A Plunder of Souls (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by D. B. Jackson

  “To send them…” She shook her head. “How could you do that?”

  “I believe that the people who disturbed your husband’s grave are using what they stole to control his spirit. If I can find these people and return to the burying ground what was taken, he and the others might be free once more to go back where they belong.”

  “Yes, all right.” She still sounded doubtful.

  “If you would like, I can wait outside. Once the shade appears, you can invite me in. Would that be easier?”

  “No, that’s all right.” She backed away from the door, and beckoned him inside. “Please come in.”

  Ethan thanked her and entered the house. Within, the dwelling was quite similar to the Rowan house, with its polished wooden floors and fine furniture. Ethan wondered if Flagg had bought his furniture from the Rowans.

  “Can I get you anything, Mister … I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.”

  “Kaille,” Ethan said. “And no thank you. I’m fine.”

  “Would you like to wait in my husband’s study?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  She led him through the house, past the harpsichord, where Alice was picking out “Come, Follow, Follow Me” as Cecille sat beside her singing to the babe.

  Once they were beyond the hearing of Alice and the others, Ethan asked, “Missus Flagg, do you remember your husband mentioning a sea captain named Nate Ramsey? Or perhaps a pair of merchants: Deron Forrs and Isaac Keller?”

  She shook her head. “No. I’m afraid Bertram didn’t tell me much about his work.” She unlocked a door off a narrow corridor and ushered Ethan into a spacious study. “Here you are,” she said with false brightness. “You can wait here until night falls. Are you sure I can’t have Cecille bring you something?”

  “Yes, I’m sure. Thank you.” Ethan surveyed the study. The air in the room smelled stale; he didn’t think it had been disturbed for months. “If I may ask, when did your husband die?”

  “It was the tenth of April.”

  He nodded, staring at a sheaf of papers on the writing desk against the war wall. “Would you mind if I examined some of those documents,” he asked, pointing at the desk. “It may be—”

  “If you can find something that will help to rid of us of the demon haunting our home, it will be a blessing. Look at whatever you want.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ethan said. “Thank you.”

  She left him, closing the door behind her. Ethan crossed to the desk and after hesitating for a few breaths, lowered himself into the chair positioned behind it and picked up the sheaf of papers. A quick perusal of the contents convinced him that it consisted of invoices and bills of sale. He laid the papers aside and pulled open one of the desk drawers, and then another. In the third, he found several ledgers. He opened one, and began to read. In addition to the bills of sale Flagg kept, he had also maintained a careful ledger of every transaction by date: payments in, payments out, the names of those with whom he did business. Ethan retrieved the other ledgers stored in the drawer and thumbed through the pages until he found what he had sought.

  In 1751, Bertram Flagg’s shipyard built a pink for a merchant captain named Nathaniel Ramsey. The Muirenn. Twice in subsequent years—1758 and 1760—Flagg’s workers performed minor repairs on the ship. The 1760 entry was the last mention of anyone named Ramsey.

  The light outside was failing and Ethan could barely see, even if he held up the ledger to the window. There were candles set throughout the study. Ethan glanced toward the door before pulling his knife and cutting himself.

  “Ignis ex cruore evocatus.” Fire, conjured from blood. Flames appeared atop three of the candles. Reg winked into view for a moment as well, but when Ethan paid him no heed, he faded. Ethan turned his attention back to the ledgers, thumbing through all of them a second time to make certain he hadn’t missed anything. This time, he found several mentions of Alexander Rowan and a few of Sebastian Wise, but none of these transactions struck him as out of the ordinary. And he saw no more entries for the Ramseys. What he had found didn’t tell him much, but at least he knew that Flagg, like the Rowan and Wise families, had dealings with Nate Ramsey’s father.

  He sat back, stretched his back, rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Not for the first time, he considered whether he might need to be fitted with a pair of reading spectacles. No doubt Kannice would find this amusing.

  Opening his eyes once more, he froze.

