A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by D. B. Jackson

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Goin’ in that house is crazy. You know that. This is meant to protect you from getting’ sick when you’re goin’ about your business. But what you’re talkin’ about…”

  “Will it protect me?”

  She sucked at her teeth, nodded. “I think so.”

  “All right.” He counted out the money and handed it to her.

  She took it, dropped it in her pocket without bothering to count it herself, and walked behind her bar to the room in which she stored her herbs.

  When she came out again, she carried a small bundle wrapped in paper. Even before she handed it to him, Ethan he could smell the sorrel and mullein.

  “The spell ain’t easy,” she said. “It has more than one part, an’ it has to be spoke just so.” She recited the conjuring to him in Latin a few words at a time, pausing between each section and inserting a word in English, so as to avoid actually casting the spell at that moment. Ethan repeated it back to her in the same way, and soon had it memorized.

  When they had finished, Ethan reached for his hat and stood.

  “You sure about this, Kaille?”

  “Aye. I trust your herbs, and your spell.”

  “But still, goin’ into that house might not be so smart.”

  “When have I ever let that stop me?”

  They both grinned.

  “I really am sorry, Janna. About before.”

  “I know. You be careful. Come back an’ buy more of my food.”

  “I will.”

  He let himself out of the tavern. The wind off the harbor had strengthened, but it did little more than stir the hot, sour air that had settled over the city. Ethan began the long walk back to the South End and Cornhill, where several of the people on Pell’s list had lived. He hadn’t gotten far, though, when he felt another spell rumble in the street beneath his feet.

  He knew immediately that it was a finding spell. But rather than originating at Sephira’s house, like the finding spells Mariz had cast, this one came from farther off, though from a similar direction: the waterfront, to the south of the Battery, near Adams’ Wharf.

  The spell rushed toward him, like a breaker sweeping over a beach. And when it reached him, it was nothing like the finding spells Mariz had cast: it was far more aggressive. This was no twining vine; rather it felt like hands reaching up out of the earth to grab at his legs. Just like in his dream. A heartbeat later, it was gone.

  With Mariz’s spells Ethan knew what to expect. Usually the conjurer showed up within minutes of locating him. Sometimes Mariz was alone; other times he had the rest of Sephira’s toughs with him. But one way or another, when Ethan felt one of Mariz’s finding spells, he knew to expect a run-in with the Empress of the South End.

  This spell promised another sort of confrontation. His previous encounters with Nate Ramsey had taken place in but a single day. Still, Ethan knew what Ramsey was capable of doing, and how he conducted his affairs. He didn’t think the captain would leave his ship to track Ethan through the city lanes. That spell had been a summons, and also a challenge.

  Ethan’s good sense warred with his curiosity. He didn’t want to face Ramsey until he knew more about the spells the captain had cast and his purpose in returning to Boston. But for better or worse, Ramsey wanted to speak with him, and Ethan wished to know why. In the end, his curiosity prevailed. He followed Orange Street to Essex Street, turned eastward, and walked to the southern extreme of the South End waterfront. Upon reaching Windmill Point, Ethan halted and scanned the wharves and shipyards that projected into the harbor between the point and the South Battery to the northeast.

  He wasn’t sure that he would recognize the Muirenn if he saw it moored beside other similar vessels. But he should have known that Ramsey wouldn’t waste Ethan’s time, or his own, by making him try.

  Another spell pulsed, weaker than the previous one: an elemental spell, sourced in water or air. Ethan spotted an eagle wheeling above Tileston’s Wharf, the longest of the piers before him. It flew in lazy circles, its great wings held steady, its tail twisting in the wind. And then it faded from view: an illusion, conjured for his benefit. He followed the narrow harborfront lanes to the wharf and walked out onto the pier, eyeing each ship he passed.

