Thieves' Quarry (The Thieftaker Chronicles)

by Jackson, D. B.

  “I would have thought the landing would have begun by now,” Adams said.

  “So would I,” Ethan said, keeping his voice down. “It will before long.”

  “I agree.” Adams turned to him. “I have to be on my way, Mister Kaille. I have men to see in the Bunch of Grapes.” He pointed at the tavern, which sat just across from the wharf. “And also at the Green Dragon.”

  “Yes, sir, of course. Thank you for your time.”

  “I hope you find whoever it is you’re looking for. Military force is the last refuge of despots and tyrants. Those men don’t belong in our city. By attacking them we only justify their brutality.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Adams tipped his cap and strolled toward the Bunch of Grapes.

  As he passed one group of onlookers, a woman called out, “God bless Samuel Adams and the Sons of Liberty!”

  Adams smiled and waved to the woman before entering the tavern.

  Ethan started up King Street, thinking that he would go to King’s Chapel to see if Pell had any information for him yet. He hadn’t gone far, though, when he heard someone calling to him from behind. Turning, he saw Geoffrey striding toward him, a deep scowl making his forehead look even steeper than usual.

  “Good morning, Geoffrey,” Ethan said, with false brightness.

  “Was that Samuel Adams I just saw you with?” Brower demanded.

  “Aye, it was.”

  “Lord help me,” he said, shaking his head. “What can you be thinking? Speaking to that man—being seen in his company in the middle of Boston—when you’re working on behalf of Parliament and the king!”

  Ethan started walking again, forcing Geoffrey to follow. It was all he could do not to pummel the man for speaking to him so. When at last his rage had subsided enough that he could speak again, he said in a taut, low voice, “I was thinking that if those who oppose the occupation had anything to do with what happened to the Graystone, Mister Adams might know of it. And if you don’t approve of the manner in which I’m conducting my inquiry I’d suggest that you find another thieftaker who can conjure.”

  “Did you tell Adams what happened to those men?”

  “I told him that a conjuring had been used against a ship, and that some men had died. I didn’t get any more specific than that.”

  “Didn’t get—” Geoffrey shook his head. “Good God, Ethan! What happened to the discretion you bragged about the other day?”

  Ethan walked a few more paces in silence before halting again. Though loath to admit it, Ethan had to admit that Geoffrey was right. Adams had sworn that he would keep their conversation to himself, but Ethan doubted that Brower or any of his colleagues would place much stock in the word of Samuel Adams. And Ethan had promised William Senhouse that he would be circumspect in pursuing the matter. Already he had told too many people.

  “You’re right,” he said. “I apologize. I’ll be more careful in the future.”

  Brower seemed surprised by his apology. “Thank you.” He hesitated, and when next he spoke it was with a note of surrender in his voice. “Did Adams tell you anything?”

  “No. He claimed to know nothing about the Graystone and her fate. And,” he added, anticipating Geoffrey’s next question, “I believe him.”

  “So, what have you learned, other than that Samuel Adams claims to know nothing of the attack?”

  Before Ethan could answer, he felt power pulse in the street. By now he recognized the conjuring: It was another finding spell, probably cast by Mariz. It had originated nearby, perhaps at Sephira’s home. Ethan felt the spell flow past him, like ocean water running up a beach and over his feet and legs. But it passed him by. It seemed that Mariz was tired of finding Ethan. He was looking for someone else.

  “Ethan!” Geoffrey said, his voice stern. “I asked you a question.”

  “Aye, you did,” Ethan said, striding away once more. “I’ve learned plenty, but not enough. I’ll be in touch when I have more to tell you.”

  Geoffrey was still calling after him when Ethan turned the corner onto Cornhill and headed toward the North End.

  Chapter

  ELEVEN

  Ethan wasn’t sure where he was headed. Mariz had been searching the North End yesterday, and it stood to reason that he would be looking there again. But beyond that Ethan had no sense of where to begin his search; he was working on instinct, nothing more.