  The ghost of Bertram Flagg stood in the middle of the study, his eyes gleaming balefully. He was in little better condition than the shade of Abigail Rowan had been, and like her he glowed bone white. His skin had darkened and stretched so that the contours of his skull were plainly visible. He wore a dark coat, waistcoat, and breeches with a light shirt and cravat. He held a cane in one leathery hand—it must have been buried with him—and he hovered just off the floor, bobbing like a bird sitting on the surface of the harbor.

  The shade seemed far more agitated than Abigail’s ghost had been, and Ethan felt certain that he was the object of the shade’s wrath.

  “Veni ad me,” Ethan said, holding himself still. Come to me.

  Uncle Reg appeared beside the desk, his glowing eyes fixed on the shade.

  “Can you tell him that I’m here to speak with him, and to find out who brought him back. I meant no harm in going through his documents.”

  Ethan glanced up at Reg, who glared back down at him, a dour expression on his face. “It’s the truth!” he said.

  The corners of Reg’s mouth twitched, but he turned to the shade and stared at it for several seconds. Whatever he said did little to mollify Flagg. The shade gestured wildly with his cane, at one point jabbing it so forcefully, that Ethan jerked back out of the way before remembering that the shade couldn’t hurt him.

  Reg looked at Ethan again and shrugged.

  Ethan stood, holding his hands where Flagg’s shade could see them. He opened his mouth to ask one of the many questions running through his mind, but stopped without asking any of them. When he had seen Abigail Rowan he had thought he glimpsed some faint hue in her form. Now, looking at Flagg, he was certain of it. Silvery light suffused the figure, but his face and head were tinged with a color Ethan recognized as Ramsey’s aqua. So was the shade’s right hand.

  “Ask him if Ramsey has communicated with him in any way.”

  Reg stood motionless for a few seconds, then turned quickly back to Ethan and nodded once more.

  His heart began to race, though at the same time his frustration grew. How did he ask a ghost who couldn’t speak to tell him what another mute ghost had said?

  “Is he giving them instructions?”

  Reg shook his head.

  “But Flagg knows that Ramsey is the one holding him here.”

  The old ghost nodded.

  Ethan looked at the shade again. “I’m trying to help you. You have my word on that.”

  Flagg still looked angry, but he gave a reluctant nod, and he was using his cane for support again, rather than as a weapon, which Ethan took as a minor victory. He regarded the shade, marking once more the hint of color in his hand and head. The ghost’s foot, he noticed, had no hue at all. It seemed that had been something Ramsey did entirely to grab Ethan’s attention. And it had worked.

  He eyed the ghost again. The head and hand. The foot.

  “His chest,” Ethan whispered. To Reg, he said, “Can you ask him to open his coat and shirt. I need to see his chest.”

  Reg scowled. Ethan had noticed a year ago, when he had Reg summon the murdered conjurer to his room above Henry’s cooperage, and again in the past couple of days in dealing with the shades roaming Boston, that the old ghost was protective of the dead. Ethan thought he understood, but he also knew that Reg couldn’t refuse him in this matter or any other.

  “You know why,” Ethan said. “I wouldn’t ask it otherwise.”

  The old warrior’s expression softened and he faced Flagg once more.
After a brief pause, the shade released his cane, which remained upright, and unbuttoned his coat, his waistcoat, and finally the shirt.

  When at last he pulled the shirt open to expose his chest, Ethan could not help the oath that escaped him.

  On the left side of his chest, over his heart, the symbol that had been carved into the skin of every male corpse mutilated in the burying grounds—the triangle with three straight lines cutting through it—blazed like sea-green fire. Here alone, the color of Ramsey’s power was not muted or diminished by the white glow of the shade. Rather it shone so brightly that it cast Ethan’s shadow in stark relief on the wall behind him.

  He was more convinced than ever that the shade’s head and hand were what held it here in the mortal world. But he knew intuitively that this symbol controlled the spirit and turned him to Ramsey’s purpose, whatever that might be.

  The door to the study opened, and Missus Flagg walked in.