  Halfway to the end, he spotted a lone man standing on the deck of a pink. The man, whom Ethan recognized as Ramsey, marked his approach before disappearing from view. Ethan had checked his stride at the sight of him, but now he continued toward the ship. She was a small vessel, but clean and obviously well tended. She was tied between a pair of bollards, and sat light in the water. Whatever cargo she might have carried had already been off-loaded. Now that he saw her again, Ethan recognized the Muirenn. He wondered where Ramsey had gone, and went so far as to pull out the pouch of mullein he had bought from Janna. Warding himself would have been the prudent course of action. But the captain would feel the conjuring and would assume that Ethan had come looking for a fight. He put the mullein back into his pocket.

  The ship’s gangplank was down, but Ethan paused at her prow, and called, “Ahoy, the Muirenn!”

  “Ahoy!” came the reply. A moment later Ramsey appeared again. He stood at the rails amidships, holding a flask of what was probably Madeira and two cups. “You came.”

  “I did. Permission to come aboard?”

  “Granted.”

  Ethan walked up the plank and hopped onto the deck just in front of the captain, who watched him with a faint, sardonic smile on his face.

  The years had not touched Ramsey at all; he looked just as Ethan remembered. Tall, spear-thin, he had a long face and a dark, unruly beard. His eyes were pale and his grin exposed yellow, crooked teeth. He wore a white silk shirt and tan breeches, as he had the last time he and Ethan met.

  Ethan proffered a hand, which Ramsey seized in a firm grip. An instant later he pulled Ethan into a rough embrace and thumped him on the back.

  “It’s good to see you again, Kaille,” he said, the words colored with a faint Scottish burr.

  Ramsey released him and Ethan took a step back. He couldn’t keep a smile from touching his lips even as his brow furrowed in puzzlement.

  “Is it?” he asked.

  “Of course! Men like us—we don’t have many friends. We have to enjoy those we do have.”

  “Forgive me, Captain, but the last time we met—the only time we met—we fought. We came close to killing each other. And you murdered two men I had been engaged to protect.”

  “Aye, I remember. I also recall that you were not as keen on keeping those men alive after you heard my reasons for wantin’ them dead. And we were well matched, you and I. It’s not often that I find a conjurer who’s as skilled as I am.”

  “That may be, but—”

  “Leave it, Kaille. Friends, enemies. There aren’t that many people in this world who inspire passion in me one way or another. So stop arguin’ and drink with me.” He walked to a pair of barrels and sat, gesturing with the hand that held the two cups for Ethan to follow.

  Ethan stared after the man, laughing to himself. He strolled to where Ramsey had perched himself and seated himself on the other barrel.

  The captain filled one cup with wine and handed it to Ethan. After filling his own, he raised it. “What shall we drink to?”

  “I believe we drank to your father last time,” Ethan said. “We should again.”

  The look in Ramsey’s eyes hardened, but he nodded once and said, “Thank you,” as Ethan tapped the rim of his cup to Ramsey’s. They both drank.

  “You look old, thieftaker. The years haven’t been kind to you.”

  “I was thinking that you hadn’t changed at all.”

  “Sure, I have,” Ramsey said. “I’m smarter now. Stronger, as well.”

  “Is that a warning?”

  “It’s a fact.”

  “What brings you back to Boston?”

  Ramsey let out a soft laugh. “That was direct.”

 
“It was a simple question.”

  “I think we both know better.” He drank, nearly draining his cup. “I’m not ready to answer you. There’s more that I have to do, and I think you already know more than you’re lettin’ on.”

  “Have you hired men to rob graves here in the city?”

  “I just docked today.” Ramsey finished his wine and poured himself more. He held the flask out to Ethan.

  Ethan shook his head. His cup was still nearly full.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Ramsey drank, his eyes dancing with mischief.

  “Do you know much about resurrectionists?” Ethan asked.

  “I’ve read a bit. I know they steal cadavers.”

  “Or body parts. They do it for profit—they sell the dead to surgeons and those who aspire to the trade. That’s what most people here think lies at the heart of this latest spate of desecrations. Greed.”