  He crossed over Mill Creek into the North End and ducked into a small alleyway. There, hidden from view, he pulled out the pouch of mullein and removed three more leaves for a warding. After a moment’s indecision, he put them back, thinking better of the spell. If Mariz was looking for Gant, the casting would alert both men to Ethan’s approach. Better to eschew conjurings for now.

  He followed the winding lane that fronted the harbor and led eventually to the dock for the Charlestown ferry. The name of the street changed every few blocks—Ann, Fish, Ship, Lynn, and finally Ferry Way. No matter what it was called, though, most days, it would be crowded with wharfmen, merchants, and travelers to and from Charlestown. But today, even here, the streets were quiet, no doubt because of the impending occupation. He kept to the edges of the lane, moving from shadow to shadow, knowing how easy it would have been for Mariz or Gant to spot him, had they been there.

  By the time he reached Gee’s Shipyard at the end of Ferry Way, he had started to wonder if he had been too quick to assume that the men were in the North End. He could search the streets in the center of this part of Boston, closer to the Old North Church. But those were finer neighborhoods; a man as rough in manners and appearance as Simon Gant would be conspicuous there.

  He turned south on Princes Street, intending to head back south. But he had taken only a few steps when he felt a new burst of power, followed but a second later by another.

  This second conjuring was by far the stronger of the two. It was so powerful in fact, so startling, that Ethan didn’t realize he had drawn his knife until he found himself pushing up his sleeve to cast. Like the spells he had sensed earlier, neither of these conjurings had been directed at him. But he also felt sure that at least the second conjuring had been no mere finding spell. He didn’t know what it was; only that it was strong, and had come from the west.

  He hesitated, unsure of where he ought to go. He didn’t know the northern lanes as well as he did the streets of Cornhill and the South End nearer to his home. He could smell the Charles River, though, and the Mill Pond as well. The dam.

  He sprinted to the causeway that ran between river and pond, and followed it toward New Boston. Unlike most of Boston’s avenues, the Mill Dam was still unpaved, consisting of compacted dirt and gravel. His leg was aching before he was halfway across, but he could see the ancient windmill in the distance, and to its south the wooden spire of the West Church. Keeping his eyes fixed on the church, he hobbled on. By the time he reached the end of the dam and the shipyard there, he was breathing hard and starting to sweat through his waistcoat.

  He paused, bent over, and rested his hands on his knees, trying to catch his breath. Sephira would have laughed at him and called him an old man. He could hardly have blamed her.

  “Where now?” he muttered, his gaze sweeping over New Boston and Beacon Hill. This part of the city was far more sparsely populated than either the North or South Ends, but Ethan couldn’t decide if this made it easier or harder to find someone.

  He hadn’t felt any spells since those two conjurings, and while he still didn’t wish to give his position away, he also had no desire to confront Gant or Mariz defenseless, without a warding in place. Making his decision, he cut his forearm.

  “Tegimen ex cruore evocatum,” he said. Warding, conjured from blood.

  His own spell pulsed in the street. He glanced at Uncle Reg, who had appeared at his elbow.

  “Do you know where those spells were cast?” he asked the ghost.

  Reg shook his head.

  Once more, Ethan surveyed the lanes and occasional low ro
ofs sprawled across the hill and fields before him. Making his decision, he struck out toward West Church. The chapel stood at the center of New Boston, near one of the few lanes in this part of the city as busy as the lanes of the North and South Ends. He didn’t know if he was any more likely to find Mariz and Gant there than in the streets that lay closer to the Charles River. Again, he was acting on instinct.

  He walked down the deserted lane, wary, his blade held ready, his sleeve still pushed up. If Mariz and Gant appeared before him in that moment, dueling with spells, Ethan didn’t know what he would do, or which man he would help. It seemed he was leaving that to instinct, too. If it turned out that the two men were working together, and they simultaneously cast spells against him, he would be in trouble, even with the warding he had conjured.