  “Mister Kaille I believe—” She halted at the sight of her husband’s shade, and drew a sharp breath. When he turned to her, his glowing chest still exposed, she cried out. “What have you done to him?” she asked in a strangled voice.

  “I did nothing,” Ethan said. He stepped out from behind the desk, followed by Reg, whom he assumed the woman could not see.

  “This was done to his corpse at the burying ground, and I believe that those who desecrated his grave intend to use that mark as a means of controlling his actions.”

  “I don’t understand any of this. How could they control him? What you’re describing sounds like … like witchcraft.”

  He didn’t correct her. “Aye, it does,” he said. “You can call it that, if you wish. The powers used by the men who did this are real—you can see that for yourself. This is why they have to be stopped.”

  “Is he in pain?”

  Ethan cast a quick look Reg’s way. The old ghost shook his head.

  “I don’t believe he is, at least not as I think you mean it. But he does not wish to be here. He doesn’t want to scare you or your children. And that, I suppose, is a kind of pain.”

  “You said before that there are other shades in Boston right now. Do they all bear that mark? Are they all trapped here, as Bertram is?”

  He almost said yes before remembering Patience Walters, who was caught here as the others were, but who looked so different and who glowed with what he now realized was a blend of Ramsey’s aqua and the color of her own powers. Was it just Patience who looked this way, or were there others? And if so, had all of those who looked as Patience did been conjurers in life?

  “To be honest, ma’am, I don’t yet understand all that’s happening. I know that there are other shades like this one—that the cadavers mutilated at the burying grounds seem to be manifesting themselves in their old homes, while looking as they do now in their graves. But there are other shades as well.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry I can’t tell you more.”

  The shade had buttoned up his clothing. It seemed odd to think of a ghost as being modest, but Bertram Flagg had retrieved his cane and now stood by the window, gazing out into the night. Ethan had the distinct feeling that he was ashamed to look his young wife in the eye.

  “I think I should go,” he said. “Thank you, Missus Flagg.”

  “Of course,” she said, eyeing her husband’s shade.

  “I can let myself out, ma’am.”

  “Thank you, Mister Kaille.”

  Ethan started to leave. “He won’t hurt you,” he said, facing her once more. “He can’t, and he wouldn’t want to.”

  She looked at him, nodded.

  Ethan left the house with Reg beside him, waiting to be released. As Ethan walked, he seethed. Ramsey was playing with forces he couldn’t have understood, and inflicting pain on people who had done nothing to deserve such cruelty.

  “Do you have any idea how we can stop him?” Ethan asked.

  Reg shook his head. Ethan could see that the ghost’s rage was a match for his own.

  “Would killing Ramsey do it?”

  Reg faltered, nodded.

  Ethan frowned. “It would, but you don’t think I can kill him, do you? He’s gotten too strong.”

  The ghost averted his bright gaze. Ethan didn’t need to see him nod to know that it was true.

  “Damn.” He took a long breath. “Thank you for your help tonight,” he said to the ghost. “Dimitto te.” I release you.

  He walked back to the Dowser, knowing that he should have gone to see the other shades that had been driven from their graves, but knowing as well that he couldn’t face them. Not tonight. He wasn’t sure he saw the point in going tomorrow night either. He knew what he would find: lost souls like Abigail Rowan and Bertram Flagg, families too ashamed or frightened to ask for help until it showed up at their door, and more evidence of Ramsey’s power and his own inability to match it.

  By the time he reached the Dowser, his legs felt leaden and his shoulders drooped with exhaustion. For a panicked instant, he thought he might be growing ill, but he knew better. He had spent the day walking from one end of the city to the other, and he had little to show for his efforts. He wasn’t sick; he was dispirited. Before entering the tavern, he drew himself up and put on a brave face, lest he scare Kannice.

  It was warm and loud in the great room, and even the aromas of chowder and bread couldn’t mask entirely the stink of sweat that clung to the workmen drawn in by Kannice’s cooking. Kannice and Kelf were so busy ladling out chowder that they didn’t notice that Ethan had come in until he stepped to the bar.

