving, he had started to drum his fingers on the arm of his chair. He willed himself to stop.

  Rowan did not seem to have noticed. He was gazing up at the ceiling. “No,” he said at last. “I didn’t care much for his father, but the son is a different matter. He can be abrasive, but I trust him; I wouldn’t hesitate to do business with him.”

  “Did his father engage in smuggling as well?”

  “I think I’d rather not answer that, Mister Kaille. I do have dealings with the son on a regular basis.” A grin curved his lips. “I suppose that tells you what you need to know, doesn’t it?”

  “Mister Wise will hear nothing of this conversation from me, sir,” Ethan said, getting to his feet.

  Rowan smiled as he stood. “Thank you, Mister Kaille.”

  Ethan walked out of the house a short time later. He couldn’t say with certainty where the spell he felt had come from, but given its might, the distance it seemed to have traveled, and the direction the power seemed to flow, he thought that it had come from somewhere out on the harbor. Casting on water magnified the strength of a conjuring, something Ethan was sure Nate Ramsey knew. He halted along Ellis Street and gazed out over the harbor, searching in vain for Ramsey’s ship. There was little about the Muirenn to distinguish it from other merchant vessels; he knew this, and yet he searched anyway, as if hoping that the man would be flying a black flag on his mainmast to let Ethan know where he was.

  He could almost hear Ramsey laughing at him. No, Kaille. I’m not going to make it that easy for you.

  Ethan walked to the Dowsing Rod, avoiding the barracks along the way and thus coming to the tavern from the north end of Sudbury Street. It was the middle of the day; the tavern was usually quiet at this hour. But upon entering, Ethan was struck by the somber quality of the silence that greeted him. Kannice was behind the bar with Kelf, but as soon as she saw him, she came out, and rushed into his arms.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, his breath stirring her hair. “What’s happened?”

  “It’s Missus Tyler,” she said, her voice low.

  It took him a moment to place the name. “The house down the street,” he said. “The one that’s been quarantined.”

  “Aye.” She pulled away to look him in the eye. “She died this morning.”

  Chapter

  ELEVEN

  “Who did you hear it from?” Ethan asked.

  “Diver, actually,” Kannice said. “He was looking for you. He had it from Pat Daily.”

  “Aye. The one who’s been posted at the house.”

  She nodded, her cheeks colorless, fear in her bright blue eyes. “We should leave, Ethan,” she said in an urgent whisper. “Now, before it gets bad.”

  “Kannice—”

  “Please. It’s not just the Tyler woman. There are more outbreaks in New Boston. It’s getting worse.”

  He gathered her in his arms and held her close. He could tell she was crying, and wondered if she was thinking of Rafe, her husband, who had died of the distemper eight years ago.

  “I don’t know where we would go,” he said after some time, speaking the words into her auburn hair.

  “We could stay with my sister,” Kannice said, whispering into his chest. “I don’t think there’s been any illness out in Dorchester.”

  “I’m not sure your sister would welcome me into her home.”

  Kannice looked up at that. “She would if I asked. She would if it meant saving your life.”

  “But what if it seems to her that I’m endangering hers, or the lives of her children? For years, she’s been after you to sell the tavern. And she knows that my work takes me into the streets. Would she want us in her home? Or would she think we were bringing smallpox to her?”

  “Well, if not Dorchester, we can go somewhere else.”

  Ethan gazed unseeing over the top of her head. Despite her pleas, he didn’t want to leave. Mrs. Tyler had died, which meant that her ghost might well be here, and her grave might be the next one desecrated by those who had violated the burying grounds. Was he afraid? Yes, though more for Kannice than for himself. He considered telling her that she should close down the Dowser and leave without him until this outbreak had passed. But he knew she would be hurt by the suggestion. Probably, she would refuse.

  “I can’t leave, Kannice,” he said. His eyes met hers. “I know why you’re frightened; I am, too. But I can’t leave.”

 
; She was strong and pragmatic, and as smart as anyone he had ever known. She wiped the tears from her eyes, and she didn’t argue. “The work you’re doing for Pell?” she asked.

  “Aye. And for Darcy and Ruth Walters. We haven’t had a chance to talk about any of it, but the fact is that Missus Tyler’s death might be of importance. It might…” He faltered, but then pressed on. “It might even be of some help to me.”