  He reached Lynde Street and the church, but still saw no sign of either conjurer. Continuing past, he circled the block and cut south and east around the small cluster of houses on Staniford Street and Green Lane. Still nothing.

  It had been more than a quarter of an hour now since he had felt any spells other than his own, and neither conjurer had come looking for him after he cast the warding spell.

  “I’m going to try a finding spell,” he said.

  Reg offered no response. He just stared back at Ethan, his bright gaze unblinking.

  Ethan picked three mullein leaves from the pouch he carried and held them in the palm of his hand.

  “Locus magi ex verbasco evocatus.” Location of conjurer, conjured from mullein.

  Once more the cobblestones thrummed with his casting. The leaves vanished from his hand and he felt tendrils of power spreading out in all directions from where he stood, questing for another conjurer, like shoots on a vine looking for the next tree or trellis to climb. At first he sensed no one, and he began to wonder if both men had escaped New Boston without his knowledge.

  He soon realized, though, that in fact his spell had found someone. The power emanating from whoever it was felt so weak that he hadn’t noticed at first. The conjurer was close by, just a short distance to the north and west.

  Ethan quickened his pace, passing the church once more and turning onto Chambers Street. There he slowed, searching the overgrown fields on either side of the lane.

  When at last he spotted the man, he couldn’t have been more surprised. He had expected an ambush of some sort. But the conjurer Ethan found wasn’t waiting for him, skulking in the grasses, a bloodied knife held ready. Far from it.

  Ethan recognized Mariz at once, though the spectacles were missing from his face. He lay sprawled by the edge of the lane in a thick patch of grass and weeds, his legs bent, one arm twisted beneath him at an awkward angle, the other limp on his chest. His wheaten hair and wispy mustache and beard shone in the sun. A thin trickle of blood ran from his nose, and another stained the corner of his mouth.

  Ethan hurried to the man’s side and leaned over him, resting his hand on Mariz’s wrist. He felt a pulse, but it was weak and too fast. Mariz’s lips and skin had a bluish tinge and the man’s breath came in shallow gasps. Ethan caught a glimpse of something glinting in the grass nearby—Mariz’s glasses. He picked them up and slipped them into his pocket. Raising his head, Ethan looked around. He was all alone on the lane; there wasn’t another person in sight. He didn’t think he could carry Mariz all the way to Sephira’s home, and even if he could, he wasn’t sure it was a good idea to move the man so roughly.

  After weighing his options, he tore some grass from the ground and cast an illusion spell. Such spells were usually among the easiest to conjure; they were called elemental because they didn’t require blood or mullein, or even grass. They could be conjured from water or fire. But this illusion had to appear to others on the far side of the city, and Ethan needed to speak through it, something he had learned to do only a few years before.

  “Videre et audire per mea imagine ex gramine evocatum,” he said. Sight and hearing, through my illusion, conjured from grass.

  He felt the conjuring in the ground, watched as the grass in his hand disappeared. Then he closed his eyes.

  Imagining the inside of Sephira’s house was easy. Locating her, if she was even there, was more difficult.

  The illusion—an image of himself—materialized in Sephira’s dining room, the part of her house Ethan knew best. Seeing the chamber through the illusion’s eyes, Ethan realized that no one was there.

  “Sephira!” he made the image say. “Sephira Pryce!”

  Through the illusion, Ethan heard footsteps behind him. He made the image turn and saw Nigel step into the room.

  “Kaille!” he said, pulling out a knife. “What the hell are you…?” He trailed off, the angry sneer on his horselike face sagging into puzzlement as he saw how insubstantial this image of Ethan looked. “What the hell?” he said again, breathing the words this time. He took a step back from the illusion.

  “I’m doing it with a spell, Nigel,” Ethan said through the image. “It’s an illusion, an image of myself. I’m in New Boston. Get Sephira for me. It’s important.”

  “I don’t take orders from you.”

  “Please,” Ethan said. “You know I wouldn’t do this if I thought I had any choice.”