  “I’ll get ya an ale in a minute, Ethan,” the barkeep said, his words stumbling over one another.

  “There’s no hurry, Kelf.”

  “Aye,” Kannice said. “And he probably won’t be staying long.” The words came out flat, and there was a troubled look in her eyes.

  “What’s happened now?” he asked, unable to keep the weariness from his voice.

  “Another message has come for you,” she said. “I’ll get it in a moment.”

  “If all my letters are going to come here, I might have to start paying you more for my ales and chowder.” He smiled.

  Her expression didn’t change.

  “Who’s it from, Kannice?” But already he had an inkling.

  “Marielle Harper.”

  Of course. Marielle Harper: his first love, and once his betrothed. Ethan loved Kannice, and she knew that. But she also remembered that for a long time, even after they began to share a bed, he had mourned the end of his engagement to Elli. Kannice was not the kind to be jealous, or to tolerate jealousy in her man. But to this day, she freely admitted being jealous of Elli.

  For her part, Marielle remained standoffish toward Ethan. She didn’t approve of his spellmaking, and had yet to forgive him for concealing his powers from her during their brief betrothal. She had come to accept that her children, Holin and Clara, cared for him, and she grudgingly allowed him to be a small part of their lives. But she would not have sent a message to him, particularly here at Kannice’s tavern, had her need not been great.

  He tried to conceal his impatience to see the missive, but Kannice knew him too well. She glanced his way, her expression darkening, and muttered, “I’ll get it now.”

  She handed another bowl to Kelf before walking to the far end of the bar and retrieving a small, folded piece of parchment from a shelf below the polished wood top.

  Walking back to Ethan, she handed it to him, saying not a word. He unfolded it and saw that in fact the missive was not written in Elli’s hand. He read, his blood turning colder with each line:

  Mister Kaille,

  I am writing to you on behalf of Marielle Harper, who bids me tell you that her son, Holin, has taken ill with the smallpox. The family has been removed from their home in the North End and is now staying at the Hospital in New Boston.

  Louise Colson

  “What does it say?” Kannice asked, watching him.

  He handed the missive
back to her.

  She scanned it, and looked back up at him. “Ethan, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know…” She winced, canting her head to the side. “Let me get you something to eat and then you can go to them.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not hungry. I came back here to sit and rest.” He cupped her smooth cheek in his hand. “And to see you. But it seems that’s not going to be part of my evening, at least not yet.”

  “You will come back later, though, won’t you?”

  “I don’t know. It will be late, if I do.”

  Kannice pulled a key from within her bodice and slipped the lanyard from which it hung over her head. “Here,” she said, holding it out to him. “You can let yourself in, even if I’ve gone to sleep. But I want to see you. I want to know you’re all right.”

  He took the key, put the lanyard around his neck, and brushed a strand of hair off her brow. “Then I suppose I’ll see you later,” he said, and walked out once more into the humid night air.

  It was a dark and desolate walk out to Pest House Point, as the strip of land on which sat the Province Hospital was known. The streets of New Boston were largely empty, and too many of the houses in this part of the city bore red flags, which rose and fell in the light breeze, rustling softly. Between Kannice’s tavern and the West Meeting House, he must have seen at least a half-dozen houses marked as quarantined. Once Ethan was past Chambers Street, walking west on Cambridge, there was little to see at all. Houses and gardens gave way to open leas, empty save for lowing cows.

  Before long, the hospital loomed up ahead of him, homely and austere. A few of its windows shone dimly with inconstant candlelight, their glow reflected in the waters of the Charles River, just beyond the point. Others were dark. A murmur of voices reached him from within the building, along with the sound of crying. He wondered if Elli and Clara were among those he heard.

  He approached the entrance to the hospital, but was stopped by a guard before he reached the door.

  “You can’t go in there,” he said. “And you wouldn’t want to if you could.”

  “Someone I know came here today. A boy. I want to speak with his mother.”