  She grimaced. “How?” Before he could answer, she shook her head. “No. Don’t tell me.”

  “It’s better that way,” Ethan said. “This is a dark business, even more so than usual.” He hesitated again, feeling self-conscious. “Do you know what’s to be done with her, and more important, when they’ll take her?”

  “According to Diver, they’ll bury her tonight sometime after midnight.” A haunted look came into her eyes. “I’m sure they’ll take all the usual precautions,” she said, her voice flat.

  Ethan nodded, feeling selfish. This had to be terribly difficult for her. Perhaps he should take her to Dorchester, his inquiries be damned. He could get her settled there and be back in the city before midnight. He was about to say as much when he heard Kelf clear his throat. They both turned to see the barman, red-faced and as diffident as a schoolboy, holding a cask of wine on his massive shoulder.

  “This was just delivered in back,” he said, his voice rough. “I was wonderin’—I’m sorry to interrupt—but I didn’t know where you wanted it.”

  Kannice glanced at Ethan, a smile on her lips. “Come on then, Kelf. I’ll show you.”

  Left alone, Ethan turned his thoughts back to the death of Mrs. Tyler. The “usual precautions” Kannice mentioned included wrapping the corpse in a sheet treated with tar, placing it in a coffin, and having pallbearers carry it over a specified route, to wherever she was to be buried. The town selectmen had probably mandated that the burial take place in the middle of the night so that there would be as few people as possible abroad in the streets when the body was carried from the Tyler house to the burying ground. As an added precaution, a man would walk ahead of the corpse to clear the lanes of any who might still be about.

  The house itself would be cleansed several times, and smoked with brimstone and frankincense. Mrs. Tyler’s bedding would be taken to the Pest House at Rainsford Island for smoking and airing. And Patrick Daily would be relieved of his guard duty in perhaps a week’s time, when the selectmen were convinced that the danger of infection within the house had passed.

  Somehow, Ethan needed to get inside the house before that week passed. He couldn’t wait so long, and he couldn’t miss the opportunity to communicate with Mrs. Tyler’s shade. The question was, how could he enter the house without endangering his own life and the lives of Kannice, Diver, Henry, and everyone else with whom he had contact?

  Kannice came back out of the kitchen a few minutes later and walked around the bar to where he stood.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, draping her arms around his neck. She kissed him. “I’m not supposed to be the sort who gets hysterical over trifles.”

  “This is hardly a trifle.”

  She gave a little shrug. “Still. You can’t just up and leave Boston. I know that. To be honest, I can’t either.” A weak smile touched her lips. “Where would Tom Langer get his ale if not here?”

  “Now, that is a fair question.”

  She kissed him a second time and broke away, heading to the bar. “Anyway, I won’t mention it again.”

  “I had thought of saying that you should go to your sister’s. I was going to offer to take you there myself. Once you were settled I would come back to continue my work. But I was afraid you’d be angry with me.”

  She walked back to where he stood. “Not angry, really. It’s a kind offer, though I believe I can find my way on my own.”

  “Would you consider going?” he asked. “I’d rest easier if I knew you were out of harm’s way.”

  Kannice shook her head. “I’ve already lost one man to smallpox, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave you here to face this epidemic on your own. I’d rather be sick with you, than far away wondering if you’re all right.”

  He frowned. “I’m not sure that’s completely reasonable.”

  Kannice arched an eyebrow. “But?”

  “But I appreciate it nevertheless. And I have no intention of letting either of us get sick.”

  Her eyes went wide. “Can you…? I mean, does your…?”

  For all their time together, Kannice had never felt comfortable speaking of his spellmaking.

  “My powers don’t work that way,” he said. But even as he answered her, he found himself thinking back on a conversation he’d had with Janna the year before. He had gone to ask her, as he often did, if it was possible for a conjurer to do something that he assumed was impossible.

  To which Janna had replied, reproach in her voice, “All the time you ask me if spells can do this or spells can do that. Haven’t you learned yet? Spells can do anythin’ if the conjurer castin’ them is strong enough.”

  So why couldn’t he do this? Or if he wasn’t strong enough, why couldn’t Janna? He didn’t expect that she could guard them against the distemper indefinitely, but he also couldn’t remember hearing of a conjurer dying from smallpox in Boston, or even one being taken with the disease.