  “Most people,” Ramsey said. “But, I take it, not the great Ethan Kaille.”

  “I make no claims to greatness. But I do know better than to think that this is about money.”

  “And that’s supposed to impress me?” Ramsey laughed. “I don’t imagine it was too hard to figure out. The gap between what these others think and what you know is more a product of their stupidity than any cleverness on your part.”

  “As I said: I make no claims to greatness.”

  “And yet,” Ramsey said, his voice silken, “you intend to match your wits against mine, your power against mine. You may not claim to be great, but you’re still reachin’ higher than you have any right to. You should be careful, thieftaker: stretch your arm out too far and you might overbalance. Or you might simply lose a limb.”

  Ethan’s laughter sounded harsh to his own ears. “Is this how you speak to all your friends?”

  “Why did you come here, Kaille? What did you expect to find? What did you think I’d tell you?”

  “I came here because you as much as asked me to,” Ethan said. “It was your finding spell that drew me, your illusion spell that told me where the Muirenn was moored. She remains a fine ship, by the way. You should ask yourself if you wouldn’t be better off putting back out to sea. It’s safer for you out there.”

  Ramsey drained his cup again and set it down smartly on the rail. There was no trace of mirth left on his face. “You should go.”

  Ethan sipped his wine, making no move to leave. “I think you brought me here because you’re torn. You say that you’re not ready to reveal your purpose in being here. But you’re just bursting at the seams, wanting to tell me everything. You’re so enamored of your plans that keeping them secret hurts.”

  “Is that so?” Ramsey asked, his voice tight.

  “Aye. So, go ahead and tell me. I’m going to find out soon enough. Think of how much more satisfying it will feel to tell me to my face, to see my reaction.”

  For the span of a heartbeat, it seemed to Ethan that Ramsey was tempted. He could see the eagerness in the captain’s eyes, the boyish excitement in the smile that tried to break through his stolid mien. But the moment passed and he shook his head.

  “I think I won’t. But I give you credit for makin’ the attempt.” He did smile then, but it was cold and clearly forced. “I’m goin’ to enjoy these next few days.”

  Ethan finished his wine and stood. He tipped his hat to the captain and crossed to the gangplank.

  But as he started to walk back down to the wharf, Ramsey called his name, stopping him.

  “Your foot,” he said, nodding toward Ethan’s bad leg. “Did we have that right?”

  Ethan had let down his guard, thinking that their interview was over. He felt his cheeks go white, and could think of nothing to say.

  Ramsey threw back his head and laughed. He picked up his flask and cup, and went belowdecks.

  Chapter

  TWELVE

  As Ethan stepped off the gangplank onto the wharf, his hands shook. Rage, frustration, yes, even a touch of fear: a storm of emotions raged in his mind. He had very nearly gotten the better of Ramsey; he was certain that the man was on the verge of telling him everything. And in a moment of weakness, he allowed the captain to turn their encounter to his advantage.

  He was desperate to know what Ramsey was planning, to understand what role he himself played in the man’s scheme.

  “Yes, well, he’s not going to tell you,” Ethan muttered to himself, drawing a disapproving look from a passing wharfman.

  The sun hung low in the west, still obscured by the haze that had settled over the city days before. The breeze had died, leaving the air hot and stagnant. It would be another hour at least until darkness fell and the shades Ramsey had released from their slumber appeared once more.

  Ethan set out again for the North End. Bertram Flagg, another of the dead in the King’s Chapel Burying Ground who were mutilated by Ramsey’s men, had lived a short distance from the Rowan family. Ethan chose to begin his search for other ghosts at his home.

  Mr. Flagg had been a shipbuilder whose yard was located in the North End, near the Charlestown ferry. He was no less wealthy or influential than Alexander Rowan. His home might have been more modest than the Rowan mansion, but only just. It was a two-story brick house with black shutters and a white colonnade at the entrance. It stood at the corner of Hull and Salem streets, at the base of Copp’s Hill and within sight—and smell—of the foul waters of Mill Pond.