  Yellow-hair’s expression soured. He didn’t lower the knife, but after another moment he nodded and strode from the room.

  Ethan waited in the grass on Chambers Street, his eyes closed against the sunlight. This conjuring was harder than a simple illusion spell, but not so taxing that he couldn’t maintain the image of himself.

  After a few minutes, Nigel returned to the dining room leading Sephira. Nap and Gordon were with them.

  “What is this, Ethan?” Sephira asked, her hands on her hips. “You think that you can use your witchcraft to—?”

  “Mariz is hurt.”

  She blinked. “What?”

  “Mariz is hurt. He’s here in New Boston, on Chambers Street between Cambridge and Green. He’s unconscious, and I’m afraid that if I try to move him on my own I’ll make matters worse. You need to send a carriage.”

  Sephira considered him for what seemed an eternity.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why are you trying to help him?”

  “Because I’m beginning to understand that there’s someone out here who’s more dangerous than Mariz. You’re wasting time, Sephira, and I’m not sure how long he has.”

  Still she hesitated. The mistrust between them ran deep, and had for too long. It had become a habit, as hard to give up as liquor. At last she turned to Nigel and the others and said simply, “Go.” Yellow-hair sheathed his knife and led Nap and Gordon from the room.

  Facing the image of Ethan again, Sephira asked, “Can you heal him?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll try.”

  “Do you know who did this to him?”

  “I think we both know, don’t we?”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  She managed to say it without averting her eyes, without blushing, without any change in her expression or the tone of her voice. Ethan supposed that there was something admirable in the ease with which she could lie, even as one of her men lay dying in the street. He wasn’t above admitting that there were times when he wished he could do something equally cold-blooded. But it served to remind him of the obvious: that despite his willingness to help Mariz and thus help her, he and she remained mortal enemies.

  “Fine, Sephira. I’ll see you soon.”

  “Ethan!” she said, before he could release the illusion spell. She stared at his image, then shook her head. “Never mind.”

  He let the spell end, opening his eyes and squinting against the glare of the midday sun.

  Mariz hadn’t moved, but he still appeared to be breathing, though with difficulty. Ethan leaned over the man and felt his limbs, his touch light, gentle. None of the bones seemed to be broken. Looking more closely at the one arm that had been pinned beneath Mariz, Ethan saw that while the bone r
emained whole, the elbow had been dislocated. He had seen similar injuries on the plantation in Barbados and knew how to mend it without resorting to a conjuring. He gripped the man’s upper arm firmly in one hand and the lower arm in the other, thinking that Mariz was lucky to be unconscious for this. With a sharp motion he snapped the joint back into its normal position. Feeling the bones grind against one another, he winced in sympathy.

  When Ethan was done, he sat back on his heels and exhaled heavily. After several seconds, he turned his attention to the conjurer’s ribs, which were fractured in a number of places.

  Before he could try a healing spell, however, Ethan heard voices approaching. Several children and two women were walking toward him, dressed in their church finery. Ethan was still bent low in the grass, which may have been why they hadn’t seen him yet. He cut himself and whispered, “Velamentum nobis ambobus, ex cruore evocatum.” Concealment, both of us, conjured from blood.

  In the last hour, he had cast enough spells to draw the attention of every conjurer in Boston. Gant could have shown up at any moment, and he would have seen Uncle Reg’s glowing form, even if he couldn’t spot Ethan. But the women and children felt and saw nothing. They strolled past without so much as a glance toward Ethan and Spectacles, the children laughing and running, the women chatting amiably.

  Ethan saw that others were heading in his direction as well. Sabbath services were over. The road would be more crowded now. But Mariz continued to labor with every breath. While the next group of churchgoers was still some distance off, Ethan cut himself and gently rubbed blood onto Mariz’s side. He then spoke another spell in the softest of whispers, his bloodied hands covering the spot where Mariz’s ribs had broken.

  “Remedium ex cruore evocatum.” Healing, conjured from blood.