  “What are you thinking?” Kannice asked him.

  “That maybe I was too quick to say no.” He turned and started toward the door.

  “You just got here,” she called after him. “Where are you going now?”

  “To speak with Janna.”

  “Don’t you want to eat first?”

  “I’ll buy food from her. She tells me more when I do.” He smiled.

  So did she. “You’ll be back later?”

  “I promise.”

  He walked to the Fat Spider heedless of his limp and the growing ache in his bad leg. As soon as Janna saw him enter, she raised a finger to warn him off of asking her questions. Ethan silenced her by holding up a shilling.

  “Can I have some food and perhaps a bit to drink?” he asked, removing his hat, and taking a seat at a table near the bar. The tavern was mostly empty, but it smelled of fresh bread and one of Janna’s dark, spicy stews.

  “You think you can come in here an’ buy my food an’ get all sorts of information out of me. Well, I’m tellin’ you, Kaille: I’ve got other things—”

  “Which would you prefer, Janna? That I buy your food and get information from you, or get my information from someone else, and spend no money here at all?”

  She glowered at him, her mouth twisting. But without another word she retreated into her kitchen to get him his meal. She emerged again moments later and placed a bowl and a round of bread in front of him.

  “Ale?” she asked.

  “Please.”

  She filled a tankard and set that on the table as well. For a few seconds she stood over him. Then, with a huffed breath that signaled her surrender, she sat. “Go ahead an’ ask.”

  “This stew is excellent,” he said, and meant it.

  “I know that.”

  Ethan took another bite and laid his spoon aside. “You’ve told me in the past that any spell is possible if the conjurer casting it is strong enough.”

  “That’s right.”

  “Are you afraid of smallpox, Janna?”

  A smile crept over her face. “You’re gettin’ smarter and smarter, aren’t you?”

  He felt his pulse quicken. “So, you do know how to protect yourself from it?”

  “It’s not just a spell,” she said.

  “An herb as well.”

  She nodded, coy now. “A lot of them. I have a recipe I use.”

  “Mullein?” Ethan asked.

  “That’s one. There’s wood sorrel in it, too. And larkspur, windflower—the blossoms, not just the leaves—Saint-John’s-wort, sassafras, and…” She grinned again. “Well, a few others. I gather them all in a sachet and sell those. Each is good
for one spell.”

  “I need to buy some from you.”

  “This just for you or for your woman, too?”

  “Does it matter?”

  She grew serious. “It matters how you use the sachet and how you word the spell. This is high magick, Kaille. Harder than most of your ordinary conjurin’.”

  “But if it protects against—”

  “It guards you from the pox, but it’s a matter of how long it lasts. An’ if there be two of you…”

  “I need to go into the house of someone who just died of smallpox. And I might not be able to wait until it’s been thoroughly cleaned and smoked.”

  She scowled. “That’s what I mean. That kind of foolishness will take a whole sachet by itself. These are not made to protect you from bein’ stupid, an’ they ain’t cheap.”

  “How much?”

  “Three crowns each.”

  Ethan stared back at her before reaching for his ale. “Three crowns?”

  “They take time to put together, an’ the windflower blossoms alone are worth almost half that.”

  “If I didn’t go into the house, if I just used them to stay well during this outbreak, how long would a sachet last?”

  Janna shrugged her bony shoulders, her gaze sliding away. “I can promise a fortnight. After that…” She shrugged again.

  “Do these really work, Janna?”

  She sat forward quickly, her expression so fierce that Ethan almost dropped his tankard. “You’re damn right they work!”

  “I apologize,” he said. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

  “No, you shouldn’t have! You know me longer an’ better than just about anyone in this town. An’ you ask me if somethin’ I’m sellin’ is gonna work?” She shook her head. “You should know better.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” He reached into his pocket. “I’d like to buy one, but one is all that I can afford right now.”

  She nodded, her lips pursed. She wouldn’t look at him. “What are you goin’ to do with it?”

  He didn’t answer right away. The truth was, a fortnight of protection for either him or Kannice was worth little. This outbreak would surely last longer than that; epidemics always did. But if this concoction of Janna’s, along with whatever spell she taught him, could keep him safe while inside the Tyler house, that might well be worth the money he would have to spend. If Mrs. Tyler’s ghost was there and could communicate with Reg.