  Ethan approached the door only to have it open before he reached it. A young man walked out of the house and halted upon seeing him.

  “Who are you?” he asked. He was a few inches shorter than Ethan and slight of build, with a soft, almost feminine face. He couldn’t have been more than sixteen or seventeen years old.

  Ethan thought he might retreat into the house at the first word he uttered.

  “My name is Ethan Kaille,” he said. “I’m a thieftaker hired by Reverend Caner to find those who desecrated the burying ground at King’s Chapel.”

  The lad gazed back at him, seemingly waiting for Ethan to say more. At last he stepped forward and stuck out a hand, which Ethan shook. “I’m Charles Flagg,” he said, not quite looking Ethan in the eye.

  “I’m sorry about the passing of your father,” Ethan said.

  Charles shrugged, looked down at his feet. “Thank you.” They fell into a brief, strained silence. “I have to go,” the lad finally said. “I have … I just have to go.” There was something in his manner …

  “I take it you have a meeting to attend.”

  The lad’s eyes widened, with fright at first, but when Ethan offered a faint conspiratorial smile, he nodded, and even chanced a grin of his own. “You won’t say anything, will you?” he asked, dropping his voice to a whisper. “My father had nothing but contempt for the Sons of Liberty, and I don’t want to get in trouble.”

  “I won’t say a word. Is your mother inside?”

  “My stepmother is. My mother died when I was seven.”

  Ethan grimaced in sympathy, thinking that in this respect at least, Charles had already lived a more difficult life than many men twice his age. “Again, I’m sorry. What is your stepmother’s name?”

  “Edith.”

  “Thank you, Charles.”

  The boy nodded. “You’re welcome,” he said, and strode away, looking much like a boy trying to act older than his years.

  Ethan went to the door, which Charles had left open. He rapped with the brass knocker and called, “Missus Flagg?”

  “Yes?” came a voice. A few seconds later a woman walked into view. She looked to be but a few years older than Charles. She was pretty but careworn, with wheaten hair and green eyes. She carried a babe in her arms, and was trailed by a second child, a girl who might have been five years old.

  Ethan introduced himself again, and as he did, a single crease formed in the middle of the woman’s brow.

  “Why would you come here?” she asked. “Shouldn’t you be looking for answers in the bu
rying ground?”

  “I believe there might be answers here, ma’am.”

  She looked away. “I don’t know anything about what happened to Bertram’s grave, except that it was gruesome and foul.”

  “Who is that, Mama?” the girl asked, staring at Ethan with large round eyes the same shade as her mother’s.

  “He’s just a man who works for the church, dear. And he won’t be staying.”

  “This must be very frightening for all of you,” Ethan said. “Not being able to feel safe in your own home. I believe I can help you.”

  Edith’s face had gone white.

  “You’re not the only ones, you know,” he went on, pretending not to notice. “Families all across the city have had shades in their homes. You needn’t be embarrassed.”

  “What’s he talking about, Mama?”

  Edith bent and cupped her daughter’s face in a gentle hand. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.” She straightened and called, “Cecille!”

  An African servant came to the foyer. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Edith handed the infant to Cecille. “Can you take Alice and her brother into the parlor? Perhaps you and Alice can sing him to sleep again, as you did yesterday. Can you do that?” she asked the little girl.

  Alice beamed and followed the servant as she carried the babe into another room. Edith stared after them.

  “I’m sorry about that,” Ethan said.

  The woman shook her head. When she faced him again there were tears on her cheeks. “She’s going to find out sooner or later. It’s been here every night this week. I know that it’s not my husband. Not really. But it wears his clothes, and all through the night it wanders around his study or lingers in our room. I can’t sleep in there anymore.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Would you mind if I were to wait for him with you? I need to see what he looks like. And I may be able to learn something from him that will help me find a way to send him back where he belongs. To send all of them back.”